Hi can I request Joseph, Antonio, and Ithaqua with a reader that cares more about others than themselves? They think that everyone deserves to be cared for but they forget that they need to take care of themself
Any format is fine, whatever you prefer ^^
💐Photographer, Violinist, and Night Watch x reader who loves taking care of others but forgets themselves
hey anon, hope you're doing well :) i feel like my brain's being eaten by worms lately but hope you can appreciate this ^^
It was hard to believe you deserved care, love, and tenderness just as much as any other living being when you felt like the worst, most terrible person on the planet.
You could find an excuse for anyone, forgiving and helping even the worst of people, the ones who hurt you the most. But when it came to you? All kindness seemed to be gone.
You had tried many times to tell yourself that wasn't true– that those thoughts were nothing but noisy, intrusive guests you never invited. Yet denying it almost felt like betraying yourself.
Maybe it was.
Even when your lips couldn't bring themselves to part and speak those words clearly, your actions spoke loudly enough.
'Others are my gateway to happiness’, you’d tell yourself,’ The channel for whatever good still lingers in me’-- which, deep down, you didn’t believe being much.
What even is your purpose? You had no idea. So you thought: if you can be useful to someone else, at least your existence won’t be a total waste.
It’s not that you weren’t sincere– every time you helped someone, every time you made them feel cared for, it was genuine, and it soothed your heart a little too.
The problem was, you poured all your energy into tending others’ wounds– way easier than tending your own— until you had nothing left for yourself, and you stopped caring altogether.
At least making someone else better gave you a sense of purpose.
Something to live for.
It wasn’t unusual for you to help your injured teammates after a particularly intense match. You’d settle them down on pristine sheets, make something warm to drink, and carefully stitch wounds or apply salves to old scars to help them close faster.
Sometimes, you surprised yourself— you couldn’t even remember how you’d learned certain skills.
Amazing how the place you live in can change you without you even noticing.
It became routine- muscle memory. You did it so often you forgot you were a participant too, and thus, naturally injured yourself as well.
A strained muscle, a bleeding cut along your thigh or abdomen-- you wouldn’t notice until the pain forced you to.
You’d excuse yourself, muttering apologies and promising to return soon after 'putting a bandaid on your little scratch'.
You fumbled through drawers, searching for bandages or ointment, when a soft knock came at your half-open door.
“May I come in?”
A mellow, raspy voice carried through the gap.
“Joseph! Sure-- uh, are you okay? Do you need something?”
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Arms crossed, he walked closer.
“Actually, I came to see how you’re doing, mon trésor.”
His faint accent rolled over the words, a little rough around the ‘r’s - something you always found endearing in such a timeless, ghostly man. Then again, everything about your relationship was unusual.
“I’m good. Just have to go back— I still need to finish treating— ”
“Don’t take me for a fool. That’s not how it is. How are you really?”
“Just… a few scars. It’s nothing, don’t worry about me, please.”
Someone being careful, caring of you made you feel strangely uncomfortable.
“A few scars the other day. Then a broken rib… are you trying to kill yourself? Because at this rate, you’re doing quite well at it.”
“I said it’s nothing! Gosh, why do you have to be so— ”
“So what? Concerned over your well-being? Trying to make you see sense?”
“...Never mind. I have to go.”
As you turned to open the door, he caught your wrist.
A sharp ouch escaped you.
“‘It’s nothing,’” he echoed mockingly, “and yet you’ve strained your wrist. Mon dieu, if you don't treat that now, it's going to grow into a bigger issue later…”
“You don’t understand — the others have it worse! It’s stupid to make a fuss over something this small.”
He narrowed his eyes, sighing in exasperation.
“If you want to be stubborn, fine. But I won’t let you leave until you’re treated properly.”
“Wha—”
Before you could protest, he scooped you by the waist and guided you to sit on the bed.
Kneeling before you, he took your wrist gently between his fingers.
“You can’t take care of yourself,” he murmured, eyes lifting to meet yours, “so I’ll be the one in charge, mon petit bête.”
You were exhausted. The quiet of night finally settled over the manor, and the thought of doing anything besides collapsing into bed felt unbearable.
You didn’t want to sound whiny— especially when you’d brought this upon yourself. You loved helping others; it was what kept you sane in this hellhole of a manor.
But lately, you’d felt drained— your mind foggy, your body heavy. When someone came to you for help, you sometimes froze, unable to find your usual warmth.
What was wrong with you?
And on top of that, you’d seen less and less of Antonio, your partner. You were always busy, and that loneliness just worsened everything.
You found yourself at his door, hesitating before knocking.
Was it selfish to seek comfort now, after being (unwillingly) distant?
Guilt began eating you.
Stupid. You were being stupid.
You turned to leave when the door swung open, and familiar, long arms pulled you inside. A few stray locks of his hair shut the door behind you as he held you close.
“Here’s my little Red Cross nurse,” he teased softly. “Finally found time for me— and maybe for yourself, if you’ll let me.”
“I’m sorry, Antonio. I’ve just had a lot to do and— ”
He hushed you with a hand caressing your cheek.
“What bothers me,” he said, “is why everyone thinks it’s fine to run to you of all people. You’re kind and gentle, yes, but I fear those pesky survivors have been taking advantage of that kindness.”
“Oh, no! I promise, I’m more than willing. I’ve just been busy, really. Trust me.” You covered his hand with yours.
“When was the last time you even ate properly? Or rested? Mio Dio, you’re destroying yourself, tesoro.”
“I care about you. I can’t stand watching you tear yourself apart for others. Will they replace you if you’re gone? Don't think so”
He sighed, then lifted you effortlessly, brushing stray hair from your forehead before laying you down.
“Rest now, amore mio. Let me make sure you get the same care you give everyone else. Nobody deserves it more than you.”
He gathered you close, his hand tracing up and down your side.
Another day gone. Sometimes, twenty-four hours never felt like enough— and if you had to choose what to do, you always put others first.
Yeah, I can do that later, you told yourself again and again, falling asleep each night with tasks for yourself still undone.
You liked being useful— being needed— and giving pieces of yourself to others made you feel whole. But sometimes, that devotion rebounded harder than you could handle.
When you finally returned to your room, moonlight pooled faintly across the floor. You didn’t even bother changing, just collapsed onto the bed, eyes fluttering shut—
Until something cold brushed your skin.
You jumped, heart racing, and turned to see Ithaqua’s pale eyes glinting at you.
“Itha—! Oh god, you scared me! I told you not to sneak up like that!”
Regret immediately hit. You sighed.
“I’m sorry, Itha. I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just tired.”
“You’ve been tired for the past three weeks,” he replied flatly.
“It’ll pass,” you muttered, brushing it off. You knew where this conversation could lead, and you weren’t in the mood for an argument.
“I don’t like how this is going,” his voice came, low and stern.
“I don’t feel like—”
He cut you off. “I’m not trying to upset you. I just don’t like watching you sacrifice yourself for people who don’t even give back half of what you give them.”
“It’s not about getting anything back, Itha. I do it because it makes me feel… better. Whole, in a way. Do you understand?”
“I do,” he said quietly. “It’s just… isn’t what I give you enough to make you feel whole?”
“It’s different…”
“How? Don’t I make you feel needed? I really, really need you — more than you can imagine.”
Your gaze softened. He looked almost childlike, lying there beside you, eyes searching your face.
“I’m grateful for that, truly,” you whispered. “But my attention’s enough to share, right?”
“I’m not sure that’s what I want,” he murmured, “and I don’t like when you compare me to others. I’ll never take your health for my selfish needs. You’re my treasure— and I hate hoarders.”
Mon petit bête: my little idiot
