#things always get worse before they get better

[creamflix]

MY BOY ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief he's such a pretty liar — and by that, you mean he swore he’d change, really change, this time. but when an argument cracks the routine open, he starts seeing things he never noticed before — about you, about himself, about the damage that was never really fixed. w.c 6.6k

risk assessment established relationship, female reader, mentions of violence, (resolved) angst with comfort, teeny mention of sex, insensitive jjk men, semi-canon divergence, arranged marriage/marriage of convenience, true-form sukuna, sexism & zenin family misogyny, somewhat ooc characters sorry </3, ft! gojo, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna, naoya

a/n thank u to the anon who requested this! i'll be writing a smut sequel/alt version of this sometime this month :P for now enjoy the fluff & feels

☆ GOJO SATORU

It starts, as all things do, with your fiancé Gojo Satoru not taking you seriously. 

Not out of cruelty, not out of malice — but with the thoughtless ease of someone who’s never been told no in any way that mattered. 

He says it in passing.

"That dress again?"

He’s got a half-laugh in his voice, the kind he uses when he thinks he’s being cute, elbow nudging yours like it’s some inside joke between you two. "We really gotta get you something new. C’mon, let’s do a shopping day this weekend. Whole spree. My treat."

You don’t even catch it at first. Just a flash of confusion as you look down at the fabric — faded navy cotton, stitched with little forget-me-nots along the hem, a little loose at the sleeves now. You’ve had it for years, since university, as a matter of fact. A group gift from your closest friends on your birthday, who pooled what little they had just to see you smile. A dress you wore to your graduation, to your first job interview, to a night out when you didn’t feel like yourself and needed something to anchor you.

You brush it off at first. Maybe he didn’t mean it like that. Maybe he didn’t know. But when you bring it up later — tentatively, cautiously, like stepping barefoot over glass — it’s worse.

“That dress?” he blinks, expression unreadable for half a second, before a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Wait, seriously? Baby, I didn’t mean anything by it.” 

You don’t say anything, just sit with your hands curled into your lap, thumbs pressing into the soft fabric.

“It's not about the dress,” you murmur eventually, but he’s already waving you off with a laugh, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Look, I get it,” he says. “Your friends bought it for you, and that’s sweet and all. But if it means that much, they can get you another one, right? Hell, I’ll give them the card myself.” he grins. “You’re not gonna tell me you're actually attached to that old thing? When you could have literally any dress you want?”

You lift your eyes to him. Not angry, not hurt. just... tired. And God, that look — he can’t name it at first. Doesn’t understand why his stomach turns, why something ugly coils in his chest. You don’t even look mad. You just look… disappointed. Like you were expecting something more from him, and he came up short. And that? That lands sharper than anything else could’ve.

His smile falters. His laugh dies in his throat. You look away, standing up slowly, brushing invisible dust from the dress as if to gather yourself back into it.

“Not everything can be replaced, Satoru.”

You don’t say it like an accusation. You don’t say it with heat or spite. You say it like a fact. And he just sits there, blinking, the silence stretching, prickling at his skin.

because he knows he’s not good with sentiment. He's never had to be. everything in his life was disposable, interchangeable, fixable — shattered glasses, broken bones, lives even. There was always more. Another version, a better one. What was the point of clinging to something old, something worn, when you could just get a new one?

But he forgot you weren’t like that. Forgot that some things matter not because of what they are, but because of who gave them. When. Why.

He sees your back as you walk away, the slight slump of your shoulders, the way your fingers tighten around the hem. And for the first time in a very, very long time — he feels sick. Like he’s missed something irreversible. Like he might’ve broken something not even he can buy back.

Later that night, the apartment is quiet in the kind of way that feels deliberate — like it’s holding its breath. No hum of the TV, no rain tapping at the windows. Just the soft rustle of clothes being folded and the sound of your fingers brushing over fabric, smoothing it down like it could ease something knotted in your chest. 

You’re perched on the edge of the bed, folding one of his shirts. He watches you from the doorway for a while before stepping inside, socked feet dragging slightly like they used to when he was a boy too tall for himself, trying not to be heard sneaking into places he shouldn’t be. He's got that same awkward energy now — a man who could level cities and doesn’t know how to enter a room where you won’t look him in the eye. He clears his throat. “Hey.”

You glance up but say nothing. Keep folding neat, careful lines.

“I was thinking,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should… maybe take a trip. Visit your friends back home. You haven’t seen them in a while, right? Could tell them about the wedding, make it a thing.”

You pause for a moment, blink once, then keep folding. He swears he sees your shoulders relax, just a little.

“Might be good,” he adds, fidgeting with the hem of the hoodie he forgot he was wearing. “Some air. Some space. From… me.” He means it to be light, maybe even self-deprecating, but it lands like a wet stone. 

You don’t laugh. You just fold the last shirt and set it aside, hands resting flat on your thighs. He exhales sharply, flopping down onto the edge of the bed beside you like gravity finally got its way. His elbows go to his knees, head in his hands. He looks like a man breaking and trying not to admit it.

“I don't get it,” he mutters, voice muffled. “Not ‘cause I don’t care. I just… I don't get it.”

He lifts his head, turning to look at you. His eyes are tired, open.

“It’s not just a dress,” he says, like he’s testing the words out on his tongue. “It’s — it’s what it means. Who it came from. What you felt when you wore it. I know that now. I just didn’t know how to say that earlier. I don't really know how to say it now.”

You stay quiet, watching him. Waiting. Not for excuses, not for him to stumble over his guilt. Just for truth. He frowns down at his hands, then up at the closet. Your side. The little things you’ve kept—notes, keepsakes, photos tucked into shoeboxes. Things that never mattered to him before, but now feel like landmines he’s been stepping over blind.

“I never had to hold onto things like that. I think I forgot people could.”

There’s a pause. A long one. He's chewing on the inside of his cheek, eyes glossed over with thought.

“When Suguru died, I couldn't even keep his coat. Couldn’t keep anything. It all felt like too much and not enough. Shoko still has his lighter, I think. I never asked for it.” he exhales. “I didn't know how to carry something that used to belong to someone who wasn’t coming back.”

You turn your head, just slightly. Not fully facing him yet, but listening.

“So I got used to throwing things out. Not letting them mean too much.” his voice drops. “And now here I am, saying dumb shit about a dress I didn't understand.”

He looks at you again, and this time — his expression isn’t cocky or distant or flippant. It's raw. Humbled.

“I'm sorry,” he says. Not a grand performance, not dramatic. Just those two words, laid plain between you like an offering. He leans back on his palms, head tipping toward the ceiling.

“It's a good dress,” he adds, almost like a peace treaty. “You look beautiful in it. You always do.”

You don’t smile, not right away. But your eyes soften. And he sees it, the way your fingers ease from their fists. The way you finally lean back beside him, the warmth of your shoulder brushing his. 

It’s not forgiveness, not yet. But it’s something.

And Gojo Satoru, who has lived through the worst of loss and still come out laughing, feels this quiet shift as something sacred. Something worth remembering, something not to be thrown away.

☆ NANAMI KENTO

There are times you wonder if Nanami Kento even likes you.

Not in the way a husband is supposed to, not even in the way that makes the word affection stretch out and soften in your chest. Maybe just in the way someone appreciates a quiet presence, tolerates it. Like a painting in a room they’ve grown used to. Something familiar. Something that doesn’t make noise.

You’d both agreed to the marriage out of a quiet, mutual understanding. Family friends. Old classmates. Polite nods at weddings, idle conversation at funerals. The kind of person you wouldn’t mind spending your life with simply because they would never ask too much of you.

And when he returned to being a sorcerer — voluntarily, of all things — right around the time the engagement was announced, you took it as fate’s quiet concession: at least it’s someone you already know.

You didn’t expect romance. Didn’t expect flowers or whispered secrets in the dark. But you had hoped for something softer. Something kind.

So when you show up at his office during your lunch break, carefully packed bento in your hands, already nervous about being too much, you tell yourself it’s not about proving anything. Not about being the perfect partner. Just — something nice. You even knock. Twice. You hear him sigh before he answers.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says as soon as he opens the door. You blink, taken aback. “I brought you lunch.”

He stares at the bento box like it’s made of explosives. He doesn’t move to take it. “I told you not to overexert yourself,” he says, frowning. “You work too much already.”

“I—it’s just rice and grilled mackerel. It didn’t take long.”

He closes his eyes, breathes in slow through his nose. “That's not the point.”

Your hands are still outstretched, holding the box. His eyes finally land on you, and there’s a flicker of something sharp in them. Annoyance, irritation. Like he’s been caught in something he doesn’t want to feel.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says again, quieter this time. 

You draw your hands back. "Okay," you murmur, like a child scolded for something they didn't know was wrong. 

He doesn’t say thank you, doesn't ask if you ate, doesn’t touch the lunch box.

You leave and the fish gets cold.

The next day, you play it safe. You don’t step into Nanami's office building. You don’t pack a carefully balanced bento with pickled sides and pressed napkins. You don’t even text him in the morning. You tell yourself you’re listening, respecting boundaries, giving space. Letting the neat lines he draws between things remain untouched.

But around noon, you feel it gnawing at you. 

Guilt? No—maybe pity. Not for him, but for yourself. For the quiet ache in your chest, the soft ache of not being wanted in spaces you hoped to belong to. You linger by the fridge, eyes scanning for anything edible. Half a tray of grilled tofu, leftover rice, a handful of wilted greens. Not much, but enough. 

You don’t arrange it prettily — no sauce cups. no handwritten note. You wrap it in a tea towel and leave your office fifteen minutes before your own lunch ends. By the time you get there, you’re rushing,crossing the threshold of his building like a ghost. The elevator ticks down with an unbearable slowness. 

12:55. Five minutes left.

You knock once and open the door.

Nanami's already standing. Jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He glances up and then immediately—immediately—frowns.

“You’re late.”

You blink, still holding the food between your hands. A flush rises to your cheeks, slow and uncertain. “I wasn't going to come,” you say, voice cautious. “You made it pretty clear yesterday…”

“And today you decided to show up when lunch is already over?”

There's a sharpness to his words, the kind that doesn’t raise its voice but cuts all the same. He's staring at you like you’ve done something irrational, inconsiderate, even. You look down at the tea towel in your hands. The food’s still warm. Barely.

“I wasn't trying to interrupt. I just thought… you might want something to eat. I threw something together. It’s not—”

“You should’ve come earlier.”

Something small crumples in your chest. Your hands tighten around the cloth. “I didn't think you wanted me to come at all,” you say, quieter now. 

Nanami's mouth presses into a firm line. His jaw twitches like he’s about to respond, then doesn’t. Just exhales, slow and long, and walks past you to shut the door behind you with a soft click. The silence that follows is heavy, full of things neither of you knows how to ask.

He reaches for the lunch, takes it from your hands wordlessly, and sits down at his desk. He doesn’t eat right away, just rests his hand over the towel, thumb smoothing out the edge like it might explain your intentions better than you can. You stand near the bookshelf, not sure what to do. The air between you prickles with something unfamiliar—frustration, maybe. Or the growing tension of expectations unmet, confused for resentment. Finally, he says, without looking at you, 

“I don't dislike when you bring me food.”

You tilt your head. “Then why—”

“I dislike not knowing when you’ll come. Or if you’ll come at all.” his fingers press into the wood of his desk. “I dislike thinking you won’t come. And then you do. Late.”

He finally looks up at you then, and it’s not anger behind his eyes. It’s… conflict. Confusion. Like he’s struggling to piece together a puzzle that changes shapes every time he gets close to solving it. “I'm not used to people doing things for me,” he admits, voice lower now. “I'm used to being left alone, or being expected to handle it myself.”

You feel something twist in your chest, a sting of realization. He's not angry at you, not really. He's angry at himself for wanting something he doesn’t know how to ask for. You step forward, slowly, gently. “Then maybe you could just say it,” you offer. “Say you want me here.”

He doesn’t, not yet. But his hand reaches out, uncovers the food, and he begins to eat. You sit beside him in silence, the tension slowly dissolving into the steam from the rice. He doesn’t thank you, but he eats every bite.

☆ CHOSO KAMO

You’re starting to think social protocol should be implanted in everyone at birth.

Just the basics. The unspoken etiquette of not talking through a mouthful, or not cutting lines, or — perhaps most relevant to your current situation — not complimenting another woman’s perfume while your girlfriend is holding your hand.

Choso, for all his softness and sincerity, missed a few memos on the human experience. Which is ironic, because he tries. God, does he try.

He listens to everything you say like it’s scripture. Nods when you explain the importance of making people feel seen. Tries to mimic the tone you use when complimenting baristas and bus drivers and kids with crooked laces. He's eager, warm, just a little awkward—but people love it. You still remember the proud look he gave you after telling a teen at the skate park, “You look so balanced, like a predator watching its prey,” and you’d had to gently steer him toward less feral metaphors.

You’ve guided him since, helping him shape compliments with a little less edge. And you’ll admit — it’s endearing. The way he admired that old lady’s sunflower hat, eyes sparkling like it was the most brilliant invention he’d ever seen. But today, today is something else.

You’re standing next to him in a café. Warm hand holding yours, your pinky tangled with his, your face tilted toward the pastry display. And the barista — a tall woman with kind eyes and long auburn curls — smiles as she hands him the receipt. And choso, like he’s narrating a thought as it passes, says:

“You have very soft lips. The color is… nice.”

You freeze mid-step, her smile stretches awkward. “Uh… thanks?”

He doesn’t even flinch. He turns to you, eyes expectant, like did I do good? You blink.

“Choso,” you say slowly, “What did we say about… complimenting strangers?”

He tilts his head. “To be specific. And polite. And not scary.”

“Right. And were you being… specific and polite just now?”

His brows draw together like he’s doing math. “I didn't say I wanted to kiss her lips. I just said they looked nice.”

You drag him by the sleeve to the corner of the café, behind a ficus plant, heart doing that rapid spiral between jealousy and sheer disbelief. “Okay,” you whisper, “You can’t say things like that to women when I'm standing right next to you.”

He frowns, genuinely confused. “But you told me it’s kind to compliment people.”

“Yes, but—” you exhale, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Some compliments give off the vibe that you’re… interested in the person.” 

His frown deepens. “But I'm not.”

“I know that,” you hiss, waving a hand between you, “You know that, but she doesn’t.” He glances at the barista, then back to you. “So… she thinks I like her?”

“Maybe a little!”

“But I don’t.”

“But she doesn’t know that, Choso!”

His expression twists, hurt and disbelief slowly pooling there. “But… that’s not fair. If I'm being nice, and I don't mean it like that, why is it bad?”

“Because it looks like you mean it like that,” you say, helpless. He folds his arms, sulking now. “So I can’t say a woman smells good, or has nice hair, or lips. even if I’m just appreciating it. Even if I’d never leave you. Even if I said your lips were better.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You didn’t say that last part.”

“I thought it really hard.”

You fight back the sigh. He's pouting now, shoulders squared stubbornly, lower lip jutting out just a bit. like a kid told he can’t have candy before dinner.

“Choso.”

He doesn’t look at you. “It's still dumb.”

“Social cues are dumb,” you agree. “But they exist.”

He mumbles under his breath, “Shouldn’t exist if they make you hide compliments.”

“You’re not hiding them. You’re… redirecting them.”

He mutters something like, “feels like censorship,” and you just stare at him, stunned by how deeply he’s taking this. You press your lips together, watching him glower at the fern beside the espresso machine like it personally wronged him. Then finally, you whisper—

“Just promise me you’ll keep the lip compliments to me from now on?”

He gives you a very reluctant nod.

“…But only because your lips really are the best,” he mumbles.

And you let out the breath you were holding, squeezing his hand. You’ll call it progress. Kind of.

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO

Sometimes you wonder if it’s in your karmic debt to be tangled with men who don’t know what to do with basic affection.

You never asked Toji where he was going, never asked what he was doing, who he’d kill, what he’d be paid. He'd drop the money on your kitchen table like a lazy thank-you card — some loose bills, a few coins if he felt generous. It clinked against the bowl of sewing needles and antiseptic like a ritual. And you’d patch him up silently, routinely. A cycle you both slipped into like an old sweater that still held the scent of someone else’s cigarettes.

You had history. A past. But calling it a relationship? Maybe in another timeline where men knew how to sit with the ache of being wanted. So god forbid — god fucking forbid — you hand him a glass of water as he’s slipping his cursed tools into his jacket, your fingers brushing his as you press the cool glass against his palm. “It's hot today,” you murmur, “Don’t dehydrate. And—” your voice softens, “—watch your footing this time. That last jump from the balcony nearly tore your quad.” He takes the water but doesn’t drink it. And then, as if your words poisoned it, he sets the glass down without a sip. Doesn’t look at you when he says, “Don’t need you fussin’ over me.”

Your brow twitches. “Fussing?”

He exhales sharply, slow and impatient. “I didn't come here for pity.”

And something inside you snaps. Not like a wire, but like a stretched rubber band finally losing tension — a dull, slack kind of tired. “That's not pity,” you mutter, stepping back, your hand brushing against the door. “That's human decency, Toji.” He shrugs. Shrugs, like you’d just offered him a second napkin he didn’t need. “Whatever it is, I don't need it.”

“Oh? Then patch your own wounds from now on. Sew your own flesh. Hydrate your damn self.”

And you open the door and slam it so hard it rattles the frame. He just stands there on the other side, staring at the door like it betrayed him. His hand hovers mid-air, still partially curled around the sheath of his weapon, like he doesn’t know whether to knock again or keep walking.

Toji Fushiguro has taken stabs to the gut with less confusion than the sound of a door shutting on him after a glass of water.

And maybe that’s the problem. He's been surviving so long he’s forgotten what it means to be cared for without condition. But you? You’ve learned enough to know that care without appreciation isn’t love. It's labor. And you’ve worked overtime.

-

It takes him three hits to the stomach. Three clean, deliberate punches from men who didn’t live to brag about it, and Toji finds himself standing in front of your door again. Not knocking, not limping. Just…standing.

Like a big, wet, blood-specked dog who’s too proud to whimper but too injured to run.

And when you open the door — half-expecting a package, a neighbor, a miracle — your eyes nearly pop out of your skull.

“Are you kidding me?!”

You don’t even let him speak. Your fingers clamp around his wrist, yanking him in with a strength he knows better than to question. You march him straight to the bathroom, muttering under your breath like a storm ready to hail hell. He’s not even fully through the door when you’re tugging at his ruined shirt, peeling it off him with all the grace of a garbage disposal. He lets you, mostly because resisting you never ends well.

“You couldn’t have just — I don’t know — gone to a hospital like a normal human being? Oh wait, that would require being normal.”

You slap a wet towel against his chest

“Did you stab them first or were they just really, really enthusiastic about rearranging your insides?”

He's quiet. There’s a faint twitch at his jaw, like he wants to say something, but a bottle of antiseptic in your hand shuts him up real quick. You scrub like your life depends on it, like if you clean him hard enough, the last week will vanish off his skin too. Soap and dried blood swirl around the drain in a gruesome little ballet. His knuckles tighten around the edge of the tub when the antiseptic hits open flesh.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Take it easy—”

“Oh I’m sorry,” you snap, slathering another handful with absolutely zero sympathy, “Did the murderous mercenary just ask me to be gentle?”

He doesn’t reply. Because frankly, the soap in his wounds is making his eyes sting more than any blade could. And maybe — just maybe — that’s not the only reason they’re burning.

“You know,” you mutter, tone softer now, “You act like showing up here isn’t a confession in itself.”

He glances up at you. There’s blood drying at his temple, one gash near his ribs. His voice, when he speaks, is gravel caught in hesitation.

“...Didn’t know where else to go.”

You pause, just for a second. Then you sigh — a long, bone-deep exhale that tastes like surrender and soap.

“You’re a goddamn idiot, Fushiguro.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, wincing as you dab his side. “You say that every time.”

“Maybe if you apologized once in a while, I wouldn't have to.”

He tilts his head at you then. eyes calm, mouth twitching like he’s fighting off something between a smirk and a grimace. “This is me apologizing,” he says, voice low. “You think I'd let anyone else see me like this?”

It hits you then. Not just the words, but the weight behind them. And it’s stupid — it’s so stupid — but even drenched in his blood and your bathwater, even half-naked and so frustrating you want to dunk him into the toilet, you reach up and flick his forehead. Not too hard, just enough to say don’t be such a jackass next time. He grunts, and you mutter, “Next time you don’t show up for a week, I’m leaving you on read.”

He nods, like that’s fair. You finish cleaning him up in silence. And neither of you says it — not out loud — but maybe this is love in your own, terribly specific, catastrophically bloody way.

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA

There are times when you wonder if the internet was right: Never date a man older than you.

And not just older. Your boyfriend—no, courter, as he insists, like it’s the Feudal era—is Sukuna. A walking fossil. A man who pre-dates the invention of glass windows. Someone who’s spent centuries collecting knowledge like magpies collect shiny things.

At first, it was kind of cute. He’d run his fingers through your hair and mutter things like “You know, oak trees like that one were used for sacred offerings in the old capital,” and you’d smile up at him like, wow, what a charming bit of historical trivia. He’d gesture vaguely at your matcha latte, proud as a cat, and say “Tasted the first batch. It was better then. Earthier.” you hum and sip, amused, entertained. It felt like dating a strange, hot encyclopedia. A relic with biceps, even.

But the charm starts to crack around the edges when he watches you cook and breathes through his nose like you’ve personally offended ten generations of farmers. Like now.

You’re standing at the kitchen counter, chopping green onions for a stir-fry. And it’s not even that you’re doing it wrong — you’re just doing it your way. And yet, from his perch against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable, comes the familiar, grating hum of—

“You’re holding the knife wrong.”

You don’t look at him. “I've done this a thousand times, Suku.”

He makes a quiet noise, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “And incorrectly, each time.” Your grip tightens on the handle. You focus on your breathing. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

“If you cut them diagonally,” he continues, stepping closer like a predator circling its prey, “You increase the surface area. Better flavor absorption. Even a child from the Southern provinces knew that.”

You stop chopping.

“Well, I'm not a child from the Southern provinces,” you say, evenly. He leans over your shoulder, fingers ghosting over yours — not gentle, just correcting, pressing them into what he deems the proper hold. “No, you’re not. Children back then were more attentive.”

That one hits. You pull your hand away, stepping aside and set the knife down.

He blinks. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, too fast. “I'll just… let you do it.”

He looks at the cutting board, then at you. Then scoffs again. That same infuriating little sound. Not mocking, not amused. Just — condescending. Like you’re some soft, dumb thing that tries hard and always fails. And the worst part? He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He’ll hold your hand like it’s made of rice paper, trail kisses down your arm, call you petal and little one and say things like “you’re mine to protect.” but he doesn’t see you. Not really, not as an equal. Not as someone who exists in the same frame of experience.

You’re just… small to him. Young. Naive. Ephemeral.

“You’re angry,” he says now, head tilted. You bite your cheek. “I'm fine.”

He narrows his eyes, steps closer again. “You’re not. You’re bristling like a cat.”

“Do you hear yourself?” you ask, finally turning to face him. “Do you ever stop and think about how you talk to me? I made a mistake cutting a damn vegetable, and you acted like I burned down a monastery.”

He straightens, face blank. Then cold. “I'm only trying to teach you,” he says, as if that’s supposed to make you grateful.

“I don't need a teacher,” you snap. “I need a partner.”

His jaw twitches. “And I need someone who listens.”

You stare at him, the silence stretching.

There it is. Not a misunderstanding, not a lost-in-translation moment from someone born before democracy. Just a bitter, stubborn truth. 

You’re not equals. You’re a fleeting flame to him. A girl with knives and heat and too many opinions. And he? He's eternal, ancient. And always, always right. You turn around, quietly gathering your things. His voice doesn’t follow. Not yet.

You’re sitting in the backyard now, arms folded, jaw set, full-blown sun glaring down like even it knows you stormed out without checking the weather. Your phone’s inside, your pride is up here with you, and the back of your shirt is beginning to stick to your spine. You hear the shoji door slide open with that gentle hiss. His voice follows, smug and echoing off the stone: 

“You know,” Sukuna calls out, “This is the part of the day when the earth’s axial tilt brings the southern sun directly overhead. You’ll overheat soon, petal.” 

You ignore him. Dramatically. You close your eyes and lean your head back like you’re immune to axial tilts. And then—

The sun spikes in intensity like it’s been listening to him. A bead of sweat slithers down your temple.

You last about thirty seconds before you’re bolting upright, stumbling in your too-hot socks across the stone path, bursting back into the cool house like a fugitive from your own ego. Sukuna’s waiting, naturally. Leaned against the frame with arms crossed and a smile so arrogant you can feel it searing through your soul.

“Oh shut up,” you mutter, peeling off your shirt like a defeated wrestler. He chuckles but doesn’t gloat, not really. His smile lingers, but there’s something else behind it — soft, thoughtful, almost... restrained.

“Petal,” he calls quietly.

You freeze. He only ever uses that voice when his hands are around your waist and the rest of the world has fallen away. You turn, arms crossing over your chest again, less annoyed now, more cautious. He doesn’t meet your eyes at first. Instead, he picks at the hem of his sleeve like it’s telling him what to say.

“I don't mean to make you feel small,” he starts, slow and measured, the words clearly coming through thorns. “I've spent years — centuries — knowing things no one wants to hear. People die, people forget. And then there’s you.” He lifts his gaze, finally meeting yours. “You listen. Even when you’re annoyed, even when you’re fighting me, you listen.”

Your chest tightens, stubborn anger still curling in your gut like it doesn’t want to give up that easily. He steps forward, voice gentler now. “I should be thanking you for even giving me that. For letting me talk. Letting me—” he hesitates, then exhales through his nose. “Share. I've been hoarding this knowledge for lifetimes. But now I get to pass it to you.”

You blink. You hadn’t realized how quiet it’d been in his world before you entered it, full of tangents and mistakes and kitchen errors. “…You could say all that instead of acting like a patronizing know-it-all,” you say, squinting at him. He shrugs, unapologetic. “You’re prettier when you’re irritated. Brings color to your face.”

You huff. But some part of you — some mushy, well-hydrated core — is starting to warm. Maybe you’ll never really be on equal footing. But he wants to hand you every piece of him, and if that’s not love in its own way — what is? And then—because he doesn’t know when to stop while he's ahead—he smirks. “Our children should hear these things too. Pass it down, generation by generation.”

You deadpan. “We don't have kids.”

He grins wider. “Not yet.”

A stalk of green onion whizzes across the room and bounces off his shoulder. “Tch,” he mutters, plucking it off the floor. “Poor cutting technique, by the way.”

You launch a second one straight at his face.

☆ NAOYA ZENIN

You’re starting to realize that behind every successful man is a woman.

A woman holding a knife.

And being Naoya Zenin’s wife means you live in the tightrope space between bloody respect and bloody disrespect, and frankly, it depends more on whether his mood is sour than anything you’ve done. Today, it’s the latter. And today, you’re the idiot.

You hear it from a maid first, in passing — something about “Master Zenin’s ingenious restructuring proposal.” You think it’s a joke. It has to be. You’d mentioned that idea last week, softly, while rubbing the tension from his neck, your lips close to his temple, your voice even closer to a whisper— 

“You know what would streamline the clan’s expenses?”

And now here it is. His plan, his innovation, his genius. You weren’t called into the meeting, weren’t even informed. And the best part? People act like you should be impressed.

“I thought you’d be proud,” Naoya says when you finally find him, post-meeting, lounging like he owns the air. He's twirling a calligraphy brush between his fingers, careless and smug. “It went over well.” Your throat feels tight, like every breath is wrapped in gauze. “You didn’t even tell me you were going to pitch it.”

He blinks up at you. “You told me, didn’t you?”

You stare.

“So?” he adds with a smirk. “What's mine is yours. And yours is mine.”

You laugh. Not because it’s funny — because if you don’t, you might scream. Or throw something. Or drive that calligraphy brush straight through his arrogant eye. 

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter. He shrugs, standing with the same irritating grace he carries into every room. “I'm a Zenin.”

You fold your arms. “And what am I?”

His gaze narrows slightly, as if the question confuses him. “You’re my wife,” he answers plainly, as though it should satisfy everything. “You’re mine.”

You could eat glass and it would go down smoother than that sentence. 

His fingers trail down your arm like he’s granting you affection, not brushing you off. “You give me your thoughts, I bring them to life. I don't see the issue.”

“You don’t see the issue,” you repeat, voice flat. “You didn’t even mention my name.” He frowns a little, like you’re overcomplicating things. “Why would I? The elders don’t care. They barely respect me. why would they listen to a woman?”

Your jaw clenches. He notices the shift, of course. Naoya’s many things — sexist, self-serving, endlessly smug — but he’s not stupid. “Look,” he says, tone lilting into placation. “You’re angry. Fine. I'll give you credit next time.”

You don’t want credit. You want your name said with pride. You want your words to carry weight without being dressed in a man’s voice. You want to be more than the soft-spoken strategist in the shadows of his throne. Sometimes, when he says “we’re one,” you wonder how many pieces of yourself are left unsaid, unthanked, unrecognized — just so he can stand taller in front of his men. And sometimes? Sometimes you wish you weren’t his anything at all.

It takes a week — seven full days, down to the damn hour — for Naoya Zenin to notice something is wrong. Not wrong in the way that he’s cut during training or that the weather’s dreary or the maids used the wrong incense in the bath again. No. 

Wrong in the energy of the house. 

Wrong in the way that every time he steps into your shared chambers, things are in place — dinner laid out neatly, his clothes pressed, his favorite tea at the exact temperature he likes. You even still massage his shoulders when he sits on the mat with a grunt, still trail your hands up his spine like your fingers remember the pattern of his vertebrae better than you remember your own schedule. If he’s lucky, he gets a fuck out of it. Mechanical, but there. Like clockwork. But the silence? That's what’s eating at him now.

No updates, no gentle commentary, no amused huff about how one of his cousins tripped on his own hakama or how the elders butchered a clause in the last contract. None of your insight, your brilliance, that cutting wit hidden under all that practiced poise. You’re just… quiet.

It hits him one night, like a blunt object to the chest. You’re folding your robes across the room, preparing for bed without waiting on him, without your usual retort to his offhand comment about how “the clan couldn’t survive without his guidance.” Usually you’d hum, or scoff, or mumble something clever about how you’re the one guiding the clan by proxy. This time? Just a blink. A soft, flat, unimpressed hum. 

And you keep folding.

He clears his throat. 

“...You didn’t mention what you thought of my handling of the merchant issue,” he tries, casually, like he’s not begging.

“You solved it,” you say. Three words — no tone, just a statement of fact. “Yes, but,” he pushes, frowning slightly. “Was it good? Bad? Tell me what you would’ve done.” 

You don’t even turn to look at him. “It's your clan.” 

Naoya blinks, jaws working. It should’ve felt like praise. 

It doesn’t. He shifts uncomfortably, eyes trailing over to where your futon is — neatly laid out. across the room. Far, as if he’d give you frostbite by breathing too close. You’ve never slept that far before. Not even when you fought, not even when he forgot your birthday and tried to make up for it with a ruby that didn’t match any of your jewelry. “…What’s going on with you?” he asks eventually, voice sharper than he intends. 

You shrug, settling under your blanket with your back turned to him. “Nothing.”

“You’ve been quiet for days. No opinions, no ideas, no…” He stops. Swallows. 

“...No talking.”

You don’t answer. He sits up, shoulders stiff, his hair a mess from laying down. His voice cracks around the edges, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “Is this about the meeting? About the idea?”

Silence.

“Look, I—”

He exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine. I should’ve told them it was yours. I should’ve — fuck, I should’ve —”

You turn, just enough to look at him. Eyes tired. Not angry, not cold. Just... dulled from exhaustion.

“I'm not angry because you used it,” you say, voice finally sliding into the room like warm oil. “I'm angry because you didn’t even consider me. Because in this house, I'm not a person. I'm your reflection. And worse, when I disappear, you don’t even notice what’s missing.”

That hits him square in the chest, and he sits there, stunned, like someone’s pulled the floor from under him.

“…Sorry.”

You blink. Not because you didn’t expect it — because it’s probably the first real apology you’ve heard from him without the word “but” attached.

“I don't know how to fix that,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Not in this house. Not with… them.” he means the elders. The clan. The entire system of misogyny he was raised in like a second womb. “But I can start with this. With you.”

You sigh. Not in defeat, but in release. And you pat the space beside your futon. 

He blinks again. Slow, cautious.

“…Can I?”

“I'm not warming your bed tonight.”

“I'll take it.”

And maybe things aren’t fixed. Not the deep, knotted root of sexism still wrapping itself around the household like a noose. But for tonight, there’s an apology. A shared blanket. A woman who is no longer invisible. 

And a man who, for once, listened.

a/n hello!! this was initially meant to be a make-up sex post but the education system hates me and i had no time to write what i wanted, so i had to cut this fic short by a lot. i'll be publishing a part 2 around the same topic, but maybe with different scenarios for each character :) thanks for reading!  

[mywritersmind]

fic idea: kimi x reader moments in his documentary... cute and .

.......maybe a lil steamy

CAUGHT ON CAMERA - KA12

listen up : some kissing. dry humping. steamy ish as requested! ty for the request!! super cutie

words : 1470

⋆｡‧˚⋆

The second Kimi told me over the phone, I ran out of my house. I was out of breath after the two minutes it took for me to run to his house. “You fucking did it!” I didn’t mean to swear in front of his family, something Maggie laughs loudly at as I wrap my arms around her brother.

“I did it.” He whispers into my ear, my body pressed against his as he holds me tighter. “Thank you.”

I have to laugh at my boyfriend. “Why are you thanking me?”

He smiles down at me, his hands still on me and his parents gone from the room. “You’re always there. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

I kiss him. Hard and excited with a smile still on my face.

“You deserve this so much, K.” I bring him closer to me again when he sniffles, I realize he’s crying. I cry too. He’s wanted this for longer than I've known him and I don’t think anyone deserves it more.

⋆༺

The camera zooms on Ollie as he laughs, “He knows practically every lap time he’s ever done.” I smile, leaning my head against Kimi’s bare shoulder.

“Barcelona Quali.” a man on his team says, smiling as Kimi scoffs as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“I did a 24.894.” Kimi says confidently as the man goes to search it. He doesn’t need to. Even I know he’s right.

“You have a photographic memory then?” The cameraman asks, panning to Kimi and I.

“Nah… If I did, I'd be out of school.” My boyfriend grins, “Some things just stick.”

“He remembers everything about me.” I say, not being able to hide my smile, “that’s how I know he loves me like he does racing.”

Kimi shakes his head but he’s still smiling, “I love you more than racing.”

⋆༺

I love watching Kimi race. I hate when his race ends before every lap is done.

This might be worse than watching him DNF in F2. He’s in the wall and i’m clutching the necklace he gave me as if it’s him. I know he’s okay, he’s out of the car, I know he’s okay.

I repeat those four words to myself as I watch him, his head down, his face hidden behind his helmet, exit the track.

I let him have his space. The trainer said he wanted to be alone and I let him be. A text came in and I snuck out of the garage, away from his crying mother, away from a sad Toto, away from everything and back to him.

I shut the cameraman out when I find him. He’s sitting on the floor of the trainors room, the light dim and his eyes shut. I realize he’s been crying when he speaks, his voice stuffy and race red, ��On my debut.” He swallows, “In my future car.”

I don’t know what to say. I hate that I don’t know what to say. I sink down to my knees next to him, taking his head in my hands as he looks at me. His eyes are red, tired.

“It’s going to get better, Kimi. You have to know that. Next year is yours- and today sucked but when you’re in your car, not George's, it’ll be different.” He slides his legs out in front of him, a hand drifting to my waist as if he just wants to make sure I'm there.

“I’m sorry I scared you.” My hands are still shaking.

I shake my head, “I have a feeling that won’t stop anytime soon. You were flying, Kimi.” His face finally cracks into a smile.

“It felt like a dream.” His smile fades as I sit properly now, “then a nightmare.”

“It’s not either. It’s real life. It’s your life.” I run a hand through his hair, sweaty and messed up from his helmet.

“You're perfect.” he says, leaning in closer as his hand slides up and down my bare leg, “You know that?”

“For you.” I kiss him softly, but his hand meets the back of my neck and pulls me against him again.

“Just for me.” He whispers against my lips, kissing me again with more force.

When I realize he’s not thinking about stopping, I mumble, “Kimi-” but all he does is pull me onto his lap, straddling him.

“Please.” It’s practically a whine and one that I give into immediately. His body is warm, he changed back into a mercedes shirt and jeans that push against my thighs.

I instinctively grind into him, feeding that pressure between my legs as he breathes against me. His eyes are closed, his teeth tugging at my lip as I groan at the feeling of him under me.

“We shouldn’t.” I say, not fully lost to Kimi’s body yet and remembering that we’re on the floor of a medical room.

“I’ll stop if you tell me to.” He says, kissing me again. When I don’t say anything, he says, “Tell me to, Y/n.”

I don’t use my words to respond, instead moaning in his ear as I grow more turned on. He mumbles a curse and moves his hand to my ass, making me grind against him with more fuel to my fire.

Kimi’s fingers dig into my skin harder. When my head tilts back, his lips escape mine and find my jaw- my neck… my chest instead. I wouldn’t be caught dead with a hickey, but right now, nothing sounds hotter.

He’s hard against me, his jeans growing tighter as I roll my hips once again. I bite my lip and he makes a sort of strangled sound, saying my name.

He’s not smiling, it’s more of an open mouth smirk. His eyes are set on the thin fabric that’s rubbing against his pants, his hand tugs my skirt higher up.

When did he pull my skirt up? I don’t care.

His hand is on my bra now, under it. I can barely track the twin parts of his body that have such a hold on me. I’m too distracted by the overwhelming pleasure that brews beneath me.

Kimi is staring at me again, his eyes flickering to every part of me as if he doesn’t know where to look. His eyes are full of lust, a look I used to dream about.

“C’mon, love.” This almost takes me out, his voice is so gruff and it’s the hottest thing i’ve ever heard purely because I know i’m what’s making him like that. “So fucking good.”

“Kimi-” I force out, my legs starting to shake.

He’s just as breathless as I am when he says, “Say my name like that again. C’mon love, do it for me.”

⋆༺

Dinner is nice. It always is with Kimi’s family. His grandma made a cake to celebrate, his dad gave him a car keychain that had been passed down by his father.

I love seeing Kimi with his family, it reminds me of what our future could look like.

I stand next to him at the sink, a dish in hand as he splashes water onto me. I scoff and return the favor. “A formula one driver and you’re still slaving away over dishes.” I smile as he scrubs a plate, “So humble.”

He kisses my cheek quickly, “I’d do anything if it’s with you.” This makes me smile, rolling my eyes at the cheesiness but my cheeks going pink anyway.

“I’m really proud of you, Kimi. I know it’s a lot.” Everyone’s been so excited that I think it’s gone to Kimi’s head, making him a bit blind to what his life is about to look like.

He nods, “I know. But i’m excited- and really fucking happy. Especially since I have a wag.”

I laugh out loud, “A wag!?”

“Yeah, girlfriend.” He says to me sassily, making me laugh harder. He drys off his hands and pulls the bright yellow gloves off mine, kissing me on the lips this time.

I grin against him, my hands bracing myself on the sink edge as his find my waist. “I love calling you my girlfriend.” He whispers as he kisses me softly again. “Call me your boyfriend.”

I giggle as he presses a kiss against my jaw, “You’re all mine, K. My nerdy little boyfriend.”

He raises a brow at my words, his breath hot against me, “Nerdy? Little?”

I pat his head, winking. “Gotta fit in that car somehow.”

He laughs, his hands are on me again and he’s picking me up, “Netflix are you seeing this!?” I had forgotten about the camera in the doorframe, “My girlfriend is a bully!”

“At least i’m yours!” I laugh again, now over his shoulder and shaking my head at the lens.

[nineteenninety-six]

hello!! a request for a dr robby with reader my apologies if this is gibberish i have a hard time getting thoughts to words

reader is a social worker in the ED sunshine personified, always trying to cheer up everyone in the department making sure everyone is doing well, especially robby.

she gets called to help out with an agitated patient in the ed by robby. she goes to work with the patient and gets assaulted by the patient like bad, and robby finds her.

Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Reader

AN: I wrote half of this before rereading the request and realised I strayed a bit but oh well.

Warnings: domestic violence, st@bbing, abuse, assualt. this one does have some heavy themes as a general warning.

You hummed as you rocked on your feet in the elevator as it took you down to the emergency department. You were a social worker at the hospital and you usually alternated with Kiara on who spent the shift in the ED and today was her day but she was currently occupied so you were called down to help on a case that just came through the ambulance bay doors, a suspected domestic violence case.

The elevator doors opened up and you wasted no time in stepping into the hustle and bustle of the emergency room, seeking out the day shift attending, Dr Robby.

You saddled up to the nurse’s station and smile at Dana in greeting, "Hey Dana, now's things going?"

“I’ll tell you what, those banana and chocolate muffins you make would definitely make the day better.” Dana hums as she wriggles her eyebrows as she hints at you.

You laugh at her words. You were an avid baker in your free time and so the staff of the hospital were both the recipients and test subjects of your baked goods. "That bad of a day huh? I’ll pick up some bananas tonight so give me a couple of days there be a full tray in the staffroom.”

"Don't get me started hon and make it two trays." Dana sighs, "You here for that DV case? I'll page Robby that you're down here."

"Thanks Dana" You nod and look around the pit as you waited for Robby. You didn't exactly know what you were looking for as everyday was different yet also the same at the pit. Same shit, different day.

You hear Robby call out your name as he approached the nurse’s station and you turn to face him with a smile, "Hey Robby."

A bright smile spreads across Robby's face as he comes to a stop by your side and you can't help the bright smile you return back.

"So, what’s the case you wanted my help with?"

Robby pulls you to the side, to an alcove where you can speak privately where there will be no overhearing ears.

"EMTs brought her in about thirty minutes ago. Woman in her twenties, boyfriend called it in, says he came home and found her unconscious on the floor. She has multiple bruises, both new and old, multiple fractures, new and old again. Trauma to the face and head including a skull fracture and broken cheekbone. Also, a couple of rib fractures."

You stare speechless at Robby as he rattles off the poor woman’s injuries, "... Holy shit."

Robby nods in agreement at your words, rubbing his hands across his face in exhaustion.

"Those sound like car crash injuries" You murmur, "And you said the boyfriend called it in? Was it like a house invasion... but you called me down so..."

"Police called, there was no evidence of an attempt to break in, no robbery took place."

"Shit..." You swear again, "So he assaults her, probably worse than he's ever done before, realises it and calls the ambulance and makes a story to avoid suspicion."

"Most probably" Robby nods, "You want me to come in with you?"

"Despite how much I'd appreciate that, I know you have your hands full with both patients and reports."

"I don't want you going in there alone though" Robbie worries.

"I'II bring Mateo or Donnie, I won't be alone and get a security guard to stand guard nearby but not at the door, I don't want to scare either of them."

Robby nods, "Sounds good."

You flash him a smile as you reach forward and squeeze his hand. "I'll keep you updated, okay?"

"Okay." Robby returns your smile, albeit with a shy smaller one. "I'll see you later."

Robby returns back to the nurse’s station, next to Dana as they watch as you head towards the patient’s room,

“Are you ever going to ask her out?” Dana asks.

Robby’s eyes flicker to Dana who was already looking at him, “She’s too good for me.”

Dana rolls her eyes at the man, “She’s very good, yes. Sweet and lovely and kind…which is why I think you two are good for each other. Trust me, ask her out.”

Robby hums as he clicks on a tablet and steps away, “I’ll think about it.”

You knock on the door, stepping in after a second with Donnie right behind you. The woman lays in bed, full of drugs that are currently keeping her calm and pain-free but she's currently conscious and the man sat next to her looked irritated and angry as he sat with crossed arms and frown on his face, the boyfriend if you had to guess.

"Finally," The man huffs, throwing his hands up in frustration as he stood up, "We've been waiting for ages. I don't know why we're still here. we need to go home."

"Miss Timmins' injuries are severe and require more testing and treatment. I'm afraid she's not going anywhere anytime soon." Donnie tells the boyfriend as he checks her vitals.

"You're just a damn nurse, you don't-know anything!" The boyfriend snaps before he turns to you, "Are you a doctor? Can you discharge us."

"I'm not a doctor. I'm a social worker." You correct.

"We don't need a damn social worker!" The boyfriend snaps becoming more incensed, "We just need a doctor."

"Well, I was called because I heard you were involved in a terrifying incident and my role is to help you in situations like this." You turn your focus on the woman and step closer to the bed and introduce yourself, "You're Claire, right?"

The woman nods and you give her a comforting smile, "It's nice to meet you, Claire. I can get you in contact with support groups and therapists who have experience with working with people who have gone what you have experienced."

"What do you mean?" The boyfriend barks out.

You turn to look at him before you share a look with Donnie. "Claire was involved in a house invasion and that is a terrifying thing to experience, don't you think?"

The man gives a reluctant nod and you share another look with Donnie before you speak again.

"Maybe it's best if I speak to Claire alone. Perhaps she'll feet more comfortable if it’s just the two of us."

The man looks to argue with you, getting red in the face as he stands up but Donnie moves to stand in front of you and the man immediately backs down but he doesn't leave without a glare and a curse muttered underneath his breath. Thankfully Donnie follows him out of the room leaving you alone with Claire.

"Claire, I'm going to be honest with you right now. I've heard what your boyfriend told the 911 operatives and then I heard what the police said when they arrived at your house and honestly, the stories don't match up and I think you're the only person who can tell me the full story."

Claire looked at you with wide watery eyes, and lips that began to tremble,"... I..."

"You don't have to tell me anything; all you have to do is tell me that you need help and I can help you get into contact with those who can actually help!”

"... what will they do?"

"Well, if you want, they'll help you with filing a police report and if your house is not a safe space, then they can get you into a shelter and there they'll help you move states if you so wish, and they can also help with you getting a job."

"What about a restraining order?"

"They can help you with that." You nod "But may I suggest something?”

Claire nods and you continue speaking, “Tell the police what happened. They already know what happened earlier, they talked to your neighbours, they watched the security footage and been to your place, they already know his story doesn’t make sense. They’re already suspicious and your statement would be the nail in the coffin-"

"What the hell are you talking to her about?!"

The words cause you to jump in fright, spinning on your heels to face the angry man in the door. You hadn't realised he had returned and now you were trapped in a room with him and it was obvious he had been there a while and had overheard what you had been saying.

"Answer me." The man’s voice is quiet but deadly and you feel your heart begin to race as he closes the door behind him.

"Please move away from the door" You tell him, keeping your voice calm as to not to escalate the situation.

"What lies have you been feeding her?" The man steps closer to you and you shuffle backwards until your butt hits the bed Claire is in.

You’re too far away to press the staff assist button so your only hope was to talk the angry man down.

“I haven’t told her any lies” You tell him, “We were just talking about what happened earlier.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” The man continues walking forward, his hand digging into his pocket and pulling out a folding knife.

Your heart drops to your stomach and you struggle to swallow amongst the urge to throw up.

“P-please put that down sir” Your voice is low as you plead, “Please…”

Claire gasps and sobs behind you before erupting in a scream when her boyfriend launches himself at you. You try to run for the assist button but before you can you’re pulled back by your collar and thrown to the floor, your head bouncing off of the floor.

You hear Claire scream and you blink through the ache that was creeping through you right now and stumble to your feet, “Claire, press the assist button! Now!”

Claire is frozen in her spot as she watches her boyfriend advance on you and you barely have time to blink before he’s grabbing you. One hand on your shoulder to keep you from moving and the other firmly clasped around the folding knife which he swiftly stabs you with.

You gasp at the searing pain it leaves and it glides through you and you can only stare at the man wide eyed in shock. Claire has curled up into a ball and turned away from you and amidst the pain and shock you realise that you will die soon if you don’t do something and so you scream at the top of your lungs knowing that people out there will definitely hear and come running.

“Shut the fuck up!” The man yells and stabs you again before he attempts to flee out of the room, letting you drop to the ground unable to support yourself anymore.

He doesn’t get far as he runs straight into Ahmed’s arms as he runs through the door and Ahmed is quick to push him to the side and restrain him as someone runs to call the police while Robby, Collins, Langdon, Dana and Princess run into the room.

Robby curses as he spots you when he runs into the room, muttering your name as he did so, “Oh shit-fuck,”

You whimper as he kneels next you and places his hand on top of yours where they lay on your wounds at a poor attempt of stifling the bleeding. You lay in a puddle of your own blood as it pooled around you, your hands drenched in the blood and when Robby’s hand rested on top of yours you left a bloody hand print on his wrist that you held on to in panic.

You stare wide eyed up at Robby, trying to focus through the fear but your body was engulfed in excruciating pain. Every inch of your body ached as you lay there on the emergency department floor, bleeding profusely from a stab wound. The sheer intensity of the situation made your head spin, yet you remained aware of your surroundings.

You heard Princess frantically paging for surgery, and the hurried movements of Dana as they passed whatever Robby had requested.

All you could see however, was Robby hovering above you, his hands moving with expert precision as he stabilised you with Langdon’s help, trying to slow down your bleeding enough for surgery to take over and stitch you up.

Your hands twitched desperately as you reached out for someone’s hand, yearning for physical comfort in this moment of fear. Panic was starting to set in, but when warmth enveloped your hand, you were jolted back to reality. Your eyes fluttered up and met Heather’s warm gaze, and suddenly, all the emotions that had been trapped behind the shock that had taken over after the stabbing were released. You began to sob uncontrollably, tears streaming down your cheeks as you clutched Heather’s hand tightly.

“You’re okay, you’re okay…” Heather soothed you, her fingers gently brushing the tears off your cheeks, “Robby and Frank are nearly done and you can go to up to surgery.”

Heather squeezes your hand and you hold on tight. She was currently your anchor and you didn’t want her to leave because if she did then your focus would shift to the miracle work that Robby and Langdon were performing on you.

Soon a stretcher is pushed into the room and Robby is hovering over you once again, he reaches as if he’s going to cup your cheeks before he remembers that wearing blood-soaked gloves.

“Hey, you’re going off to surgery now. They’re gonna stitch you up real good.” Robby assures you, wincing at your cry when you’re lifted onto the stretcher, “I know the surgeons are assholes but they’re the best in the city, if not the state. You’ll be good hands.”

All you can do it nod before you’re pulled away to the elevators, your hand slipping from Heathers as she falls out of view along with Robby.

You wake to the usual sterile stench that coated the hospital, your eyes slowly blinking open as you stare up at the white ceiling and for a moment you think you’re back on the floor of the emergency department bleeding out but then the steady beeping of the monitor beside you brings you back to reality.

You instinctually shift but your body immediately protests and you still your movement with a pained whimper.

“Hey, hey” A voice calls out to you, the person resting their hand on yours, “Don’t move too much otherwise you open your wounds.”

“Robby?” You croak out as you turn to face, “W-what happened?”

Robby tugs his seat closer and takes both your hands into his, “Do you remember what happened downstairs?”

You think for a moment, trying to find the memories through the fog in your brain before you nod, “Yea…How'd he get the knife in?"

"He came with the ambulance, so no security metal detector and no scanner." Robby explains with a huff.

“Frank and I got you stable and we got you into surgery where they patched you up,” Robby tells you as he rubs his thumb over the back of your hand, “You’ll stay here for a day or two then you go home. Strictly bedrest no funny business.”

Your lips quirk as you look at Robby, “Is that a demand Dr Robby?”

“Yeah, doctors orders” He nods before his expression settles into something more serious, “…I should have gone in there with you.”

You tangle your hand with Robby’s so your fingers were interlinked, “Shoulda, woulda, coulda. It’s the past now, stop focussing on it.”

“You could have died!” Robby stresses.

“But I didn’t!” You remind him, “You saved me.”

You see him open his mouth, no doubt to argue with you some more and you quickly interrupt him, “Robby, please. You did nothing wrong and you saved me, that’s all there is to this conversation and if you dare bring it up again then I’m kicking you out.”

There’s a pause, a moment of silent before Robby nods and laughs, “…Okay.”

“I do need a favour though”

Robby perks up at that, “Sure anything.”

“You wouldn’t mind picking me up some bananas, would you? I promised Dana some of my chocolate and banana muffins.”

Robby stares at you speechless before he nods with a laugh, “Depends, will there be any for me?”

“Well, I was planning on making you those white chocolate and raspberry muffins you like so much.”

“Just for me?” Robby looks excited.

You smile and nod, “Just for you, as a thank you. Not just for saving me but also for getting all the ingredients.”

“Considering the muffins are repayment, you’re very much welcome.” Robby gives your hands a squeeze before he stands, “Now get some rest, everyone wants to come see you when their shift is done.”

“Sir yes sir!” You nod as you ease back onto the bed, trying your hardest not to pull at your stitches, “I’ll see you later?”

Robby gives you one last nod before he leaves your room.

[moonstruckme]

Tumblr is pranking me again by hiding the request I want only for the day I want to post it :( but here it is: what do you think of Steve being a total gentleman, like walking closer to the road whenever he’s with reader, making sure reader doesn’t bump their head when they bend over to tie their shoe, holding every door … our chilvarous king

cw: lil bit of gender norms/patriarchal dating norms

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 630 words

For the record, Steve likes to think that he was always nice to you. Not because you’re a girl or anything like that, just because he’s your friend and that’s the kind of guy Steve is trying to be. But ever since last Thursday, when you’d knocked his hand away from his car radio to put your own tape in and looked over at him from the passenger seat with a smile that made his heart thunk frighteningly against his ribcage, Steve has found himself wanting to do things a bit…different. Not nicer, really, just different. 

He does things like letting you have the last slice of pizza from the box, and not giving you as much shit when you pick off all the pepperoni. He finds his hand shooting out on instinct to tug you away from sharp corners before you can bump your hip against them or cover the back of your head to keep it from hitting the bottom of a table when you’ve bent over to retrieve a dropped pen. You watched E.T. together last week, and instead of making fun of you for getting all glossy-eyed at the end Steve had the idiotic urge to kiss you dizzy. 

So, the insanity comes in big and small waves. 

Then there are times like now, when he’s just trying to be basically decent and you won’t let him. 

“I just feel like he’s gonna freak her out,” you’re saying, squinting despite your sunglasses as you walk down the narrow sidewalk to the donut shop near your place. “I mean, she’s probably already freaked out. If you like a girl, you ask her on a date, not loiter around her work like some kind of creep.” 

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, “Eddie is kind of a creep.” 

You huff amusedly. “That’s what he wants everyone to think, for sure. I know his intentions are pure and all, but if I were her I would definitely not think—what are you doing?” You turn around as Steve drops behind you, walking backward to keep him in your sights. 

“Nothing,” he says, trying to come up on your other side. But you maneuver to keep him on your right. 

You give Steve a strange look. “We’re not turning here. It’s still a few blocks.” 

“I know where it is.” 

“Then what do you keep turning for?” you laugh. 

Steve fights not to huff. “I’m not turning, I’m just—you’re gonna get hit by a car.” 

You look to the side, at the notably empty neighborhood street. You say, “I think I’ll be okay.” 

“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes, taking your elbow in hand to maneuver you to his other side. 

You let out a little laugh but allow yourself to be pulled. Your shoulder bumps into his teasingly. “Feel better?” 

“Yeah, actually.” 

You give him a sideways look, a smile hidden in the corner of your mouth. Steve feels like there’s a hornet’s nest in his stomach. 

You laugh. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“I’m not,” he says, but his voice comes out softer than he intends. “I’m not, Jesus.” 

“Okay, well,” you roll your eyes at him, “I forgot my wallet at home, so can you spot me and I’ll pay you back after?” 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. I’ll just get it.” 

You send him a look like he’s just recited the prologue to Romeo and Juliet from memory. 

“Relax, it’s thirty cents.” 

You keep looking at him like that, though, worse when he pulls open the door to the donut shop and steps aside to let you go first. You actually reel back a little. 

“You are being,” you say, side-eyeing him as you go inside slowly, “so weird.” 

Yeah, Steve is well aware.

[synity]

When Words Cut Too Deep

(Moon Junhui, x FemReader)

*Angst, Romance, Drama, Fluff (eventually), Slice of Life, Communication, emotional vulnerability, love that endures pain*

Summary: You and Jun have always had a passionate, playful relationship but one night, a heated argument goes too far. Misunderstandings explode into a storm of painful words, and both of you are left hurt, shaken, and distant. What started as a disagreement over something small becomes a catalyst for revealing deeper insecurities, unspoken fears, and a rift you both never expected. But as the days pass, silence becomes unbearable, and Jun must decide whether to let you drift away or fight harder than he ever has to mend what was broken.

The kitchen was filled with tension.

The clinking of a spoon against a ceramic mug was the only sound as you stirred your tea. You avoided eye contact with Jun, who stood by the fridge pretending to look for something he didn’t need. It had started with something small his forgotten promise to join you at your friend’s art exhibit. But it was more than that. The exhibit was just the final straw in a long line of little things that had begun to pile up.

“You could’ve at least told me you weren’t coming,” you muttered, eyes still fixed on the swirling liquid in your cup.

Jun exhaled sharply. “I had practice. I told you, Y/N. Things come up. You know how my schedule is.”

“But you said you’d be there. You promised.” Your voice cracked a little. “I waited, Jun. For hours. Alone.”

“That’s not fair. I can’t control everything!” he snapped, slamming the fridge shut.

You flinched. The sound ricocheted through your chest.

“No, Junhui. What’s not fair is you making me feel like I’m always second to your job, your friends, everything else.”

He crossed his arms. “So now I’m the villain? I bust my ass trying to balance everything, and you make it seem like I don’t care.”

“I never said that,” you whispered.

“But that’s what you meant.”

Silence. The heavy kind.

And then, as if all the repressed emotions surged like a tidal wave, you both began raising your voices, words flying out unfiltered. Painful. Too real.

“You don’t listen to me anymore!”

“You’re always overreacting!”

“I feel like I’m alone in this relationship!”

“Maybe you should be, then!”

The room went still. That last sentence sat between you like poison.

You saw regret flicker in Jun’s eyes the moment it left his mouth. But it was too late.

Tears burned behind your eyes, but you refused to let them fall.

“Got it,” you said coldly, grabbing your jacket. “Thanks for clearing that up.”

You walked out before he could stop you.

Three Days Later

The silence between you stretched like a canyon. Texts went unanswered. Calls declined. Jun sent one message the first night—“I’m sorry. Can we talk?” but you ignored it.

You weren’t being petty. You were hurt. Deeply.

You thought back to the way he used to hold you like you were the most precious thing in his life. How his soft laughter always made your day better. But now... now, all you felt was hollow.

Meanwhile, Jun was a wreck.

He hadn’t slept properly since you left. The guilt weighed down on him like an avalanche. Every memory replayed in his mind: your trembling voice, the look in your eyes, the sound of the door closing behind you. He had hurt you. Badly.

Minghao noticed first. “You okay?” he asked gently.

Jun didn’t answer right away. “I think I messed up the one thing that actually makes me feel whole.”

A Week Later

You were at the bookstore, trying to distract yourself. But even surrounded by stories, yours still played in your mind.

You turned a corner and there he was.

Jun.

He looked tired. Vulnerable.

You froze, heart racing.

“I didn’t come here to make things worse,” he said quietly. “But I can’t take it anymore. Not talking to you. Not seeing you. I need to explain.”

You didn’t speak, so he kept going.

“I messed up. I know I did. I let my stress, my schedule, everything else cloud what mattered most you. I let my pride get in the way. And I said something that I didn’t mean. I regretted it the second it left my mouth.”

He took a breath.

“You make my life brighter, Y/N. You make me better. But I hurt you. And I don’t know if you can forgive me, but I’ll spend every day proving that I’ll never hurt you like that again.”

You looked at him, seeing the tears he fought to keep back.

Your own eyes welled up. “You broke my heart, Jun.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want promises you can’t keep.”

“I’m not promising to be perfect. But I promise to never stop trying. For you. For us.”

It took everything in you to not fall apart.

But your heart the same one he had bruised still beat for him.

You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

He stepped forward, arms tentative. You let him hug you, and for a moment, everything that was shattered felt like it could be whole again.

Epilogue: Two Months Later

The healing wasn’t instant. You had long talks. Arguments with less yelling, more listening. He made time real time. Even when tired, even when busy.

He showed up. Always.

Jun would leave little notes in your bag. Make breakfast on the days you felt low. Sit beside you during your quiet moments and hold your hand, saying nothing but everything with his presence.

And you? You learned to speak your feelings sooner. You started trusting him again day by day.

Love wasn’t easy.

But when two people choose to fight for it, even after the worst storms, the sun always rises again.

And with Jun, you knew you’d keep chasing the light together.

End.

[whatever1728]

"I'll look after you"

summary: in which you help Pau deal with being sick before and after the el clasico

a/n: I heard that he had a stomachache before the match and that was why Flick subbed him off so this was the outcome

warnings: mentions of sickness, vomit, intense pain, hospitals, panic /anxiety attacks, dating a minor

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Pau had seen better days. Today, the Friday before the El Clasico, he felt extremely tired. At first he thought it was normal. He had a double training session in the morning, then he hit the gym with a couple of the guys and after that he went to his dorm to study. And even though he felt exhausted he couldn't fall asleep.

That's how you found yourself awake at 2 am, being in Pau's own words 'The best girlfriend ever without whom I wouldn't survive another day..' he was dramatic but overly cute. He asked you to just talk to him, claiming that your voice was soothing to him, like a lullaby.

The next morning you met up for coffee.

"So love everything okay?" you asked, concerned because of last night. Pau most of the time slept like a baby.

"I-I don't know to be honest. I feel more tired than usual for the past couple of days, but I can't fall asleep at night. Like yesterday..."

"Would you like to sleep at mine tonight? Do you think it would help you amor?" you suggested

"Can I? I think it would help having you by my side..." Pau trailed off

"Then it's arranged, I'll come pick you up from the dorms at, let's say... 8?"

"Perfect, hermosa, thank you"

"Anything you want guapo" you said back and kissed him lightly on the cheek. The blush immediately appearing on his pale cheeks, paler than usual...

When you kissed him you thought his skin was warmer than normal. You didn't comment on it, thinking that you were sitting under the sun and that Pau always run a bit warmer than most people.

By 8 o'clock you were at the dorms of La Masia, signing a permission slip for Pau to stay with you for the next four nights. You would tell him later that you were keeping him out of the dorms for longer, in hopes that his sleep schedule will improve.

A couple of hours into the night, everything took a turn for the worse.

You woke up in the middle of the night to find Pau unable to breathe normally.

"Love, breathe for me... deep breath through your nose, deep exhale through your mouth... good... close your eyes for me amor and name 5 things you can feel"

"I-I ca-an fe-el yo-our hands-s, the-e sheets, my pillo-ow, you-ur feet and-d... mm" he couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't have panic attacks often. Rarely. And even then not this severe. You started rubbing circles on his back. Hugging him, his back on your chest, you started to kiss his shoulders, your presence by him always calming.

You stayed that way for a while, occasionally singing a tune to him in your native language. He always claimed it had a calming effect on him.

Pau was breathing by trying to mimick yours. You kept your breathing as even and steady as possible, wanting to make him feel better.

"You're feeling any better, amor?" you asked quietly, your hands now drawing shapes on his abs and ribcage, your hand resting on his shoulder, your chin touching his shoulderblade.

"Hmm, a-a bit..."

"Keep on breathing like this love, in and out clear your mind..." you trailed.

After some time he managed to get his breathing under control.

"Let's go make some tea, si? I think it will help you calm down.."

"Si.." he replied, a little hesitant, not because he didn't agree, but because he was afraid he wouldn't be able to walk properly down the stairs. You went to his side of the bed and helped him up, staying close to him in case he felt unwell. When the two of you reached the stairs Pau got dizzy. Thank all these years of being involved in sports that you managed to catch him effectively. He didn't pass out but was close to it.

You knelt down next to him and had him rest his back against the wall. You checked for his temperature just to realize that he was extremely warm. Fortunately, you had colder hands than most, so you placed your hand on his forehead and he relaxed a bit.

"Amor, don't move, I'm getting you a wet cloth okay? Wait here for a bit"

You ran downstairs and ran a clean towel through the running water of the open tap. After draining it slightly, you raced back upstairs and placed it on his forehead. Fortunately, you managed to help him get up from the floor and back in bed. You left him there for a bit. Gathering everything you would need for the next couple of hours. You went back down and grabbed two glasses of water, along with ibuprofen and a thermometer, wanting to check his temperature immediately. You even fetched a bucket, remembering that sometimes your lover had stomach problems after panic attacks.

In the end, the last object wasn't needed. From then on, even through the fever, Pau slept. When he woke up the next day he didn't remember much, which was to be expected really. He felt tired still, which was normal if you took into account how bad that panic attack was and how he collapsed after.

The rest of the Saturday was passed lounging around, watching movies and cuddling. By that, I mean that you were watching, Pau was... snoozing for a lack of better term. He somehow managed to sleep for quite a while during the day, so with the medication, his fever got down.

You were getting ready for bed, brushing your teeth, when you saw Pau bending over the toilet and vomiting everything he had eaten the whole day. Unfortunately, the rest of the night went similarly and the bucket turned out to be quite useful. Pau woke up more than a couple of times and each time you went with him a rubbed circles on his back. You had no clue what was causing your boyfriend so much pain and at this point you even concedered calling his mum for help.

On Sunday morning, he looked like a zombie. Dead on his feet, trying to keep himself upright. Exhaustion seeping through every pore of his skin. Yet, somehow, he convinced his coach that he could still play. Which he did, with great difficulty. He had to defend against the likes of Mbappé, Vinícius, and Bellingham but he somehow ended up doing alright. He pushed through, like the true warrior that he was.

At some point though, the stomachache became too much for your lover to handle. His coach subbed him off for Christenshen. You were advised from the personnel about what to do if he got worse and the advice was to take him to a hospital. Especially if he kept vomiting everything he ate.

Pau's sickness got the better of him, so that night you found yourself calling his mother from the corridor of the hospital.

"Hola senora Gloria..."

"Y/n, my girl, how are you doing? Is everything alright?" he asked concerned, knowing that if this was a regular call you would have called her from the house phone.

"Not so good, I need you to stay calm... Me and Pau are in the hospital"

"Why love? What's going on?"

"I don't think we should have this conversetion from the phone. It's better if you come here so I can explain properly."

"I'm waking up Robert and getting Irene, we will be here in a bit dear, hang in there..."

After saying goodbye to one another you hang up. You sat on the empty corridor, waiting for a doctor to tell you what was wrong with the love of your life but no such information came. Fortunately, the rest of his family arrived a bit later, so you weren't alone anymore.

"My dear, what's going on? Is he okay?" Gloria asked concerned

"Since last week, he hasn't been sleeping all that much. So I convinced him to stay at mine for a couple of days. Hoping that he would be calmer. Friday night he had a severe panic attack but we managed it in the end and since he had Saturday off, I let him sleep as much as possible. Unfortunately, his stomach couldn't handle anything that he ate. He played today and I guess it got even worse. The team doctors told me that if he got worse I should get him to a hospital, so here we are..."

"Oh my god... why though? Do you think he ate something bad or..?" Robert, his father asked.

"I honestly don't know. I cooked pasta and soup when we were at home, before that I have no clue what he ate at La Masia, but I highly doubt it was any of those... I'm just waiting for the doctors to come back and tell me what's going on with the tests but nobody has informed me yet."

"Y/n, you didn't say why you brought him in though..."

"I- that really scared me... he went t-to take a shower to feel a bit better while I cleaned up around the house. He-e collapsed, like almost passed out, he hit his head a bit but he was still awake at the time. He didn't bleed or anothing either and he was coherent. He was really dizzy though and I was not gonna take a chance with a head injury..." at this point you were shaking more than a bit, your eyes shone with tears, you got so scared at that moment when you saw him on the ground, barely awake.

"Dear, you did good, take a breath for me, si? In and out..." Gloria guided, wanting to make sure you wouldn't have a full-blown anxiety attack.

As you calmed down, a doctor finally came over.

"We carried out multiple tests, for most we have clear answers. My first diagnosis is that he is extremely stressed and amids that he cought a bug which caused the vomiting. I want to see the rest of the exams but I'm pretty sure that's it and he has not something more serious. However, I highly suggest of you, and I will most definetely contact the team doctors too, that he needs to be closely monitored for anxiety. We will talk about that on a later date. You can go see him now." the doctor said and guided us to Pau's room.

And there he was. Lying in bed, looking as pale as the bedsheets that he was covered with, his eyes closed and yet he didn't look calm, nor peaceful. He didn't look like he was resting. He looked to be in pain, exhausted, torn apart.

"Doc, is he okay? He looks to be in pain..." you said

"Perhaps the pain relievers haven't kicked in yet, I'll talk about it with the nurse that handles his doses and we will maybe find a better solution."

"Thank you."

You and the rest of his family went inside. You and Irene sat on one side, their parents on the other. He was so out of it that he didn't even hear you come in the room. You took his right hand in yours, Irene let her own hand fall below his knee. Both of you really just trying to reassure yourselves that he was okay., even though he didn't quite look the part.

"So, let's address the elephant in the room, what are we going to do about this anxiety of his?" Glorias asked the rest of you, worry painting her features, those features she and your boyfriend shared so obviously.

"I think he needs to see a therapist, like a professional, a psychologist. It could help him, no?" his father said

"I agree" said Irene from next to you, her voice quiet.

"Me three. And I'm going to do something that will probably get him a bit mad..."

"What's that nina?" asked Robert.

"I'm going to find a way to attend all of his games. I don't know how just yet but I've been thinking a lot about it lately. I have finished my PhD and my company is basically working on autopilot. The rest of my business can be handled through calls and internet meetings. So, I can possibly travel with him for games. That way I can make sure that he is not too stressed..."

"Amor..." Pau's voice hoarse

"Don't do that please... don't put your life on hold for me..." he said quietly.

"Hermoso, I will do everything for you. Everything, you hear me? You are my whole world. My desicion is final. I'll make a way to be there for you, always, no matter how far away is the match, I'll be there." you said, kissing the back of his hand and looking into his beautiful eyes, green and blue mixing with one another. He squized your hand tighter and gave you a smile. Unfortunately, it quickly turned into a wince.

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

A couple of days passed by. On those days a lot of progress had been made. Pau was out of the hospital and back to training. His parents decided that he should stop leaving in the dorm ans started looking for an apartment for him. However, you stopped them.

You sat down in your living room and talked to them about it. You explained how you believed that Pau could stay at yours, if they were okay with it. In the end Pau was still barely an adult while you were 21 years old. You always asked his parents for permission on such things, knowing that there was a need for the existance of trust between you and them.

They agreed easily enough. You see, Pau's family was hesitant when they met you, but in just one afternoon you won them over. They realized that you were perfect for him, as well as a good influence. Always there when he needed you. Not only were you his girlfriend, you also were his closest friend, a confidant, an advisor.

Day by day, things got better. Pau agreed easily about staying with you, even though at first he wasn't sure. You explained to him that you wanted what was best for him and that his parents had agreed with it, but if he wasn't comfortable with the idea they would find a house for him. He agreed that it was the best option. Both for him and for your relationship. You had known each other for a while before you got in a relationship. And even though a bit illegally, you had been dating for a while. Your relationship was stable and you both were looking forward to what the future held...

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a/n: thoughts?

[seitmai]

Many thoughts

Bucky didn't need medical attention. That was what he told himself, and he said the same thing to the team after he took a hard hit to the head. But he made the mistake of telling Bob that he admittedly felt a little dizzy, who then told Yelena, who then demanded that he go to the hospital. Not only did she demand that he go, they all went and were currently hanging out in the lobby to make sure he was okay. 

Of course Bob told Yelena and them all waiting there is just so cute 🥹

He took a hit to the head. So what? He experienced much worse when it came to his head and he was a super soldier for God's sake, so he’d heal just fine. It was a bit cocky to think like that but others needed help more than he did and he wasn't in the mood for anyone to inspect him or ask questions. At least he wasn't until he saw your face. 

How quickly the tables turn 🤭

He opened his mouth to say he hadn't waited long at all, but no sound came out. Thank God he wasn't hooked up to a heart monitor because it would've picked up on the accelerated rate when you smiled at him again. He almost forgot to breathe before his body reminded him that he needed oxygen. No one should look as beautiful as you in medical scrubs or under the harsh hospital lighting. He wondered if he looked okay despite the blood and dirt on his clothes. 

Ahhh he is instantly smitten 🤭🥰

With a deep breath he thought instead of his wonderful treatment in Wakanda and reminded himself that he was safe, free. It helped the next breath come easier. He then looked at your face where he only saw concern and compassion. You weren't going to hurt him. You were there to help. 

He needs a friendly face in a moment like that

“And I appreciate that you're thinking of my time, but it’s my job and I wouldn't feel comfortable with you leaving without completing my exam,” you said, taking a closer look at him. It wasn't concern he saw in your eyes now, but understanding. “You're not exactly a fan of hospitals, are you?” The question took him by surprise. How did you guess? “Not exactly,” he replied, choosing not to elaborate on that and you were thoughtful enough not to push. Just a sympathetic nod, which he appreciated. “But the work you and everyone else in the medical field does? It's incredible. Thank you.”

They are both so thoughtful 🥰

“As long as everything is stable and there are no new or worsening conditions, you’ll likely be discharged within an hour or two,” you replied. He almost argued that he healed from injuries faster thanks to the serum, but that wasn't too long. Better safe than sorry. At least it wasn't a headscan. “Would you like some water? I can get you a snack, too.” The snack and drink were likely to make sure he could keep them down. “Sure, thanks,” he whispered. 

I juat know he loves a snack, especially from a pretty and nice nurse

“Sorry that you’re stuck with me checking on you for the next hour or so,” you said. Bucky’s smile grew before he chuckled. “You won't hear me complaining,” he promised. 

I'm sure he won't 🤭

Hell, he'd probably fake an injury just to see you again, or at least ask for you if he ever had to come back to the hospital for any reason. He wondered if you were single. You weren't wearing a wedding band or an engagement ring. That didn't necessarily mean-

Hahaha there is no denying in him having a crush is he is willing to get injured 😅

“I’m single,” you said quickly. He glanced at you before his eyes went wide. Shit, he said some of that out loud? “Oh, well, that’s…” He wasn't sure what to say. Should he apologize? “Nice.”

I love that they are both so out of it and random in saying these things😂

“Were you a sarcastic guy before the hit to the head, or is this a new side to you?” you teased back.  “Oh, the sass has always been there,” he said, taking a sip once you handed the drink over. “Better to be smart-ass than a dumbass, right?” Why was he talking so much?

Maybe because he wants to keep talking with her, just a thought 🤔🤭

“Why don't I walk you back to the lobby?” you offered. “Oh, you don't have to do that,” he said, regretting it since it sounded like a brush off and that wasn't his intention. “But if you wouldn't mind?” Your face lit up, at least he thought it did. “I don't mind at all.”

She doesn't just mind, she would love to 🤭

He smiled to himself when he spotted his teammates sitting in the waiting area. None of them looked particularly comfortable, but they stuck it out for him. It meant a lot. 

🥹🥰🥹🥰

Of course Yelena and Ava instantly clock his crush 🤭 and Alexei obviously had to chime in 😅

“Hello?” Yelena asked, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “What are you staring at?” He blinked a few times. “Nothing.” “Nothing? Oh, I think he was staring at that pretty nurse,” Ava answered.  Bucky shot the entire group a glare, his cheeks hot. “No, I wasn't,” he grumbled. Except he was. He stared at you. And by the amused looks on their faces, they all saw it.  “It’s okay to stare or have a crush. She’s a beautiful woman.” Alexei clapped a hand on his shoulder. “She would be lucky to date the Winter Soldier.”

“Ask her out! I drive you for your date!” Alexei offered, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll set the mood. You see.” Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered, “Dad, stop.” Bucky shook his head and shut his eyes, wishing he could teleport himself out of there. “Yes, please, stop.”

😂😂😂

“Is your head okay?” Bob asked, making him open his eyes. Of course he was concerned with his pain, and Bucky was glad for the change of topic. 

Oh Bob, he is just the cutest 🥹

John stretched his back once he stood up. “If you really want to see that nurse again I can make sure you get another hit to the head.” Bucky’s eyes turned cold. “I’m not a killer anymore, but I may make an exception if you try anything.”

Hahahaha John just like Bob want to be useful, but he really has to work on reading the room 😂

I would love to read if they reunite 👀

Hit to the Head

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Nurse!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky doesn't think he needs medical attention after a hit to the head, but he's glad he met you.

Word Count: Over 3k

Warnings: Meet cute (of sorts?), possible concussion, mention of HYRDA, team dynamic, humor, Bucky's POV, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?) and he's smitten.

A/N: A new AU (as if I need more) inspired by this wonderful nonnie. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411 (and thanks for the assurance on the medical discussion), but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky didn't need medical attention. That was what he told himself, and he said the same thing to the team after he took a hard hit to the head. But he made the mistake of telling Bob that he admittedly felt a little dizzy, who then told Yelena, who then demanded that he go to the hospital. Not only did she demand that he go, they all went and were currently hanging out in the lobby to make sure he was okay. 

It was a sweet gesture, if not a wasted one. 

He took a hit to the head. So what? He experienced much worse when it came to his head and he was a super soldier for God's sake, so he’d heal just fine. It was a bit cocky to think like that but others needed help more than he did and he wasn't in the mood for anyone to inspect him or ask questions. 

At least he wasn't until he saw your face. 

“Hi,” you smiled, pulling back the curtain to give him some privacy. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He opened his mouth to say he hadn't waited long at all, but no sound came out. Thank God he wasn't hooked up to a heart monitor because it would've picked up on the accelerated rate when you smiled at him again. He almost forgot to breathe before his body reminded him that he needed oxygen. No one should look as beautiful as you in medical scrubs or under the harsh hospital lighting. He wondered if he looked okay despite the blood and dirt on his clothes. 

Wait, why did it matter what he looked like? He wasn't there to flirt with or impress you. There was no reason for him to sit up straighter or flex his right arm. There sure as hell wasn't any reason to run his fingers through his hair to get the tangles out. It was a hospital visit, not a date. 

You wore a name tag, but introduced yourself before taking a look at his chart. “I understand you took a pretty hard hit to the head, Mr. Barnes.”

His voice came out huskier than he anticipated when he said, “Call me Bucky.” Clearing his throat he added, “If you consider a slab of concrete to the head hard, then yeah, but at least my head didn't split open.”

He felt the need to assure you he was fine when concern crossed your beautiful features. “I’m very thankful your head didn't split open, Bucky.” He liked the way you said his name. “But a concrete slab to the head is no joke.”

“You should see the other guy,” he joked, making you giggle. Was he funny or were you only laughing for his benefit? “But seeing the other guy wouldn't matter anyway since you won't let me leave without an exam,” he guessed. Even if he didn't believe he needed one. 

It wasn't just his belief that he was fine. Most didn't know it, but every now and then hospitals made him feel like he was back at HYDRA, ready to be strapped to a chair to await his next form of torture or to be experimented on. He wouldn't say he was afraid, but there was discomfort. Enough to make it feel like the walls were slowly closing in. 

With a deep breath he thought instead of his wonderful treatment in Wakanda and reminded himself that he was safe, free. It helped the next breath come easier. He then looked at your face where he only saw concern and compassion. You weren't going to hurt him. You were there to help. 

“Well, I wouldn't be a very good nurse if I just let you walk out, would I?” you gently smiled. 

He managed a smile for you because you weren't just doing your job. You also seemed kind. “I guess not.”

He could get through a simple exam. 

Bucky inhaled, detecting a hint of something sweet under the sterile surroundings as you checked his heart beat. It was so subtle that he wouldn't have been able to pick up on it if it weren't for his heightened senses. He almost leaned into you before you pulled away, and thank God for that. Would he have been able to blame it on his head if he did?

“I don't have a concussion,” he blurted out. 

“Is that right?” He swore there was amusement in your tone when you shone a light in each of his eyes. “I imagine you're somewhat familiar with them in your line of work.”

“You can say that,” he said. He had his fair share of hits to the head, and helped his teammates get through injuries. “No nausea, no stiffness or imbalance.”

He didn't mention the dizziness since he didn't want to stay longer than he needed to. 

“Any issues with your memory?” you asked. 

He smirked a little. “That's a bit of a loaded question.”

“Can you tell me what day it is and what hospital you're at?” you asked. 

He answered the questions with ease. He also spelled “world” backwards when you asked him to. “See? I’m fine,” he said. 

“Your vitals are normal. Pupils reactive. But-”

“Look, I appreciate you checking me out,” he cut you off, keeping the bite out of his voice because he refused to snap at you. “But I don't want to waste your time.”

Bucky hated that he was trying to rush out when you were only trying to help, but he could hear people in the other rooms even as he tried to block it out. They were in pain, struggling. They needed you more than he did. 

“And I appreciate that you're thinking of my time, but it’s my job and I wouldn't feel comfortable with you leaving without completing my exam,” you said, taking a closer look at him. It wasn't concern he saw in your eyes now, but understanding. “You're not exactly a fan of hospitals, are you?”

The question took him by surprise. How did you guess? “Not exactly,” he replied, choosing not to elaborate on that and you were thoughtful enough not to push. Just a sympathetic nod, which he appreciated. “But the work you and everyone else in the medical field does? It's incredible. Thank you.”

In his eyes, people like you were the real heroes. You didn't just face battles, you faced pandemics and life changing events. You risked your lives, saw the best and worst of people, and how many thanked you in return? And from the little time he knew you he could sense the love and dedication to your job and patients. He respected that. 

“Thank you. And thank you for all that you do, too,” you said sincerely. The compliment had the corner of his lip tugging in a smile. “I know you want to get out of here, but I am here to help. If you're fine, great. If not, please, let me help you.”

He tried to look anywhere but at you. It unnerved him that you got under his skin with so few words and he wondered for a second if that hit to the head did more damage than he thought. “I feel a little dizzy, but that’s all,” he admitted, and he felt better by doing so. 

You put a hand over his, little currents of electricity shooting up his arm. “Thank you for telling me,” you whispered, like it was your little secret. “Since you are feeling dizzy, I would like you to stay for observation.”

Bucky sighed. “How long do I have to stay?”

“As long as everything is stable and there are no new or worsening conditions, you’ll likely be discharged within an hour or two,” you replied. He almost argued that he healed from injuries faster thanks to the serum, but that wasn't too long. Better safe than sorry. At least it wasn't a headscan. “Would you like some water? I can get you a snack, too.”

The snack and drink were likely to make sure he could keep them down. “Sure, thanks,” he whispered. 

“Sorry that you’re stuck with me checking on you for the next hour or so,” you said. 

Bucky’s smile grew before he chuckled. “You won't hear me complaining,” he promised. 

Hell, he'd probably fake an injury just to see you again, or at least ask for you if he ever had to come back to the hospital for any reason. He wondered if you were single. You weren't wearing a wedding band or an engagement ring. That didn't necessarily mean-

“I’m single,” you said quickly.

He glanced at you before his eyes went wide. Shit, he said some of that out loud? “Oh, well, that’s…” He wasn't sure what to say. Should he apologize? “Nice.”

He grimaced. Nice? What was wrong with him? Maybe he had a concussion after all. 

You looked at him, your smile soft and easy. He either wasn't the first patient to make a fool out of himself like that or you were being nice. “I’ll be back shortly, but buzz if you need anything.”

“I will,” he said, his finger itching to push the remote the second you left him alone.

He leaned back in the bed and tried to make himself comfortable while he slowly looked around. How was it that the room seemed darker, as if you took a bit of the light and warmth with you? He shook his head slowly and carefully. It was a ridiculous thought. 

“Observation for an hour or two. You okay sticking around so you can drive me back?” he messaged Yelena. 

Yelena messaged back almost immediately. “Everyone is staying. Even Walker.”

He scoffed, but there was a smile behind it. “Not that you need my permission, but you can punch him if he steps out of line.” Yeah, John was still an asshole, but they did work together and he was trying. Some days. 

He perked up when you came back with a cup of water and a snack. “You doing okay?” you asked. 

“Since you left a minute or two ago, yeah,” he teased. 

“Were you a sarcastic guy before the hit to the head, or is this a new side to you?” you teased back. 

“Oh, the sass has always been there,” he said, taking a sip once you handed the drink over. “Better to be smart-ass than a dumbass, right?”

Why was he talking so much?

“So much better,” you smiled, going to the small computer to type something in. He tried not to stare as your fingers flew across the keyboard. He could always blame it on his head if you caught him. “I’ll be back in just a bit, but-”

“Buzz if I need you. I know,” he smiled. 

“At least there isn't too much sass in your tone,” you joked before you left him alone once again. 

If he didn't know any better he would think you were flirting with him, but you were just being a friendly nurse. 

He also tried not to eavesdrop when he heard you assisting others, but your voice drew his attention and he hung on your every word. You were professional, yet personal, showing each patient expert care. You lightly scolded an older gentleman who hadn't listened to you, which brought a smile to Bucky’s face when the man apologized and didn't give you any trouble after that. It was a delicate balance to be kind and assertive and you did it well. 

“You are something,” he said to himself. 

For the next hour or so Bucky didn't say much when you checked on him, but you had his undivided attention, his eyes following you wherever you went. He wanted to find excuses to keep you there and possibly make small talk, but it felt wrong when there were other patients who needed your attention. He caught that sweet scent again whenever you were close to him. Alluring, captivating. He tried to figure out if it was a body wash or just you. 

Something he noticed and tried not to was that your heart raced faster when you were near him. Maybe there was a slight chance that you were attracted to him? Beyond being a friendly nurse, maybe the possible attraction was why you kept smiling at him. He wanted to believe so. He wanted to feel your hand on his hand again. The brief touch had him wanting more, which was crazy. 

And before Bucky knew it, it was time to leave. 

“Vitals still look good. No change in symptoms,” you confirmed after he said the dizziness had subsided and he didn't feel at all nauseous after the snack. “Do you have someone to drive you home?” you asked. 

“Yeah, I have some friends here,” he answered. Even if he wasn't dizzy there was no way they'd let him drive after that. 

“Try to take it easy for the next 24-48 hours. If there are new symptoms or if the dizziness gets worse, you should return to the hospital,” you told him. “Other than that, I think you're good to go,” you smiled, but it didn't look as bright as before. 

Were you disappointed that he had to leave? Bucky was disappointed, but what could he do? He had no excuse to stay. Ironic how he was itching to leave when he got there when he now wanted a reason to stick around. 

“Thanks.” He grabbed his jacket after slowly getting to his feet, your gaze lingering on him when he slipped it on. 

“Why don't I walk you back to the lobby?” you offered. 

“Oh, you don't have to do that,” he said, regretting it since it sounded like a brush off and that wasn't his intention. “But if you wouldn't mind?”

Your face lit up, at least he thought it did. “I don't mind at all.”

Keeping a respectful distance, but not too much of a gap as you walked together, he stole a couple of glances at you. The quiet confidence in which you carried yourself was beautiful and you turned a few heads from nearby patients. He wondered if you noticed. 

He smiled to himself when he spotted his teammates sitting in the waiting area. None of them looked particularly comfortable, but they stuck it out for him. It meant a lot. 

“That group right there is my ride,” he said, not wanting you to go any closer. If they got the slightest hint that he enjoyed your company for a short time, they’d pounce. “Thanks again.”

“I’m glad I could help," you said, gazing at him. “Havd a good night. And don't forget to take it easy for the next 24-48 hours, hero.”

Hero. The nickname almost made him smile. “You have a good night, too.”

You lingered for just a moment, almost as if you expected him to say something else. When he didn't, you offered him one last smile and scanned your card to get back through the double doors. His shoulders dropped once you were out of sight. He should've said something. 

“Hello?” Yelena asked, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “What are you staring at?”

He blinked a few times. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Oh, I think he was staring at that pretty nurse,” Ava answered. 

Bucky shot the entire group a glare, his cheeks hot. “No, I wasn't,” he grumbled. Except he was. He stared at you. And by the amused looks on their faces, they all saw it. 

Yelena exchanged a look with Ava before they both smirked. “Yes, you were. Do you like the nurse?”

Bucky’s fists curled. He was not having this conversation after a hit to the head. “Can we leave?”

“It’s okay to stare or have a crush. She’s a beautiful woman.” Alexei clapped a hand on his shoulder. “She would be lucky to date the Winter Soldier.”

A growl escaped before Bucky could stop it. Yes, you were beautiful. Did he need Alexei to point that out? And he didn't have a crush. How could he? 

“When was the last time you went on a date?” Ava asked. 

Bucky took a deep breath. He really didn't want to talk about this. “Does it matter?” he asked. 

“Ask her out! I drive you for your date!” Alexei offered, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll set the mood. You see.”

Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered, “Dad, stop.”

Bucky shook his head and shut his eyes, wishing he could teleport himself out of there. “Yes, please, stop.”

“Is your head okay?” Bob asked, making him open his eyes. Of course he was concerned with his pain, and Bucky was glad for the change of topic. 

“I’m fine,” Bucky assured him. There was nothing for him to worry about. “I just need to take it easy for the next day or so.”

John stretched his back once he stood up. “If you really want to see that nurse again I can make sure you get another hit to the head.”

Bucky’s eyes turned cold. “I’m not a killer anymore, but I may make an exception if you try anything.”

John held his hands up, but still had a smirk on his face before Yelena shot him a look. “A small injury could bring you back here.”

“No one is injuring me to bring me back here,” he announced. Everyone looked disappointed except for Bob. “What, you all want me to get hurt?”

Why did he decide to join this team again?

“No, we just want you to see the nurse again,” Ava said.

“Let’s go,” he ordered. 

As the group left, Bucky snuck one last look over his shoulder. You were a good nurse, and you made his night better. A small part of him hoped he made your night a little better, too. And while he certainly didn't want more injuries, a part of him did if only to bring him back to you.

So, what injury is Bucky getting so he can see you again? sebastian stan x reader, james bucky buchanan barnesLove and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[nocturnebite]

──── 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒇

── 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒇 they're the only ones who remember. 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒇 it takes forever. 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒇 it hurts. They will always love you, no matter what.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: bf! ot7 x sick!female! reader 𝒕𝒘: fluff, reader losing memory, lost love making a comeback, slight arguing 𝒘𝒄: 400-500ish per member (about 3.5k total)

𝒂𝒔𝒉'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: this was originally the whole inspiration behind my "when we were whole fic".. so don't come at me for them being similar.. i wrote these then got obsessed with the concept and decided to write a whole a$$ fic ab it. but i couldn't let these go to waste.. ENJOY LOVES

Heeseung – “The Worst Before the Better”

The doctor’s voice echoes in Heeseung’s head even days later: “It can be treated… but it will likely get worse before it gets better.”

Heeseung had clung to the word treated like a lifeline. But no one had prepared him for this — for the way your memory began unraveling even faster, slipping through your fingers like water no matter how tightly he tried to hold you together.

You sit curled on the couch now, wrapped in a blanket and staring at him like he’s someone you used to know. Heeseung kneels in front of you, voice calm, though his hands tremble as they rest gently on your knees. “It’s me, baby. I’m right here. You’re safe.”

But your lips quiver and your voice cracks, a frightened whisper: “I remember you yelling at me. I remember us screaming. Why were we always fighting?”

Heeseung’s heart clenches. You don’t remember the quiet mornings or your late-night giggles tucked under the sheets. You don’t remember the way he kissed your nose every time he walked past you or the playlist he made you on your anniversary. No — right now, your brain has brought up every moment he regrets.

You don’t see the man who held your hand through every dizzy spell. You see the version of him from that night — when he got overwhelmed, when he raised his voice and you cried and he hated himself after. The memory has taken root now, front and center, and it’s all you can grasp.

Heeseung swallows the lump in his throat and rests his forehead on your knee, voice barely above a whisper. “I was scared… that I was losing you even then. I didn’t know how to handle it. But I’ve never stopped loving you. Not for one second.”

You stare down at him, and he knows you’re trying. He sees the pain in your eyes. The fear. He wishes he could erase it all, take every bad memory and shoulder it himself.

When you start crying, something inside him shatters. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I don’t know why I can’t remember the good things. I want to— I want to remember how much I loved you.”

Heeseung climbs up beside you on the couch and pulls you into his chest. You tremble in his arms like you might break. “You still love me,” he whispers. “It’s still in you. Even if your brain’s having trouble finding it, your heart knows me. You came back to me once. You will again.”

You fall asleep in his arms that night, tear-streaked and quiet. Heeseung stays awake, staring at the ceiling. The meds are supposed to help eventually. But what if they don’t? What if this is all that’s left?

No — he won’t let that happen.

The next morning, he begins keeping a memory journal for you. Pages and pages of everything beautiful. Photos. Receipts. Drawings. Letters.

So even if you forget again, the proof of your love won’t disappear.

Jay – “Pieces of You”

Jay had been strong through the whole thing — or at least, that’s what he told everyone. Quiet. Collected. Devoted. But when the doctor told him your treatment would make things worse before they got better, something inside him cracked.

And now, he’s watching the person he loves most unravel in front of him — not from the illness, but from the side effects of the cure.

You forget simple things first — what day it is, whether you’ve eaten. But then the darkness gets deeper. You flinch when he raises his hand to reach for something too quickly. You ask him why he’s here. You pull away from his touch. “We broke up, didn’t we?” you ask one night, shaking. “Why are you still here?”

Jay freezes.

You remember the fights.

You remember the distance.

You remember the hurt.

But not the apologies. Not the nights he stayed up rubbing your back until you fell asleep. Not the way he held you through every breakdown, even when you screamed at him to leave.

He grips the edge of the kitchen counter until his knuckles are white. “We didn’t break up,” he says softly, trying to stay steady. “I was a jackass sometimes. But I never left. I never wanted to.”

You bite your lip. “Then why does it hurt so much?”

He walks over and kneels in front of you, voice low and thick with emotion. “Because love isn’t always soft. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes we make mistakes. But I’ve spent every day since then trying to be better for you.”

You’re crying now, shaking your head. “I’m scared, Jay. What if I only ever remember the bad stuff?”

Jay’s jaw clenches, and for a second, the weight of it all nearly topples him. But he takes a deep breath and gathers you into his arms, wrapping you up like he’s trying to hold your entire world together. “Then I’ll remind you of the good things. Every single day. I’ll rebuild everything you forget until you see me — really see me — again.”

He starts small. Playing your favorite songs in the kitchen. Making your favorite snacks. Wearing that hoodie you always used to steal. He even pulls out the little notebook you wrote him love notes in during your early days — and watches your eyes linger on the pages like they almost spark something.

Even if some days you cry and ask him to leave.

He never does.

Even if some nights you wake up in a panic and ask where you are.

He holds you until you fall asleep again, whispering stories about your first date, your inside jokes, the time you made fun of his hair and then kissed him ten seconds later.

And slowly, he sees the pain start to crack.

One day, your eyes catch his — just for a second — and something in your expression softens. And you say, “You’re… always here.”

Jay smiles, broken but proud. “Yeah. I always will be.”

Jake – “The Breaking Point”

Jake had never thought love could feel so helpless.

When the doctor told him the treatment would worsen your memory before improving it, he nodded and held your hand tightly, trying to stay hopeful. “We’ll get through it,” he promised. And he meant it.

But no one warned him what it would feel like when you started forgetting him — not just his name or your anniversary, but who he was to you.

Some nights, you woke up terrified, pushing him away, whispering, “Why are you here? I don’t know you.”

Some days, you’d cry uncontrollably, begging him to leave, convinced he was just another person who’d hurt you in the past.

And then there were the worst days — when you remembered just enough to hate him. The bad fights. The cold silences during your rough patches. The time he left you crying in the living room after a terrible argument because he didn’t know how to fix things back then.

“I remember you walking out on me,” you say one afternoon, voice hoarse and flat. “I remember how lonely that felt.”

Jake’s chest tightens. He sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded between his knees. “I was scared. I didn’t know how to help you yet. I thought giving you space was the answer. But it was the worst decision I ever made.”

You glance at him, skeptical. “Then why are you here now?”

Jake lifts his gaze to meet yours, eyes glassy. “Because I learned. I messed up, but I learned. And I’m not going anywhere again — not even if you forget me every single day.”

He sets his phone down on the nightstand. It’s been recording short videos for weeks — tiny moments, little clips. You and him dancing in the living room. Laughing in the car. The way your eyes sparkle when you tease him.

“I made you these,” he says gently. “In case it gets bad. So you’d see how much I love you. How happy we were.”

You reach for the phone with trembling hands and press play.

And for the first time in days, Jake watches your expression soften. A faint smile tugs at your lips. Tears gather in your eyes — not from fear, but from something deeper. Recognition. Emotion.

A whisper escapes you: “I think… I remember this.”

Jake can’t hold it in anymore. He crawls into bed and pulls you close, burying his face in your shoulder. He doesn’t cry often, but tonight, the tears fall freely.

“I’ll remind you as many times as it takes,” he chokes out. “Even if you forget me every morning… I’ll make you fall in love with me every night.”

And you let him hold you.

Even if it’s fleeting — even if tomorrow, it fades again — tonight, there’s something. A spark of memory. A spark of you.

Sunghoon – “Please Don’t Forget Me”

Sunghoon had always been composed, cool on the outside even when the world inside him cracked. But nothing — not even the grueling competitions or long, sleepless trainee nights — had prepared him for this.

Not for watching the love of his life fade in and out of their shared world like a ghost. Not for seeing you smile one moment and flinch the next.

And definitely not for hearing you whisper, “I think I used to hate you.”

It rips through him.

You were doing better — or so he’d thought. But then the doctor’s words echoed again: “The meds might make it worse before they make it better. You’ll need to be patient.”

He’s patient. He tries. He sits by your side and tells you stories of how you first met, how you used to warm his cold fingers in winter, how you hated coffee ice cream, but always bought it because he loved it. He even laughs softly when you roll your eyes at him.

But then you start remembering the worst versions of him — the sharp words said in stress, the silent treatments he thought would protect you from his own pain. And they stick longer than any of the good memories.

“Why did you yell at me so much?” you ask quietly one night, staring at the ceiling.

Sunghoon swallows thickly. “I… I didn’t know how to handle everything. I was hurting too. And I thought silence would make it go away.”

You blink at him. “You always looked like you hated me.”

“I never hated you,” he says instantly, voice hoarse. “I hated myself for not being better for you.”

That night, you don’t speak again. But your hand finds his under the covers — slow, unsure. And it stays there.

Days blur together. Some are worse than others. One afternoon, you forget his name. Another, you ask if he’s your nurse. He pretends it doesn’t cut him, but when he gets home, he cries in the shower until the water runs cold.

Then one night, you wake up in a panic — breathing fast, eyes wide — and when he rushes to you, you grab him by the shirt and whisper, “Don’t leave. Please don’t leave.”

His arms wrap around you instantly, strong but shaking. “I’m not going anywhere. Even if you forget me a thousand times, I’ll stay here — reminding you that I love you. Every time.”

And slowly, his consistency begins to win. You start trusting him again. You laugh a little more. Some mornings, you remember that he takes his coffee black and that he sleeps on the left side of the bed. Some nights, you whisper his name like a secret.

Until one night, while he’s holding you close, you trace your finger over his jaw and whisper, “You’re my boyfriend, right?”

He freezes. “Yeah. I am.”

A tear rolls down your cheek. “I think I loved you before.”

Sunghoon exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks, pressing a trembling kiss to your forehead.

“You still do,” he whispers. “Even if you forget again tomorrow… I’ll be right here.”

Sunoo – “I’ll Remember Enough for Both of Us”

Sunoo never believed his sunshine could dim.

You were the light of his life — always humming in the kitchen, leaving lipstick on his cheek, wrapping your arms around him when the world was too loud. He loved you with a sweetness so complete it hurt sometimes.

So when the doctor said the treatment might worsen your memory before it got better, Sunoo told himself he could handle it. That he’d smile through it for you. That his strength would be enough for both of you.

But then came the days you forgot his name.

The days you looked at him like a stranger — scared, distant.

The nights you recoiled from his touch.

And worst of all, the moments you remembered only the pain.

“You used to be cruel,” you told him one morning. Your voice was quiet but firm, eyes hazy. “You never let me breathe.”

Sunoo blinked, throat tightening. “What?”

“You were clingy. Controlling. I think I wanted to leave.”

His heart broke clean in two. “No, baby… I—I was afraid of losing you. I held on too tightly, and I hurt you, I know that now. But I’ve changed. I swear I have.”

You stared at him for a long time, then turned away.

That night, Sunoo sat alone in the hallway, back against the door, crying silently into his knees. He hadn’t been perfect. But he’d loved you with everything. And now it was like all you could see were the cracks.

But even through the pain, he never gave up.

He filled your world with softness. Laughter. Warm food. Scented candles you once said reminded you of spring. Sticky notes on the mirror that read “You’re beautiful” and “You love me, remember?”.

And one day… you did.

You were sitting on the couch, half-asleep, when you looked up at him with glassy eyes and whispered, “You used to dance in the kitchen with me… even when there wasn’t music.”

Sunoo’s heart stopped.

You blinked, confused. “Why did you do that?”

He smiled, a tear slipping down his cheek. “Because I wanted you to know I’d follow your rhythm no matter what.”

That night, he held you in bed like you were made of something fragile and sacred, whispering every soft thing he’d ever wanted to tell you into your skin.

“If you forget me again,” he said softly, “just know… I’ll always be the one waiting. The one who loves you even when you don’t remember how to love yourself.”

And in the quiet of that moment, with your head on his chest and your hand in his, it was enough.

Because even if your memories slipped again tomorrow — tonight, you were his.

Jungwon – “You’re Still My Home”

Jungwon was always steady. Reliable. The anchor in every storm.

But this… this wasn’t a storm he could brace for.

When the doctor explained the side effects — that the medication might make things worse before they improved, that you could lose more memories, deeper ones — he’d only nodded, jaw clenched tight.

Because what else could he do?

He’d promised to stand by you no matter what, and he meant every word. But he never imagined watching you forget him, forget your life together, forget yourself.

Some mornings you woke up beside him and screamed.

Some afternoons you wandered the halls in silence, asking where you were.

And some nights… you remembered just enough to hurt him.

“You always left,” you told him once, staring blankly at the window. “You loved your job more than me. You missed appointments. You missed me.”

And it was true — in the past. He had been too focused on his career. He’d thought he had time to make it up to you.

He never imagined your memory would turn time into something borrowed.

“I was wrong,” he whispered, kneeling in front of you. “I didn’t know how to balance it all back then. But I never stopped loving you. Not once.��

You didn’t respond. You just stood up and walked past him.

That night, he curled up on the couch, wide awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering how many more pieces of you would slip away before the treatment started to work.

But even through the fear, he didn’t leave.

He adjusted his schedule so he could work from home. He learned how to cook your favorite meals — the ones you didn’t always remember liking. He started writing down every moment you did remember — even if it lasted just a few minutes — and tucked them into a little leather-bound journal.

Until one morning… he found you sitting on the floor with that journal in your lap.

“I think you loved me a lot,” you whispered, voice shaking. “And I think… I did too.”

His chest ached as he dropped to his knees beside you. “You still do,” he said softly. “You just can’t feel it all the time right now. But it’s there.”

And when you turned to him — really looked at him — something in your gaze softened.

“I think I feel safe with you.”

He exhaled, pulling you gently into his arms. “You are safe. Always.”

And even if the road ahead was still foggy, filled with starts and stops and painful relapses… Jungwon would walk it with you. Every step.

Because no matter how much you forgot — he remembered enough for both of you.

And you would always be worth waiting for.

NI-KI – “Even If You Forget, I’ll Still Be Yours”

It scared him.

He was too young to be this scared. But watching you slip away, memory by memory, was the kind of fear that left Ni-ki hollow. Angry at the world. Angry at himself.

When the doctors said the new meds might make things worse before better, he didn’t believe them at first.

But then you forgot what city you were in.

Then his birthday.

Then his face.

He tried not to show it, but it gutted him. Every time you blinked at him like he was just some kid, like he wasn’t the one who stayed up all night playing video games beside you just to hear your laugh, or made midnight ramen when your cravings hit, or memorized every playlist you’d ever made.

And the worst part?

When you did remember — it was always the pain.

“You used to yell,” you said once, tears brimming. “I don’t think you liked me that much.”

“I never yelled at you,” he whispered, stunned. “I yelled when I was scared. I didn’t know how to handle all of this, and I took it out on myself — not you. But I never stopped loving you.”

You just stared. Like the words made no sense.

Ni-ki had never felt more helpless in his life.

But he didn’t walk away.

He started over. Every single day.

He introduced himself with a soft smile when you didn’t know his name. He told you stories about “a girl he used to love” — hoping that somewhere in those tales, you’d find yourself. He bought you the exact same stuffed animal from your first date. Played your favorite song and watched your eyes flicker, just for a moment, with something like recognition.

Then one night, he came home late and found you curled up in his hoodie on the couch.

“You used to hold me like this,” you murmured sleepily, barely awake. “Didn’t you?”

Ni-ki crouched beside you, fingers trembling as he brushed your hair back. “I did,” he whispered. “And I still want to.”

“Do I… do I make you happy?” you asked, eyes half-lidded.

He laughed — breathless, cracked. “You’re my entire happiness.”

And for that one night, you didn’t forget.

You let him hold you, kiss you gently, bury his face in your neck and cry like a boy lost in the storm — because for once, you were still there.

And even if tomorrow you forgot again… he wouldn’t stop fighting.

Because Ni-ki didn’t fall in love with your memory.

He fell in love with you.

And even if you couldn’t remember him — he would never stop remembering you.

tl: (read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[alexanderlightweight]

I now love Wednesdays due to your open prompts. Perfect way to get over the hump mid-week.

My ask this week - does anyone from the shadow world see Alec in his peak mob-wife self? Like - do any other downworlders stumble across these meetings (or the yacht party) and what transpires?

(I'm thinking of an out of area 300 year old vampire or warlock seeing Alec in a corset vest & thigh high boots, draped across Magnus, wondering "what in the actual fuck is going on here?")

Who else knows about Alec as a mob-wife (I can't imagine Simon could keep his mouth closed)?

SFM/NSFW - your choice

As always, thank you for your writing!

i'm glad it can help! honestly it's what gets me through the week too and I really needed it today. so i'm having fun with the prompts ty.

i hope you enjoy this

<3 lumine

dressed to kill

Lily really wishes she was anywhere in the shadowworld than out here, in the mundane one. Her pantsuit is the only thing getting her through this, that and the fact that Raphael will owe her three more, from his personal tailor.

That’s worth mingling with the mundanes as she is. Trying to chase down a lead they finally have on a feeder den whose slipping yin fen into drugs, trying to bring down ‘willing’ blood bags.

It’s with the reminder that not only is it important to get this handled before someone more dangerous is called — and that three suits are on the line. So while she doesn’t have to smile, she also needs to keep her fangs to herself. 

The crowd is easy to enter with a simple encanto and once inside, well Lily is good at blending in when she wants to. That’s about the only thing that holds her together when she recognizes the couple seated together on a chair barely meant for one, let alone two.

It should look ridiculous but they just look intimate, like sharing the same space is better than breathing.

Lily only knows one couple who acts like that with such an intense aura and she certainly didn’t expect to see them here.

Simon's drunken rambling tirade suddenly makes less sense as reality than it did as a fever dream.

—

Mari is about to go talk to the new quality tester, Lily. She’s brisk and smart and she’s so no-nonsense that Leo can barely handle talking to her without retreating. However she’s new and probably doesn’t know anyone. Not only that but, well, Mari admires strong women.

Lily surprises her when she steps forward and bows to Magnus Bane. Nothing too noticeable or low but it’s a sign of respect on a woman whose face looked like she didn’t know what the word meant. Even now, the respect she gives is carefully measured out and seems well-earned and Mari wonders again, just what kind of life Magnus Bane lives.

The thing that surprises Mari is that Lily clearly doesn’t know how to handle Alec. She doesn’t seem to know where to look or how to handle his presence, even though she clearly knows Bane.

Actually, she knows Alec too. It’s clearer now, the more Mari watches. Lily is distinctly uncomfortable with looking at Alec and while Mari feels like it has to do with his clothes, it’s not because of what he’s wearing. Then Mari sees the almost helpless look Lily gives him — from the collar around Alec’s neck to his heels to his husband and realizes it’s because Lily doesn’t know where she’s allowed to look.

Clearly this isn’t as common a look as they’ve been led to believe, or perhaps it’s less common in business, which is where Lily clearly knows the two.  The thing is, Alec doesn’t treat anything like business so it’s clear that at some point a line is drawn, between whatever he is and who he is as Magnus’ husband.

Mari wonders between the two, if knowing Alec via business or as Magnus’ husband is worse.

—

“Poor dear, she looks like lightning will strike her if her eyes linger anywhere on you for more than half a second.”Magnus is laughing in Alec’s hair and then he murmurs, “though she’s not wrong.  Half a second is practically minutes for a vampire. Far too long for me to share the sight of you with anyone.”

“Didn’t we dress so that people would look at the both of us?”

“Yes, but I find this more amusing.”

Alec kisses Magnus rather than laugh as loud as he wants to. Of course that’s the reason Magnus decided to go this route and honestly, Alec can’t wait for the first time he wears something like this to Pandemonium.

Magnus is going to find no one being able to look at him hilarious and anyone who does look... well Magnus enjoys working out.

-

i hope you enjoy where I went with this, I didn't have the spoons to make up a new character so I borrowed Lily.

magnus really does change things based on his whims and alec's just straight faced: that was the plan all along. what are you talking about? he will gaslight you for his husband 100%

[jupitersfall]

Friends to Lovers | L. Matthew Headcanons

Lottie who, in third grade, came up to you and cautiously asked if you’d like to kick a soccer ball with her. When you said yes, the two of you played for the entirety of recess, and then everyday after.

Having sleepovers at her house all throughout your childhood. Going swimming during summer, playing tag around her house every time her parents were gone.

The two of you were inseparable, to the point that if someone saw you alone, they’d ask where Lottie was.

Middle school was when the two of you began to grow crushes. Gushing to Lottie about different people, even though you knew you’d never try anything.

Lottie would get unreasonably upset when you’d mention liking another girl, though. She didn’t wanna lose her best friend!

Middle school was also when Lottie tried out for Soccer. She was good, really good. She’d always ask you to go to her games, and you’d joke about how she didn’t need to ask because you’d want to go to all her games in the first place.

Lottie who started to secretly wish you’d wear her jersey number while you were in the bleachers.

Every time she did anything remotely cool looking, she’d search for you in the crowd to see your reaction. And of course, you’d always be cheering for her.

High School, things had gotten a little more complicated. You knew you liked Lottie, because you’d get that same butterfly feeling in your stomach that you’d get with all your other crushes.

It didn’t help that Lottie was so touchy. If you couldn’t be hugging, you’d be holding hands. If you couldn’t be holding hands, you’d be linking pinkies. Not like you were complaining.

Lottie who was also your first kiss. The two of you had wanted to get it over with, because all your other friends had been kissed.

“It’ll be just a quick one,” Lottie said with a reassuring smile, her hand gently rubbing your shoulder, “And it’s not like it means anything.”

When Lottie got into her first relationship, you thought you’d have gotten over your crush but it only made things worse.

Instead of spending everyday together, it was every other day. Then, every two days, until you’d only ever see her some weekends.

It’s not like Lottie liked that. She missed you like hell, but her partner was a little possessive, that’s all. It didn’t help that you and her were always rumored to be dating.

“They’re jealous, y’know,” Lottie said, “Like, they probably think we’re making out right now. Isn’t that funny?”

“Yeah. Real funny, Lot.”

But when she got dumped, she was running back to you. All teary eyed, knocking on your door. She looked small, and all you wanted to do was take her into your arms and hold her until she felt better. So, that’s exactly what you did.

She sniffled a little, head in your lap while your fingers ran through her hair. Watching reruns of twins peak, and friends.

You were thrilled, though you wouldn’t admit that. Of course, you felt bad. But now, somebody else wasn’t gonna be kissing her, which was awesome.

Lottie had spent every day with you for weeks, ‘making up for lost time’ as she’d put it. And about a month after her breakup, she’d asked you to come with her to a movie.

So, of course, you went. Lottie had spent several minutes debating what candy to buy, and what soda flavor to get, and whether she wanted a large popcorn or a medium.

Lottie who was incredibly nervous for some reason, rambling about how she’d seen advertisements for this movie, how she’d heard it was really good and she thought you’d like it.

She was so stiff in her seat, barely eating any of the popcorn. Halfway through, she’d gotten the courage to hold your hand.

Which seemed a little weird to you because if she’d wanted to hold your hand, she could’ve. It wasn’t like you hadn’t done it before.

Lottie had kept your hand in hers the whole time, until after the movie was over and the two of you were outside.

“So,” Lottie said, hand gently squeezing yours to get your attention, “did you like the movie?”

“It was pretty good. The soundtrack was cool.”

Lottie hummed a little, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, totally. I missed hanging out with you, you know. I was thinking…maybe, you know…dinner, or something. Like, after my game next friday.”

“Dinner?” you questioned, trying to push away the excitement that was beginning to bubble up inside you, “I mean, sure. We’ve never gone out to dinner before.”

Lottie looked a little sheepish at that, shrugging as nonchalantly as she could. “Yeah, yeah. Yeah, I know. But, like, it’s good to try new stuff.”

So, the two of you went to dinner. Lottie had done her makeup, though she had tried her best not to make it obvious that she was doing good for you.

It was a little awkward at first because neither of you were sure what to talk about, but once the two of you had begun eating, conversation started.

Lottie who, near the end of your dinner, had reached across the table and took one of your hands in hers. Cautiously mentioning how she’s been thinking about your friendship for awhile now, and how she’s cared about you a lot.

And to be honest, you thought she was about to say she didn’t want to be friends anymore.

But then the words ‘I want to be with you’ left her mouth and the two of you were staring at each other for at least fifteen seconds. Pure silence, except for the clinking of silverware on plates, and soft chatter coming from the other people in the restaurant.

Not even bothering to reply, just leaning over the table to kiss her.

Being incredibly annoying after that. Like, touching 24/7 and kissing and giggling to the point that your guys’ friends would tell you get a room.

Lottie lowkey being romantic as hell…if you pass by a store, and you happen to eye a shirt for a second too long, best believe it’ll be in your room, wrapped in a nice package by the next day. She can’t help it, she’s a giver! It’s her love language! Not to mention, her dad has so much cash that he wouldn’t even notice if she was blowing it on you.

Planning fun dates together. Going to the aquarium, or the arcade, or renting a bunch of movies and just hanging out at one of your houses. Blasting music throughout her house and singing along at the top of your lungs (even if you’re not very good, Lottie doesn’t judge) and dancing together.

Anyways! Lottie would be a 10/10 girlfriend. Like, super sweet, and super understanding. If you’re having a bad day, she’s having a bad day. If you’re mad at someone, she’s mad at them. If you made a new friend, she’s made a new friend.

And she definitely stays up late, gigging to herself while daydreaming about your guys’ life together.

[robinvomit]

I had a thought

I'm not sure if you've done this before, but how do you think the bat boys (oh any characters you want, idm really) would apologise if they genuinely hurt their gf's feelings? Maybe from a misworded comment or a bad argument

- Shiny

I am.. going to format this as quote responses, simply because I've been in this situation — accidental and straight up abusive — and, gifts and affection don't matter if the verbal response isn't sincere. + I am being affectionately bullied into adding other characters to things, so.. you're getting a whole circus with this. [ Amused that half of these people would need to be held at gunpoint to properly apologize— ]

Dick: Hey, no- I didn't mean it like that. That.. doesn't matter right now, though, I guess. Because I wasn't careful, you heard me say that.. whether I meant it that way or not. Yeah, I was tired but that's not an excuse, not when it leads to me making you feel small. I'll do better, I promise.. you should never be the one on the end of me having a rough day. I'm sorry.

Jason: Listen, I know I was an asshole. I wasn't great with saying what I wanted but that doesn't change what I said. But look, you matter so much it scares the shit out of me. I didn't.. mean to push you away and I'm sorry. I'll crawl through hell just to pull you back and make it up to you.

Tim: ..I.. was trying to make it about logic when you needed it to be about emotion. I replayed it in my head over twenty times, dissecting every single word I said wrong, the tone, all of it. I'm sorry- I didn't mean to minimize you or how you feel. The worst part is that.. I knew I was doing it and still let it happen. You didn't deserve that and I don't expect to be forgiven for it, but I'll work to earn your trust back.

Damian: I deeply regret the phrasing I chose. I do not regret speaking, but I do regret that it hurt you. Perhaps, I could have been gentler about it. I.. am still learning to hold things that are not sharp and you are the softest thing in my life, though that is no excuse. I was unable to protect you from myself and I apologize. It will not happen again.

Kon: Shit, okay. I messed up- I messed up, like, really bad. I don't even have an excuse, no reason, it just happened and I'm sorry. You looked at me like I just shattered the most precious thing on this planet- God, I never want to give you a reason to look at me that way again.. you shouldn't have had one to begin with. I'll fix it, I'll do everything to fix it. You mean more to me than some stupid thought I didn't even think about and I'm going to prove it.

Bart: I.. said something dumb, didn't I? No, that's not it. I said something mean, something I shouldn't have, and I didn't even notice until your face dropped. I hurt you and barely noticed until it was visible and I hate that. I hate the nasty feeling in my stomach and chest when you pull away- it's like everything is moving in slow motion. I'll.. try to think more before I speak, because you're too important to hurt just because my brain outruns my words.

Barry: I wasn't even looking at you when I said it, but I felt it. It felt like the room cracked open. I tried to fix it too fast, too easily, like I always do and that made it worse because it didn't seem sincere. I'm not trying to outrun it this time- you deserve so much better than thoughtless comments and I'll give you better. I promise. I'm so sorry for not thinking before opening my mouth.

Oliver: Look, love. I talk a lot of shit, I let my mouth overload my ass. I always have and maybe it's about time I met the consequences of that. I cut you down with something that was supposed to be a joke and a joke should never be at your expense; you're a lot more to me than something like that. I'm not even looking for forgiveness, just the chance to prove I'm able to change.

Clark: I didn't.. mean for it to come out that way. I always try to be careful and I wasn't with the one person who deserve it the most.. and that's not something I'm going to treat lightly. I'm not asking you to forget it or forgive me, but I do want to show you that I've never wanted to hurt you like that. Whether it was meant or not, that's how you felt it and that's.. not something I'm just going to brush off. I hurt the person I love and that's the worst failure I can think of.

Bruce: You are the only part of my life that let's me feel like a man above being a weapon and I spoke to you like you were a soldier.. not the person I love. This wasn't a mission, not something I needed to be in control of. I spoke like someone who is used to being obeyed, instead of someone who is loved and I'm sorry. I will spend every day showing you just how much I mean that.

Diana: I pride myself on doing things with honor, with grace.. but today I chose the wrong words and held none of that. I wounded you and it was not out of malice, but my failure to listen properly. I would rather stand and face the wrath of the Gods before ever being the reason of sorrow in your eyes again. I will make this right, if you will allow me to.

John: Yeah, I said it- yeah, it was cruel. But don't go thinking I didn't feel it the second it left my mouth. You've got this way of looking at me like I'm worth your time and that's a helluva thing, love, cause I'm not. It's not 'cause I want to push you away. It's cause you look at me like that and I'm scared shitless you'll finally see me beneath it and leave before I notice. Still, you didn't deserve that and if you walk, I'll get it- won't stop you. But, if you stay, forgiveness of not, I'll spend the rest of my miserable bloody existence trying to fix it and deserve you.

[iwoulddieforher]

gut für dich | c.novak × a.cabot

alex falls asleep in casey's lap, and casey loves her

no warnings- emotional overwhelm, but it's sweet. a private moment.

Casey was crying, and she wasn't sure why. She really didn't want it to wake Alex up though- Alex, who had such a hard time falling asleep, Alex, who was currently nestled comfortably in her lap as though her head was shaped specifically the rest in the dip on Casey’s thighs.

Short blonde hair was sprawled across her lap, strands that felt like silk against the bare skin exposed by the sleep-shorts Casey donned. Alex had fallen asleep with her makeup on, red lipstick smudged just barely across her lips from the kiss she had pecked Casey with to greet her when she had entered her apartment. With her eyes closed, and with the level of observation Casey was currently able to do, she could see the careful line of her touch of eyeshadow, the delicate curve of her shaped lashes as they rested.

Alex was perfect. In every single describable way, and then some. The way her neck was long and the way she held it more gracefully than a swan, the way her fingers were so perfectly tapered, the way her collarbone was emphasized when she breathed. Her eyebrows, the slope of her nose, the way her lips were parted just barely- just barely, but it drove Casey insane.

Her body looked like it was formed with glazed porcelain, with her skin so alabaster pale and so impossibly unblemished. Everything about her was formed, curved just gently in just the right places, so statuesque everywhere else. Everything about her was perfect, and Casey wasn't only forcing herself to observe that- there was not a single detectable flaw on Alex’s figure she could distinguish. She could drown in her complexion, drown in the blue of the eyes she couldn't see under languishly shut eyelids.

The woman was curled up on her side like a cat, her hands resting loosely before her face, her knees tucked up just enough to not make contact with Casey’s side as the younger woman sat on the couch.

It had been a grueling day in court, and Casey had known Alex was utterly exhausted. Still, they had had plans for a lame movie and take-out, and they hadn't seen each other lately as much as they would've liked too, so Alex had come over regardless. Casey hadn't expected this- perhaps some making out, at most, perhaps sex. This was better-, this was worse.

Because Alex was so vulnerable right now, sleeping so softly, so peacefully. If Casey had to close her eyes and recall the moment from memory alone, she would've stated with absolutely certainty that Alex had wings- that was how angelic she seemed, soft, lithe, ethereal, sleeping in her lap.

It had been years since Casey had felt safe the way Alex seemed to be so immediately, so intrinsically, with her. The trust Alex was placing on her in this moment, falling asleep knowing Casey was fully awake and alert and could hurt her- but Alex knew Casey would never hurt her, the same way Casey was always scared someone might. Built into her bones through the history of people before- but of course Alex must have been hurt before too, and somehow she still trusted Casey so immensely.

Alex had insomnia, Casey had known that since long before they had begun seeing each other. Alex had trouble falling asleep when things weren't exactly right- she had a regiment she followed precisely, and she couldn't bring herself down when things weren't the same way they usually were. Alex had often complained of hours spent staring aimlessly at ceilings and ceiling fans, and her bathroom cabinet was full of various pills that had never seemed to coax her properly to slumber.

Alex had seen Casey enraged, Casey had snapped at her before, Alex had seen how vile Casey could get when ferocity was her only option to keep herself moving forward. All the horrid aspects of her psyche had been observed, and yet, here was Alex, as though Casey was incapable of ever hurting her. Of course, Casey would never, ever, intentionally, but- Alex trusted that. Alex trusted her.

Alex, who struggled so immensely with falling asleep, looked so peaceful and so content- so blissfully unaware, so trusting, so safe, that Casey thought if she was a cat she’d be purring. Asleep, completely relaxed, in Casey’s lap.

It meant a lot to her. That was why she was crying. She was crying, genuinely overcome by tears, because Alex had felt so comfortable and so safe with her that she had without hesitation fallen asleep bundled in her lap, and the love that thrummed in her heart was overwhelming her.

Her hand extended before she could stop herself, sliding gently along the side of Alex’s head, brushing strands of white golden hair back against her scalp. Alex, subconsciously, seemed to recognize- she shifted into the touch, her head rocking gently as if trying to nestle deeper into the warmth of Casey’s thighs. A small sound of content left her parted lips, her hips shifting as she readjusted her position in sleep.

Alex’s jaw was pressed against her thigh in a way Casey would've deemed uncomfortable if it was anyone else in the world but her. If anything, Casey wished her own femur was softer so it could mold around her- she wished she could turn into a pillow to never disturb her, to never shift or breathe wrong or hiccup through her quiet rolling sobs and accidentally prompt Alex awake.

“I love you,” Casey whispered, so quiet, so tentative, as though she were doing something wrong. She closed her eyes when she said it, as if expecting Alex’s eyes to snap wide open and for her to bolt. When she opened them again, a minute later, Alex had barely even stirred. Casey’s hand rested gently on the top of her head, her thumb moving small grounding strokes through her hair while the other hand was aimlessly on the couch armrest because she wasn't quite sure what to do with herself now.

Her voice was hoarse, her vocals broken down with the effort of crying completely silently. She traced a heart-shaped on Alex’s curved, perfect cheekbone with her thumb softly, carefully, intentionally.

“I love you,” she said again, experimenting with the words. They felt heavy and meaningful on her tongue but the way they rolled off felt right. Felt meaningful. Felt like something tangible, felt like it made up for the way no description of Alex’s gorgeousness could ever truly convey it.

She swallowed back the tears, not of anguish but out of some deep, warm feeling in the heart she had once thought froze over, and her face broke out in a small nervous smile Alex would never see- but unbeknownst to Casey? Her smile was exactly what Alex was dreaming about.

[8-rae-rae-8]

i am feeling angry for no reason. and someone has to suffer for this, so let it be my dearest phillip graves ❤️

make him suffer violently. physically, mentally, and emotionally. maybe on their own, but hopefully in pairs at least (maybe even all three if you're feeling really sadistic).

but wait! a moment! give him a crumb of comfort. he cherishes it but it simultaneously makes him feel guilty beyond belief because he quite honestly believes he doesn't deserve it for betraying the people he wanted to be friends with under means of just trying to keep himself and his shadows alive. the comfort makes him let down his shields a bit, but that just makes him vulnerable for others to attack.

i do not have specifics other than this. just graves whump in every single way you can possibly think of. (all of this is /nf by the way. i've never actually given requests so i don't really know how this works)

thank you for possibly considering me, o great one. 🙇‍♂️

Thank you anon thank you, I will take this opportunity briefly to say

[CW: manipulation, child abuse, abuse, implied brief noncon, conditioning(?), mentions of death]

Imagine if you will

Phillip Graves being trained so well, from a young age, to do as he was told. To be seen, not heard. The military was an escape until he got hooked by Shepherd and, damnit, he was too weak to resist the promises he made.

He listened. He behaved. He cared, way too fucking much. Graves practically signed away his life for a chance at something more. Shadow Company was supposed to be his more. His new thing, something he'd love—and he does—but the picture gets clearer and clearer to him every day.

Those promises were fake, the benefits he got were null, the pay was worse, the work was more strenuous. But Phillip Graves learned not to complain, hushed with a finger to his lips or snapped at and scolded until he understood. He sees a little better what he's been looking at from tinted glasses.

From where he sits at Shepherd's feet as a guard dog, he's nothing more than a tool. A measley mutt, something weak and waiting to be used because he was so desperate to prove himself.

He can't dig himself out of this hole. He knows it. There's nowhere to go. Who would he run to anyway?

When he steps a foot out of line, the barely healed wounds remind him of what happens when he does. The stern gaze sends terror through him, the all too similar way his father standing in the hall with a belt would; except this time, he'd be losing a lot more than just his ability to sit for a few hours.

He's a mutt chained to a post. He can lunge and bark and bite, but it'll get him nowhere. At this point, after everything, he's not sure he deserves that regardless. Here, at least, he's made a home. Someone will ask how he is, and he'll lie away every follow-up question with a smile on his face. The way they hug him is so much more gentle. Safe. Warm.

And yet, like a dog, he'll always crawl back here to lay at his owner's feet before Shepherd can catch a glimpse of what he's doing—he always knows anyway. Another punishment, another scolding, another bruise or cut.

Weary and tired, it's hard to keep up appearances, but he does it just well enough.

Shamefully, for just a second, he believed the 141 and Los Vaqueros could see him. The chuckles, the fist bumps, the banter... He thought he'd get a chance, just one. But he never deserved that, did he? Shepherd wasted no time with them, sending orders to Graves' desk, telling him to kill each and every remaining team member. Make them pay for daring to treat Phil with an ounce of kindness.

He couldn't even say he was sorry, just tried to aim where it wouldn't kill. It had to look real, after all. Even still, he had half the thought to think that maybe, just maybe, they'd see him. See all this. The Shadows' confusion, his tenseness, his fear... Why'd he ever think he'd get lucky like that?

If he ignored the order, it would break him. Literally. His shadows would be out of jobs, god knows Shepherd isn't above sending others to kill them for no reason. He'd lie about them "going rogue" or something. He'd lose everything he ever wanted and only ever got because he was stupid enough to think this could all happen and be okay.

The shadows noted it, a little bit. They saw his panicked eyes and restless stance. The only comfort he got out there were small smiles and brief touches. Brush of the shoulders, a gentle pat. For a minute, he could believe it was okay.

The one chance at getting out was that godforsaken court room, and even then he failed when his walls kept coming down until the stupid idea someone would see this terrifying situation. But no. No one will come for him when he drowns in the ship he dared to live on. No one will see the way his eyes dart around as Shepherd clasps a threatening hand over his shoulder like it's a kind gesture. No one will hear the way he sobs that night, knowing it'll always just be him, drowning here alone.

I got carried away and I think I missed some points but it's almost 6am so

[it-is-whumptastic]

Beg For Your Punishment

"If you tell me before I find out, I'll be easier on you."

"Whumpee, it'll be so much worse if you waste my time instead of telling me what you've done."

Whumper, who promises they'll be more gentle if Whumpee comes and confesses and begs to be punished. Whumper, who keeps this promise. Whumper who beats Whumpee within an inch of their life when they don't confess, but only breaks their fingers on one hand when they do. A small, tiny mercy. Just as they promised

A defiant whumpee who reluctantly drops to their knees, venom dripping off their tongue. They know Whumper knows what they've done. They don't want to beg, but their entire body still aches from the last time they thought they could get away with something. "Punish me... Please."

Broken whumpee who falls at Whumper's feet, their throat tearing with sobs and regret. "Please- please- master. Please- punish me please. I've been bad- please- I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I need you to punish me. I need you to make me better."

Whumpee in constant fear of every tiny action. Was that wrong? Did they look out the window too long? Did they do something, and they don't even know? Should they confess? Confess what? Anything. Everything. Just for a tiny hint of mercy

Or a whumpee who is hiding something. Does Whumper know? Should they confess to their crimes? Or should they keep quiet? Hope and pray that Whumper doesn't know- that Whumper won't find out. Then there would be no pain at all...

It drives them insane, the constant back and forth. If Whumper doesn't know, then it's needless pain, but if Whumper does know it'll be so much worse.

Whumper fucking with them:

"Do you have something to tell me?"

"Is there anything I should know?"

"I think it's best if we be honest with each other, hmm?"

"I'll give you 10 seconds to do the right thing, Whumpee. Don't make me make that choice for you."

I want whumpee's who break down and confess everytime Whumper looks at them for a second too long. Because Whumepr already knows- Whumper always knows. Whumpee can't lie. Whumpee can't hide. All they can do is beg and plead to be hurt, to be beat, to be punished, to atone for their crimes.

I want stubborn whumpees who refuse to admit what they've done over and over until one day they simply can't take it anymore. They break, their knees collapse beneath them, and although they hate it they can't help but whisper what they've done as Whumper's lips slowly pull into a smile.

I want whumpees who wail and beg at Caretakers feet to be punished. I want Caretakers who look at them in shock and try to comfort them just for whumpee to get more and more upset.

"No- no I've been bad. I've been bad- please- please hurt me. Please- I'm so sorry. I'm so- so- sorry."

"Whumpee, no one is going to hurt you-"

"No! No! Please! Please! I was bad. I am bad. I was awful and horrible and I didn't listen and please please Caretaker please."

[urhoneycombwitch]

this is a left field throwback but I've been thinking about linecook!Eddie lately

I've been thinking that probably after cooking all day, he doesn't really have much energy to cook at home, which is fine except he also probably has a hard time loosening the reins when it comes to food

like I imagine he's probably grateful when reader cooks, especially if it's not something they're very used to do (as a mediocre cook myself... if it's edible, it's a success) but has to prevent himself from hovering. Reader steps away for a second and he's sneaking in for a taste test and silently sprinkles in seasonings or something and dashing away before reader comes in

I give it a few months where they sit down to eat and reader is so happy it tastes good and is so proud of themself and Eddie can't bring himself to tell the truth. There's probably a time where R says something like "I tried making that dish again at my place but it wasn't as good as when I make it here. Maybe it's because your pots are better." and Eddie's like mmm hmm that's it babe, the pots. I think he probably teaches R so they do genuinely get better at cooking but still does his secret sprinkling

Until his timing is off one day and Reader comes into the kitchen like :0! *points* my food!

I'd personally make him grovel and beg a lil for forgiveness and then make an agreement like you can teach me what you know and help but you gotta relax a little bit. I will get the spray bottle back up

baby i'm always ready to talk about linecook!Eddie it's not a throwback if he's living in my brain RENT FREE ya feel??? GOD this idea is so funny I love your brain for this idea!!!! it's so funny to me because he SO FUCKING WOULD. i'm channeling my personal awful cooking here please excuse the self indulgence-

I don't imagine linecook!Eddie is picky about his food- he grew up on boxes of Kraft mac n cheese and the best white bread that a blue collar worker could afford. but he also was naturally curious and experimentative with the food he did have (including weed-fueled creations in his later years)

so the thought of Eddie (loves to cook, but isn't generally fussy about meals) with a reader who just sucks at it (so bad. could burn water if you let them. microwaves tin foil on the regular.) is so funny.

I think he'd try his best to remain calm and collected, like, he's trained godawful newhires at work before. no way you could be any worse... right...?

smash cut to a kitchen that looks like a hurricane ripped through it. a whole roll of paper towels caught fire when you dropped it on the burner by accident and it's smoldering in the sink. there are a few cooked noodles incomprehensibly stuck to the wall. three found dead in downtown disaster.

but then there's you smiling with a steaming bowl of pasta (that word is used loosely here) beaming like you're so proud to have made Eddie something. it's the worst food he's tasted in awhile and he literally licks the bowl clean just to prove how much he loves the gesture.

i think the secret seasonings and adjustments behind your back start very naturally. just a few tweaks here and there when you're not looking. until Eddie's specifically recipe testing things that he can fix with speed and discretion.

and yeah he feels some amount of guilt about you being so proud over things you didn't actually create 80% of but hey, it's still a collaborative activity!! and plus you think the magic of your good cooking is due to the trailer kitchen so you're over here way more and Eddie's not about to fucking ruin it!!

until you catch him swapping out the charred crisp of bacon strips with some that he'd made before you came and uh oh.... game over pal. the jig is up.

Eddie's gotta explain the whole situation and while he does it kindly, he can see you're still embarrassed, so he's like Babe don't even worry about it!! I'm gonna train you like I do my newbies and you're gonna be the best cook in all of Hawkins!!

and that has you interested. coming around to the thought like Hmm... I've always wanted to learn how to julienne a carrot like you...

and Eddie says Sure babe :) internally though he's sweating. knives and fire are not on the training menu for you. the first three weeks are gonna be How to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. with a spoon.

[palemoonlightandnightshade]

It was nice to see Dedra in the exact position Syril was back in season one. In the interrogation room waiting for Krennic. Look how the tables have turned. Her obsession with finding the Axis mirroring Syril's obsession with finding Andor. Both endeavors ending up rather pointless. The rebellion has moved on from Luthen. Arresting him won't help to put down anything. Dedra there in the shop being all smug that she finally caught her prey. Then Luthen shattering that hollow victory for her. Just amazing.

Also I liked how they showcased the hierarchy and who is where in the food chain of the Empire. Syril with Dedra, Dedra with Partagaz, Dedra and Partagaz with Krennic. In Rogue One it gets better when we see Krennic with Tarkin and Vader. In Andor Krennic is a big deal to every character he interacts with but there's always a bigger fish. Both Vader and Tarkin are more than willing to do worse than what he does to Dedra to him. And of course we have Tarkin and Vader with the Emperor. It's astonishing how these idiots think they can work with the system and climb up the ladder when they're all disposable to the one guy that has all the power and cannot care any less about any of them.

In the end they're all victims of the Empire really and what's sad it's that they never realize it. Yes they have relatively better living conditions and most probably don't get to face the atrocities they commit. Like major Partagaz was keeping up with the Ghorman campaign from the safety of his big office on Coruscant. But even they are victims. There are no benefactors here. No winners. No truth. No greater good or a worthy cause. Only a self-serving monster. Only the Emperor gets to have all the power. Only he gets to have what he wants. And they are upholding and fighting for the very system that has oppressed them.

Don't get me wrong I think they all got what they deserved. Except my poor baby Lonni another unsung hero of this rebellion of unsung heroes. I'll never get over it. Luthen you bastard! You could have gotten away along with Kleya and Lonni and went to Yavin. Instead decided to stay and die and kill my poor boy. At least his family is tucked away safe. In my head he's still alive on Yavin with his family.

I keep thinking how chaotically hectic and out of depths ISB must have been during that year with them losing three competent and seasoned supervisor along with Major Partagaz. Like instead of keeping Dedra and Partagaz they simply discarded them because they were always replaceable and expendable to the Empire. They had to learn the hard way how insignificant they are.

Every time I remember Dedra's fate the feeling of satisfaction puts a smile on my face. Now that's a fitting end to her character. Partagaz too. I like to think with how intelligent he was after listening to Nemik's manifesto he came around. Obviously too late. But I kinda don't have sympathy for him to be honest. I mean he was alive and around before the Empire. He knew how things were under the Republic. Maybe things weren't all that great towards the end of it but still. Also him deciding to end it then and there instead of trying to repent or otherwise fight back, I mean I guess he didn't want to end up like Dedra but we don't know that. He could have very well put all of that on his subordinates, got away somehow and found a way to rebel. Instead he chose the easy way.