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heartlyrins · 22 days

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OUTLUCK THE UNLUCKY !

˚₊‧desc— Kakavasha and his little sister has always been the polar opposite, they say he was born lucky and you were lucky to even be born.

˚₊‧TW— dark content, incest, angst, noncon, smut, manipulation, gaslighting, mental abuse, past child abuse, human trafficking mentions, past trauma, PTSD, porn with plot, baby fever, non-consensual breeding, mentions of lactation, sister wife!reader, yandere!Aventurine, 2.0 and 2.1 lore did not happen here, spoilers for Aventurine's backstory, both of them gone through some tuff stuff

˚₊‧A/N—I made a few changes to Aventurine's backstory and 2.0 w/ 2.1 lore didn't happen here. I changed up my writing style!! Do you like it? Don't read if it's not ur cup of tea hun

Ever since you were born just a couple of years after Kakavasha—your big brother. You were disgraced, labeled as an unlucky being said by the Sigonians.

Whereas Kakavasha was born on a rainy day which was perhaps meant to be a blessing. Meanwhile, you were born on an unlucky day and just moments after your birth, your mother died.

Though as you grew up, you became attached to your big brother. A contrast to your unluckiness, his blessing outpowers your curse therefore you two were bound to be attached to the hip.

A curse you were called, but never by your siblings. They loved you dearly which includes you sister who promised you and Kakavasha the dawn one day.

But the promise were never fulfilled because your sister had died as soon as your birthday arrived. You ran away with Kakavasha.

Soon the both of you were caught and sentenced to death by the IPC— but your brother got the both of you out of that punishment, you never knew how he did it and the only thing he told you was 'not to worry.'

You fit into the lifestyle pretty quickly, everything was done by your brother. You just had to sit still and be pretty, as he said.

Soon he became the very thing that ruined yours and his life—an IPC staff, but still you couldn't shake the very feeling that you both were still just a slave, no matter how much credits you were buried in.

You were granted a house, a luxurious one, probably afforded from the IPC's money. He was doing everything for you, even though you wanted to help him at least a little bit.

You wanted to alleviate his burden. But seeing the very thing that burdens yourself—you don't think that you could help.

So you did the only thing that you could manage, become a housewife for him. At mornings he would wrap his arms around your waist and sometimes you felt like a real marriage couple.

He gives you kisses on your cheek as he stares at the wound you received from chopping up the vegetables— again.

Sometimes he would bring your fingers up to his lips just to lick them clean just to see your embarrassed expression.

Which brings you to the present situation.

"Kakavasha—I.." you were cut off with a groan from him as he hides his face in your neck.

"Don't call me that, I go by Aventurine now with other people, remember?" his breath hits your soft skin before he snakes his hands under your blouse.

"We're not in front of other people now.. And it's not like I get to meet anyone else.." you mumble—far too late to take back your words.

He gives you an 'mm' before gripping your sides harder that it was sure to leave a bruise. From his reaction, you were sure he wasn't pleased with your words.

"You don't need anyone else but me, you know that right?" he mutters before helping you to put down the knife you were holding to chop the vegetables.

"I know that.. But I haven't gone out ever since we've gotten this house.. And that was a few years back."

"But I do let you out. To buy groceries."

"Kakavasha—you know that's not what I meant. I want to go out freely, without you sending those IPC guards after me or tracking me.. Or even—!"

"[name]." the tone in his voice makes you stop, you know that's when he's fed up with your words. He pulls his hands out of your blouse before staring at you.

He grabs the sharp and brandished knife before gripping your chin with his free hand to make you face the knife, you could see your reflection.

"Look at yourself." he grips your chin tighter, "Do you see your face? It's full with scars that results in whenever I'm not there—remember, you're the unlucky child who needs me as a lucky charm to protect yourself."

"You need me." he drops the knife on the cutting board before kissing your lips and biting your lips until it bled.

He sighs as his demeanor starts appearing right back and he smiles on again with the same, sly smile.

"Don't speak of this again." he warns you before kissing your cheek and walks away like nothing happened at all.

He waits by the door as he tries to fix his tie, horribly messing it up once again before you came to the rescue and does it for him.

"I'm going now," he says as he puts on his shoes, "I'm going to be late today, don't wait for me." he merely says before placing a kiss right on your forehead.

Once he leaves the house, everything seems dark. Sometimes it seems like that you were the epitome of darkness—and he was the light that shines on your life.

Whenever he isn't there, parts of you disappear.

"Big brother, we can't leave our sister behind!" the small you sobbed when he pulled on your wrist to drag you forcefully from the chaos.

"Sister sacrificed her life for us, we have to run,[name]. I promised sister I won't let anything happen to you." he stops for a moment as he looks right into your teary eyes.

You stared back at the chaos happening behind you, that day—everything was red like the clothes you wore on that exact day.

You were dragged once again to keep moving forward by Kakavasha, but once you stared right ahead—the little hand dragging you were gone.

The only light within your life was gone, where did he go? What are you gonna do? What would you do without the light that guides you—you thought as you broke down in sobs until your body felt a warmth wrapping around you.

You can hear your name from the distance being called once again, it's Kakavasha. You were sure it was as you open your eyes to come back to the real world.

"[name], wake up. You had a dream." your brother— the grown up version of him was her once again and you sigh in relief.

You hate that dream—it was the same dream with different endings. One that would have a happy outcome.

"Did you have that dream again?" he asks and wraps his arm around you, it was the same warmth in that dream.

You hum as he sighs once again, in a pitiful way or somehow a sympathetic one. Eitherway, his hand snakes just above your waistband and sticks his hand in your panties.

"Mmn—" you groaned and look at the time, "Stop it, I'm not in the mood.." you retaliate, sometimes he would back off at times like this—especially during your vulnerable moment.

"I saw a baby today at my workplace, one of my co-worker's no doubt. They looked so happy, can't we have one too?"

"I—you know we can't have that. We're siblings, what would the world says?" you push his arm off that's groping one of your boobs.

"I don't care what people says about us, I don't even care how the Aeons view us." he moans as he humps your ass.

"Stop it, 'm not in the mood right now.." You whimper and attempts to get away from his obvious dick imprint humping you.

He stayed silent and kept a tight grip on your hips, sliding your shorts and panties off with his other hand.

"We're not supposed to be doing this.." you mutter and almost retch as he forces his fingers in your mouth.

"Just be good for me, little sister. Haven't I done enough for you? I need this." he says, not giving you a chance to respond as he's already pulling his fingers out of your mouth and already sneaking between your thighs.

"You say things as if you aren't wet right now.." he spreads your lips apart to admire your pussy before giving a testing lick and moans at the taste.

He wraps his lips around your little nub as he sucks on it, thrusting his fingers inside whilst licking your slit up and down.

Your first reflex was trying to push his head off—moaning and struggling to push him off so you laid off the fight and just accepted it after awhile.

"Pussy's so wet, stop lying and just tell me that you wanted this." he pills away and sighs as he finishes his meal, your juices slipping down his chin.

He licks his lips and pushes his cock inside you, not even giving you a warning or time to wait. He groans as he pushes in all at once.

"So good, mhm. You're so good to me, lil sis. Gonna make you a fucking mommy! yeah, you want that?" he slaps your face almost gently to wake you up from your trance before groping your tits.

He leans down and sucks on it, appreciating the size of it while he sloppily thrusts his big cock inside of you.

"Fuck, fuck.. Can't wait to see these tits swell with milk." he moans and looks at your face, you seemed so out of it.

He can't miss the way that your lips scream the words trailing along, "I'm coming! I'm coming!" in an almost high pitched tone.

When you clench around him, he doesn't even stop for a moment. Just going at a faster pace which makes you even more out of it as you hold onto whatever you can.

And when he cums— he pulls out and shoves it back in all at once making you squeal and raise your hips as you came once again.

"We're gonna do this for at least another three times, I need to make sure you're knocked up." he groans as he felt you clench.

As he thrusts deeply once more, you can feel a part of yourself disappears. The warmth you felt from him was no more, instead what you felt was pleasure—accompanied by a sense of sadness.

You can feel tears hitting your cheek and you look up to see your big brother crying, while also trying to maintain a stable composure.

"I don't want to lose you." he sobs out as you reach for his cheek to caress the soft flesh. He leans into your soft touch with reluctance, so hesitant to show a moment of vulnerablity to everyone except for you.

"I can't lose you, please don't leave me as everyone did. You're not— you're not the source of anyone's misery, I didn't believe it when you were called unlucky. Because to me— you're the very thing that made me so happy, I want to be with you forever. I don't care if everyone else leave me."

You smile—not because you find this situation comforting, because it was so incredibly hysterical that he depended on you as much as you depended on him.

Once he's faced with your smile, he loses his composure and spills his seed in your womb while hiding his face in your neck again.

"I don't care how many nightmares I have from that night, I don't care if everyone blames you for our parent's death. All I want to be is with you."

That's when you realize, he is stuck with you just as you were stuck with him.

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thebestofoneshots · 10 months

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SERIES MASTERLIST

Gilded Constellations | (wolfstar x reader)

Summary: You meet Sirius and Regulus at a family vacation in the Caribbean, but things don't go as planned and you end up losing contact once the trip is over. Years later your family moves to England and you get accepted at Hogwarts where you finally meet Sirius once again, along with all of his friends. One of them with a mysterious secret, that you'll uncover as you embark on your own Hogwarts adventure. Mostly canon-compliant. This IS a wolfstar x reader fic, but it's incredibly slow burn. They won't start all dating each other until we're very deep into the story, but I promise the long wait will be worth it.

Read Gilded Constellations on AO3

Read the French Translation by @nagareboshi-chiyo

Paring: Sirius Black x Reader / Remus Lupin x reader / Wolfstar x reader

Chapter average: 5k - 6.5 k

Content: Smut in later chapters, Poly!Marauders, throuple, graphic descriptions of violence, MAJOR and minor character death (this is The Marauders Era guys, you know), jealousy, angst, pining, love triangle, LGBTQ+ themes, The Wizarding war 1.0, implied child abuse, possible proofreading errors, mental health struggles, hurt no comfort, hurt with comfort, period typical attitude, first war with Voldemort, canonical character's death, fluff, Requited Love, F/M/M, mostly canon-compliant.

Status: Ongoing (Weekly updates)

PLAYLIST

01 | Summer Breeze

02 | Escape

03 | Bitter Sweet Symphony

04 | Rainy Days and Mondays

05 | Good times

06 | Crazy Little Thing Called Love

07 | Peaceful Easy Feeling

08 I Fooled Around and Fell in Love

09 | The Fairy Feller's Master-Stroke

10 | Black Dog

11 | Do Ya

12 | You really got me

13 | Rebel, Rebel

14 | Maybe I’m Amazed

15 | No One Like You

Interlude (Q&A Event)

16 | Boogie Wonderland

17 | Tonight’s What It Means To Be Young

18 | Friends will be Friends

19 | Silver Bird

20 | Bad Moon Rising

21 | Fox on the Run

22 | Long Long Way From Home

23 | Hungry Eyes

24 | Peace of Mind

25 | I’ll get Even With You

26 | Hooked on a Feeling

27 | Can’t Take My Eyes Off You

28 | If You Want BIood, (You’ve Got It)

29 | With a Little Help From My Friends

30 | Bridge Over Troubled Water

31 | Strange Magic

32 | Come a Little Bit Closer

33 | More Than a Feeling

34 | You Belong to Me

35 | Chill of Desire

36 | Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

37 | Gimme, Gimme, Gimme

38 | Let the Good Times Roll

39 | Running With the Pack

40 | Hot Stuff

41 | Urban Adventure

42 | Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

43 | Sympathy for the Devil

44 | No One But You

45 | Hold The Line

BONUS TRACKS:

Your Theories, The Note, The Costumes, Sirius and the Chimney, Sirius and Vix after the bad moon, Evans and Vixen, Remus and Vixen at the infirmary, Remus holding Sirius at DADA, Remus and Sirius’ height difference, the FOXSTAR picture, Art by @nineloseteeth, We're going French,

Leave a comment telling me if you want to join the tag list

A/N: Most Poly!Marauders fics are oneshots, where the relationship between characters is already established, and they're all happy and pleased with it. No issues, no drama, but I WANTED the drama. Couldn't find it, so I set myself up to write the story behind the stablished relationship. I wanted to know how they started dating each other, the jealousy, the will they won't they, because getting into a poly relationship can't be an easy task, and I wanted to explore that story. If you're interested: Welcome to Gilded Constellations!

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scoundrels-in-love · 1 year

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Something that's neither word vomit nor fic for @frappeflamingo who inspired me with this post and for @cosmixseerart who also wanted essay (and arguably, made far better one in the tags).

Tri-gun Stampede Mashwood agenda prevails.

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To say all of them are restless sleepers would be an understatement. She can count the times all three of them slept through the night without waking from nightmares (memories) or merely because, on one hand.

It is often Meryl that wakes up first, if merely by virtue of being temporarily squished by one of the men wrapped around her. One of the many dubious benefits of being ‘pocket sized’ as Wolfwood puts it - if she sleeps between them, they can hold her and each other at the same time. It’s not as if most beds are meant to hold three adults, either.

Still, occasional ache in her bad shoulder through the day from where Vash or Nico crushed her into their chest is a small price to pay for the quiet, soft mornings like the one she’s coming to. (She’s paid so much more for no other reason than she dared to keep what she loved.)

It can’t be long past the sunrise and it’s been a peaceful week, so there’s no need to wake the men, hurrying to leave the tiny town in early hours before someone has thought too long just where they might’ve seen the blonde’s face before, or the silent telephone reaches far worse people.

Maybe today, she and Vash will succeed in letting Wolfwood sleep in. Lately, it is as if the sleep debt of years has been catching up to him and he can cycle through several four-five hour blackouts and a few minutes of wakefulness between them. They must fool his sleep-addled senses to believe they’re still asleep, though, or he shakes it off and insists on getting the day started. Vash has her beat with twenty seven to fourteen, but she’s determined to catch up.

Right now, the cause of their competition is snoring away into the crook of her neck, tickling her just so with his breath. In an attempt to escape the torture, but not wake Nico, she turns her head to the side and makes the tiniest wiggle toward Vash. He sighs softly, snuggling into her chest deeper, and she runs soothing fingers through his hair. It’s a victory of sorts, that they can touch him with intent now and he won’t wake up with a start.

Yet another sign of domestication, as Wolfwood calls it derisively.

Like the Punisher leaning against the wall tilted just so, as if almost reaching for the bedside table where her and Vash's guns are resting side by side. He hasn't fussed over its placement being perfect and in arms reach upon waking in a while.

Like her earring in Vash's ear that looks so good, swaying and glinting as he moves, laughs (genuinely), that it makes her want to bite. (And sometimes she does: tugs on the silver just so with her teeth, eliciting a breathy sigh underlaid with chest rumble that vibrates under her palm, unique to just him.) In the same way, Nico likes to run his thumb down the shell of her ear, brush over his own earring there. His, even though he bought it specifically for her to wear and he bears Vash’s from the day of piercing his ear.

Like the way she says, thinks, we so often these days. Meryl's never been good at belonging. Not in her family or community, not even with crowds at University or the average, tired run of the mill news reporters at the agency. She's always been restless, wanting more or something different, as if to pacify the loneliness that has been chasing her, hiding in the sharp midday shadows.

But here, in this moment, she is content and home in a way that has given genuine definition to it, not just a string of words she's known, but not felt.

Meryl’s gaze lingers on the guns, a whisper of an ache trickling into her chest, like a string with glass beads slowly curling in pretty lines with more and more weight. She knows enough from Nicholas’ halted stories, from the confession that had clawed its way out of Vash one night, leaving him open and waiting for their damnation. She knows that all of them came at the cost of something severed, a connection broken beyond comprehension and the last vestiges of childhood blown away like smoke. She, too, had lost her last guidance the day that derringer came to her and often, she wonders what would Roberto think of the times she’s fired it. He’d scoff a little, take a sip and, in the end, say “not too bad for a rookie”, maybe.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? They’ve all paid the price and, in the end, decided not to pay it forward, best they can. Their individual tactics might fail at times, their work is not perfect and can’t be, with what they’re facing, but they’re damn well trying.

Three guns against the world. Three guns for the world.

Three guns of the Stampede, she thinks sleepily content. It wouldn’t be too bad a title for a book about them, one day.

#trigun #trigun stampede #mashwood #rainy writes stuff #wedding (ear)ring agenda prevails too #dont even fukken asking me about timeline I have no idea #I just had brainworms (ha) and had to get them out #and lost shame about not tagging you two #this is barely proofread i am barely alive not even talking about awake

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futureplayboibunnie · 10 months

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Spiderman Kiss

Miguel O’Hara x fem! black cat! reader

- i wanted to write a little fluffy, very flirty upside down romantic rainy spiderman kiss w miguel just because. black cat is in almost every spiderman story and i really wanted to include that for this one cause she’s a badass. just a cute little blurb to get me out out of my writing slump, i was thinking of making a part 2 cause lawd it’s steamy. (yeah i did make a part 2 im just too lazy to link it😔)

warnings: there is some dirty stuff, lil bit filthy but just a lil bit (i’m the worst) streamy sloppy makeout but overall just some romance for y’all.

You were walking on the damp, cold streets of New York, the soft pitter-patter of rain colliding with your umbrella as your sad eyes were glassy, street lamp lit. The neon buzzing and humming a little in the air as the dark clouds rolled over your head, promising heavier rain in the next few hours. Your boots were fitting for the autumn chill, your little black dress and a mid-length trenchcoat made you look like a detective from a shitty 50s novel, but it was fitting. It felt…romantic. As you walked down the street you caught yourself smiling at nothing. Well, not 'nothing' per se.

Spiderman.

Miguel O'Hara.

The self-appointed leader of the infamous Spider Society, aptly remembered as the Spider with the stick up his ass and a temper akin to that of a raging bull being flagged down by a red tarp. He had been on your coattails for months now. The Black Cat. The thief. One wrong-manicured finger or one slip of that vulgar tongue could end in you being an anomaly, which is a bigger problem than just a petty thief. Miguel wasn't from your universe but he had been watching you from afar...just to keep a watchful eye on you, making sure you were behaving yourself-which was never the case. What was jarring though is that he never stepped in on you making your own mess, he just surveilled you. You never seemed to notice and even if you did, you wouldn't care or give him the time of day.

Miguel watched you stroll confidently as the rain hit his broad shoulders, he had never seen you so casual. He cocked his head to the side to survey you from the rooftop you weren't far away from. You didn't fear the elements, the elements fear you. You boasted a certain naturality, your eyes glassy and the bridge of your nose pinched a pretty pink. Huh, cute. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came, his eyes narrowed as your hair bounced with each step, lips parting in the process as the cold chilly air started to get to you. See, Black Cat was this force of nature, mysterious, sexed up, a siren seducing her prey into a strangle. Black Cat always gets what she wants, those silk lips ready to bite and those eyes ready to roll back like second nature. Miguel wanted to turn a blind eye to you acting in such a way but he couldn't help but admire your tactics: men would quite literally throw themselves at you, they would beg at your feet, they would lick the ground you'd walk on, they would be desperate for mercy and you didn't even have to touch them to do it. It was something that you just had the ability to do.

But now, here you are. Without the mask. Without the suit. Beaming against the damp night, giving him the opportunity for him to see who you really are when you're not being someone else. Showing the real you when no one else was looking. Miguel had a problem with admitting things. He could never admit when he was wrong, he could never admit the thoughts that buzzed his brain awake at night because no one would understand. You were dangerous, you were a threat. Then why did he want you? Why were you his calling? Why did he catch himself thinking of you?

Miguel was agitated because of it, acting out in the shadows, being more aggressive and hot-headed than usual. He had to do something about it.

Miguel swung to the alley that you were just about to walk past, hanging upside down from the metal fire exit. Thank God for his adhesive feet. Your boots clacked as you walked past the opening. Something blue and red flashed against the corner of your eye and you stopped in your tracks, the breath almost leaving your lungs dry. You couldn't believe it. You scoffed, a smile tugging your lips upwards as your tongue licked at your back teeth.

‘’Late night?’’ Miguel questioned in that low voice of his, you turned your head to face him squinting your eyes slightly. ‘’Couldn't risk getting your hair wet, could you?’’He insulted but there was a playful tone in his voice. Fuck you. You make him playful. He's always fucking serious- the weight of the multiverse rested on his broad shoulders, and here you are not doing anything and he was already letting go. He really needed to check himself.

‘’Take off the mask, couldn't risk getting your hair wet, could you?’’ You walked towards him as he dangled upside down, his massive reached for the flexible fabric of the mask and pulled it off of his insanely structured face.

Lord above, even upside down he looked fucking delicious, his bone structure and dark eyes made an ache form inside of you. A few strands of his raven locks stuck to his forehead due to the rain. He looked dreamy, you couldn't fucking lie about that. You had eyes, after all, you weren't blind.

‘’I think we know each other enough to not be bound by masks.’’ You added completely serious but a smirk played on his lips and his gaze softened just a little but enough for you to notice.

‘’Mask or no mask...’’ Miguel trailed off, unsure of how to finish his sentence.

‘’What are you doing here, Miguel?’’ Your voice was above a whisper as your gaze fell to his lips. This was coming from a case of genuine and undying curiosity- Miguel always has so much to deal with. What made you worth the precious minutes of his day? Well other than being a criminal, today wasn't one of those days though. ‘’You want me to prove to you I can get my hair wet?’’ You closed your umbrella and the droplets of rain started to dampen your hair and slide through the strands.

He couldn't give you an answer, he just cocked his head and looked at you. Fuck, you were beautiful. It was almost scary. You raised your eyebrow at his silence, his face went hard like his thoughts were racing a million miles per hour. And they were, relentlessly. A few burrowed thoughts pierced through the front of his mind.

Miguel let himself be selfish and he let himself wander when it comes to you. He wanted to fuck you, any red-blooded man would. He didn't want you to do all the work though like you usually would expect, he wanted to worship your body and praise you. He wanted to paw at you like an animal. Hold your hips down as he kissed and bit down your thighs, eat at you, devour you, spending hours at a time just tasting you to make you feel good.

Though he did want to take you over his knee for so blatantly misbehaving. Oh, but he did find it impossibly cute though when you were trying to act all smart defying his orders- you'd end up on his knees, ass up face down. Whimpering and on the verge of tears as he had to spank and fuck the disrespect out of you. The dirty thoughts so obviously transferred onto his face, his eyes darkened instinctively as he glared at your lips, he was worried his fangs would pop out unprovoked. The sexual tension between you two was astronomical and difficult to ignore. He didn't want to ignore it anymore, it was affecting him in so many different ways.

‘’You're a million miles away.’’ You bit your lip, eyes going heavy as your perfectly manicured hand tangled in his hair. Fuck, your touch was like magic.

‘’Stop biting your lip. I need to do that instead.’’ Miguel whispered. Your mouth popped open slightly at his words but you definitely knew this was the PG clean version of what was actually going on in his head.

‘’I'm afraid you'll tear them right off.’’ You flirted back, the proximity between you closing with every second.

‘’No, you're not.’’ Miguel's eyebrows furrowed as if he could read your mind. You swallowed the lump in your throat as his response started to shimmy and have an effect all over your body, your eyes widened and you wet your lips with your tongue. A daring invitation.

Miguel closed the gap between you, the rain sliding across his face as he leaned in to capture your lips with his. You expected his kiss to be mean and filled with anger, he was half expecting you to grab his lips and cut them off with a pocket knife for being so callous but no. It was soft. Sensual. Romantic. It felt...meaningful.

You moaned a little and he took it as an opportunity to open your mouth wider to slip his tongue in. It was slow. Messy. Wet. Tongues gliding against tongues, he even nibbled at your lips with his fangs. The strings of saliva kept pulling you back together like an invisible string. It felt so wrong but so good. It was a sloppy kiss turned makeout session, you swear your heart was burrowed inside of your throat as the butterflies in your tummy were starting to turn into hummingbirds. That ache he was making you feel was unmatched. Damn, that's surprising.

‘’Ah.’’ You moaned softly against his lips, finally detaching yourself even though it pained you to do so. Those soft noises shot down all the way to his cock. What was he, a fucking horny teenager? He wanted to hear you moan into his ear. You smiled as you pulled back from his mouth, your tongue darted out and flicked against his lightly protruding fangs, and licked it all the way to his bottom lip. Jesus Christ, you were fucking toying with him. It was like a cat and mouse game with you but in this case, it was cat and spider. You lifted your head to stare into the dark abyss of his eyes and to your surprise they were gleaming. You ruffled your hand into his damp hair messing it up for him as to further prove your point.

‘’I usually hate spiders. Cats eat spiders.’’ You mused.

‘’Do you now?’’ He teased back. ‘’It seems like you don't hate them enough.’’

‘’I like that you've been watching me, Miguel.’’ You exposed that you knew what he's been doing, the man is 6'9 he's not good at hiding things.

‘’Needed to make sure that you've been behaving.’’ He said huskily and it made your knees buckle a little.

"You already know that I haven't been."

"I should punish you.’’ He scolded coldly, he was being deadly serious and you fucking loved it

‘’Swing by my universe whenever bug boy.’’ You pressed a soft kiss to his lips and he was salivating yet again. And bug boy? That's just unforgivable. ‘’Call me.’’ You smirked playfully, giving into your teenage fantasy of a boy falling head over heels for you, wrapping the telephone cord around your finger and twisting it whilst whispering sweet nothings across the line. But you were both far too dangerous to have anything normal.

‘’Maybe I will.’’ He replied in a rich low tone that made your insides melt, he said it like it was a promise.

You shuffled his hair one last time before your eyes fell on his, eyebrows wilting as an expression of sad tenderness. ‘’Goodbye, Miguel.’’ You breathed as if it was the final moment you’d share with him, finally taking the necessary steps back to successfully be back on the main pavement. You opened up your umbrella and then you were gone, Miguel sighed.

‘’Parting is such sweet sorrow.'’

#miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara angst #miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #across the spiderverse #miguel ohara #miguel x reader #spiderman 2099 #miguel o’hara fluff #miguel o’hara x fem!reader #miguel o’hara x reader

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leossmoonn · 6 months

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Welcome back, Sara!!! For a fluffy Mike idea, maybe just a cozy rainy day spent at home with Mike and Abby? Like watching movies with cups of hot cocoa under a mountain of blankets, and all that jazz

Hi Logan ☺️☺️☺️ thanks for sending this in. I’m always afraid of writing fluff fics bc like everyone wants the smut, but it’s reassuring to have this put in lol

it’s a sunday and mike just so happens to have the day off. he’s been working long and hard hours and you convinced him to take the day off. you and abby are so excited; you two planned the whole day from the moment you woke up to the time it was time for abby to sleep. unfortunately, it’s rainy and a sudden wind chill swept through. none of you need to get sick and mike didn’t want to make making abby carry an umbrella, so you make the quick decision to stay in. abby’s a little disappointed, but you try to make up for it.

the first thing you and mike do in the morning is make a fort with abby. and not just a little four corners fort. no, she makes you cover the entire living room with blankets. even the tv was included! you and mike are dragged into some play-pretend games. for a lot of them mike’s forced to play some sort of villan.

“why can’t i play the hero, abby?” mike frowns. “because that’s her job!” abby points to you.

mike gives you a look and you shrug. “abby’s the director here. cant fight with the boss.”

mike rolls his eyes, wanting to get out of the humid blankets and sleep, but he knows how happy this makes abby. and even though abby is making him play the bad guy, he knows she means it out of love and he also loves getting to spend as much time with abby as he can. watching you act is pretty cute as well.

once abby gets bored of playing in her fort — which is like 3 hours later — she decides she wants to watch a movie.

“let’s clean up first, yeah?” mike suggests. “no! let’s keep the fort up to watch the movie!” abby says.

“abby, no. we had our fun with the fort. it’s time to turn the house back to normal,” mike says. “please say we can keep the fort up!” abby pouts as she looks up at you.

mike gives you a warning look, but you can’t say no to abby. “let’s just keep the fort up for the movie, yeah?”

abby squeals and wiggles back into the fort. mike glares at you. “she’s never going to want to take it down.”

“she will when it’s time for bed, which is hours away.” you step closer to him, gently putting your hand on his shoulder. “how about i pop some popcorn — the real stuff on the stove — and i make us some hot coca, okay?”

well, who was mike to turn down stove-popped popcorn and hot cocoa. he felt like a little kid again. it doesn’t help that you and abby’s pouty faces were ganging up on him. he sighs in defeat and nods, crossing his arms around his chest.

“fine, but after the movie, we will clean all this up, okay?”

“of course,” you nod. you turn to abby who is lit up with excitement. “can i pick the movie?”

“yep! do you want any popcorn?” you ask her. “yes. can you put m&ms in mine?” she asks. “you got it, babe,” you answer.

you three settle in the fort, abby laying on her stomach right in front of the tv. she chose “Lady and The Tramp”, which was one of her more enjoyable movie choices.

“mike, you’re kind of like the tramp,” abby comments, popping a handful of popcorn and m&ms into her mouth.

you begin to laugh but cover it up with a cough when mike shoots you a glare. “abby, that’s not very nice.”

“he knows it’s true,” she says, kicking her feet up and dangling them in the air. “And you’re like Lady.”

you glance at mike, a small smile on your face. you lean into him, your nose brushing against the scruff on his cheek. “i think what she’s trying to say is that we are perfect for each other.”

the tips of his ears turn pink. he wraps his arm around you, pulling you in so your head rests on his shoulder. “she could’ve said it differently, though.”

you giggle, “nah, i think it’s accurate.” he rolls his eyes, but there’s no denying the smile on his face and twinkle in his eye.

mike ends up falling asleep towards the end of the movie. his head rests on your chest, both arms around your waist to hold you close. your hands are in his hair, massaging his scalp while the credits roll.

“why is he so tired all the time?” abby pouts. “he works a lot,” you say. “but i’m sure he’ll wake up soon. why don’t you help me clean the fort up?”

“do i have to?” abby frowns. “i think mike would appreciate that,” you say.

“ugh, fine. but only if we can have pancakes for dinner.”

you grin and nod, “you got it.”

mike wakes up to the smell of chocolate chip pancakes. he twists and turns on the floor, the sizzle of bacon him bringing him into consciousness. he begins to open his eyes, his back beginning to ache from sleeping on the floor. he hears some giggling coming from the kitchen, sitting himself up on his elbow and peering over the couch. you’re at the stove, a spatula in your hand. abby’s sitting at the table, crayons littering the wood.

“look who’s up!” you exclaim. mike groans softly as he sits up, using the couch as a crutch to stand up. “i’m sorry i fell asleep. between the rain and the pillows —”

“shush,” you cut him off. he walks over to you, wrapping an arm around your waist, his fingers tracing sliver of skin on the small of your back that’s exposed. “i ruined our day.”

“no, you didn’t. right, abs?” you turn to her. “you did snore a lot, but you didn’t,” she says. you smile at mike, “see? all is well.”

“smells good.” he mumbles as he wraps both arms around your waist, placing his chin onto your shoulder.

“me or the food?” you glance at him with a teasing smile. he takes a not-so-nonchalant inhale of your skin. “both,” he answers.

“ew!” abby grimaces behind you two. you and mike both laugh and he presses a kiss to your cheek before pulling away. he brings some plates and silverware out, sitting across from abby and waiting for the food.

mike stares as you two discuss abby’s drawing. he can’t wipe the smiles off of his face. his life was never perfect and he knew it was never going to be, but if he could just keep this — keep you two — he would then be able to call it perfect.

“mike,” abby says with a little pout. “what’s up?” he asks.

“do you have to go back to work tomorrow?” she asks. “i do, but you also have to go back to school,” he states.

“i don’t want to,” she says. mike sighs, the calmness from his body fleeting. “you don’t have a choice, abby. i’m sorry.”

“i… i just mean… i want this day to last forever.”

his eyes widen and glance up at you. you’re rubbing her back soothingly, giving him an encouraging smile.

“maybe we can do something special for dinner again tomorrow,” you suggest. “we can watch a movie and even eat dinner on the couch.”

abby’s face lights up and she nods. “okay! can i pick the movie again?”

“only if you don’t compare me to a dog again,” mike says. abby giggles and puts a forkful of pancakes in her mouth before speaking again. “we’ll see,” she quips.

mike looks back at you, placing his hand inside of yours on the table. your feet slides up his calf, your eyes soft as you look over his face. his heart warms and for the first time in a while, he feels at peace.

#mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt #mike schmidt fluff #mike schmidt x reader fluff #fnaf #josh hutcherson x reader #josh hutcherson

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skyloftian-nutcase · 2 years

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I have to agree with the others, I love your writing! You have an excellent way with words and always come up with amazing scenarios, and you're great and characterization and just great in general and yes

*feverishly searching for who started this praise and accolades fest so I can both hug them and scold them* Tellie, thank you for your kind words 🥺❤️ These posts were all so lovely to read, it’s been a long week and I’m doing my first ICU shift tomorrow and am frankly a little terrified so it’s nice to hear this, even if I’m running out of words and ways to receive it. Y’all are so sweet. 😭

#you ask skye answers #lovely telemna hyelle #think I’m going to spend my day reviewing protocols and stuff and then just stress write lol #save for a rainy day

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morallyinept · 3 months

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Rockford & Roses - A Detective Tim Rockford One Shot 🌹

Summary: Tim's coming home to you on Valentine's night with a heavy heart and secrets that threaten to tear you apart. Can your love for him survive the ghosts of his past that still haunt him? More importantly, are you willing to make room for them in your already strained marriage?

Pairing: Det. Tim Rockford x Wife!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 5k-ish

Scoville Smut Rating: None, it's fluff. Mostly angst. Definite angst. You're safe. Kinda.

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Alludes to smut, nothing detailed/mentions details of a case involving the murder of a child, nothing too graphic/alcoholism/A N G S T in abundance/some dark themes in the sense that Tim is self-destructing. Tim is very a broken man, poor lamb. Give him a hug, will you?

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: This story evolved massively from the direction it was going in originally, and I'm actually kinda pleased about that... It's something different from your typical, "schmoozy" Valentine's Day story, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.🌹

MAIN MASTERLIST | TIM ROCKFORD MASTERLIST | FLORA & FAUNA MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

Detective Tim Rockford had been sober for almost a year when it all fell apart completely on that terrible night.

But it wasn’t until the winter was in its latter stages, that he would tip fully over the edge into regular, almost daily, bouts of oblivion to keep himself from falling off the ledge completely.

To keep the nightmares and sense of guilt that he drowned in on a near constant basis at bay.

He unscrews the cap from the bottle of dark amber liquid he’s craftily been hiding under the seat in his car, and swallows it all back letting it slip down his throat.

Without him giving it permission to, his mind replays over the events from that fateful night, four years ago, and is brought back to the little girl lying at the bottom of the ravine just off of the ridge.

A call had come in about a missing child on the morning in question, and he and his partner Peter ‘Petey’ Harman went over to the home of the parents to talk to them about it. You know, do the initial questioning; worker bee stuff. Try to suss out if she was a regular runaway or if in fact one of them had stuffed her under the foundations and was crying wolf.

The family home was nice; an average run-of-the-mill house, in an average run-of-the-mill neighbourhood. Tim was presented with a photo of her from her mother and he remembered thinking that he’d missed his chance to be a father, to watch your belly swell and witness the miracle of life forged from your love, and it left a bitter taste.

She was cute as a button; all brown hair and freckles, and she had this blue, silk princess-dress, with lace collars and cuffs, wearing a gonky smile that was missing a tooth or three.

‘Find my baby, please Tim.’ Her mother had begged him whilst Harman took down the notes - he was good with that stuff - and Tim promised her that he would - knowing that a detective should never promise that - if it was the last thing he ever did. Not knowing that he would actually make good on that word further down the line.

Looking again at the picture, he learned it was her favourite dress, her mother had said it through the red eyes that she wore that pretty dress everywhere, and that she turned into the spawn of Satan himself when she tried to get her out of it so it could be cleaned.

It was also the same dress Tim had found her wearing when he discovered her remains.

The search had been dragged out as much as it could be, but there was no trace of her. Leads had been exhausted; those pulled in for questioning were found innocent and their alibis solid.

It was as if Rainie Thompson had vanished off the surface of the planet in a click of a finger.

The search efforts began to die off around the four week point, mostly due to the heavy snow settling in and it pained him to know that everyone was giving up on finding this little girl - a little girl that he was convinced was still alive - she just had to be; he could feel it in his gut.

Some perverted bastard had her and he was determined to make them feed from a tube for their rest of their life when he found them.

Tim was determined to find her, despite his colleagues and even Harman at times, convincing him it was a lost cause. He’d been spending most of his time - including down time - combing the woods, the parks - everywhere and anywhere he could think to try and find her.

Where are you, baby? She consumed him wholly.

She was what kept your husband away from you.

Left you sat at the dining table alone, with an uneaten plate opposite you and a creeping draft settling into your bones. The creaky sounds of the house seemed louder when you were alone, and soon they were your only companion; their creaks soon turning into words of comfort at an absent husband.

Tim left the space in the bed vacant, crease-free and cold beside you.

Tim’s whole world had come tumbling down when he’d picked Rainie up and cradled her small, cold body to his chest and wailed like he had lost his own beau.

No, baby... no.

He cursed up to the sky, as though having it out with God himself - God, who had allowed this innocent, beautiful child to die.

Tim wasn’t exactly devout or the God-fearing type. He’d been to church only a handful of times in his life; to marry you being the most notable, but after that day he’d especially not been back to a church since.

This is how faith dies in a person; violated and fractured. Altered and hollowed out from the inside and everything pure and good is obliterated by the poisoning fingers of the darkness in the world, wrapping their hands tightly around its neck and simply snapping it in two.

Fuck you, God! Damn you, you son of a bitch!

She had been thrown down in there like a puppet whose strings had become entangled with themselves; she was six-years-old.

Rainie Thompson was six-years-old and she had a little, blue dress and played Hopscotch and liked drawing pictures of red roses, and eating chocolate ice-cream until her tummy hurt.

Rainie Thompson was the one who killed him.

Tim cried through the drinking, mourning her like his own and mourning the part of him that was dying with her; a hollow husk of a man soon to be filled by the familiar numbing void that alcohol had to offer.

It would make him forget the horror; forget the depravity, although the nightmares would never relent, he would be certain of that - they never do.

To date, he hasn’t found the killer and it’s been four years. A one-off, grisly murder that hinted at possible cannibalism, but later was discovered she’d been partly eaten by a wild animal scavenging; it left very little in the way of clues or evidence, because there was very little of her left.

Most of his team concluded it absolutely was an animal of some kind, a cougar happened upon her perhaps, or a bear after she'd wandered off? But Tim did not quite believe that - they didn’t see her.

It’s changed him, changed something within Tim to see the world for what it is. The band-aid has been ripped off and once you see that shit, you can never unsee it again.

And Tim's seen some pretty fucked up shit in his career.

He closed up, closed off and began unknowingly cementing the spiralling destruction that was to be his life. He’s fifty-eight and has nothing anymore.

Well, that’s not entirely true, he has you.

Despite the distance that has grown between you, evolving from carnal desire to ships passing silently in the night, you remain steadfast in your love for Tim, silently supporting him as he battles the demons that threaten to consume him wholly.

Yet he can’t help but feel that he's condemned you already in some ways. Watching as those demons hold you down and tear pieces from you until, one day, they'll be nothing left.

The wife of a gritty detective doesn't bode well in a happily ever after.

His decades long career is the reluctant third wheel in your marriage, and at first you admired his dedication; his passion to solving mysteries. Getting excited yourself when he'd use the dining room walls to gather his thought maps, pinning up mug shots, red thread lines linking people and place and circumstance. Weapons of choice like an elaborate game of Clue.

And he'd talk to you about them in those early days, the tamer cases he had. Mugs of coffee and thoughtful kisses exchanged as you offered your opinion and challenged his thinking.

Now it's getting harder not to resent that damn gold badge.

He swigs again at the bottle. It feels good; the warm, numbing sensation flooding through his veins down both his arms and legs. The giddy onslaught of amnesia begins to twinkle around the edges of alert thinking as he slowly succumbs to the light buzz.

He closes his eyes and lets himself teeter on the edge of it, welcoming the calmness like an old friend.

His first heavy session had led to his first blackout and it had scared him; scared him that he could lose a chunk of time that was unaccounted for out of his life - waking up at home fully clothed in the armchair, sometimes the kitchen floor, knowing he'd driven severely under the influence, and equally amazed and relieved that he hadn’t killed anybody in the process. They would take his badge for that recklessness if they knew.

No-one knew. Or if they did, they never mentioned it.

But it wasn’t enough to stop him. It got him through the paralysing fear of handling those dark days, which were particularly brutal, and the other fucked up cases he’d had to solve since.

They tell you; tell you that it will be difficult and bad, but you’re never prepared for it.

His father never prepared him for that shit and was right when he said he hadn’t got the cajones to be a police officer all those years ago.

His father headed up the ranks of Chief in a suburban precinct elsewhere and eventually made Commander, like Tim knew he would, probably just to spite him. He also told Tim in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t "Commander material." Hell, he wasn’t even Detective’s material, and for a while, Tim believed sincerely that he was right.

Although, he’s six feet under now, so what the Hell does he know? Shot in the back during a supermarket raid gone awry when he’d popped out to buy a newspaper and a some smokes. Commander John Rockford shot by a drugged up lil’ pipsqueak looking to get cash for his next score - what a legacy!

His death left a nice, fat pension for his mother who squandered most of it on a gambling addiction that she’d always had looming in the background of his childhood; the root of many a ferocious argument witnessed between his parents when they thought he was tucked up in bed, and he could literally hear the punch from his father’s fist make contact with his mother’s jaw.

But that didn’t stop the fact that his words clung to Tim like a bad shadow most days, even now, long after his theatrical send off like he was a Goddamned hero or something. He wasn’t; he was a mean little asshole with a bad temper and Tim had been glad to see the back of him, too sloshed to remember much of the funeral at all and cutting his no good mother out of his life soon after.

Tim swigs from the bottle once more, the sting dying out slowly and melting into an alkaline that soon tastes of nothing. It’s all nothing; emptiness and voids that are getting harder to fill. Disassociating himself from his shitty past life; from his first wife and her erratic behaviour, which took him years to figure out, was probably his erratic behaviour that had pushed her away and out of their home for good, not that he’d truly cared to notice.

Work all but consumed him. And he was happy to let it.

Of course, he’d gone to AA; out of town where nobody would know who he was - an upstanding pillar of the community, yeah right - talking about your problems, laying them all out there in front of a bunch of strangers who were just as fucked up as you were, was difficult because, up until that point Tim had never recognised or considered that he had a problem; just a mechanism he relied upon that helped him cope.

Having to take a moral inventory of himself and dig into the suppressed emotions he was hanging onto, and using them as an excuse to inebriate himself through the day, was hard.

The hardest thing he'd ever done, doubting he was strong enough to climb those twelve steps - and he wasn’t even really sure that he wanted to.

But he did; was sober for a while, until Rainie Thompson obliterated him.

He takes another quick swig after spotting Harman coming out the Gas n’ Guzzle and shoves it back under the seat covertly.

Harman finds Tim sitting as he left him, squeezing the steering wheel inside of his deft hands, over and over, trying to make sense of everything and when exactly the world had become such a terrible and unforgiving place - but is coming up short.

Gas stations are the most uninspiring places to get a decent cuisine that won’t make you shit ten tons the next day, but it's late; Detective Petey Harman is tired and hungry for just about anything right now, no matter how crappy it would taste or make him feel in twelve hours’ time as it burns through its exit out of his anal passage.

Once back inside the car, Tim scrutinises the large brown paper bag filled to the brim that Petey rifles around in, before pulling out a dire looking sandwich and handing it to his senior.

“You planning a sleepover with your girly friends or summin’?” Tim questions him.

There are several boxes of microwave pizzas, a bag of extra-large puffy marshmallows, various microwaveable meats in packet sauces that look questionable in their paleness, a jar of chocolate dipping spread and a large bottle of orange and pineapple Cactus Cooler.

“Nah... No girly friends for me.” Petey says, sombrely. “Weekly shop.”

“Well, watch your damned cholesterol.” Tim tears into the plastic packaging to be met with disappointment the moment he puts the sandwich in his mouth.

Petey can smell the waft of alcohol lingering in the car but he doesn’t mention it. Just like all the other times he's smelt it coming out of Tim’s mouth when he speaks, making his eyes water.

Petey was not long into being a newbie; a junior ranking officer in the department and up until a year ago or so now, had been making pretty good at busting low-level criminals successfully, to the point that he hadn’t really taken the gig that seriously, thinking at times he was invincible.

So much so that he had his thumbs in his belt loops and his shooter on show proudly like they do in Miami Vice as he and his reluctant mentor Tim, solved bleak mysteries together.

They’d stopped in for a burger break at Lafferty’s Grill on the day of Rainie being reported missing; talking about the pretty waitress giving Petey a lingering smile, and Tim trying to persuade him that he actually had a pair of balls and should use them to go and talk to her.

Instead, Tim was mirthed with disappointment as Petey's cheeks flushed a crimson red as he stared into his laminated menu, tacky with barbecue sauce residue, and tucking said balls firmly inside himself.

Petey had to grow up fast; he knew that the moment he’d heard Tim yelling at him crazily when he’d found the child’s remains whilst they scouted around for her aimlessly one night after Tim was trying for weeks to hold it together.

It was an image that still gave Petey nightmares, and the sounds of Tim sobbing still made his blood run cold when he thought about it, but it was far less frequent now.

He’d been promoted since to Detective, taking the job more seriously and knuckling down; his life coming up roses whilst Tim’s fell out the bottom of his ass.

Speaking of roses, Tim looks up mid-chew on something that the label assures him is tuna fish, and spots something red and velvety clustered in the window of the gas station.

He spies the date on the radio and sighs out heavily, tossing the sandwich back in the plastic packaging.

“Shit.” He mutters.

“You good? I got a BLT if you want that instead?” Petey asks.

"No. Fuck no. Wait, you gave me the shitty tuna when you had bacon?" Tim frowns.

"Was gonna save it."

With that, Tim exits the car, the driver side door squeaking on his beaten Pontiac and his trench coat billowing in the wind as he makes his way inside the gas station.

The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a harsh glare over the rows of snacks and drinks lining the shelves. His weary eyes fall upon the sad display of the florals. A few wilted roses, their once vibrant petals drooping with neglect, sitting haphazardly in a cheap plastic bucket.

Tim grimaces, knowing they’re far from the bouquet you deserve.

His mind flashes back to the drawings of roses on Rainie Thompson's bedroom wall and how, for a time, they engulfed him, tracing his fingers over the waxy ridges of their messy circles.

Tim was sitting on her bed, clutching a stuffed bear with a plaid neckerchief that smelled of talc and her mother informed him the bear's name: Tim. Or Timmy. Timmy the Teddy.

He remembers squeezing that damn bear tightly as he took in the surroundings of the little girl's room, trying to work out where she was - where are you, baby? - When he spotted the drawings.

He kept one, pulling it off the wall and folding it neatly into squares until it fit in his wallet. A reminder that she would be with him, crying in his ear for him to bring her back home to her mommy and daddy.

She never stopped crying and wailing in his ear; the pitch growing until he drowned it out with the booze.

He remembers the pictures, full of clumsy scribbles, bulbs of red crayon petals and skinny green stalks. Kind of how the roses look now in the bucket staring out at him; a sad little gift from beyond the grave in their macabre despair.

He hears it again now, that crying, right beside him. He squeezes his eyes shut, a few moments of forcing it into white noise.

With a resigned sigh, he plucks a handful of the least wilted roses from the bucket and makes his way to the counter. The clerk eyes him curiously as Tim approaches, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of their lips.

Tim ignores the silent judgement, focusing instead on paying for the flowers and grabbing a bottle of wine from the shelf by the counter. The wine selection is vastly limited, but he purchases a bottle of red without giving it much thought and hoping it won't taste like sharp vinegar.

He pays for his thoughtlessness, and hurries back to his car, the weight of his guilt and exhaustion pressing down on him like crushing lead.

“Get out,” he gruffs to Petey as he starts the engine.

Petey gulps down his sandwich with a splutter. “What?”

“You’re walkin’ home tonight.” Tim announces with eyebrows knitted, and Petey rolls his eyes, fumbling with his shopping and splitting the bag in the process.

"Aww man. You're kidding me?"

"I gotta get home. You didn't tell me it was fuckin' Valentine's." Tim scowls.

"Big deal. It's just another day." And Tim can hear the bitterness of being single and alone awash in Petey's mouth with stale bread, lettuce and bacon.

"Out." Tim presses.

“Roses won’t cut it this time, Tim.” Petey whines, as Tim reverses before he can even shut the door.

He’s right. Despite his bumbling ineptitude, Petey’s right - it won’t cut it.

Tim can’t even believe the sight of the wilted roses sitting on the passenger seat, mocking him and reminding him of all of his failings to you. It wasn't always like this, he's sure of it. Somewhere in the recesses of his tempestuous mind, he knows you were happy; he made you happy at some point, right?

He remembers how happy you were when you exchanged vows and gold bands, gorgeous in your little lace smock dress, beaming up at him. Fuck, it seems like a lifetime ago.

Burgers and beers on the bonnet of his car, he had a chevy back then, and watching breathtaking sunsets, and going to the movies when he was off duty.

He would bring you roses then. Fluffy, sumptuous blooms that almost guaranteed him a bigger helping of your cherry pie with the perfect, sweet crust, and extra kisses that led to him detaining you in the sheets, reminding you that you had the right to remain loud, to scream his name when he made you come.

He brought you real roses back then. Not these... weeds.

It’s late, almost midnight which ironically, is the earliest Tim has been home in a long time.

With a deep breath, he gathers the roses in his arms and makes his way to the front door. As he pushes it open and steps into the warmth of your shared home, the scent of your perfume catches his nose making it twitch.

He remembers that scent, like a sucker punch to the jaw. As he inhales deeply, the memories come flooding back, transporting him to a time when life was simpler, when the weight of the world hadn't yet settled upon his broad shoulders.

He can almost feel the warmth of your hand in his, your laughter echoing in his ears like sheet music. The feel of his cock inside your wet tightness as he fucked you into the mattress and you clawed at the expanse of his back leaving red welts on his skin from your nails for days after.

You couldn't get enough of each other once, and now you're barely strangers.

He steps into the deep bellows of the house searching for you, and finds you on the couch, wiping frantically at swollen eyes that have obviously been crying.

And the guilt drowns him instantly, crushing him like a tsunami as he sees you there, small and withered, worse than the roses he dared to bring home to you.

Looking down at them and frowning, Tim is disgusted with himself. He tosses them onto the table wanting to be free of the wretched things.

He longs to spend time with you, his darling wife, but the relentless pursuit of justice consumes every waking moment, pollutes every free thinking thought.

You can only watch from afar as Tim pours himself into the work, and pours himself another glass to compensate for the scars it leaves.

You know he’s haunted by the very vestiges of unsolved cases stacking up on his desk that he never talks to you about anymore. Closes the files of grisly crime scene photos before you have a chance to see them.

He protects you from his work now, but consequently, and unwittingly, protects you from him, too.

Each night, you would leave a warm meal on the table and wait anxiously for his return, hoping that he’ll come home early to eat with you, your heart heavy with worry and your hair turning whiter in the process.

More often than not, you dine with bitterness and disappointment.

Often, you’d wake in the early hours of the morning to find Tim slumped in his armchair, surrounded by case files; his brow furrowed in comatose concentration, glasses almost fully sliding off the bridge of his nose.

An empty bottle always rusticates beside him on the floor.

You can’t remember the last time Tim slept in your bed with you. The last time he held you in those strong, broad arms of his that you know he has hidden under that trench coat.

You can't remember the last time Tim made love to you and whispered how beautiful you are in your ear with whimpering grunts as he filled you up.

Tim is crestfallen as he steps forward, the faint glow of something flickering on the dining table pulls his sight.

A candle, close to being exhumed by the deathly kiss of its barely remaining wick, and unopened boxes of now cold Chinese take-out litter the table.

“I ordered your favourite. Number seventy-three with a side of nineteen.” You sniff. "I got extra twenty-two because they always give us an odd number."

“Darling, I...” Tim stops, for he knows nothing he can say can absolve this. On the most romantic night of the year, Tim has failed you, yet again. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t, Tim” you raise your hand shaking your head despondently. “Just don’t.”

"I didn't mean to be late. Not tonight.”

A small ghost of a smile evaporates on your lips. “You never mean to be late. Yet you always are.”

“The case-”

“It's not about the case, Tim," you say, your voice foggy with emotion. "It's about us. About the fact that you're always putting everything else before me."

He notes the roses again, bearing witness to his shame; their haggard state mocking him once more and he curses inwardly.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he approaches as you stand, arms wrapping around yourself and glass cutting tracks down your cheeks.

“I packed a bag…” You say as his eyes follow yours to a small suitcase in the hall that he didn’t even notice when he came in. passed right by it, oblivious. And he suddenly wonders what else he's been missing all these years, as it registers in his gut.

“No.” Tim states with a croak in his throat. He shakes his head vehemently. "No, darling."

Tim steps forward, the suitcase filling him with terrific dread. "You're leaving me?"

You're surprised that he's surprised.

But you shake your head, tears falling freely now. "I can't do this anymore, Tim," you say, your voice barely a whisper. "I can't keep waiting for you to come home to me. To open up to me and tell me what’s eating at you. I know it's something bad, something terrible. And I want to help, I do, I'm your wife. I want to make it better. But you make it so difficult. You push me away."

“To protect you.” He says with a low voice.

“Who's protecting you, Tim?"

"I don't-"

"I don't know who you are anymore. The man I fell in love with, he's... a ghost.”

“I…” words fail him as you look at him with a deep sadness that will stay etched on the thin fibre of his soul forever. A stain that won't wash out, no matter how much he scrubs.

You were the one. You're his one. And he's fucking losing you.

“Tell me, or I’m leaving... for good.” You warn. "If you ever cared about me at all, you'll tell me what's killing you. Please..."

You shake your head in despair, wiping your eyes harder now, when he doesn’t say anything. Just swallows the lumpy constriction in his throat and stares at you with hollow eyes.

"Goodbye, Tim." You sniffle.

“Rainie Thompson, she loved roses...” Tim mutters thickly as you approach the hall.

You stop, turning to face him.

"Who's Rainie Thompson?" You ask fearing the immediate worst.

You expect him to reveal to you that he's been unfaithful. That's he's not just been putting the hours in solely at work. That he brings roses - roses that are alive - to another woman. He eats her cherry pie now, fucks her into the mattress.

That he drinks because of the guilt of hurting you. But what he says instead alters a part of you that you don't think you'll ever get back.

“They look just how she drew them.” Tim says, his voice breaking, until his face caves in fully, features drowning in the onslaught of emotions, and for the first time you witness this unwavering man crumble completely.

And it terrifies you. For if he, the strongest man you've ever known, can break like this, what hope is there for you?

You rush to him as he collapses to his knees with a heavy thud, and wraps his arms around your waist, sobbing into the softness of your tummy.

You shush him and stroke your fingers through the greying curls, matted with sweat at the back of his neck. He holds onto you tighter than he’s ever done and you're afraid to let go of him.

Afraid that he won't ever stop bawling, as he mumbles incoherently and snottily into your abdomen.

Hours pass by, Valentine's Day gone in a blink of an eye, and you listen carefully and woefully as Tim recounts the haunting tale of Rainie Thompson, and how she's slowly killed the man you love.

You sit at the dining table with his thick, gun-calloused hands inside of yours, stroking over the ridges of his knuckles and listening to him swear to you that’ll get help with the drinking.

That he’ll take some leave and the two of you can go to the beach, or the lake, or somewhere where it can just be the two of you for a while.

Away from his cases, away from the horror of it all. Hell, he even mentions early retirement in his pertinent desperation, until you pat his hand gently and ground him with a stroking cup to his grizzled cheek.

You smile lightly as you gather the roses, and try to push aside your cynicism and wonder if you’ll regret not actually leaving tonight. Wonder if all what Tim has fed you is more empty promises when he'll eventually slip back into that expected monotony.

But you can see some swill of sincerity and regret inside the brown muddy pools of Tim’s tired eyes that you've never seen before.

He silently watches you pull the dead outer petals from the roses before placing them in a vase with fresh water.

“They’re already dead.” He mutters apologetically to you, shaking his head at the sight of them.

“Some things can come back to life, Tim, with some love.” You smile softly and Tim wants to just die in your arms right now.

“I don’t deserve you, darling.” Tim says, reaching for you.

He hasn’t yet taken off his trench, and you help it from his shoulders, the smell of worn leather from his holsters greeting you this close.

You've forgotten what he smells like as you inhale deeply. The scent of the leather leads a rugged and slightly musky undertone to his familiar aroma that’s swilled with coffee, cedarwood and sweat underscoring the gritty, primal edge to him.

You lick your lips as you graze your nose against the warmth of his neck, allowing him to finally crush you close to his broad chest, before the handle of his gun digs you uncomfortably in the breast.

He braces to kiss you, sweeping his lips delicately against yours, but you flinch. A reaction that slashes at Tim’s gut.

“Just hold me tonight, Tim.” You plead to him.

He nods, a solemn heaviness in his eyes as well as on his shoulders.

“I’ve missed you so much.” He admits.

Hearing him say it offers some vindication, but you know that these wounds need layers of bandages to be changed daily, and not some flimsy band-aids.

"I've missed you too."

“I’m so sorry for pushing you out. I don’t wanna lose you. I can’t. I’ll do whatever it takes. I promise.” He takes your hand and presses it to his mouth, the soft scruff of his facial hair feeling like gossamer, and you'd almost forgotten the feel of that too. “I love you.”

And when he says it, your emotions hiccup out of you and the tears fall again.

“I love you, Tim,” you whimper.

He takes you in his arms, those big, strong arms, and leads you upstairs to bed where he makes good on his word and doesn't let go of you all night.

You fall asleep listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat as he rubs your back gently, soothing you into sleep whilst he stays awake well into the night, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to listen to the dark thoughts urging him to finish that whole bottle of cheap wine downstairs.

He came so close to losing you today, on Valentine’s Day of all days, and he knows he has to do better. For all his faults, you love him and he spends the night pondering on that. Pondering when it was that he last slept in the bed with you, until his eyes fall heavy and he succumbs to a short, stunted sleep.

In the morning, he rises, stiff and aching from laying in the same position all night with you curled tightly in his arms. Amidst his back cracking and feeling stuffy in his slept-in crumpled button up and vest, Tim silently leaves the bedroom, careful not to wake you.

After pissing for what feels like an age, Tim catches sight of his face in the vanity mirror. White-gray stubble spreads across his chin and top lip, and the weary look of a man of the law that’s seen too much and knows too much weighing heavy around his sullen eyes, greets him.

He rummages in the vanity for some Tylenol and pops two in his mouth, swallowing them down without water. He re-shapes his oil slicked hair and tries to avoid the face looking back at him.

It knows all his terrible secrets, and now, so do you.

In the beginning the alcohol wouldn’t let him remember all the details, but its dropped its guard. The dreams were real; too real and he would find himself reliving the events each time he tried to get some damn shut eye.

He wasn’t supposed to keep seeing these things or to remember - it wasn’t part of the deal. Inebriation was supposed to wipe that shit out, but it'd failed to serve its purpose, instead serving as a beguiling wedge that expanded between you and him.

After descending the creaky stairs towards the kitchen, Tim passes the dining table en route to make some coffee; his tongue washing around dry, tight gums.

He spies his mobile and checks it out of habit; a message or two from Harman, one about a lead on one of their minor cases, and the other enquiring about his 'night of passion with the Mrs' and if it went well, and Tim simply scoffs. He makes a mental note to kick Harman when he sees him next. Preferably in the balls.

But out of the corner of his eye, Tim notices the vase of dead roses and stops to take in how they're now fully alive.

Overnight, their wilted petals have straightened and regained their vibrant colour, as if infused magically with a newfound vitality. The once drooping stems now stand tall and proud, their green leaves unfurling to reveal a lushness that seems to defy their previous state of neglect. Shades of crimson glow in the stale morning light, their hues deepening and intensifying the longer Tim takes them in.

Tim reaches for one, revelling in the soft velvet as he rubs it delicately between his finger and thumb. His eyes widen in disbelief at the transformation before him. It’s as if the flowers themselves are reaching out to him, a silent reminder of the resilience of your love and the power of forgiveness.

Some things can come back to life, Tim, with some love.

And Tim swears in that moment he’s never loved you more.

He swallows back a choke as he glances the wedidng photo of you both on the wall. Fuck, you looked so happy and beautiful that day.

Feeling a new sense of budding rejuvenation settling into his tired bones, a tiny bud, but one still seeding nonetheless, he turns towards the kitchen and then freezes, feeling it as his blood runs cold over his skin.

Prickles shoot down the back of his neck as he hears the sound, as clear as day. But it's different this time.

The haunting, yet wonderfully brilliant sound, of a little girl playfully giggling beside him.

Rainie Thompson isn't crying in his ear anymore, and Tim Rockford can't help but smile, closing his eyes as he listens to that sweet melody.

I found you, baby.

Thank you so much for reading. I'd love to know your thoughts and would appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you! 🖤

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#pedro pascal x reader #tim rockford x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #tim rockford #detective tim rockford #merge mansion #tim rockford fluff #tim rockford angst #valentines day #jett's writing #tw alchoholism #tw grief

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