#‘well.. of course… but would they bring him back no warning..?’

[midnite-c6]

knife play with nam-gyu during hide and seek..nghgfn..

no bcuz ure so real. why was he so hot in that. he was singing. talking abt one night stands. he was so horny. he was so yummy. this one no proofread:(.

warnings: 18+, sex, knifeplay (knife would scratch u just a lil’ bit), blood kink, cunnilingus during hide & seek, dubcon, object fucking :3, nam-gyu x fem!reader

人｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ oh no! you were red, and he was blue! you frowned as you looked at him from the other side, the only "ally" you had. once the rules were announced, he'd immediately come to you, with his hands pressed together: "c'mon, can you even kill with that? i know you can't." he says, on his knees, drugged-out of his mind. "please, please, let's switch teams, just let me have it, hm?" his hands were already holding the handle of the sword, like he knows you'd give in immediately. the sharp blade would accidentally scrape his finger and he winces, "fff...m'bleeding." "sorry." you immediately mumbled. seeing the blood drip down to the palm of his already bloodied-up hands from the previous games. "make it feel better—" he catches you off-guard by shoving the bleeding finger past your lips, you choke. "give me the sword, c'mon! don't be difficult, jeez." he stares right into you, into how you were getting used to the metallic taste of his blood.

of course you give in.

"fuck yes! thank you, thank youuuu..." you stare at the big wide grin plastered on his lips, "we're gonna team up, yeah?" a big hand tugging lightly on the key necklace wrapped around your neck, "g'nna find you, and thank you... you for bein' such a good teammate—" when he was overdosing with drugs, he was more vocal. he talked more, but you can't help but shake the fact he's sounding just like thanos right about now. "...thought you were a stupid cunt, in the midst of it all, but you're so smart!"

wow. fuck him.

⊂•✧～⁠｡⁠☆ 🔪

the hide and seek game finally starts, and you're quivering in your boots! where were you gonna hide? you hear "player 124, pass" just a few minutes ago, so you try your best to stay alive, hiding in a small room your key had opened. were you so sure that he'd be finding you? he was overdosed! of course he'd forget you the second you leave his sight.

these thoughts however, leave your mind when you hear his silly voice, humming a famous song about love and whatnot. you also hear echoes of your name being called out, guess he didn't forget about you.

⁠‿⁠•⁠⊂⁠ *⁠.⁠✧

atleast now you know you're safe. well... at the very least, the safest place you could be is right underneath him, legs spread with him in-between, and the sword you offered to give him as he glides the smooth blade against your clothes. "nam-gyu... i... anyone could kill us, kill me...!" he just laughs. "you're not thinkin' right, ah... no-one's gonna kill you, m'right here." he says as to assure you, "and i won't kill you, because i've already passed right? and this is just a small lil’ thank you gesture." you nod, just staring at him with all the utmost trust you could give. afterall, he's the one holding the knife.

his shakings hands (not from fear but from the pills) that's holding the sword, slowly rips the hem of your shirt. "nam-gyu! they're not gonna give me new clothes—!" he quickly points the knife to your face, and you freeze. "shhhh. don't worry, all you do is worry!" the cold blade would press slightly against your lips. "this isn't about you, can't you understand that? we're gonna do what i want." he brings the sword back to your shirt, slowly ripping the fabric in half to see your bra underneath, "i-i don't want other people to see me naked," you frowned, "fuck, you keep complaining, i'm just getting to the good part." he groans in annoyance, his clouded eyes glaring at you with disgust, while you stare back like you were begging for mercy.

he'd rip your bra too. his mouth would immediately latch onto one of your nipples, whilst the other sensitive bud feeling the cold, metal knife. "fuck. i miss this... you're so cute ’n weak." he'd bite at the hardened bud, eyes staring at you. "you know you want this too? even how everyone's dyin', you want to get fucked. by me. of all people." he'd lick a long stripe against your cleavage. "m'so glad that jerk thanos is dead, for sure he'd fuck you too. and you'd gladly take it."

"guess that's just how sluts think. ’ts okay, thanos told me alot ’bout girls like you." "m'not a slut..." he'd snicker to himself, the way you were trying to defend yourself despite the situation was quite ironic. "you act like one," the sword would move on to rip the fabric in-between your thighs. his eyes would light up, seeing the pool of pure wetness and arousal at the center of your underwear... so delicious. so easy to eat it all up. "you're wet like how a slut would be in this situation, y'know that?" he'd grin wide. knowing full well he's right.

the knife would drag to rip your panties, he wasn't gentle with it, "careful!" he was careful enough not to accidentally cut off your clit or something, but he couldn't care less either way. "awww. but it's just missin' something." the blade would slice through the supple flesh of your inner thighs. just a small slice. just enough for blood to drip down. it didn't hurt much, but you'd still wince. "oopsies." he smiled, "what- what for! s-stop! you hurt me!" he'd point the knife again to your neck, just to stop you from always complaining. "can't you take it like a slut too?" his head would dive in-between your legs, his tongue darting down at the slice he'd give, further smearing it on your thighs. your hands would instinctively tug on his hair. "nam-gyu! we can't do this!"

"don't tell me what to do, we do what i want. i'm the one holdin' the knifeeee..." he speaks like he's drunk. his tongue would move to your folds, then to your clit, but not too long, he doesn't want you to be too pleased by him. just enough to hear you squirm. "nam-gyu!" he'd play with you. smearing your own juices and own blood together, tasting absolute perfection for a pyschopath like him. and it feels good for you, him making you feel better because he hurt you. that's what you like to think. that he's still thinking of your pleasure. "y'wanna be fucked? tell me," you nod your head, the knife pointed at you would touch your neck, "yea-yea! wanna be fuck... fucked." "wow. didn't even put up a fight, you're sososo silly.."

he'd move the knife to the apex of your thighs. turning the handle to kiss your clit. "wanna fuck this?" you don't answer. "wanna fuck this little thing that's killed someone? you're so filthy." you whimper, but you couldn't reject him eitherway ! "take it. i know you follow orders, s'good.." he'd push the handle past your clenching hole, and you'd whine. the handle stretched you just right, but the plastic was an unfamiliar feeling. "nn.. nam-gyu.." he ducks to give some attention to your clit, maybe he's got some pity left in him. he'd make out with the glistening bundle of muscles, throbbing at his disposal. twitching at how he was making it so sensitive.

you think, over and over, when will this hide and seek game end? you shouldn't be into this. yet you are. "y'better cum or you won't win the gameee. everyone's playing hide and seek. you were playing a different and more fucked-up game.

yayyy i posted :3 not my blog popping off again once squid games 3 released

[zozo-01]

in which you know the end is coming and all you can do is hold him close and pray you do not bring him more pain then he has endured <3

"He's coming into his own as the Deliverer."

A calm voice with a robotic tinge spoke up from behind you, taking your eyes away from Phainon playing with the kids around him.

"Yes, I suppose he is," you say with skepticism in his voice. There was always this feeling of distrust towards Lygus, and you have never been able to put your finger on it. Perhaps it was his pragmatic view of the world, or the way he's invested in the success of the Flame-Chase, despite doing nothing to help the Heirs. Maybe you're just extremely paranoid and he's just a kind person- robot?

"Phainon is so close to completing his transformation. I wonder if you're ready for it as well." Lygus looks at you with a tilted head. Unease starts to fill your body. You don't know what he's trying to imply, but the fact that there was an implication made you sick.

"Of course, as is the duties of all the Heirs, I shall stand by him into the Era Nova." You don't mention the dreams you've had. Nightmares so vivid, you're convinced that they are your memories somehow. The bodies of your friends all bloodied and laid out across the land. Your eyes a blood red and an animalistic rage taking over. Phainon standing over you with blood on his sword.

Your golden blood.

You haven't mention this to anyone, fearing that you might cause panic while being so close to your goals. You don't remember Lady Tribbie mentioning that anyone else can receive Janus's blessing. Not that this is a prophecy, they're dreams. Manifestations of your fear and uncertainty over the future. Not an omen of what will come next.

(You don't know this yet, but your dreams were sent to you from beyond the stars. They always knew when the end were to come. It would be kind of them to send their child signs of your doom, even if they sent the same warning over and over again.)

"Are you alright? You seem lost in your thoughts." Lygus didn't sound sympathetic or even pitiful, just curious. "Would you like to confide in me?"

"No," you say sharply. You weren't about to spill this secret to someone you didn't even trust. "I'm fine, Lygus. I've just had issues with sleep."

A self-satisfied smile appeared on his lips. You gave him all the information he needed, even if you didn't say anything specific.

"You are starting to remember, Emanator?"

"What are you talking about?" You hiss under your breath, not wanting to ruin the precious scene in front of you.

"Your kind has always meddled in Ravagers' business, despite Terminus and Nanook being more alike then you think." He starting to walk back to the Demigod Council. He looks back with what you think is a amused stare. You could never tell with the fabric covering his eyes.

"I will wait for you at the start of the new cycle, once the Deliverer completes his final trial." With that, he walks away, like he hasn't upended your entire world view.

Your head blazed with pain, agony seeping into every muscle and bone of your body. Somehow, Lygus triggered the Black Tide within you, it's dark thoughts making you want to destroy everything in sight. How did he know about this little secret of yours? Aglaea had swore that no one would every find out, especially your sunshine in hero form.

Panic and fear flooded your brain and just about when you felt like you were going to burst-

"Starlight! There you are!"

His voice soothes your through your pain, a powerful balm against the Black Tide. It helps you regain your thoughts, feeling like a normal person again. Or at least as normal as you could be.

His arms wrap around you to lift you up in the air. If there was one thing about Phainon, it's that he will never shy away from showing your love for you. In his words, he fought so hard to be worthy of your hand, why shouldn't he show it off any change he gets?

By the Titans, you adore this overgrown puppy, If it were up to you, you would make him forsake the prophecy and live your final days in peace. Just you and him. That would be the Era Nova of your dreams.

"I saw Lygus talking to you earlier, is everything okay?" He tilts his head with enough concern in his eyes to make your heart ache.

"No, everything is fine." You held his face in your hand, staring into the sky blue eyes you have grown to love. "Everything is exactly as it should be."

He beams that bright smile of his and leans down to kiss you. You almost forget about Lygus' words and melt into the arms of your lover. If only you could pretend that your days were not numbered, and that you could spend the rest of your life like this. You hold him tighter, pleaing to whoever is out there to keep him safe, keep him with you.

But nothing lasts forever, and the end comes for everyone. You just hope that it will spare you the pain of losing everything again.

(All things come to an end, that is the philosophy of the Destruction and Finality. It will be interesting how you change once you remember your past and Phainon ascends to his duties.)

so............ his new trailer has me feeling things.......... i want him to be happy ok :'3 also, i don't know if i've mentioned this, but all of these little drabbles are of the same reader and is (kind of) connected to this huge fic i have for phainon and a secret reader hehehehe

or: take this as my offering to get good pulls for phainon <3333 may all phainon wanters be phainon havers!!!!

bonus: my crack theory rn is that phainon's real name is Khaos (aka the last cycles kephale holder) and he just keeps the same name no matter what hehehe

[captain-huggy-bear]

The Favour [Part 2/?]

Pairing: Clayton Keller x Fem!Reader Warnings: Series will have smut so MDNI 18+, discusses issues of self-worth especially around sexual performance, if a reader who isn't super sexual/confident/experience isn't your thing then this isn't for you, Clay will be soft but dominant as always. Chapter specific - the one where Clayton teaches you how to touch yourself. e.g. guided masturbation Summary: You've spent your adult life pretty certain you're broken...that something must be wrong with you. After your boyfriend breaks up with you for your inability to orgasm, you go to the one man you trust most above all others to help you figure it out. Notes: Was reading The Deal and got inspired. Plan is for this to be multiple chapters. So we'll see. Writing Masterlist Previous Chapter

"You ordered chow mein with a side of spring rolls."

He's holding the white plastic bag up with a grin, stood on your porch in his big soft Utah hoodie, the black one that you like to steal sometimes. Cap on backwards to hide his hair, you wish he'd show it off more. His feet are decked in some ridiculously expensive trainers and his chains are lose from the hoodie, cross on full display. He's cosy, familiar, safe.

You're nervous but the sight of the Chinese food has your shoulders relaxing, stepping back to let him in. This bit is familiar, like any night where Clay brings takeout round. Like last Thursday or the Friday 2 weeks before that.

Like any old night he finds your kitchen, tugs the plates from the oven where they're warming and dishes your plates, always yours first. A big heaping of Chow Mein, curry, and chop suey and an extra spring roll because he always gives you more even when you can't finish it and he always insists you keep all the left overs.

Just like any old night, you take your plates into the living room, another episode of Buffy put on for your shared rewatch of the old show (for the nostalgia of course). You curl up, socks underneath you, Clay presses against your side, and you watch and eat and it feels so utterly normal....but underneath it all is the current of tension, the axe over your neck, the sword above your heads.

You both know why Clay's here. It's not to eat Chinese food or watch Buffy. It's to try to give you your first orgasm and no matter how hard you try you can't forget that fact, can't fully watch the show, instead watching Clay from the corner of your eye like he might pounce on you at any minute.

The nerves are there but so is the buzz of excitement. You can't deny that Clay is gorgeous or that you've always had an attraction to him, a denial would be an outright lie...you picked him for 2 reasons:

He was safe, he was trustworthy, he was someone you trusted with your life.

He was one of the few men who made your head spin and your stomach flip when he looked your way, an attraction so deep in your soul that you thought...well, if anyone could get you to cum, it had to be a man that made you warm with a single look, right?

Clay doesn't address the elephant in the room as he takes your empty plate to the kitchen, as the next episode starts. He waits until you've stopped being quite so vigilant, until you've started to lean against his side and relax into your usual spot for Buffy nights. He waits until his lips are on the crown of your head to mumble it, two words that hold a lot of meaning.

"You ready?"

He waits, listens to your shaky breath, the way you seem to try to steel yourself against your nerves. Patient as ever because this is about you and what you want, not about him. He's just the lucky fucker who gets to show you the ropes.

"Yeah...'m ready..." Except you're not sure you are, so full of nerves as Clay tugs you by the hands towards your bedroom. He's so familiar with your space, ushering you into the room and shutting the door like he lives here too.

It's that reminder that Clay isn't some stranger. That he's someone you've trusted with your space, with your time, someone you can trust with your body too that makes you feel a little better. The nerves still there, anxious, but knowing that you want this, you do...it's the shame from Brad that has you scared. It's not Clayton. You've never been scared of Clayton, he's never made you feel unsafe or ashamed.

Still you stand in the corner of your room like you're a stranger to it, nervous, Clayton can see that as clear as day. The way your shoulders hunch in, the twisting of your fingers in front of you, the way you toe at the carpet as you watch him enter your space. It's not the first time he's been in your room, but those times were sweet, innocent. A few movies nights here and there, the few times he'd come to help you when you were sick, nothing like this. There's a thick anticipation in the air that has never existed between the two of you before. An electricity that has him wetting his lips with his tongue and chewing on a mouthguard that isn't there, almost nervous, like he might fuck this up somehow.

Clayton's never even kissed you and suddenly the expectation feels so heavy on you, like you're going to disappoint him too. He can see you overthinking, the way the cogs seem to grind in your mind and he knows you, that's the beauty of it all, he knows you so well that Clayton just tugs you into his space, hands pulling your own apart and twisting your fingers with his.

His forehead presses to yours, noses brushing and he's closer than he's ever been for any extended period of time, so close you can count his lashes and the little scars he has from pucks and high sticks.

"I'm going to kiss you now, baby, is that okay?" It doesn't matter that you both know why he's here, it doesn't matter that you've asked him to fuck you, to make you cum or that you've let him into your house, into your bedroom with that as the context. What matters is that you're still okay with this, that this is what you want. The moment you want to back out he's out and just that one simple question has your shoulders relaxing because you know you've picked the right man for this. A man who cares more about how you're feeling than anything else. A man who's putting you first.

You're still nervous, still anxious about messing this up or disappointing or frustrating him, but it's eased off, there's a comfort in trusting Clay so much, in the security and safety he represents.

"Yeah, you can kiss me..." Your voice is already breathy, toes curling into the carpet, belly twisting with butterflies. Your eyelids flutter closed when Clay's nose nuzzles against yours, warm breath ghosting over your lips, his hands sliding out of yours and gripping you by the hips, firm, tight, commanding, guiding.

He guides you backwards in slow, easy steps, the world around you feeling like molasses, slow and sticky, until your back gently hits the bedroom door. There's something about it, the way he crowds you against the wood, how it feels like he's everywhere, in every sense of yours that has an familiar yet unfamiliar warmth pooling in your belly already. Clay's the only man who's ever made you feel that, that rush of arousal, that warmth like you've taken a shot of malt whiskey that's crawled down to your stomach.

"Clay..."

"I've got you, baby, 's okay..." And you believe him. You relax into the sensations you feel in your body even when they're new and scary. Try not to over think it when his mouth slants over yours, tongue sweeping across your bottom lip until your mouth parts for him easy as pie.

The kiss is bad enough, mind melting, you feel like you're under warm water, eyes unable to open, so heavy to the feeling...but when Clay bites at your lip? Pulls it taut and sucks it into his mouth like some sort of sweet treat he wants to consume? Is it really a wonder your legs shake, that a whimper leaves your mouth and falls straight into his?

The smirk he presses into your lips tells you enough, the cocky confidence that rolls off of him when his hands fall to the back of your thighs and you follow his guidance. Legs jumping up to wrap around his waist as he presses you more firmly into the door.

One kiss and your wet already, wetter than you'd ever been with Brad and wetter than you were alone no matter how many smutty books you read or sexy asmrs you listened to.

You shift in his arms, embarrassed squirming but it only makes it worse, the bulge in his jeans pressed tight against you through layers of fabric, his mouth leaving yours to nip and kiss across your jaw. You let it go for a moment, the worry, the nerves, the self consciousness, just feel. Moans and whimpers leaving your throat in high pitched droves as he marks the skin of your neck so thoroughly that he knows you're going to look like a Jackson Pollock painting tomorrow.

You don't even have the awareness to worry that you're too heavy for him when he pulls you away from the door, arms tight under your ass, palming your cheeks as he moves you. You're too focused on the way he bites into the spot behind your jaw, the feel of his bulge against your clit through all those ridiculous layers, how Clay sounds when he groans as your hips roll.

You barely comprehend that you're moving until you're gently lowered onto your back onto the bed, Clay pulling away from your skin, his lips flushed and kiss bitten. A hand cups your cheek as he watches your eyelashes flutter, your eyelids slowly opening like you were coming back to yourself. He's so gentle about it, thumb rubbing soft circles into your warm cheek, smile quietly confident but no less sweet as he looks down at you, all dimples and crinkled eyes.

"You still with me, baby?"

You don't say anything for a little while just blink up and him and God if that's not the most ridiculous ego boost. That one kiss has you so pliant underneath him. Whatever worries Clay had about not being able to get you to cum disappear at the realisation that Brad couldn't even fucking kiss you right.

"Baby?" He asks again, grinning softly down at you.

"Mmm?" You hum up at him, eyes refocusing, taking in the flush to his cheeks and the grin on his lips.

"You with me?"

"Yeah...yeah, i'm with you.."

"Good, cause i'm going to teach you how to touch yourself." Your eyes snap so wide he's almost worried you've hurt yourself. He's not sure if you forgot why he was here...or if you simply thought he'd just get straight to business, fuck you with nothing else before hand, no run up, to build up.

But that's not Clay's style, not with you. He's patient. He learnt that from all the years shooting pucks in his basement, all the extra practice at the rink after everyone else had left, Grandpa Bill keeping the doors open just for him. Clay doesn't just rush in and he doesn't want to either. Today's not about sex. It's not about getting his dick wet or the grand finale. Today he decided was about teaching you how to touch yourself and get yourself off...and maybe next time it'll be his fingers not yours and maybe after that...

"I...Clay..." You don't shy away as his hands tug your jeans down your legs, his eyes hungry as the traverse the expanse of skin on display. But you shy away from the thought of touching yourself in front of him, you were expecting him to just...get on with it...like Brad. You suppose that's where you went wrong because Clayton Keller is nothing like Brad.

"Shh, don't go getting shy on me now. You wanted to learn how to cum, right?"

"Yeah..." He tugs you to a sitting position until he can slip in behind you, his back against your headboard, legs spread wide around your hips until he's tugging you back against him ass to his hips. You close your knees together, shy, unsure.

"So, this is where we start, baby." He's gentle with it, careful of your renewed shyness as Clay's hands gently rub up and down your bare thighs, just the tops at first.

He waits until you relax a little, back leaning against his chest, knees unlocking. His hands gliding to your inner thighs, the skin so sensitive that your hips jerk, knees pressing tight together like a muscle spasm.

"This okay?" His lips press to your temple, mumbling against the skin as he starts to pry your knees apart. Gentle, but commanding and you let him ease your legs open until they're wide, panties on show, wet spot making you want to die a little because you shouldn't be this wet from one kiss, right? Or is this normal?

"Y...yeah..."

"You sure?" He stills his movements, lips breathing against your temple, worried he's pushing you too far.

"Just nervous..."

"Why you nervous, baby?" Another kiss to your temple, long fingers tiptoeing up your inner thigh, sliding over the crease where thigh meets hip in soft strokes that have your core pulsing, your throat swallowing heavy.

"I...don't know what's normal, Clay...I..."

"What're you feeling right now? Talk to me and I'll let you know if it's normal or not, baby. That's why I'm here right? To talk you through it."

"Clay..."

"C'mon, what're you feeling? You feeling warm here?" He presses a palm flat to your lower stomach, pushing in in a way that makes you squirm back against his hips. Clay grunts as your grind against his dick, smirking slightly.

"Yeah..." A mumble, a murmur, head tipping back against his shoulder, his lips trailing over the side of your face, damn near loving and that's what this feels like. This feels intimate enough that it shouldn't be between friends, stomach twisting, gut roiling because how are you supposed to view this man as just a friend when he holds you like that, kisses you so gentle, and touches you so close.

"What else?"

"I...I'm so wet, Clay. I..." you don't think you've ever felt this slick, like you're dripping for him and it feels embarrassing, like you shouldn't want him that much. It's hard enough to get the words out, face so warm like you've dunked it in boiling water.

"Mmm?" His fingers slip beneath your panties, a delicate trail through your lips, slick collecting on your fingertips and fuck, you're soaked, "That's normal, baby, such a good girl for letting me know, yeah? 's normal, should be wet or i'm not doin' my job right, yeah? Brad never get you this wet?"

"No..." There's a sense of pride he feels deep in his gut because fuck, yeah, of course Brad couldn't get you this wet, that's Clay's job...except it's not...and you suffered for it. You spent your life thinking you were broken because no one took their time with you and it pisses him off.

"Told you, you're not broken, just with the wrong guy, sweetheart." You let Clay tug your panties down, kicking them off until you're bare, cool air of your room hitting the slick between your thighs, trying to close them. Except Clay's hands are there, keeping your knees parted, cunt bare.

"Show me."

"Show you want?" Your voice is breathy, barely their like you're holding your breath in the back of your throat.

"Show me how you touch yourself, baby, let me help you get there, yeah?"

You're hesitant but you slide your hands down to your cunt like he asks, despite your shyness, your reservations, your embarrassment. You follow his direction perfectly and he watches, throat dry, but observing still with a critical eye each move you make.

"Good girl, so good for me..."

You're too quick with it, too rushed, too intense. Fingers straight for your clit, quick, rough circles that cause your hips to jerk until you pull away close, but frustrated, working yourself almost unkindly and it has Clay shushing you gently.

"You need to go slower, baby, savour it, yeah? You're too rough..." His palm presses to the back of your hand, long fingers guiding your own to a more gentle press, slipping slickly and slow around your clint. A more tender touch that still has you twitching but without the desire to run away from the touch, hips leaning in and not away.

Clay guides your fingers down until you're pressing one inside your centre, breath hiccupping at the sensation as Clay presses your thumb into circles around your clit. He helps you rock into your hand, helps you press a second finger into your cunt and keeps your thumb circling even when that sensation in your tummy feels too much.

You know that sensation well, close, but so far, you've never gotten to the tipping point, never hit that high, your body shying away from it as it does now. Except Clay doesn't let you stop.

"Doin' so well, baby, so close, yeah? You can do this, I know you've got it in you, sweet girl, just a little bit more." Sweet and dirty nothings mumbled into your temple, kisses pressed across your jaw as your fingers, guided by his own, squelch in and out of your cunt.

"Clay..."

"You close, baby?" You can only nod, moans falling out of your throat in a waterfall of sound, eyes fluttering shut and if Clay's fingers weren't on top of your own you know you would have stopped short by now, but he doesn't let you.

All it takes is one last circle of your clit, a little extra sharp, a little more firm and you're falling over a precipice that you've never jumped from before. Where Brad always had you stopping short, peering over that ledge but not jumping, Clay has you diving head first. Your body seizes, body shaking as pleasure runs through your limbs and still Clay makes you work yourself through it until you're pushing his hands away too sensitive, too much whining at him, face seeking comfort in his shoulder.

"I got you, baby, you did so good for me...knew you could do it, so fucking hot, baby..." He tugs you closer, twists you in his arms until you're curling into him, his palms soothing as they flatten over your back, tangle in your hair. Shushing leaving his throat at each little aborted wiggle of your hips, still feeling your first ever orgasm so strongly like all those years of near misses decided to come out all at once.

You moan into his shirt, fingers clawing at his back like you're trying to ground yourself in him and he just keeps holding you, keeps his touches gentle, light, until you're relaxing, until your hips stop twitching and your breath stops stuttering.

"You good?"

"Fuck, Clay..."

"Told you, you weren't broken, baby, every lock has a different key, huh?"

Part of you thought he wouldn't manage it, that you wouldn't manage it...that maybe he'd get just as frustrated as Brad, a few failed attempts before he gave up...but fuck, it was so easy for him, like you were a puck on the edge of his stick, easy to handle, to manoeuvre.

"So I guess....I guess we're done now, huh?" He's done it. He's accomplished the goal, one night and he's achieved it. Like the over achiever that he is.

"Why'd you think that, baby?"

"Well, you did it..."

"Oh baby, this is just the tip of this iceberg. We're not done until you've cum on my fingers, my tongue and my cock."

Your body floods with heat, stomach fluttering again like your body is ready to put those promises to the test. Cheeks burning, face pressing into his shirt tighter until Clay pries you off with a laugh and tugs you on unsteady legs towards your bathroom.

Maybe you're wrong for thinking he'd be content with you cumming once on your own fingers. Maybe you were wrong for thinking he'd up and leave you a sweaty mess in your bed...instead Clay takes his time, a wet wash cloth over your skin, cleaning away sweat and slick with nothing more than a confident, self assured smile. There's something almost fragile about the way Clay gets you ready for bed, how he wipes your make up away and pulls a big shirt over your head and a new pair of panties up your thighs before tucking you under the covers.

"Stay?" You tug at his wrist, scared he's going to leave after all that.

"Of course, baby," It takes no convincing to get him to strip down to his boxers, hard on forgotten about in favour of looking after you, chains glistening against his tan and God, he's gorgeous, your friend...only your friend, but so gorgeous as he tugs you against him and spoons you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

Brad never held you like that. Brad never did a lot of things you're coming to realise.

[bradleysass]

balloon - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 617

Regulus Black had made peace with many horrors in his life. Death Eaters. The Dark Mark. The feeling of betrayal that clung to his skin like ash. But balloons?

He would never forgive them.

The rubbery texture alone made his spine curl. The high-pitched squeak when a child accidentally rubbed one against their jumper, the sheer chaos of never knowing when it might explode with a bang—it was sadism wrapped in latex.

So when he found himself in a bustling park one Saturday morning, pretending to enjoy the smell of kettle corn and sunscreen, he had carefully steered Harry away from the floating balloon stand like it was a ticking time bomb.

But Harry had eyes. Big green ones. And worse—he had James' persuasive pout.

Regulus had been chatting with Remus (well, mostly nodding while Remus monologued about muggle picture books) when Harry trotted up, clutching James’ hand and blinking up at him.

“Papa,” Harry said sweetly, his voice slightly nasal from a recent cold. “Can I get the green balloon?”

Regulus turned.

And there it was. The enemy. Waving gently in the breeze. Its latex surface catching sunlight like it wasn’t a threat to everyone’s hearing and heart rate.

Regulus could feel the blood drain from his face.

The balloon vendor was some teenager with AirPods in and a sign that said “Pick One! £1”. Green balloons bobbed innocently at the top of the display.

“No,” Regulus started to say, “they’re—”

Then Harry smiled. Wide. Gap-toothed. A fresh bandage across the bridge of his nose from when he’d tripped trying to climb a picnic bench just yesterday. His curls were sticking out in every direction. He looked like he belonged in a toothpaste commercial for angelic children with minor coordination issues.

And Regulus was doomed.

He crouched down, trying to negotiate. “Haz. You really want that one?”

Harry nodded, eyes luminous. “It’s like the color of the frogs Uncle Sirius brought back!”

James leaned in, smirking. “He’s been talking about it all morning.”

“Of course he has,” Regulus murmured dryly. “And of course it had to be the green one.”

“You could think of it as exposure therapy,” James whispered with a grin, his hand brushing the small of Regulus’ back.

Regulus shot him a warning look. “You are cruel.”

James just kissed his temple.

With every fiber of his soul clenched in alarm, Regulus marched up to the balloon vendor, handed over a coin with dramatic reluctance, and pointed at the green menace. It was handed to him with a disinterested glance. No fanfare. No appreciation for the bravery this act required.

Regulus held the string like it might detonate.

But when he turned and saw Harry bounce in place with glee, reaching up with both hands and squealing, “Thank you, Papa!”—

Well.

The balloon was evil. But Harry? He was everything good in the world.

Regulus crouched again and tied the balloon string gently around Harry’s wrist. “There. One green balloon. Handle it like it’s made of glass, and don’t bring it near me.”

Harry nodded solemnly, then immediately started pretending it was a frog leaping over his head.

James snorted. “You gonna survive this, love?”

“No,” Regulus said flatly. “When it pops—and it will—bury me in silence.”

“Noted,” James replied, then reached out and laced their fingers together. “Heroic stuff. I’ll write songs about it.”

“You better,” Regulus said, tugging him closer. “And I want at least two verses about the squeaking.”

“Oh, definitely. That’s the emotional core.”

The balloon bobbed. Harry squealed again. And Regulus winced.

But he didn’t let go of James’ hand. And Harry didn’t let go of his balloon. And Regulus… didn’t completely combust.

Yet.

[therobotsarestuckinmyhead]

Hi, I’d like to make a request. Could you write a Transformers One headcanon featuring Optimus, Elita, and Bumblebee, with a male Cybertronian reader who has a dual personality? The reader’s original personality is friendly, sweet, and even a bit goofy. However, his other personality is cold, terrifying, and more prone to violence. This darker side may have been born from a traumatic experience so intense that it triggered a new, more aggressive and dangerous persona as a form of self-protection. The only way to bring the reader back to his normal self is by making him lose consciousness.

☆|♡ [TFO] BOTS w/ a Dual Personality Reader

OHHHHH I HAVE SO MANY IDEAS FOR THIS ONE HEHEHEHHEHEHEHEHEHE but you didn't mention whether platonic or romantic so again, taking a thin middle line! i initially has two separate plotlines in mind but went with this one, other one was about reader being trapped in a cave-in at the mines and ending up with life-long trauma

scenario: a traumatized ex-High Guard member chose to stay with the Autobots instead of following the flock to Megatron

warning: mentions of anxiety attacks

including: Optimus, Elita One, B-127/Bumblebee

BACKGROUND:

You were initially a part of The High Guard. But for some vaguen unnamed reason, you shifted to the Autobot's side instead of joining Megatron. Something along the lines of not wanting to follow "a newcomer hot shot who dares to think he's the second coming of Megatronus". Clearly, you weren't very fond of having, once again, in your words "a miner nobody" cosplay as your old Commander, Megatronus who you clearly to this day hold immense respect for.

You're somewhat of a mystery to most Autobots. They wonder if you have some or the other ulterior motive, maybe a spy? But its only a very small portion of Autobots who suspect this. You do your best to ignore them.

As a seasoned soldier who's seen the horrors of war during your time in service, you are an important asset to the Autobot Cause. Of course, this also meant you had your own... hurdles to say the least. One which made you quite feared amongst the High Guard during Starscream's reign of it but most of your Autobot friends have yet to really see that part of you. They don't understand why the Decepticons seem to get so tense when they see you.

Optimus:

— Optimus actually appreciates your presence a lot more than you'd think. With your experience as a member of the old Cybertronian High Guard, you're able to provide valuable and insightful viewpoints when it comes to military tactics.

— Not to mention the fact that you've interacted with most of the newly formed Decepticon High-Command so you have more than surface level knowledge about the newest treats to Iacon city. Again, more valuable information especially since Optimus' is inexperienced with running a military.

— Optimus once asked for some intel on the Quintessons, what you know of them as the Hall of Records did lack significant data about how Quintessons function. Whether it be their biology or their society. But the moment you heard "Quintesson", its like you froze on the spot. It confused him and concerned him but he managed to snap you out of it before the other personality could take over. This is the first time he feels something odd about you.

— Optimus doesn't doubt your loyalty to the Autobots no matter what the others may think. It baffles the other Autobots but it makes you a lot more approachable to them, your war-frame is a bit intimidating to the old Autobot miners of Iacon who hadn't really seen anything outside of the mines.

— But Optimus actually likes that you're friendly for that very same reason, you're disarming despite being a rather well-known figure back during the days of the High-Guard.

— He notices how strange your behaviour is whenever the topic of the Quintesson War is brought up. Prime doesn't really say anything about it because he isn't sure how you would take it and how you'd feel about it either. Optimus doesn't want to bring up bad memories. He can definitely tell that the war with the Quintessons has taken a great toll on you.

— And it gets even clearer when the talk of going to the surface emerges. You visibly stiffen and the crimson hue of your optics get a little more dim. You look lost, almost. The other side of you threatens to take control during such moments but he doesn't really know that.

— Until he sees it first hand, he had told you that you could sit out the expedition if you didn't want to come, that you weren't obligated to come along but you insisted it was alright. Only for a, now looking back at it, an unfortunate Quintesson soldier to come into your periphery.

— Optimus didn't know what happened but it was like you went on autopilot, as if you were programmed with the soul intention of terminating Quintessons. You looked exactly the same but your EM field no longer had any of the amicable, laid-back fun; it was tucked to tightly to your frame, Optimus thought you might combust. It was like your guard just shot up immediately and you became a different person.

"Stop. It's... they're dead. There's only one of them" Optimus holds you servo tightly, he's clearly caught off-guard with the sheer violent depravity of your actions. Granted Quintessons were their enemies, you don't need to bash their helm into unrecognizable fragments with the muzzle of your servo-held blaster. His blue optics are narrowed at you, in soft way— your actions remind him of D when he got his servos on Sentinel. While he hadn't seen it, he'd seen the remains of the false Prime to know what his old friend had done. You turned your helm to him and your optics seemed hollowed out for a moment, the usual gleam of mischief and fun replaced with a cold, violent seriousness he's yet to see from you. Optimus has never felt so concerned about you ever in his life. Thankfully, the other's didn't get to see this. You and Optimus were unfortunate... or fortunate enough to get separated from the others. "There's never just one of them." You mutter out, flat as you look into his optics before walking towards the others. "Stay close. We have to leave quick." Your words ring through his helm as he stares at what remains of the Quintesson with one question on his processor:

Just what have you been through?

— The entire trip back to Iacon after successfully surveying Quintesson activity, you were quieter than usual. It really confused him... He wonders if anything to do with Quintessons might be some sort of trigger? Optimus isn't sure. He might have to talk it out with someone who's educated on the matter. Optimus does want to help you, you understand what's wrong. He consults Ratchet, without really mentioning you in the context out of consideration (what if you don't like being mentioned?) but the old medic is more familiar with... physical injuries than mental scars so Ratchet informs Optimus that he would have to see into some medical datapads.

— Until then, he's going to refrain from bringing up anything about Quintessons. He is sure there's a chance you won't like it when he tells you that you're not going to come with him for the next expedition...

Elita One:

— She was a bit skeptical of you at first, she will be entirely honest about that. It was just a bit suspicious how you seemed to stick with them when the rest of your friends, your comrades you'd known for years all flocked like sheep to a shepherd, towards Megatron.

— But Elita soon realized her suspicious were for nothing because you're actually a pretty cool bot, to her at least. You're fun and the two of you often spar. It's a relationship which took a while to build though.

— Your battle experience makes it so that you often give Elita advice on how she would make her kicks hurt even more and her punches dent even deeper, its solid advice and it soon turns to having training sessions with her. Elita enjoys the time she gets training with you. Especially since she is a member of the current Autobot High-Command, it is pivotal she knows more than just the basics of combat; especially since she's to be Commander.

— And you can see she's got the skill! You constantly motivate her while teaching her different methods and providing constructive crticism, she likes that a lot. Elita's battlefield powess only seems to grow after a good, long training session with you. The two of you are a deadly duo!

— So when on the way back to Iacon after the surveillance mission, she wondered why you looked and felt so... off. Your usual open EM field tightly held to your frame, you're typically not a closed off individual and it makes her frown.

"Hey, you okay?" She asks as the party continues to move forward. Optimus too was eerily quiet after giving out the order to go back to Iacon.

You don't respond and it annoys her but seeing that dead stare, as if you weren't even in this world... it was unsettling. Elita chose not to say anything after that but she's going to keep a close optic on you. Your behaviour is nothing like how you usually are. It's a complete 180.

Elita huffs as she continues to walk side by side with you, Optimus leading the team at the front. She knows you and Optimus got separated from rest of the team... she wonders what happened. Elita will be sure to ask Optimus what went down

She notices the strange oozing substance on your servos. Her optics narrow at the droplets, they don't look like energon— instead almost like some organic matter she just has never seen before.

Elita will get to the bottom of this.

— When Elita cares about someone, as a friend or anything else, she will make sure to find out what exactly is going on when they're acting odd. She isn't the type to sit around and do nothing. Elita One goes on to ask Optimus what happened and he explains, almost hesitantly. But he conveniently leaves out the more gorey details. From what she can conclude, you must've had something like an anxiety attack which understandably would make your mood a lot more sour.

— But ever since the expidition, you've been... moody. You're usually never moody. Granted you have an attitude sometimes, it was never permanent! Bee was also confused.

— Not to mention how much more... careless you've been during your usual sparring session with Elita. You always said her footwork could use some improvement but just take a look at yourself! You're moving unfocused when it comes to dodging her attacks, as if you're tanking it all for the sake of landing a blow on her. The sparring session the two of you had the next day after the whole expidition did not go well.

"HEY!" That punch thankfully landed right against the wall, the small impact crater formed in the shape of your balled up servos a testament to the force behind that blow— It was like you had nothing more than killing intent!

Elita does feel slightly scared but she manages to mask it with her will to snap you back to normal, using the time you were trying to turn around to deal a crisp kick right against your helm and knocking you out.

Her vents are huffing, you always you were 'holding back'... she didn't think you were serious about it! She barely managed to dodge your tackling attempt. What really had her concerned was the way you were taking every hit from her just to land a single, painful blow. Your pain receptors much be a lot tougher than she previously assumed; it's both terrifying and awe inducing in a way, she does admire your strength.

Elita looks down at your knocked-out form and decides she should probably take you to the med-bay... Your training sessions with her did get a little intense sometimes so Elita doesn't really expect anyone to some prying for an explanation.

— Your optics flicker open to see Elita looming over you as your flat against a medical berth and she can see the confusion etched across your features. You're looking around and looking back at her as if you have no clue as to why you're here! She's frowning hard and demands an explanation as to why you were acting that way.

— Elita is taking notes of how your frame stiffens, how you seem to go speechless for a moment as she reminds you of what you did. If it weren't for the genuine surpise your EM field was radiating. It shocks her too and the two of you are suprised.

— After talking to you a bit more, it finally dawns on her that you genuinely have no idea what happened or remember anything up until you saw that Quintesson.

— Elita looks at Ratchet and he's shrugging, saying how he'll have to check with more medical texts to come up with a diagnosis for this one. Elita is genuinely concerned. But she tries to pretend it didn't ever happen, until she can figure out what exactly was with you.

B-127/Bumblebee:

— You and Bee are thick as thieves with your usual shenanigans and tomfoolery when you're not being 'advisor to the Prime'. So it basically means you and Bee get very little time together.

— Nevertheless, with how chatty he is, it didn't take long for you to really get close with him because he's the one initiating most of the conversations. His talkativeness also ends up making the bots who converse with him open up quicker.

— He may not look like it but he's a silent observer, he can see the subtle discomfort on your frame whenever the topic of Quintessons are brought up in your conversations with him. Bee has learnt to avoid it. He has people-pleasing tendencies so he picks up on things like this rather quickly unlike what most bots would think. He's just incredibly optimistic but even he can't think of a positive reason as to why you'd be on edge when Quintessons are mentioned.

— Bee is probably the only one who's ever gotten to hear you war stories, it takes time but as the more you talk to him, the more you end up opening up despite the barriers you've set for yourself. Bee can feel how guarded you get; how you EM field shrinks as you try desperately to ensure that he can't feel how overwhelmed you are despite the strong face, how your voice goes uncharacteristically soft, the way look like you're remembering something which Bee can only describe as bad.

— Despite being able to pick up on these cues, he doesn't really know... what to do after. Usually, its just him nervously laughing and desperately trying to change the topic. This is not only for you but also for him because Bee is terrified of being left alone again, he doesn't want you to lose someone who means a lot to him like you do— Bee doesn't want you to leave him because of something he said. Whether its platonic or otherwise.

— He would, by sheer fucking accident, end up learning about this... issue you had back when you were in the High Guard and how you don't really know what's wrong with you, how you have these episodes and you can't really remember somethings when you have these episodes. He knows this but he's sworn not to tell anyone. He's trying his hardest not to jump up and down, shout it out at Ratchet while he's trying to figure out more signs and symptoms as to what could be up with you, a secret task assigned to him by Optimus & Elita. Ratchet is huffing, he's no damn psychologist!

— Bee is also relatively good at relatively pacifying the darker personality with how disarming he is. While Elita just knocks you out cold, Bee is more of a talking type but it just tames that darker side a bit more, not really makes it go away.

— Sometimes, Bee even matches the other violent personality's style. He's showing off what his knife hands can do and why he's banned from the training grounds while you rack up more bodies. There are times when Bee can't tell which personality is currently in control but he knows that the switch only happens when you see something with deeply reminds you of the Quintesson War. Bee is able to heal that traumatized soldier within you, slowly.

im sorry for how short the Bumblebee segment was, i blew up my budget on Elita & Oppy... ran out of ideas for Bee </3

FYI, every time you guys forget mention whether you want the request to be platonic or romantic, this is me:

[bewitched-hours]

Forsaken Uni AU | Part 1

"Who did it?!"

Synopsis: Someone made [Reader] cry and her (QPR)Friends are not letting that slide...

It had only been a few months since you arrived at this university and you were surprisingly well liked.

Of course, you were friends with your roommate- Brighteyes- from day one.

Although you were an introvert, she was an accommodative extrovert so she quickly became one of your favourites.

Through her, you were quickly added to a group chat that apparently included all the people on your floor... All guys...

You had expected the worst but it couldn't have went better!

Within a short time, you were treated like you had been part of the friendgroup for years! They were all a bit protective though...

And this showed even more when Brighteyes found you crying one morning...

Cringe_CatGirl: WHO MADE Cat_Dealer CRY??? THE DOOR'S LOCKED AND SHE'S SOBBING MY POOR ROOMIE- The_Chicken_Man: WAIT WHAT- HOLD ON I'M COMING OVER TO HELP- Noobster: I THINK I KNOW WHO IT WAS BUT IT WAS AN ACCIDENT Cringe_CatGirl: HOW???? Satanic_Panic: I DIDN'T KNOW THE CAKE WAS FOR THEM, I'M SORRYYYYYYY Local_Dad: I'll get a new one, she likes cheesecake right? Cat_Dealer: Cheesecake sounds good... Local_Dad: Gotcha. Cringe_CatGirl: Noobster, take care of Satanic_Panic or I will... Noobster: Got it :D Satanic_Panic: NO PLEASE- I SAID I'M SORRY- I'LL PAY THE BILL-

A slight chuckle escaped your lungs as you read through the chat with tears still running down your cheeks.

You had been looking forward to eating that piece of cake that you made all on your own only for it to disappear from the communal fridge and honestly? It did hit pretty hard because it was something you made for once. And you don't do that as often as you should.

Within minutes could you heard the voices of 007n7, Brighteyes and Shedletsky at your door followed by knocking.

"[Reader], can you please unlock the door?" Sheds voice sounded more like a plea as you got up and hesitantly unlocked your door to let them into your messy room. "Sorry... For crying over cake..." You muttered in slight embarrassment, only to be hugged by the university's power couple in a sandwich motion while 7n7 chuckled.

"Nothing you need to apologize for! Classes are stressful and having something to look forward to only for that to be taken away unknowingly." Shedletsky huffed, his wings puffing along to seem more menacing but it just made him look more like a chicken than he already was.

Honestly... You thought coming to a university where hybrids and cryptids of all kinds were present would be chaos but it's actually kinda fun. None of that hostile behaviour your parents had warned you about starting off.

It did help that Brighteyes was a cat-hybrid, almost mirroring you being a cat-cryptid. You were pretty similar but you never thought about it much.

Hell, sometimes you two helped groom each other so you could gossip and talk about different tips and tricks to keeping your fur all neat and shiny.

But for now, you sat on your bed eating a slice of cheesecake with your roommate, her rooster/chicken-hybrid boyfriend and a raccoon-cryptid. It helped you calm down better than you thought.

"Thanks again, 7..." You sigh, putting away your plate to bring to the kitchen later as you dried your face from the tears that had been streaming down your face.

007 just shook his head with a soft smile. "It's the least I can do and 6 is gonna pay me back for it anyways because he feels bad." His tail patted the beanbag he was sitting on as he enjoyed a slice of cake for himself as well.

Life really could be bliss with friends like these...

Masterpost

My Usual Rules

Introduction

[fall0utmind]

YOU AND I

New Tom/Fabio 3-parter just dropped :)

Here on ao3

No content warnings, just angsty af

Also, go check out this fan art from the moment written about in this fic ( @astralcorpse-png )

Feedback always warmly welcome :)

For RPF summer camp - WHUMP

lots of love xx

Fabio has always been a crier. His mum used to tell him as much; she said when he was a kid, every single little thing that went wrong would prompt him to burst into tears - the ugly sobbing kind. As he got older, he would hide it more, waiting until he retreated to the safety of his bedroom before he let the tears flow, only coming back to reality when his face was blotchy and his head pounding.

The tendency didn't really decrease much as Fabio entered adulthood; sure, he cried less at trivial things, but he was still someone who released all his pent-up emotions through tears. He wasn't a shouter, nor someone who held grudges, but he did cry. Which is why, every time his Yamaha gives up on him or he falls or something goes terribly wrong, he can't help the way his eyes well up and his throat thickens. He's used to it by now, accepting of his fate. It somehow always ends up on video, his failures documented for the world to see. This time is no different.

It happens quickly. Fabio doesn't know whether that makes it better or worse. One moment, he's flying, leading the race by five seconds, feeling on top of the world. Next, he feels something shift underneath him as he goes through Brooklands, and suddenly it's all going wrong. He knows the bike is broken immediately. It just gives up halfway through the lap, through no fault of his own, or so he assumes. Fabio shifts his weight on the bike, testing; it feels as though the ride height device is jammed into the wrong position.

Dread fills him, the rising tide of bad luck turned sour in his mouth. Suddenly, Bez is right there, overtaking him for the lead, and Fabio knows that it's over. The bike stutters beneath him as he grasps helplessly at the tendrils of hope for a victory slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. He's down and out for the count, luck deserting him at the last minute, as usual.

Fabio tries desperately hard to assess the damage, to see if it's fixable, wondering if he can keep riding. Anything, anything to keep going. He is so close to his first win in three years. Hell, even to just finish the bloody race would be good. But no, it's broken. Over. He has to veer off the track, pulling across the run-off area, swerving around the foam barriers scattered throughout. A slalom course to add insult to injury.

He brings the bike to a slow, knowing that his race is done. He slows down for a minute, watching the flashes of colour pass him, his colleagues continuing down the track. He is a sitting duck, waiting at the edge of the track while he should be racing. Winning. Every second feels like agony as the other riders fly past him, his heart breaking. Fabio knows then and there that if there is a God, they have it out for him.

The cruelty of it all burns. It feels like some kind of grand injustice, a punishment from the deities for something long forgotten in his mortal life. He doesn't even try to fight the tears when they come clawing up his throat, laying his head against the bike. All he can hear is the pounding of his heart and his broken sobs rattling through his head.

It feels grossly unfair. The Yamaha just isn't there; no matter what Fabio does, the bike will not abide by his wishes. Then, when it behaves for the briefest of moments, and he has some pace, this happens. The mechanics will fail, or Fabio will fall just as the podium is in sight. The bike always finds a way to dig its claws in, reminding him that it isn't fully developed yet, that he can't keep up with the Ducati. Fabio is fed up with being on a bike which won't work with him, and is over his abilities being doubted.

He somehow manages to get himself back to the start-finish straight. He doesn't even know how, has no memory of circling back around the track. He can only think about his shitty luck and the ache in his whole body. It doesn't register until he pulls up to the pit wall with his head filled with static.

Fabio wonders when he's going to get a break. When he's good and the bike behaves, he knows he can win. The many poles he has miraculously achieved so far this season are a testament to it.

He's a world champion, for God's sake.

The weight of it suddenly feels like too much.

Fabio snaps, splinters into a hundred little pieces right there on the track. He climbs off the bike and stumbles away from the bike, finally collapsing to his knees like a puppet with its string cut. His screams are visceral and painful, deafening to his own ears. He's distantly aware that there will be audio of this, that the footage from his bike will tell the tale of his misery. And yet he can't bring himself to care.

He looks to the heavens in desperation. Screaming and shouting to a God he barely believes in. Tears are streaming down his face, he doesn't remember beginning to cry, but he's taking big hiccupping breaths in between sobs that wrack his body. His cheeks are sodden, tacky from the crying; he can feel them dropping down his jaw and neck, creeping under the collar of his racing suit where it creates an uncomfortable damp feeling.

The helmet he wears feels too tight, the race suit too constricting. Fabio can barely even catch a breath as he wails through clenched teeth. He wishes the world would answer his questions, limit the unknowns.

Why him? Why must he go through this?

Why must he have been loyal to Yamaha? He knows he's a champion, the he deserves a winning bike. Fabio believes he's one of the best, if not the best, on the grid. Yet here he is on a bike that can't even complete a goddamn race.

He can't do it. He puts it on the pole every weekend, rides the high afterwards, allowing himself to hope that things are getting better. Then he gets to the race, and he goes backwards or crashes because he cannot get the unpredictable machine under control, or the tires die halfway through, or he pushes too hard, riding on the limit of the machine.

It's not fair.

 Fabio is distantly aware that he is slipping into hysterics, the overwhelming tide of emotions threatening to pull him under as he struggles to get enough oxygen in his lungs. His throat aches from the yelling, and his head pounds behind his eyes. He knows people will be concerned, that there are probably people on the other side of the wall, calling his name. If he concentrates hard enough, he could probably hear them.

He doesn't know how long it's been when he comes back to himself. His knees are sore from where he has been kneeling on the hard, cold asphalt. He can hear the distant hum of bikes - the others are still competing.

Bez is probably still leading, the Aprilia for once in fighting form, Marc somewhere in the fight for a podium, he assumes. He doesn't know. He doesn't care because it isn't him battling with them, and it hurts so much. His heart is breaking, shattering into a million pieces in his chest as his ribs crush the tattered remains.

He digs into the fleshy wound there, assessing, and gasps from the pain.

Someone is shouting his name. The marshal beckons him into the pit lane, gesturing towards the gap in the pit wall almost frantically. For a split second, Fabio considers not going, thinks about staying here for the rest of the race, the other bikes rushing past him every lap, safety be damned.

It would almost be better to have some kind of horrific injury, something to explain his three years without a win. Like Marc. Fabio knows, of course, that he doesn't want that. He considers what Marc has been through for the last five years, Jorge going through it now as well, and feels sick that it even crossed his mind. That's what prompts him to clamber to his feet and move to safety.

Fabio vows to keep those introspections to himself. God forbid Tom finds out. The thought strikes like lightning, bringing his deepest ruminations to life in the darkest recesses of his mind, where he has locked them away. He kicks himself mentally; no matter how hard he tries to repress it, his thoughts always come back to Tom these days. He doesn't want to think about it too much, scared to look into what it means and discover something about himself which has been snarling in its cage for years.

Somehow, he manages to get himself to his feet, through the gap and into the pit lane, letting the Marshalls handle the bike, trusting someone will get it back to the Yamaha garage. He averts his gaze from the floor for half a second to watch where he's going - god forbid he DNFs the races and then trips over himself in the pit lane.

He might as well just end it then and there.

There is something distantly numbing about this kind of pain, the kind which starts as an ache in your heart and spreads until your whole body is numb. Fabio knows there will be talk, like he knows that people are watching as he stumbles towards the opposing wall. But he finds that he doesn't really care what people are saying because it feels like his whole world is falling apart, and, right now, nothing can be worse than his current agony.

He only hopes the cameras are trained on the track, not him, as he finds himself a quiet spot, somewhere next to one of the garages. He is distantly aware that the mechanics are staring, full of pity, but his brain is full of fog, thick and static. He corners himself into position and crumbles, flipping his visor down to block out watching eyes.

His face is itching again, the tears which had dried up already building in the corner of his eyes. A couple slip down his cheeks, and he sniffles pathetically. Everyone tells Fabio that he's too hard on himself. It isn't that he necessarily disagrees, but it feels inevitable. He always lets himself ruminate on his failures until he can't bear it anymore.

Frustration builds inside of him, anger sitting snug with the pain and disappointment. The floor underneath him feels rocky; his world is shifted, unbridled. There is so much uncertainty at the moment. He is unsure if he made the right decision to stay with Yamaha, with his team. He wonders if he would have had another championship, more wins if he had chosen to jump ship. The thoughts rattle around his head, tangled threads of confusion which knot more as he tugs.

Has he lost it? Whatever quality it was that made him a champion. He wonders whether he has killed his own career, or if it is he who is the problem. Was it all a fluke all along? Has he screwed up his training, eaten too much? Run too few miles, perhaps.

The thought hurts. All the pain and dedication he has committed for years seemingly for nothing.

The world is blurred around him, out of focus. Fabio is miles away, wrapped up in his fragile introspections and self-loathing. He senses, rather the sees, the figure approach; the tears blurring his vision make it impossible to put a name to the distant footsteps. He spares a thought to commend whoever has enough bravery to approach Fabio in this situation.

The footsteps speed up, someone coming to a stop, crouched, hovering right in front of his face. Fabio is about to tell them to fuck off, to leave him alone, until a hand reaches out and he looks up through the limited vision of his visor.

Tom, his eyes concerned, fills his vision, and he can't bring himself to push him away. Not Tom, who has been there for him always, ever since he was a little kid. Tom, who has been next to him during the highs and lows of his career, was there holding him when he became a champion and has been picking up the pieces ever since. Tom, who has never given up, who has stayed with him and with Yamaha, has celebrated every win and commiserated every loss.

Just Tom, who doesn't need another thing to worry about.

Fabio reaches a hand out, pretends to have just noticed, going in for a casual bro hug. He should have known, really, that Tom would clock him in a split second. It had always been difficult to pretend he was okay in front of his best friend.  Tom always knows, probably worked it out from his scent or something stupid.

Fabio takes a brief moment to pray that his family, that Tom didn't have to watch or hear what just happened, that the cameras weren't on him whilst he had his meltdown, hopefully concentrating on the track action instead. He knows what it's like to watch someone you love in agony, has watched Tom go through heartbreak and loss and grieved every second with his best friend. Another sob works its way up his throat. But then Tom is there, on his knees in front of Fabio, above him, which means that Fabio has to tilt his head upwards slightly. The other man is quick, within a second, he's flipping up Fabio's visor in a move that makes his heart stutter out of his chest and his knees feel weak. The forced eye contact makes his heart rate skyrocket for a million different reasons, and suddenly Fabio is glad that he was already sitting.

And then Tom is looking into his eyes, searching and concerned, enough that Fabio has to rip his gaze away. He's shouting at Fabio now. Or he may be just speaking, but there's rushing in his ears, and Fabio doesn't even know how he's hearing him, but Tom is there and Tom is talking. Fabio tries to make out the words, frowning at his mouth in concentration.

Both of Tom's hands are on the side of his helmet, blocking the outside world from Fabio's tear-stained face. His body emanates warmth as he crouches in front of Fabio, all-encompassing and grounding. He smells like the cologne he's worn for years, musk and pine, a hint of smoke. Comforting.

"-bio"

Fabio blinks, squints through the tears in his eyes, and is unsure whether he wants to meet Tom's gaze or not. Tom taps the side of his head, nudging until their eyes meet. The world comes crashing back in.

The roar of engines, the commentary, the crowd. Most importantly, Tom smiling gently.

"There you are. You're okay, you're okay." Tom whispers.

Fabio whimpers quietly, takes a horrific gasping breath.

"Fabio. Amore-"

He flinches at the endearment, subtle. It hits Fabio somewhere in his raw heart. For all Tom acts macho and above it all, he still calls Fabio stupidly soft nicknames, pampers to his need for validation and praise. It makes him feel things. Tom pulls his head close, goes to whisper in his ear, even though the helmet obscures his hearing.

"I'm proud of you, you know. You did so well, so well. Five seconds ahead."

Fabio hiccups and closes his eyes, feeling awfully vulnerable, stripped down to the bone. Tom shushes him gently.

"Yes, I know, I know. It is... eh, Maude, yes? But you are a fighter, a champion. We all know it will come soon as well. You have been so good, so many poles. It was not your fault that the bike broke. You did not make a mistake today, you rode like a winner, you deserved it." Tom murmurs, and Fabio's face crumples.

There is something in the moment, the way Tom finds him, even in the crowded pit lane and how he holds him like he is something precious. It evokes a whole plethora of emotions that he has been pushing down for a long time now. Fabio might be a crier, might be the kind of man who's in touch with his emotions, but don't let it be said that he's healthy about these things. He bottles the feeling, forces himself to smile at Tom, watery and weak, and tries to ignore the stuttering of his heart.

(He fails.)

Tom stays with him until Fabio feels ready to face the world again, blinking back the wetness in his eyes. Tom helps him to his feet as Fabio unsteadily pushes himself off the floor, ignoring the stares he receives from onlookers. He knows that there are photographers nearby, circling like vultures, and frowns at the thought. It is always weird to have his most venerable moments catalogued, will never feel normal.

Fabio somehow manages to stumble to the garage, to safety, with Tom by his side, hovering as if ready to take some of his weight. He lets the crew crank the shutters down behind him. Tom eases off, disappearing into the back rooms, leaving Fabio feeling bereft.

It's a blur after that, meetings, debriefs, shimmying out of his leathers to swap them for a team polo. Fabio talks to his crew, works out what went wrong, even though he already knows, and tries to swallow down the bitter disappointment in the back of his throat.    They analyse his times and tire degradation at each point until the bike gave up, eking out every last scrap of data. Fabio knows he would have won. He accepts the commiserations and apologies that he receives and lets his team wrap their arms around him.

The physical comfort allows him to slowly pull himself together bit by bit until he has to leave the comfort of the garage, heart loosely stitched together, fragile. By the time he's called to the media, things are feeling a bit easier, although it still stings. It's enough that when the questions come, they rub salt into the wound and pull open the weak threads. The reporters dig prying fingers inside until the wound is raw and weeping.

There's a hand on the back of his neck as he chokes up over his answer. Fabio knows that the cameras are on him, that they're catching every second of this. Every distressed sound that leaks out of his mouth as he presses his fingers into his eyes and tries, tries not to cry despite the overwhelming amount of emotions filling him. They drown his lungs, suffocating him, making it hard to breathe.

Fabio ducks his head to the table, trying to cover the sight of the tears which slip down his cheeks - a losing battle. Fabio doesn't know why he keeps putting himself in these situations, why he stays and faces every heartbreak head-on; his time at Yamaha has provided plenty of experience in that department.

Fabio wants so desperately; he would be willing to give the world for the things he can't have.

Winning, a good bike, Tom...

It cracks his heart in two.

Fabio brushes it off. He pushes it to the side and moves on because that's what he always does. He ignores his feelings for Tom, whatever they may be, brushing them under the rug and turning a blind eye, keeps moving forward even though he knows it is hopeless. It is the same way that he keeps going with the Yamaha that cannot win, because he sold his soul to the commitment of his two loves: his motorcycles and his best friend. He knows then that he cannot hide it anymore. The thought prompts another tear to form, to fall. Fabio's heart aches, a visceral pain which makes his lungs burn. He gulps down the feeling, composes himself with a hasty apology and plays up his smile, and powers through the rest of the questions.

*

Fabio is exhausted after. He feels worn down to the bones, his skin flayed bare for the vultures to feast upon. He just about manages to drag himself to his motorhome, but slumps in a heap on his sofa before he can do much else.

Of course, he knows that he should move, but his head is pounding and his whole body feels like lead.

It's where Tom finds him, and an undetermined amount of time later, still curled up on the sofa, his team shirt crumpled and probably disgusting, and his eyes red-rimmed from all of the tears. Fabio counts his lucky stars for Tom as he urges Fabio up off the sofa and physically manhandles him into the bathroom. He sits the younger man on the closed toilet seat and adjusts the temperature of the shower until it is how Fabio likes it. When the water is just right (tested, palm up), he commands Fabio to strip and clean up, walking out of the room without a second glance, an offer of privacy. Unbeknownst to Tom, Fabio would do anything for him to stay.

Tom waits outside the door as Fabio lazily scrubs his body clean of the sweat, grime, and disappointment of the day. The water pounds down, warmth sinking into his bones until his finger shrivels from the damp. The towel left on the side is warm and fluffy when Fabio wraps it around his waist and lets Tom in.

The shower has sapped him of the last of his energy. Doing much else feels monumental; he can barely fathom the effort it's going to take to dress himself as Tom hands him his boxers. Fabio pulls them on as the other man turns away. By the time Tom has turned back, he's ditched the towel and just about managed to wiggle into his underwear, which are slung low on his hips.

Exhaustion washes over him, and his eyes droop, heavy with the day's events. He barely catches Tom's stare, oblivious to his wandering eyes, the way his gaze flickers from Fabio's face to his body. His friend coughs, flashing Fabio a weak smirk.

"Still look annoyingly good though, don't you?" Tom remarks, something slightly off about his tone that Fabio can't read into in his state.

Fabio flushes under the attention, wishing it was something more than good-natured, platonic teasing. He knows Tom wants him to feel better, confident, but he doesn't have the guts to say how much worse this is. To not truly be loved. He wants those comments to be real. He jokingly flips Tom off, putting on a brave face as he turns and stumbles out of the bathroom to the bedroom. He roots through his bag, hastily pulling out his softest joggers, forgoing a shirt. This time he doesn't register the heated stare glued to his back, his ass. If Fabio were more with it, he would probably make a joke, maybe one of the ones which made Tom wrinkle his nose in disgust. Something about them dating, or Fabio's ass. The kind of thing that's funny in the moment, but makes Fabio's heart feel like it is going to crack in two a second later.

He doesn't say a word.

They end up curled up together on the bed. After the debriefs, the media, the tears, the anger, the frustration and everything else today, it's exactly what he needs. Tom holds him close to his chest, Fabio's head cushioned on his pecs, the solid beat of his heart beneath his ear. It grounds him, makes him feel safe and warm, something which Fabio always associates with his longest friend.

The TV plays absent-mindedly in the background whilst Tom rubs his back in a soothing motion, soft across his shoulder blades, making Fabio feel sleepy. Tom's hand moves, shifts to Fabio's hair, playing with the strands. His fingers scratch at Fabio's scalp in a way that makes Fabio want to push into the touch like a cat. He sighs, feeling the lingering tension from the day fading away.

There is a gentle press of lips against the crown of his head, and Fabio can't ignore it anymore. The warmth in his stomach, the way his heart beats double time around Tom, and how safe he feels. The way Fabio's gaze will track a pretty girl in the club, considering going to flirt with her, only to have his eyes drawn back to the same person every single time. He gets shit for it every time. These days, when he goes to chat someone up, they always call out his disinterest, and he ends up skulking back to the table empty-handed, and secretly okay with it. The boys tease him, saying that he's lost his touch when Fabio can't stop thinking about short brown hair, muscles, and tattoos. The only person he wants. The type of person who would cook for him, get him drunk in celebration or commiseration, train next to him, and travel the world with Fabio. For Fabio. Just like Tom does, Fabio might be a little more gone than he ever realised.

Oh, Fabio thinks, he is totally and utterly in love with his best friend.

Tom, who is his everything, his world, his rock. Tom, who has always been there for him. The worst part of it is that he doesn't stand a chance. Even if Tom wasn't straight, there is no way he would like someone like Fabio, who cries constantly, always asks for attention, requires someone to cling to, and is needy.

The first tear is unexpected, but after that, they don't stop. He tries to stay quiet, holding in the ugly sobs which want to escape. Tom's shirt grows damp under his face as he breaks down again into his shoulder. Fabio gasps into the material, trying to muffle the sounds until Tom's hands still.

Fabio cringes away, embarrassed by his uncontrollable emotions. He's crying, yet again, but for an entirely different reason now. Because it has always been Tom. It would always be him. If Fabio had it his way, Tom would be beside him forever. Yet he can't have it. Mortification threatens to swallow him whole as another choked-off sob rips out of his throat.

The hand in his hair disappears, and suddenly Fabio is being shifted, Tom moving away so he can look at Fabio properly.

"What's wrong. Are you in pain? Did something else happen?" Tom asks, concerned. Tom knows him too well, understands his tendency to smother his pain, rather frequent, considering the number of falls he has had recently.

"No, no. Nothing. I am fine"

"Don't lie to me", Tom orders.

Fabio wants to laugh, because in any other circumstance, he would find that tone impossibly attractive, hot and commanding, but now it just makes Fabio want to cry harder.

"Is it about the race?"

Fabio shakes his head, sniffles, tries to catch the reins on his wild feelings, to get himself under control.

"We should talk about this, you cannot ignore your emotions forever, no."

Fabio wants to laugh, anyone but you, he thinks. Instead, he hums, noncommittal, avoiding Tom's eyes.

Tom moves before Fabio can really react. He shuffles off the bed, pulls Fabio to the edge, his hands are gentle and firm and stands in front of Fabio's knees, making the hairs on his arm prickle.  A hand comes up to grip Fabio's chin, uncaring of the wetness, forcing him to look up, to make eye contact with Tom. Fabio gulps, tries to bite down the whimper in his throat, fails. Tom jumps slightly at the pathetic noise, eyes wide, but keeps his grasp firm. God, Fabio wishes this were any other situation with Tom in front of him, holding his face still.

It's pathetic.

"You promise me that you're ok? This isn't something more?" Tom pleads, and something in Fabio breaks.

It almost hurts more, Tom caring, asking him what's wrong, loving him in all ways, apart from the one Fabio desperately wants

He nods, tries to tug Tom back onto the bed, but Tom resists, feet planted firmly.

"Fabio. Promise me?"

Tears sting his eyes as he swallows down the bitter taste of lies.

"Promise," he whispers, voice hoarse and raw.

Tom searches his eyes, face intent, worried, and it takes everything in Fabio not to flinch away. He holds the gaze, gulping down the bile creeping up his throat. He's signed the vow of silence now. He just needs to keep Tom's friendship tight in his grip, stop the fraying edges from snapping. He can't lose this.

Finally, Tom breaks eye contact, lets go of his chin. He doesn't immediately get back into bed, and Fabio almost whines as Tom disappears out of view. He comes back a minute later, two bottles of water in his hands, which he places carefully on the nightstand.

Then he clambers into bed and curls himself around Fabio, who twitches.

"Sleep, mon amour", he whispers against Fabio's hair, and he knows then that no matter what happens next, this will be the most painful thing he's ever experienced. Worse than any broken bone or DNF. More painful than losing a championship on the last race.

His mum always told him that sometimes someone comes into your life and changes it forever. Tom walked into Fabio's life and straight to his heart as if he were always holding a key that Fabio didn't even know existed. He has held Fabio's heart for eternity and has always been able to destroy it. But what no one told Fabio is that finding out is the most earth-shattering moment he'll ever have. Fabio had put on the blinkers. Built his wall brick by brick and tried hard to ignore the signs

But the reality is that Tom is holding his heart, and no one even knows. Fuck he didn't even know.

Rumours suggest that there will always be someone you're a little in love with, and that you either have them or make peace with it. He isn't sure he wants to make peace with it, and he certainly can't have it. He could scream his love from the highest rooftop and let it be known to the whole world, but it wouldn't solve a thing. Tom will still have Fabio's heart of glass in his hands, with cracks spider-webbing from the centre.

That scares Fabio more than falling or losing, or being a nobody.

Maybe one day, Tom will only be holding a small part of his heart, and Fabio will move on. But Tom will always be there, the owner of a part of Fabio. He will never know that he has the power to crush it into a million shards and render Fabio never the same.

Yet Fabio gives it to him every time.

Fabio knows he can't keep doing this. He can't keep giving Tom his fragile heart when all he is going to do is break it, even if he doesn't mean to. He knows at the end of the day that he's going to have to put some distance between them, some time to heal and build his defences. He doesn't want to, but it's the only way he can protect himself in the future. It's not going to get better if he doesn't, because Tom doesn't love him and never will.

This has to end at some point before Tom finds out and ends it himself, leaving Fabio heartbroken and desolate. He gives himself until the summer break. A little bit more time, he thinks, just a few more months to enjoy having Tom beside him, to soak in the warmth of his affection and then Fabio will pull away. He falls asleep with that knowledge in his brain, trying to burn the memory of their bodies entwined into his brain.

When Fabio wakes up the next morning, Tom is gone.

[diabolicalevil]

lion x reader headcanons?

Lion El'johnson x reader headcanons

gn!reader

lion,,, he is not my favourite primarch but the dark angels are my favourite leigon so I'll have fun w this i think. all sfw but I can be persuaded!

Warnings: none, this is mostly fluff

Escorts you everywhere, Knight and Royalty style. He doesn't see it that way, of course, but that's the vibe. God forbid your feet ever touch the ground when leaving a vehicle or ship he'll start maiming. Firmly believes your place is protected at his side or in his arms.

Lion speaks to you very little despite rarely leaving your side. Something something, you can take the cat out of the house but not the house of the cat. Being with you hasn't fundamentally changed his nature. It surely bothers you, you must start and carry every conversation, but over time you realised his silent ways of showing interest. Lion doesn't just expect you to speak first, he looks forward to it. Those that know him can tell the mere fact he's looking at you is the sign he's interested.

Once you gave him the silent treatment, not maliciously, you just couldn't be bothered for once. By not even midday he dragged you off to a side room, sat you down somewhere you were eye level and began to reprimand you. "Why is it that you're playing coy, hm?" He had little reference for negative personal emotion and usually manifests through confusion, occasionally anger. He scoffed and called your tiredness a silly reason for ignoring him but spent the day more attentive than ever.

Should be noted that telling him you're upset, tired, etc is a recipe for getting swept away back to your room immediately. No ifs, ands or buts. If he can't immediately remove the cause of your discomfort he'll simply take you away.

Often worries in general but particularly if he's doing your relationship wrong. It's not hard to interpert his tendency to shut down or standoffish behaviour as anxiety. He's paranoid about every other part of his life, why not you as well.

Regardless of gender, wants you dressed beautifully. "For the pride of the First Legion." So he says, but his unusual interest in getting you clothes that match his eyes tell a different story.

Unlikely to give gifts face to face. He'll have something constructed, crafted etc and order one of his idiot sons bring it to you or leave it in a place you frequent. Would never confess it but he fears your reaction to his gifts. Well, fears that he doesn't know you as well as he thinks he does.

He is part of the club of primarchs who want to kick their legions to death. So aside from mandated gaurds when he isn't present, your interactions with the Dark Angels is limited. Probably for the best. Often rants to you about why he wants his sons grilled alive.

Loves you being well read, particularly about Caliban. Before he leaves for a hunt he'll ask which beast you want him to bring back for you. He takes great, great pride is displaying it's pelt or horns in your shared areas.

Trapped in a prison of his own making. Enjoys surprises kisses but he's too tall to get them, won't ask for them and very rarely will he kneel to your level. If he does kneel and doesn't get any he'll be kicking rocks all day sorry.

this is a bit shorter than usual but alas -.- I plan to pick up son of the forest at some point so maybe I can make a part 2. hopee u like it anon

[lunesviolettes]

Void - 010.

(This series was originally posted on my Wattpad, so I’m bringing it over here)

pairing: MCU!bucky barnes x MCU!female reader

word count: 6.4k

summary: Y/N was far from any normal girl in Brooklyn during the 1940s. Her physical and mental strength were far from ordinary and her mother and father were nothing short of strange, just like her. Secrets and strange occurrences were all that she had ever known and with the approach of a second global war, it seemed that everything would only become stranger. A powerful organization, a target on the back of a young girl, a serum, and an infinity stone were all that it would take to change everything she knew about her world.

chapter warnings:

a/n: This fanfic follows the course of the MCU movies (The First Avenger - Thunderbolts). It’s more focused on the story aspect of the MCU and is very much a slow burn type of story with not a lot of focus on smut.

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"The Hydra camp is in Krausberg, tucked between these two mountain ranges. It's a factory of some kind." You turned away from the window, eyes following Agent Carter as she handed a rolled up map to Steve. Clouds passed by in a blur and the sky was dark - smoke-filled. Part of you almost wished you had stayed on the ground.

It wasn’t that you doubted Howard’s skills - you would never admit that out loud, but you weren’t sure how well you could handle all of it. This was different…real. You were heading right into enemy lines, on your own accord. From here you could see the realities of war - hear the distant booms. At any moment you could be shot out of the sky. This was the realization that had your heart battering against your ribs.

You were not brave…not to this extent. Standing up to a thick-headed brute was where your courage ended. Working with toxic and radioactive chemicals was far more simple than the complexities of war. Or maybe it wasn’t so complicated. Out here…it was kill or be killed.

"We should be able to drop you right on the doorstep." Howard shouted from the front end of the aircraft. "Just get me as close as you can," Steve replied. His voice lowered as he turned back to Peggy. "You know, you three are gonna be in a lot of trouble at the lab." He wasn’t wrong. The three of them were disobeying direct orders from Colonel Phillips. But you knew - and Steve knew too, that this was what Dr. Erskine wanted. He wanted a brave and true-hearted soldier. Not a performer.

It wouldn’t just be the three of them getting scolded. Steve was as you said, a performer…and he was late. "And you won't be?" You asked. If the time was correct, he was about three hours late for his next performance. You could envision it now - all four of your heads on a pike. Time and time again, doing the right thing somehow felt so wrong.

"Where I'm goin', if anybody yells at me I can just shoot 'em." He said humorously - his smile soon disappearing when neither you nor Peggy shed a single grin. You’d always admired Steve for it, despite how concerned it made you. He was undeniably and annoyingly brave. "They will undoubtedly shoot back." Peggy reminded him.

Steve stuck his arm out, rasping his knuckles against the crest-shaped shield that was perched on the seat to his right. "Well let's hope it's good for somethin'."

"Agent Carter, if we're not in too much of a hurry I thought we could stop off in Lucerne for a late-night fondue." You looked up from your lap, watching the exchange between Peggy and Steve - or rather the silent exchange. His expression clouded over - something akin to confusion…and maybe even jealousy? The air had grown heavy with tension - spurred on as Peggy shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"Stark is the best civilian pilot I've ever seen. He's mad enough to brave this airspace, we're lucky to have him."

The only unusual thing about the interaction was Peggy’s response. Working with Howard for as little of time as you did showed you one thing; he was a flirt. And most women were perceptive to it, but you already knew that Agent Carter had her eyes on someone else. You saw it clear as day when Steve shouted from within the chamber. She had grown to care for the man while he was fighting to claim his spot in Project Rebirth. She, like everyone Steve encountered, came to be aware of his true spirit.

"So are you two...? Do you...? Fondue?" You snorted, failing to stifle it which earned you a sharp glare from Peggy. She didn’t respond, instead pulling out a small device from her coat pocket. “This is your transponder. Activate it when you're ready and the signal will lead us straight to you."

Steve examined it carefully, seemingly unsure of it. It was small and light - which weren’t exactly telltale signs to something working. He directed his attention to the pilot seat where Howard sat. "Are you sure this thing works?"

"It's been tested more than you, pal." From the corner of your vision came a flash of light. You grimaced, looking towards the window. By the time recognition flickered within you, it was too late. It was bright and powerful - striking the aircraft with a force that nearly sent you flying off the seat. The circuit board in front of Howard lit up like a christmas tree. Each blast was seemingly stronger than the last. It was a wonder you hadn’t been knocked out of the sky.

Steve rose up on unsteady feet, pushing himself toward the exit. "Get back here!" Peggy shouted, reaching for his arm. "We're taking you all the way in!" You stood as well, bracing yourself against the seat. "As soon as I'm free, you turn this thing around and get the hell outta here!" Your face was scrunched up as you fought to hear him over the blasts that struck the side of the aircraft.

“You can't give me orders!" Agent Carter commanded. "The hell I can't! I'm a Captain!" He spared you both a grin before turning to the door. You stepped forward first as he tugged the goggles over his eyes. Peggy was at your right, peering out from the edge of the doorframe as Steve dove from the aircraft. Your hand was braced against the edge, wincing as he narrowly evaded each blast from below the tree line. But then again…they weren’t exactly aiming for him.

You spotted it nearing. Your eyes widened, mouth falling agape. A warning shout escaped you as you pushed Peggy back. The blast struck its target, shaking the aircraft. Your grip loosened, your foot lost purchase and soon the ground disappeared from beneath you. Your stomach plummeted as you descended faster and faster. The wind whipped all around you, making something as simple as breathing entirely impossible. You could see nothing but the darkened sky above.

Each blast was a mere echo in the distance. You could think of nothing but your impending doom. As the ground came closer and closer, you knew the end was near. The biting winds had your eyes filling with tears. With blurred vision, you were unaware of the blue sheen that sprouted from your skin. You could see nothing of the tendrils of energy that slithered along your frame. Only when it brightened had you come to be aware of it. Dust kicked up around you as you fell through the trees. Your eyes were no longer visible - instead hidden within depths of bright light as you made contact with the Earth.

There was a deafening boom. The energy that had curled itself around you went soaring outward. What you thought would be a fatal fall had been anything but. When the dust finally settled, you moved to sit up. Beneath you was a large crater, carved out in the Earth from the force of your fall. As you looked down at yourself, you found nothing but the gentle gleam of smokey light as it sank back into your skin. You appeared fine, as if the events that occurred moments prior did not transpire at all.

The only evidence of your fall was the hollowed out dirt you sat in and the few trees around you that had been uprooted. They sat there, leaning from the force of energy that billowed through them. You were vaguely aware of the hissed call of your name from somewhere behind you. Steve moved around you, nearly tripping through the ditch as he sank to a knee in front of you. “What the hell are you doing here?” He whisper-shouted.

You blinked, the furrow in between your brows smoothing out as you finally came to register the sounds existing around you. Steve looked you up and down once - partly unnerved at the notion that there was not a single external injury on you. “I-“ Your voice was soft, almost hoarse. “I fell.” You said finally.

“Yeah I saw. And heard. Every single person in Germany heard you fall. We gotta move. Soldiers are gonna be running guns blazing through here.” He pulled you to your feet and you took an unsteady step forward. You swallowed down a gulp and followed after him. His steps were quick - silent. Yours were loud and you were slowly falling behind. You panted, chest heaving. With a wince you jumped and pushed yourself over a fallen tree.

Once again, you were reminded of a very painful fact. You were human. The kind of human that had never trained a day in their life to race through a forest for their life. The type that was completely unprepared to fight their way into a Nazi base. Steve must have sensed your apprehension as he slowed his once quick pace. “You alright?”

You shook your head, bracing against a tree. Your skin was covered in a sheen layer of sweat. “I can’t do this Steve. Maybe I should just stay behind and wait.” Your heart was pounding against the confines of your chest. You swore you could barely hear anything over the roaring of blood in your ears. It was all too much. This wasn’t supposed to be your life. You weren’t supposed to even be in Germany. Steve was the brave one - not you.

“I can’t risk that, Y/N. I can protect us both okay? I won’t let you get hurt, I promise.” He placed a hand atop your shoulder - a strange gesture considering he once was never able to look down at you. It was strange to see him like this, though you never really seemed to notice it before. In the silence of the woods, with no distractions, you could see it now. The outside finally matched the inside.

Only then did you come to realize that Steve was always brave. Even with his seemingly never ending list of health concerns, he never seemed to let it stop him. He was 5’4 and 95 pounds and leapt on top of a grenade like it was nothing. He had nothing and acted like he had everything. If he could do it then…you could do it now.

The two of you skidded to a stop, crouching behind a mass of overgrowth. Your legs burned and your lungs ached for a break. But finally, it seemed as if you made it. Just ahead was a dirt path, occupied by an approaching vehicle. You ducked down behind the shrubs, hoping they would shield you from the headlights. Behind a towering chain link fence sat the Hydra base. There was a watchtower and a never ending supply of guards stationed along the fence. How you would get in was certainly a mystery.

A small tap on your arm had you silently following after Steve. He led the two of you to the last vehicle in the line of those entering the facility. Without disrupting the silence, he dove through the tarp first and you soon followed. The two of you landed at the feet of not one, but two Hydra soldiers. You froze, eyes boring into the soulless helmets.

With a small mustered greeting from Steve, they dove forward. You bared your teeth, grunting as you kicked upward at the nearest soldier. He was knocked back, stumbling against the seat he once sat on. As he recovered, Steve was there at the ready. His elbow struck the side of his temple and the man crumpled. Another kick had him falling past the tarp, landing on the dirt outside the vehicle alongside the other unconscious soldier.

Your hands never stopped shaking. Your nerves only seemed to grow as the vehicle slowed, a single breath escaping you when it came to a full stop. You met Steve’s eyes briefly and he nodded assuredly. You were in it now. There was no time to be hesitant. Every move you made would either kill you or keep you alive.

You had no real life training. No weapons. Nothing but a power source within you that threatened to suck the life out of you.

"On my mark." Steve whispered, breaking you from your inner turmoil. Light seeped into the small space as the tarp was lifted. There were no shouts - no warnings. Steve threw his arm forward in a single breath, knocking back the German soldier.

You dropped down from the vehicle into a low crouch, trying to ignore the twinge of pain that hit your ankles as you landed. You tried your best to ignore the panic that filled you when you spotted the seemingly never ending line of tanks. Any one of them could obliterate you in a second. One second and you would meet the same fate as your father. Your entire body was covered in a cold sweat - your chest almost painful from your rapidly beating heart.

There was no denying that you were dead weight. But Steve made no mention of it. Part of you believed he didn’t even think it himself. Not as he turned, pulling you up onto the hood of the tank. Not as he waited for you to make your way up onto the roof. You had never felt so helpless, but in Steve’s mind, his only concern was your safety. “You alright?” He asked, drawing a single breathless response from you.

Just up ahead sat a security door. Steve pressed his back against the wall to its right, a short curt knock following before the guard inside turned. You winced, pressing yourself closer against the wall, watching as the guard’s face peered through the open door. Steve grabbed onto its edge, slamming it into the side of his head. He gave a short grunt in pain, but quickly collapsed after a fist struck the center of his face.

Steve was quick to drag his crumpled form into the hall and shut the door behind him. The room was heavily occupied with Hydra soldiers. They were at every turn. It was a wonder the two of you were not spotted as you crept from machinery to bombs. Your brows furrowed, following the retreating figure of the guard. In his hands was a weapon - one you had become fairly acquainted with.

There it was. The dark veil creeping up behind you. Your blood turned to ice. Within the twisted depths of your mind, you could hear its faraway blast - the charging up that filled you with instant dread. There you were, surrounded by the very thing responsible for killing your father. The very thing that laid dormant within you. Or maybe not. As you looked upon its blue glow, you felt it within you. Pulsating. Reverberating. Your eyes reflected its same hues.

Your head spun - skin tingling. Something within you was pulling towards it. Like a tether. You tilted your head, face scrunched up in concentration. Within the glowing depths of light, you became lost. As the world around you blurred, you swore you could hear it calling to you. The hand on your arm did little to release you from your mental prison.

Finally, Steve tugged on your arm lightly. Your head snapped up and you looked back. He regarded you with concern, like he half expected you to wrap your hands around his neck and choke the life out of him. Maybe he had a reason to, because as you looked back at him, your eyes contained blue unlike anything he’d ever seen. There was nothing natural about it. It was bright, glowing…almost sickly. “Let’s keep moving.” He said finally.

The longer you were in that facility trailing after Steve, the worse you felt. You were sweating. You could feel it on the back of your neck - on your palms. Your head was growing foggy and each thought became less concise than the last. There was nothing you could focus on other than the thrumming of energy around you. It was everywhere. Every weapon. Every machine.

But you couldn’t understand why you felt this way. If it was calling to you, why did you feel so sick? Like you could no longer keep yourself upright? None of your questions could be answered. There were far more pressing matters at hand.

The lights dimmed noticeably as the pair of you entered the holding room. A number of cages lined the small space, packed tightly with war prisoners. A guard was surveying them from above, but your eyes could focus on nothing but the weapon in his hand.

A single breath escaped you. You were there again. Crouched behind that wall, throwing your hands over your ears as the beam of light struck its target. The memories left as quickly as they had come as Steve disarmed the man. A single blow had him crumpling. A booming clatter followed his fall. The prisoners all looked up from the commotion, finding a man dressed in red white and blue staring down at them.

You quickly moved forward, crouching beside the guard as you fiddled through his pocket for keys. “Who are you supposed to be?” One man asked. “I’m…Captain America.” Steve said breathlessly. You quickly tossed the keys to Steve and he jumped down from atop the cages. The force that his boots hit the ground had drawn the men to their feet. When you finally managed to scramble down the cage, clinging to its bars - you eyed each prisoner as they passed. Within their faces you found that not a single one bore any resemblance to the one you were searching for.

Dread filled you as you searched amongst the sea of soldiers. Bile rose in your throat. Skin growing cold. Eyes brimming with tears. You looked to Steve - worry written all over his once determined face. Your shoulders deflated, but hope was not entirely lost yet. “Is there anybody else? We're looking for a Sergeant James Barnes."

"There's an isolation ward in the factory, but no one's ever come back from it." Your expression grew solemn. You didn’t like the implication. Whatever they were doing to these men for some to never return couldn’t have been good. You’d only hoped Bucky would be there - in one piece. You couldn’t handle another loss. You didn’t think you could return without him. If he wasn’t here perhaps you would just walk into the line of fire on one of those tanks. Grieving was something you could no longer pretend to attempt.

"All right. The tree line is northwest, 80 yards past the gate. Get out fast and give 'em hell. I'll meet you guys in the clearing with anybody else I find."

"Wait! You know what you're doin'?" A soldier called out, drawing Steve to a slow stop. He turned. In truth…he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. But Steve was never one to back down when the ones he cared for were in danger. "Yeah. I've knocked out Adolf Hitler over two hundred times." There was a long pause among the men as they processed his declaration.

Alarms blared as the two of you raced through the main floor. The walls shook with each blast from outside. You could only hope those blasts would come with your victory. You were not alone as the German soldiers charged forward. Dozens of U.S soldiers raced through the doors, armed with weapons they had managed to wrestle from the arms of their enemies. You couldn’t focus. Not while your vision blurred with the rapidly firing bursts of blue light around you.

You panted - chest heaving when a Hydra soldier advanced towards you. In your mind, you could see the scraps of metal rolling towards you. Their metal arms swung at you rapidly. It was just like training. Don’t forget your training. You said to yourself, arms raising. You winced, your chest growing almost painfully heavy as a wave of blue energy seeped from your skin. It swirled around you, moving to your palms.

The soldier pointed his gun, finger tightening down on the trigger. They came towards you fast, but as you crossed your arms over your face - they dissipated. It was like a forcefield - glistening and crackling between you and the man. The bullets struck it and turned to a fine grey mist that settled at your feet.

With teeth bared, you threw your arm forward. Light curled around the weapon, tossing it high into the air. Despite being disarmed, he still charged forward. Your eyes widened as he dove past the forcefield, hands going for your throat. You were thrown to the ground, the wind forcefully knocked from your lungs. Panic filled within you when you found yourself unable to breathe. You kicked and thrashed beneath him.

Your hands came up, tightening around his wrists. But your death had not followed. Your eyes brightened - blinding like the golden beams of light from the sun. The man bellowed out in pain, yanking his arms back. The skin around his wrists was burnt. But not the type of burn you’d expected. His skin had turned bright red in some spots, but the rest was purely black. The type of blackness that reminded you of decay.

He stared down in horror at his hands - visibly shaking. You rose up slowly, almost hesitant as you regarded the man. There was no time to truly process what had occurred. Another soldier descended upon you, a familiar weapon in his grasp. You heard it from somewhere behind you, eyes widening, back tensing. It charged up. The low hum sent a chill down your spine. With a shrill ring, it burst from the barrel of the weapon.

Steve flicked his head over in alarm, defenses lowered as he raced for you. A shout clawed up his throat but quickly died off as the blast struck its target. There was no pain. Nothing but an overwhelming warmth. You fell forward, your knee braced against the ground. As the beam of energy struck your back, it sizzled, crawling along your skin. Your eyes were squeezed shut, fighting against the force of power that surrounded you. It sank into your skin - burrowing deep.

You rose back up on unsteady feet. You could feel it within you. Power. That was the only way it could be described. A living, breathing power that subsided the pounding in your head. Finally you understood why that tether within you was so strong. It called to itself. Vaguely you recalled the tendrils that seemed to reach towards you when you prodded at the small speck of light from the energy cartridge.

Your hands shook as you turned. The man lowered his weapon, taking a hesitant step back. You took a daring step towards him, your knees wobbling. It bubbled underneath your skin, the low hum growing louder. It seeped steadily from you now. There was no voice over the loudspeakers telling you to go easy. No warnings to not use too much.

There was nothing now but the string of whispers circling around you. They were clearer now. They spoke one word. More. Over and over. Hissing and seething as if the voices were truly starved. You made no moves to harm the man. You could hardly concentrate on anything other than keeping yourself upright. Each step was more impossible than the last.

His weapon clattered against the ground - a crack left behind in the concrete from the weight of its fall. There was something in your stare that terrified him. Your eyes were not visible, replaced by the blinding light. But the space around was sunken in, like the force of power was making you waste away. And maybe it was. It pooled at your feet, swirling around and back into your skin. Each breath was treacherous, like there was simply not enough strength within your lungs to take it.

You grunting, throwing your arm forward. A burst of energy charged from your arm, striking the man’s chest. He was thrown back, a terrified scream somehow audible before he hit the ground. He stirred, but made no further moves to get up. Your eyes scanned the space around you. Death met you at every shift of your head.

Soldiers on either side went down quickly. With surprising speed, you spun out of the way of a fist that swung for you. Light danced along your forearm as you struck the side of the man’s head. The force of it echoed within the vast room and he was thrown back, striking a nearby column. It cracked underneath his weight, crumbling down over him as he slid to the floor.

Amidst the chaos, you brought about your own. You battled down each guard who entered your field of vision. Blinding blue light swirled around your fists. Your lungs burned - aching with each treacherous breath. But that was a mere afterthought as the power took control. It was so incredibly potent, it almost made you sick. You threw your arm out, but very quickly sunk to a knee as your leg gave out from beneath you.

You could barely hold yourself up on your shaking arms. Blood dripped onto the floor beneath you and as you wiped your nose, it was smeared across your hand. Bright red blood - a stark contrast to the blue that surrounded you. A weakness. A reminder of your near fatal flaw. Mortality.

However, Steve was there. He was unaffected by the sizzling waves of light as he lugged you up and onto your feet. “Stay with me, Y/N.” He muttered, holding tight to you. You nodded, head lolling to the side as you grunted. The two of you approached a bridge, met by a single guard who bared no weapon in his hands.

Your head lifted and you pushed away from Steve. One arm was braced against the metal railing as you raised the other. Your fingers were tensed, palm facing toward him. A tendril of blue energy curled around his neck. A choked sound escaped him as he was lifted from the bridge. His legs kicked as he fought for air. His hands clawed at the force around his neck.

With a mere flick of your hand, he was thrown from the bridge, soaring down to the concrete below. The room echoed with the force at which his body cracked against the ground. Despite your wobbly legs, you made it to the other side of the railing and peered over the edge. From the high distance above, you could see it. Red. Pooling underneath his helmet, staining the concrete. In an instant, the fire within you simmered.

The light dimmed, sinking back into your skin. Your face was visible now, brows furrowed as you stared down at the man. You didn’t grieve for this man. You couldn’t. Not without thinking of all the soldiers he had killed in this war. A war so meaningless - based on the cruelest hatred you could ever envision. There was no sadness as you stared down at him - no regret. You were clouded by another emotion entirely. Fear.

You were frightened - not because you had taken a life, but because you had enjoyed it. You couldn’t admit that out loud, so you swallowed down your bile, wiped the blood from your face, and pushed away from the railing.

Walking was easier now. Before you had felt as if you were weighed down by the force of its power. It was still quite difficult to keep up with Steve. Your head was throbbing, legs aching, chest heaving. The humidity within this new hallway was certainly not helping. It was dim and yellow. The air was thick with the putrid aroma of death and decay. You couldn’t imagine the type of horrors that occurred for it to smell that way.

The footfalls that echoed against the walls of the isolation ward came to a sudden stop as a short, stocky man scrambled from a hidden hallway. With his hands full and an eagerness to not fight either of you, he scurried in the other direction. You spotted the briefcase in his hands, eyes darkening. Steve took after him first, and you just behind, but it was a low groan that had you skidding to a stop. You nearly slipped against the dampness of the concrete, but the doorframe held you upright as you clung to it.

Moonlight came in through the streaky, fogged windows, cast over the figure laid atop the medical bed. Leather straps were pulled over their chest and legs. Incoherent mumbling filled the room, a single shaky gasp escaping you as it registered within you. “Oh my god.” You moved with urgency toward the table. Despite your blurred vision from the tears that pooled in your eyes, you could see him.

As you stared down at his face, you finally felt as if you could truly breathe. Bucky - alive. Your hand was on his chest, but he stared blankly up at the ceiling. Part of you wondered if he was even aware you were there.

You grunted, wrestling with the buckled restraints. That finally seemed to rouse him, his eyes flicking to your face. “Bucky.” You breathed out, lip quivering as you placed a hand against the side of his face. He said your name softly - his voice groggy and slurred. Despite his state, he still managed to smile. “Steve’s here too.” You said sniffling.

It was Steve who helped him off the table and onto his feet. When you were sure he was stable against the man, you moved towards him with urgency, wrapping your arms tightly around him. His scent was foreign now - sickly, nearly choking you with its severity. And still, you paid no mind to it. He was alive and seemingly well and that was all that mattered.

"We thought you were dead." Steve whispered, and it was only then that Bucky finally seemed to register his new appearance. He blinked, as if he had been imagining it. "I thought you were smaller."

With you in the lead, the three of you ran back the way you came, the faraway sound of gunfire bouncing off the walls. "What happened to you?" Bucky mumbled, slouched over as he all but clung onto Steve for support. "I joined the army." You couldn’t imagine what the reaction would be when he found out what had happened to you. The seemingly impossible had become possible. It had been a long few months - for all of you. The three of you had been changed in ways that many couldn’t begin to comprehend.

The walls shook with the force of a chain of explosions below. You winced, bringing your arm up and over your face to shield it from the assault of heat that came up. The entire ground floor was destroyed, flames rising higher with each explosion. He rigged the ground to explode. So that none could get their hands on his prized weapons.

With your original path of escape covered in a pit of fire, the three of you were forced to retreat upwards. You raced up the stairs, one hand holding tight to the railing as if you expected to trip on a step at any moment. “Captain America!” You’d nearly crashed into Bucky as they skidded to a stop. Finally you saw him. The man Dr. Erskine had described in his stories paled in comparison to the man you spotted across the bridge. He appeared entirely ordinary, but you swore you could feel the madness seeping from him.

"How exciting! I am a great fan of your films!" You took a slow step forward, your hand on Bucky’s arm. Your scowl deepened, rage building as you moved in front of him. Johann Schmidt approached slowly, his demeanor fully relaxed despite the fiery destruction below.

"So, Dr. Erskine managed it after all. Not exactly an improvement, but still, impressive. And I see you brought your friend! We've had our eyes on you for a while now. My dearest condolences to your father." Steve drew his arm back and struck Schmidt. The force of his blow had the man stumbling back, clutching to the railing for support. Surprise was evident on his face as he held the site of impact. You moved to take a step forward but Bucky placed his hand over the one braced on the railing, shaking his head.

As you looked back at Schmidt, your eyes narrowed. “What the hell?” You whispered. The area underneath his eyes was red - blood red. His skin seemed more wrinkled than before, particularly at the edges. In quick retaliation, Johann Schmidt returned the blow, his fist meeting the hard material of Steve's shield. It bent underneath the impact, leaving an imprint of his knuckles behind.

Just as Steve reached for the pistol in his holster, Schmidt struck again, sending the blonde flying back against the walkway. His weapon skidded along the ground, falling victim to the flames below. With Steve on his back and his weapon discarded, Schmidt saw his opportunity. He approached with intent to harm, but Steve was faster. He kicked the man back across the bridge.

The smaller man across the landing held tight to a lever, yanking it down. What once was a complete walkway began to separate, pulling the two men apart.

"No matter what lies Erskine told you, you see I was his greatest success!" His right hand reached across his face, fingers digging into the skin at the base of his jaw. Your eyes widened in horror, stomach flipping as he peeled away at his flesh. You winced, unprepared to see the true horrors Dr. Erskine held back from you.

It was all red. Every inch of skin on his face was bright red. The outer layers of tissue appeared to be gone - melted away until you could see the outline of his skull. "You don't have one of those do you?" Bucky mumbled, eyes glazed over in a state of shock.

"You are deluded, Captain. You pretend to be a simple soldier, but in reality you are just afraid to admit that we have left humanity behind. Unlike you, I embrace it proudly. Without fear!"

"Then how come you're running?" Steve earned nothing but a twisted smile in return as the elevator doors shut in front of Schmidt and the shorter man. There was a look of disgust on your face as you fought to clear your mind on the imagery. When Dr. Erskine told you that it had gone wrong - you couldn’t have imagined it to be to that extent. You had never seen anything like it before, and you hoped you would never have to again.

Another explosion rocked the sides of the building, bits of concrete raining down on you. You braced yourself against the railing, looking up with squinted eyes. "Come on, let's go. Up." Steve grabbed onto both of you. urging you two up the stairs. He had spotted another escape, but the path to it was not a true path.

It was instead a long, thin gantry stretching over the flames below. "Let's go. One at a time." You paused, heart racing as you looked over the edge. “Steve, no. I can’t.” You turned to him shaking your head. He held tight to both of your shoulders, forcing your eyes onto his. “Yes you can! Trust yourself. Use it if you have to.” He eyed you knowingly. Use the power if you have to.

Despite your shaky legs and the nausea building up within the depths of your stomach - you nodded. There was nothing but apprehension as you climbed over the railing and onto the gantry. You could hardly breathe, and the smoke rising from below was not helping in the slightest. Each step was impossibly slow - each blast from below causing your heart to skip. Death awaited you down below…and you could only hope you were lucky enough to not meet it.

You exhaled finally as you reached the other side, pulling yourself over the railing to safety. It was Bucky who went next, and he - like you - walked on unsteady feet. He met your gaze from the other side and you nodded as assuredly as you could possibly muster. When he reached the middle of the gantry, one deafening blast, in particular, had nearly shaken him off.

The gantry shook and you looked down - a single low creak having caught your attention. Each blast from below had it coming loose. Bucky sped up, propelling himself off the platform just as it gave way. “No!” You shouted, leaning over the railing. Your arm reached forward, a blinding flash of light pooling from your palm. It soared towards the gantry, curling around it and pulling it back up from the flames.

You grunted, teeth bared as you braced. There was not a single breath that escaped you as you fought to pull the gantry back into place. It was heavy. You could feel it without touching it. Beads of sweat lined your forehead, a single dot of blood dripping onto the railing from your nose. “What the hell?” Bucky said, leaning over the railing. His brows were furrowed, eyeing you with a look you could hardly describe. Something halfway between confusion and pure insanity. Bright blue tendrils of energy surrounded the entire length of your arm, pulsating and rumbling despite the deafening blasts from below. “You ain’t seen nothing yet!” You grunted.

Steve climbed up and onto the railing, nodding once at you. His trek was much more steady than yours or Bucky’s had been, and he walked with near ease to the other side. Only when he was safely back on the other side of the railing had you released your hold on the gantry. It disappeared into the flames, the sound of its collision with the ground failing to overpower the roaring explosions.

You gasped, your legs giving out beneath you. The only thing keeping you upright was your tight hold on the rails. There was a quick shout of your name from Steve as he hoisted you back up. There was a look of pain on your face, features wound tight together. Your vision swirled, darkness creeping in at the edges. “Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on!” Bucky shouted. Your head lolled to the side, held up by Steve’s arm as he pulled you closer. “It’s a long story.” He said simply.

Next Chapter

[gojover]

WOULD THAT I.

he has spent four lifetimes repenting for his sins and searching for you. in the fifth, he finally gets it right.

pairing: jinu x fem!reader tags & warnings: romance, angst, hurt/comfort; reincarnation!au, previously established relationship!au. changes to canon. mentions of death & sins, blood, injuries, past lives, jinu remembers all his lives but learns how to love you in each one, profanity, alcohol consumption, historical inaccuracies, implied sex, etc. inspired by hozier’s would that i. word count: 8.7k

SEOUL, KOREA. EARLY WINTER, 1936.

It’s become a habit now, for Jinu to walk the alley behind Hwaryeohan Cha-jip every morning. He tells himself he’s just passing through, just out for air, but his feet always take the same turn—past the ink shop, past the frozen rice fields. The snow came early that year, dusting the rooftops of Bukchon in white. Jinu walks until he finds the teahouse, half-tucked between two aging hanoks, with its faded wooden sign and wind chimes made of porcelain spoons.

You work there. He knows this now.

You sweep the floors with your hair tied up in a red ribbon, humming songs no one else seems to know. You boil water in the back room, your sleeves rolled up past your elbows, wrists red from the heat. Sometimes you lean out the window to shake out a cloth, and Jinu watches from across the street, heart in his throat, as if looking at you might somehow unmake the curse.

It doesn’t.

Gwi-Ma’s words still echo like older thunder in his ears. One lifetime for every sin, the demon king had said. He doesn’t remember what he did to deserve this; only that it was enough for the king to curse him with memory, and longing, and you.

You, who never remembers him. You, who are always just out of reach.

Still, this life feels different. He’s not a lonely musician. He’s just Jinu. Just a man in a wool coat with frayed sleeves and too many lifetimes folded into the lines around his eyes.

Somehow, that compels him to step inside.

The bell above the teahouse door is delicate and cracked, like it’s been broken and glued back together a dozen times. It tinkles faintly as he enters, and you glance up from behind the counter. He orders ginger tea. It’s too hot, a little bitter. He drinks it anyway.

You don’t say much to him at first, just slide the cup forward with a polite nod, fingers dusted with flour, and return to kneading dough in the back. Jinu sits in the corner, watching steam curl from the rim of his cup, pretending to read a book he’s read a thousand times before.

He returns the next day. And the next.

Sometimes you smile at him now. Sometimes you ask if he wants something sweet with his tea. He always says yes, just to hear your voice again.

“Do you work nearby?” you ask one morning, wiping your hands on your apron.

“No,” he says. “I walk a lot.”

You tilt your head. “Even in the snow?”

“Especially then,” he says, and you laugh. The sound cuts through every century he’s lived without you. It makes something ancient in him ache.

You tell him your name one day. He already knows it, of course, but he pretends it’s the first time. He says it softly, rolls it on his tongue like a promise.

He brings small things sometimes: a book of poems; a silk ribbon the same colour as the one you wear; once, a tiny jade rabbit charm that he leaves near the register when you’re not looking. You find it later and keep it in your purse. You never ask if it’s from him, and he never tells you.

Some days, he helps. He carries water from the well; repairs a broken chair leg; teaches you how to fold paper cranes when the shop is slow. You sit across from him at the low table, your hands awkward at first, and he watches you fold the wings silently.

You crease the edge of the paper with your thumbnail, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Jinu doesn’t laugh, though the sight of you furrowing your brow over something as simple as a paper crane is enough to pull a smile to his mouth. He leans forward and gently adjusts the angle of the folded wing.

“Like this,” he says quietly.

Your fingers brush, briefly, barely. It’s nothing—but to him, it’s everything.

After that, you start leaving out an extra cup when you brew tea in the morning, even before he walks in. You stop pretending not to notice the way he always sits in the same corner seat. You learn that he prefers ginger tea with honey, that he likes his bread warm and his jam unsweetened. You listen to him hum under his breath when he reads, even though his eyes don’t always move across the page.

He learns that you braid your hair when you’re nervous, and that you’re saving up for a trip to Busan, and that you talk to the teapot when you think no one’s listening.

Sometimes, when it snows harder than usual, you don’t get any customers and the city stays quiet. On those days, you sit across from each other on the heated floorboards, sipping tea and listening to the wind rattle the windows.

Once, you fall asleep like that—cheek pressed to your folded arms, exhaustion shuttering your eyelids. Jinu doesn’t wake you. He watches the snow gather on the windowsill and thinks about how peaceful your face looks in this life. 

He wonders if this is enough. If friendship is enough.

You wake, embarrassed, and he just smiles and tells you to rest more. You blink at him, still sleepy but shake your head, so he asks if you want to learn how to fold a lotus next. You do.

PARIS, FRANCE. SUMMER, 1890.

It’s your honeymoon. At least, that’s what the world thinks.

The hotel is charming in the way French hotels are supposed to be—wrought-iron balconies, velvet drapes, and wallpaper the colour of old pearls. The floorboards creak under his feet, and the hallways smell faintly of orange blossoms and candlewax.

Below, the Seine coils through the city, meandering long and slow. Gondoliers shout in lilting voices from the water. The bouquinistes have already opened their green boxes along the banks, selling secondhand poetry and crumbling maps to tourists who still believe Paris belongs to lovers.

Maybe it does. Just not to the two of you.

Jinu stands by the window, shirt half-buttoned, tie discarded somewhere near the settee. The silk catches on the carved wooden leg. The breeze lifts the edge of the curtain, letting in the sound of clattering dishes from the café downstairs.

The light falls soft on your face where you sit at the vanity, brushing your hair in long, even strokes, the red ribbon that you’d used to tie your hair back wrapped around your wrist. Your nightgown is lace-trimmed and far too sheer for the cool morning. He thinks it must be uncomfortable. But you wear it anyway, spine straight, chin lifted, always composed. You don’t look at him. You haven’t looked at him all morning.

There are two coffee cups on the table. One is untouched. You didn’t like the roast, but you won’t tell him that. You’ll let it sit there and grow cold because indifference is your sharpest weapon, and you know exactly how to wield it.

The lace shifts again as you move, bare shoulders catching the gold light. It’s almost enough to make him forget; almost enough to believe this life could be different. Maybe, if he just reached out—if he touched your shoulder, softly, just once—you’d remember something. The way your fingers once curled around the fabric of his hanbok, or the way you said his name.

It’s your honeymoon, and you can barely stand to be in the same room.

TOKYO, JAPAN. SPRING, ONE WEEK AGO.

Jinu promises to take you to see the cherry blossoms after work.

You’re half-asleep on the sofa when he tells you, legs tucked beneath you, your blouse rumpled and your slacks creased at the knees. Your fingers are curled around a mug of ginger tea you’ve forgotten to sip from, the steam long faded. The apartment glows in the evening light—low and golden, brushing everything it touches with warmth. It rests on your cheek, your collarbone, the line of your neck.

The window is cracked open just enough for the air to carry the sound of birds and distant footsteps. Someone laughs downstairs—the neighbour’s kid, maybe, or a passing couple. In the kitchen, the rice cooker clicks off with a soft chime, and the smell of jasmine rice begins to mingle with the faint perfume of laundry soap and honey.

The sakura have started blooming early this year, soft clouds of pink dusting every street, like the city’s been dipped in blush and left to dry slowly. He noticed them that morning on his walk to the train: the way petals clung to the sidewalk like confetti, the way one landed on the shoulder of your coat and you didn’t notice.

“Don’t forget,” you mumble without opening your eyes, voice warm and worn out, lips brushing the rim of the mug. Your feet are bare, and you wiggle your toes sleepily when he sits beside you.

“I won’t,” Jinu says, and he means it.

He never forgets, not in this life.

He reaches over and gently lifts the mug from your hands, careful not to spill it, and sets it on the coffee table beside your phone and a half-finished crossword. Your handwriting is in blue pen—curvy, a little impatient. He glances at it, then turns his attention back to you.

“You should change out of your work clothes,” he says.

“M’comfy,” you whisper, not moving an inch.

He laughs softly. “You say that. Then you complain about the wrinkles in the morning.”

You hum noncommittally, already slipping towards sleep. Your head tilts until it rests against his shoulder. He shifts a little to make it easier. Your hair smells like lemongrass shampoo and the rose spray you use in early spring. Jinu leans his cheek gently against the top of your head.

“Are we going tomorrow or Saturday?” you ask.

“Tomorrow,” Jinu says. “I want to go before the crowds come.”

“You hate crowds,” you agree, nodding.

“You hate them more.”

You smile. “Smart man.”

Jinu slides his arm behind your back, warm and solid and steady. He closes his eyes and listens—to your breath, to the tick of the clock on the wall.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. EARLY SUMMER, 1972.

Jinu slings his arm over your bare waist, and thinks that this might be the life.

Maybe Gwi-Ma took pity on him. Maybe this is a loophole, and it comes with jazz and heat and the way your lipstick smeared against his collar an hour ago. Maybe it’s not a trick. Maybe, for once, he gets to stay.

Your breath is steady now, but your skin is still flushed, slick with the last traces of sweat. The cotton sheets stick to your thigh where it’s thrown over his hip, and your fingers twitch against his ribs, still restless in sleep.

He lets his hand drift up the slope of your side, slow and gentle, the way a man touches something he knows will leave him. He watches your lashes flutter, the corner of your mouth twitch as you stir.

“Are you awake?” he asks.

You hum without opening your eyes. “Barely.”

He presses a kiss behind your ear. “Should I stop?”

“If you’re asking that, you already know the answer.”

So Jinu doesn’t stop. His hand moves, slow and familiar now, tracing the curve of your hip. You shift closer, still half-asleep, until your leg slides between his and your mouth brushes against the underside of his jaw.

It’s easy like this. Too easy.

Your bodies know each other even if your minds don’t. There’s no fumbling anymore, no pretending. Just heat and breath and the memory of your name whispered into the crook of his neck, again and again, like you’re trying to brand yourself into him. Maybe you are.

He holds you afterward, and listens to the rain starting up again outside the window—soft at first, then steadier. Jazz spills in from the bar two floors down, muffled by distance and glass, but still there. Like everything in this city, it lingers.

“You’re staring,” you say eventually, not unkindly.

“I do that,” Jinu says.

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

You make a soft sound in the back of your throat, somewhere between amusement and disbelief, and burrow deeper into his chest. Your fingers trace a line over his collarbone, idle and absentminded, like you’re not really thinking about what you’re doing.

“You always act like you know something I don’t,” you mumble. “Like you’ve been waiting for me to figure it out.”

Jinu swallows. “Figure out what?”

“Whatever it is you keep hiding behind your eyes,” you say. “You always look so sad, Jinu.”

His arm tightens around you just slightly. 

You’re not wrong. You never are, not in any life. Even without memory, your intuition is as sharp as it’s always been. You’re like a compass that always swings toward the truth, even when the truth is something you have no idea about. 

Jinu considers lying, or laughing it off. But you shift again, and your thigh brushes against his. You’re close—so close, close enough that he almost lets the truth slip past his teeth. You’ve died in my arms before. You’ve looked at me with your last breath. I’ve been cursed to find you again and again and again.

Instead, he says, “Maybe I just like the way you look when you sleep.”

“Poetic.”

“I try.”

You lift your head to look at him. There’s mascara smudged beneath your eyes, and a tiny crease on your cheek where it pressed against the pillow. Your mouth is a little swollen from kissing, and your voice is hoarse in the way that drives him insane.

“You know this isn’t forever, right?” you say, softly, like you’re offering him a kindness by saying it first.

“I know,” Jinu says.

You nod, like that’s what you needed to hear. “Good.”

But you don’t move. You don’t pull away. You rest your chin on his chest and look at him like you’re memorising the shape of his nose and the colour of his eyes.

“God,” you whisper after a while. “This would be so much easier if you were an asshole.”

Jinu laughs and says, “I can be, if it helps.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “You’re good. That’s the problem.”

He kisses your forehead and tries not to think about the way your voice cracked.

JOSEON, KOREA. WINTER, 1798.

It is snowing the first time Jinu sees you, and your name forms on his mouth like habit.

It’s not the name you carry now—not the one assigned to you by court records and a royal appointment, or the one embroidered into the hem of your hanbok in gold thread. It is the name you’ve had in your previous lifetime. The name he’s whispered into your skin, into your dying hands.

Jinu doesn’t say it aloud. He doesn’t dare.

He watches you from the far side of the courtyard, where the snow has muffled the world and the stone paths disappear beneath white. His breath fogs in the air. A court servant speaks beside him—something about a grain levy in Jeolla—but Jinu isn’t listening. He couldn’t, even if he tried.

You walk gracefully, holding a lacquered tray to your chest, with your back straight. Your hair is pulled into a sleek bun, adorned with a single ornamental binyeo shaped like a plum blossom. It is the sign of a new concubine: favoured and untouched. The wind catches your sleeve and flutters it gently, and his chest clenches at the sight of your wrist. A thousand memories flicker through his mind like reeds in the current.

Yet, your face is unfamiliar in this first life. Younger, and softer. Your eyes don’t carry memory. You don’t look at him with recognition or contempt. You don’t look at him at all.

You pass through the courtyard, and Jinu stands frozen under the shadow of a ginkgo tree, as though time itself has collapsed.

Later, in his private study, he asks about you. He pretends it’s nothing—an idle inquiry wrapped in courtesy, spoken to the right eunuch over warm rice wine.

“The girl who came last month,” he says, carefully. “The concubine gifted by the Governor of Gangwon. What do we know of her?”

“The new Lady?” The eunuch says your new name, the one that doesn’t feel right in Jinu’s mouth. “She is quiet and well-mannered. Literate, I believe, though she comes from no family of rank. She entered the palace under the northern court’s petition—her village suffered a flood, and her people sought mercy. The Governor offered her as tribute.”

“Tribute,” Jinu repeats, tasting the word like ash.

“She was chosen for her beauty,” the eunuch adds. “Nothing more.”

PARIS, FRANCE. SUMMER, 1890.

You married him because you had to.

It was a bargain struck behind closed doors, a compromise made with fathers and fortunes and convenience. He had wealth, and you had a family in debt. It was all very civilised, very French. The papers printed your photograph beside a headline that called it a union of elegance and fortune. They didn’t print the part where you refused to meet his eyes.

At dinner, you speak to him in French, formally, like a woman who doesn’t wish to be misunderstood, and doesn’t care to be known. You order for yourself. You never ask if he’s read the books you quote. You let the silence stretch until it breaks and sip your half-finished wine instead.

Jinu lets you. He nods when appropriate, smiles when it seems polite, swirls his wine, and pretends not to watch the way you cut your food too carefully.

He thinks about how different your voice sounds in this life. How your laughter is a stranger to him. He remembers the you who laughed easily, the you who danced barefoot in the snow, the you who wrote him letters in the margins of books and left pressed flowers between the pages. That version of you isn’t here.

In this lifetime, you wear gloves to dinner and never once let your fingers brush his.

But you’re beautiful. God, you’re beautiful.

It kills him a little, every time.

You look like a painting he’s seen before and can’t quite place; one he’s spent lifetimes trying to find again. Now that you’re here—flesh and blood, name and ring and contract—you’re more unreachable than ever.

You don’t sleep in the same bed. The suite has two, and that’s something you requested specifically. He remembers the clerk glancing at him with a look that hovered between pity and apology.

The bellboy had asked, “Madame, shall I draw the curtains between the beds?”

“Yes, thank you,” you had said.

You don’t ask him questions: not about his work, not about his past. Not about the faraway look he sometimes gets when the light hits the Seine just right. He doesn’t ask you, either. The truth is, you are not his, in this life.

He wonders if you dream of him. He wonders if somewhere deep in your chest, beneath the silk and bone and flesh, something stirs when he says your name. He wonders if you ever wake in the middle of the night with a pang in your heart that you don’t understand.

Jinu hopes so, because he has woken up like that every night of this life.

SEOUL, KOREA. WINTER, 1937.

By the time Seollal passes and the paper lanterns are taken down, the people in the neighbourhood begin to notice��not with suspicion or idle gossip, but with a kind of slow, blooming fondness. They don’t whisper behind their hands or snicker when Jinu walks by. Instead, they smile.

The old woman with the parrot—Madam Kwon, who lives above the fermented soybean shop—starts referring to Jinu as your shadow. Every morning, as she feeds her bird sesame seeds and counts her prayer beads in the sun, she croaks out, “Your shadow’s early today,” when Jinu turns the corner near the tea shop. The parrot repeats her, mangled and gleeful. Sha-dow, sha-dow!

You glance up from the window, smothering a smile.

The boy from across the alley, barely thirteen, who runs errands for the ink shop, has started tipping his cap at Jinu each morning. One day, when he passes, he calls out with the overconfidence of youth, “She likes persimmons, you know. Bring her some. The kind with the wrinkly skins.”

Jinu hides his amusement behind a polite nod. The next day, a small cloth pouch of dried persimmons appears on the tea shop counter. You don’t say anything, just tuck them into the cupboard—but you save one, and when Jinu comes in at closing, you place it on a small plate beside his tea without a word.

The grocer, Mr. Baek, an older man with a permanent frown and a weak knee, lets Jinu pick through the fresh vegetables first whenever he sees him on the path to the tea shop.

“You work too hard, boy,” Mr. Baek grumbles as Jinu hoists a basket of firewood onto one shoulder.

“He’s not a boy,” Madam Kwon snorts from her usual perch. “He’s a man, Baek. Can’t you tell?”

“A man, huh?” Mr. Baek eyes Jinu’s hands, callused from helping with the heavy work around the shop. “Well, even a man needs to rest his back before it breaks.”

Jinu only smiles. “I’ll rest after I’ve swept the steps for her.”

They all approve of him, though none say it directly. The world is starting to tuck Jinu into your corner of it without him needing to ask.

One afternoon, while the snow still clings to the gutters but the breeze carries a hint of plum blossoms, an elderly couple walks in from out of town. They speak in slow dialect, asking for ginger tea and warmth for their aching bones. Jinu is seated by the window, sketching quietly in his notebook. As you prepare the tea, the woman glances at him, then at you.

“Your husband doesn’t say much,” she remarks.

You nearly spill the water. “He’s not— I mean, we’re not—”

Jinu looks up, and the couple laughs kindly. “Ah, forgive us,” the man says. “You have that look about you.”

“What look?” you ask, wary.

“The look of people whose silence with each other is comfortable.”

You don’t respond, but when you set the tray down in front of them, you notice Jinu watching you closely. After they leave, you go to clear the table. There’s an extra coin left on the tray, and the old woman has pressed a paper fortune beside it: “Love that arrives quietly stays the longest.”

You crumple it without thinking.

But later that night, after the shop has closed and the windows are shuttered, Jinu finds it smoothed out on the back counter, your handwriting scribbled in the margins: “Don’t get any ideas.”

He smiles.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. AUTUMN, 1971.

Jinu finds you by accident, really. 

He’s searching for a bar—any bar—on an unnaturally rainy Friday night, his collar turned up against the warm drizzle, the air thick with the smell of sweet olive trees and fried catfish. The city hums with life even in the storm. Neon flickers on puddles like oil slicks, and brass spills from half-opened windows.

He’s already passed three places too crowded, one too quiet, and a fourth that reeked of stale beer and cigarette ash, when he turns down a narrow side street he doesn’t remember the name of.

He finds a wooden door, warped with time and painted a moody red. It sits beneath a hanging sign with chipped cursive that reads: The Red Ribbon. A string of paper lanterns hangs overhead, glowing soft through the rain like a trail of fireflies.

Inside, the bar is low-lit and warm, a haven from the storm. The air smells like cinnamon smoke and lemon rinds, and something old—like velvet curtains and perfume that clings to skin. There’s a quiet hum of conversation, the clink of glass on glass, and music.

No—not music. A voice.

Low and rich, not quite singing, not quite speaking. Like honey melting in a warm cup of tea. It curls around the room before he sees you; dips into the cracks between shadows; holds him still.

You’re on stage, beneath a gold spotlight, wearing a black satin blouse tucked into high-waisted pants, one heel perched on the edge of the stool as you croon into the microphone. Your voice doesn’t beg for attention. It commands it, slow and sultry and effortless. You sing a cover of I’ll Be Seeing You, but it’s yours now, softer, smokier, as if the song’s always belonged to you.

In your hair, tied just above your ear, is a red ribbon.

Jinu stops breathing.

You’re older in this life. Sharper. Your voice curls like cigarette smoke, and your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. But it’s you. Of course it’s you. He would know you in any century.

You don’t see him. You never do, not at first.

The room fades. Jinu’s heart hammers.

Gwi-Ma’s curse, so old now it’s half-forgotten, curls tight in his ribs like a warning. This is the fourth time, he thinks.

The bartender is young, with freckles scattered across his nose. “What can I get you?”

“What’s her drink?” Jinu asks, nodding toward the stage.

“She switches it up sometimes. But mostly it’s gin and tonic. Extra lime.”

“Then one of those. And whatever you recommend.”

He carries both your drinks over when you step off the stage, undoing the ribbon in your hair deftly and shaking your head. You wrap the ribbon around your wrist and raise an eyebrow when he stops by your table. 

“That for me?” you ask.

Jinu sets the gin and tonic down. “Extra lime.”

“Let me guess,” you drawl. “First time here, heard me sing, got curious?”

“Something like that,” he says.

JOSEON, KOREA. SPRING, 1799.

It is well past curfew when you slip into the old library pavilion.

The moon is high, its light diffused through the paper lattice windows, casting soft patterns on the wooden floor. The scent of old parchment and ink wafts through the air. Outside, the plum trees stir in the breeze, petals tumbling like tiny, perfumed ghosts.

You shouldn’t be here. No one comes here anymore—not since the roof began to rot, not since the scrolls were moved to the new annex.

But you know the door that creaks just slightly less. You know which floorboards to avoid. Most importantly, you know no one will be looking for a concubine in the archive of forgotten histories.

You light a single oil lamp and walk the aisles barefoot, your skirts brushing against shelves of neglected poetry and old Confucian texts. You’re looking for something. You don’t know what; only that your chest has been heavy lately with something unnamed, and that reading makes it easier to breathe.

You’re so engrossed in a worn volume of Tang poetry that you don’t hear him until it’s too late.

“What are you doing here?”

You whip around, heart slamming in your chest, the book nearly slipping from your fingers. 

Jinu stands in the doorway—half-lit by moonlight, half-shadowed, like something conjured from the very pages you were reading. He’s shed his ceremonial robes for the evening, wearing only a dark overcoat tied loosely at the waist. His hair is unbound at the nape, a sign that he, too, thought the night would pass without interruption.

You gasp. “I—I didn’t think anyone—”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says, though there’s no bite to it. Just curiosity, and a hint of wariness.

You lift your chin. “Neither are you.”

He arches a brow, and you realise your mistake. Of course he’s allowed anywhere he wishes—he’s one of the King’s closest ministers. But instead of correcting you, he steps further inside, eyes never leaving yours.

“What are you reading?”

“Poetry,” you say.

“May I see it?”

You hand him the book with reluctant fingers. He takes it carefully, as though it’s precious. You watch as he scans the open page. His lips move as he reads silently. Then, softly, aloud:

“In the quiet night, the moonlight before my bed perhaps is frost upon the ground. I raise my head and see the moon, then lower it and think of home.”

You say nothing.

“You miss it,” Jinu says quietly. “Your home.”

“You can’t miss what you barely remember,” you say, shrugging.

“Still, you’re here,” he says, closing the book. “Risking punishment for poetry.”

“I thought this place was empty.”

“It is. Mostly. You’ve been here before,” he says.

“Will you report me?” you ask, finally meeting his eyes.

He watches you for a long moment, and shakes his head. “No. But if you’re going to read by lamplight, you shouldn’t sit so close to the paper screens. It casts a shadow.”

TOKYO, JAPAN. SPRING, ONE MONTH AGO.

On Jinu’s birthday, you surprise him with a picnic beneath the sakura.

It’s a Tuesday, technically a workday, but you convince his supervisor to let him off early and drag him, half-confused, half-laughing, onto the Marunouchi Line. You refuse to say where you’re going, only grin over the rim of your coffee and tap your knee against his like you’re buzzing with a secret.

He figures it out by the time you’re walking down the path at Shinjuku Gyoen, past couples and families and students with cameras, every tree dripping in soft pink petals. The wind is light, enough to lift your hair and scatter a few blossoms onto his shoulder. You swipe them off with a delicate touch, fingers brushing his collar.

“Here?” he asks, looking around.

You point to a quiet spot beneath a tall cherry tree, where the ground is dappled with sunlight and pink. “Here.”

He watches you set the blanket down and unroll the bento boxes you packed that morning, tied in checkered cloth, still warm. Tamagoyaki, onigiri, simmered daikon, the pickled things he likes. There’s even a small chocolate cake hidden in your tote, which you keep sneakily tucked behind your legs like it isn’t obvious.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he says, sitting beside you. His voice is warm. He never quite knows what to do with being loved like this—not when it’s freely given.

“I know,” you say. “But I wanted to.”

Jinu looks at you for a long second. You’re wearing that soft blue sweater he likes, the one that slides off your shoulder when you’re not paying attention. The sunlight hits your cheekbones and catches in your lashes, and he thinks—like he always does—that you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

You open a thermos, pour him tea, and he raises it in mock solemnity.

“To thirty-three,” he says.

“Thirty-two,” you correct.

“Am I?”

“You always forget,” you say. “You’ve been forgetting since we met.”

He laughs. “Feels like I’ve lived a hundred years already.”

You don’t say anything. Sometimes, when the light hits his face just right or he says something echoes in your mind, you wonder.

You’ve always had strange dreams: places you’ve never been, languages you’ve never studied, and a man who always looks like him, even when he wears a robe, or a bloodied uniform, or a wool coat in the snow. You never tell him this. You’re afraid it will break the spell.

Instead, you offer him another onigiri and press a kiss to his cheek.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper. “I’m glad you were born.”

Jinu closes his eyes and laces his fingers with yours, lets you lean your weight into his side; lets the breeze scatter petals in your hair; lets the warmth spread down his spine like he’s standing in the sun after a long, long winter.

MANCHURIA. WINTER, 1944.

It comes as no surprise, then, that when the war begins, you and Jinu get married and business at the teahouse dwindles with every passing day.

The papers are signed quietly one late afternoon, in the cramped back office of the local administration hall: two names written in black ink, side by side, binding you together not by love but by survival. There is no time for anything else. The world is already falling apart.

The Japanese occupation deepens its grip. All around you, men vanish into forced conscription, women into labour camps, into silence. The air grows tighter with fear. Propaganda posters replace the poetry on the streets. The teahouse shutters for good.

You and Jinu are sent away within the month. He becomes a soldier. You become a nurse.

You are not the only married couple split between posts, but somehow, impossibly, the army places you both near the front. You meet sometimes between camps. Once every few weeks, maybe. Sometimes longer.

Each time, your reunion is brief and practical. You sew up the tears in his uniform. He shares what little rations he’s stashed away for you. He never forgets to hand you a pair of gloves or wrap your scarf tighter, or tie your hair back with that red ribbon with shaking fingers. You always insist he sleep for at least two hours before returning to his unit.

There is no time for affection. There is barely time for sleep.

But sometimes, when you are alone—when the tents are quiet and the snow piles against the canvas—he touches your face in the dark, and you lean into him without a word. Sometimes you rest your forehead against his shoulder, and Jinu runs his hand up and down your back.

The night you die, it is snowing.

The war has reached a new fever. There are no longer clear lines, no longer rest stations or warning signals or predictable patrols. The world is burning in patches, and no one can remember what day it is.

Jinu is stationed near the ravine when the call comes—medics down, supplies hit, critical injuries. He runs before they finish speaking.

He doesn’t recognise the wreckage of the medic tent at first, just the shape of it, torn open by gunfire and winter wind, canvas flapping in the air. The snow is tinged red. Bodies are scattered everywhere.

You’re still alive when he finds you, but barely.

You’re half-buried beneath another nurse, shielding her even in unconsciousness. Your side is soaked through with blood, spreading dark and fast across your uniform. Your breathing is shallow, more rasp than breath. Jinu drops to his knees beside you.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking. “Hey—look at me. It’s me.”

Your eyes flutter open. Focus. Unfocus. Finally, they find him. “...Jinu?” you breathe, your voice thready.

He laughs, because it’s either that or scream. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. You stubborn woman, what were you doing here? You were supposed to be safe.”

“I stayed.” You cough, wet and small. “One of the children… the boy with the bad leg…”

“I know,” Jinu says. He does know. He always knew you’d stay. He presses his hand to your wound. His other hand cradles the back of your head. Snowflakes melt on your cheeks.

Later, they find him still holding you, long after the snow has buried your boots and the blood has dried stiff on his uniform. He won’t speak for days, won’t eat. When he finally returns to his post, he doesn’t say what happened; he only writes your name on the inside of his sleeve in black ink, where no one else can see.

Years later, when the war ends and the country forgets the names of its dead, Jinu does not. He leaves a folded paper crane at every teahouse he passes, and he never remarries.

PARIS, FRANCE. SUMMER, 1890.

On the third day of your honeymoon, Jinu takes you dancing.

It is a Friday evening, and the city glows with the kind of gold that never quite fades, even as dusk creeps in. From the hotel balcony, the streets below shimmer with laughter, carriage wheels clattering against cobblestones, parasols twirling, violins warming up in salons beyond shuttered windows.

He waits for you in the sitting room, dressed in pressed trousers and a charcoal waistcoat, a pale lavender cravat at his throat—the one you picked, absentmindedly, on your first day in the city. The silk still smells faintly like you.

You emerge from the bedroom without a word, gloves drawn tight over your wrists, gown cinched neatly at the waist. You’re beautiful, but distant.

Always, always distant.

“Shall we?” he asks, offering his arm.

The carriage ride is quiet. The air smells like summer rain and perfume, and Jinu watches your profile in the glass—the slope of your nose, the way your eyes follow the shape of the Seine like it’s memory. You haven’t touched him since the day you arrived. Your hand rests lightly on his arm now, like you’re afraid even weight might give too much away.

He wants to ask about the letters.

The ones you receive from a different postbox. The ones you tuck away before he enters the room. He’s never opened one, but he doesn’t need to. The handwriting is always the same: slanted, and familiar only to you. He doesn’t ask. He never does.

Tonight, he only wants to pretend.

The ballroom is in Montmartre, crowded and warm, lit by chandeliers that make the dust shimmer. The band plays slow waltzes, the kind that linger in your throat even after the music fades.

Jinu places a hand on your waist. You let him.

Your fingers rest against his shoulder, delicate as frost.

He draws you closer, searching for something in your eyes. He finds nothing. Nothing but the practiced smile of a woman doing what is expected.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, voice low.

You look away. “I’m tired.”

“Of dancing?” Of me?

You don’t answer. Jinu guides you in a slow circle. You follow, graceful, perfect. A doll in silk and pearl. Yet, every few beats, your gaze slips towards the doors; towards the windows; towards something far away. He’s used to it now. Gwi-Ma’s curse has hardened him, but just because he is used to it, it does not make it any easier to be the consolation prize in this lifetime that never belonged to him.

“Do you love him?” he asks suddenly, before he can stop himself.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say.

You’re right. It doesn’t. Not in this life. Not in this world where your father sold your hand to erase a debt, and his name was the one on the contract. Not in a marriage made of cold sheets and polite lies.

Jinu exhales slowly. “It does to me.”

You meet his gaze, then, and something flickers in your eyes. Not love, or forgiveness—just sadness, deep and quiet, like the kind that seeps into your bones and never quite leaves.

“You’re not a bad man,” you say softly. “You just aren’t mine.”

He closes his eyes. The music swells. Couples spin around you both like falling leaves.

Jinu doesn’t say another word. He just holds you a little tighter, for as long as the song lasts. Because after tonight, you’ll drift further away. He can feel it, that tide pulling you towards a life you’ll never have and a man he will never be.

But for this dance—just this one—he lets himself imagine you’re his.

The next day, the divorce papers are finalised and the money is settled. You move to Vienna the week after.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. AUTUMN, 1972.

The bartender tells Jinu you moved to Chicago.

He says it like it’s nothing, like you didn’t leave a hollowed-out space where your voice used to sit on stage at The Red Ribbon, smokey and golden and soft as dusk.

“Packed up two weeks ago,” the freckled boy says, polishing a glass. “Didn’t say much, just left a note for Missy in the back. Said she got an opportunity, somethin’ better. Maybe a record label.”

Jinu doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t need them.

He nurses his bourbon in silence for a while, and lets the saxophone on the radio spill into the half-empty room. The walls feel thinner without you—less velvet, more echo. The stage is dark now, the piano covered in a wrinkled sheet.

When he asks for your address, the bartender raises an eyebrow. “You a friend?”

“I was her lover,” Jinu says, and it’s not wrong.

The man shrugs and writes it down on the back of a bar napkin, sliding it over with two fingers. It’s smudged at the edges, ink bleeding from moisture left behind by someone else’s glass. But the words are clear.

South Side. Chicago. Apartment 2B. ℅ Langford Records.

Jinu stares at it for a long time. He folds it once and pockets it.

That night, in his apartment above the bakery on Dauphine Street, he sits at the kitchen table with a cigarette burning low and a single lamp flickering behind him. Rain taps gently against the window, steady as a metronome.

He finds a sheet of paper, ivory and heavy. He doesn’t plan to write much.

October 12th, 1972 New Orleans

You left without saying goodbye.

That’s not a complaint. Just… an observation.

The bartender said Chicago. He said you packed light, but you always did. I used to wonder how someone could carry so much in them and still leave so little behind. I guess I have my answer now.

I keep thinking about that night on the balcony. You, with your lipstick smudged and your heels kicked off, humming some Ella Fitzgerald song that only you knew all the words to. You asked me if I believed in fate. I said no. You laughed like I was missing the joke.

I think I get it now.

Maybe it wasn’t fate. Maybe it was just timing. Bad, as always.

I don’t know what you’re chasing up there—music, love, a version of yourself you can finally live with—but I hope you find it. And if you don’t, I hope it finds you anyway.

I won’t write again. This feels like enough.

But if it ever rains in Chicago, and you think of me, just know I was thinking of you too.

– J.

Jinu folds the letter carefully and slides it into an envelope but doesn’t seal it. He stares at it for a long time. Then he sets it on the counter beside his keys and goes to bed without turning out the lamp.

He never mails it, but every now and then, when the rain hits just right, he reads it again.

JOSEON, KOREA. LATE SUMMER, 1799.

They charge you with treason.

No matter how many times Jinu kneels before the King, no matter how many sleepless nights he spends rewriting every record, begging the court historian to leave your name out of the final script, no one listens.

It is easier to silence a concubine than to question a minister, easier to blame a woman for sin than to hold a man accountable for love.

So, on the last evening of your life, they dress you in white: a shade meant for funerals; for forgetting.

Your hair, once combed and oiled and pinned with mother-of-pearl, hangs unbound down your back now. The servants didn’t bother with ceremony. They gave you water, and left you in a corner of the gardens, as if you were already half-gone. You sit on the edge of the low stone wall, staring at the lotus pond, legs tucked neatly beneath you and wrists bound.

The ropes around your wrists bite into tender skin—tight, too tight—but you won’t ask them to be loosened. The guards know better than to keep an eye on you. You’re not dangerous, just inconvenient.

You know he’ll come.

You don’t look surprised when Jinu appears between the carved columns, breathless, his topknot hastily tied and robes disheveled. His boots make no sound against the wooden floor as he drops to his knees before you.

“Please,” he says, his voice shredded down to the bone. “Please tell me you’ll hate me for this.”

You blink slowly. Your lashes are damp with the humidity. “Would that make it easier?”

“No.” Jinu shakes his head. “But I want you to have something.”

There’s no moon yet, but the light from the lantern by the steps is enough to see him properly. His lips are chapped. There’s ink on his sleeves, on the soft crease where his palm meets his thumb. He hasn’t stopped writing letters, then. Petitions. Pleas.

“You should go,” you say quietly. “If they see you—”

“I don’t care.”

“They’ll strip you of your title.”

“I don’t care.”

His hands are trembling when they reach for yours. He cups your bound wrists with reverence. His touch is a contradiction—soft, but desperate. His thumbs brush over your bruises. You don’t flinch.

Between his palms, you feel something cool press against your skin, smooth and weightless. Your fingers twitch, instinctively curling around it.

A jade rabbit. 

The kind children carry for luck. The kind lovers carve when words aren’t enough.

You remember once, weeks ago, a charm just like it left behind on the counter behind the Queen Dowager’s quarters—no note, no name. You’d tucked it into the folds of your robes and told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Now, you understand. You clutch it tighter.

“You said once,” Jinu whispers, “that you didn’t believe in reincarnation.”

You manage a faint smile, remembering his stories of the demon king and the curse of love and memory because of sins past. “I still don’t.”

“Well.” His eyes close briefly, lashes dark against his cheek. “I’ll believe for both of us, then.”

The cicadas outside scream like they know how little time is left.

“It’s just a story,” you say. “No one remembers their past lives.”

“I do,” he says, and something deep in you twists, aching. “And I will. I’ll find you again.”

“I don’t want to be remembered like this,” you whisper.

“I won’t remember the ropes,” Jinu says. “I’ll remember the way you fold paper cranes, and recite poetry, and the sound of your laugh when you think no one’s listening.”

Your throat tightens. There’s a sob there, buried deep, but it won’t surface. You’re too tired for crying. “Don’t—”

“I’ll remember,” he says. “And one day, somewhere—when you are free and unafraid—I’ll press this rabbit into your palm again, and you’ll know.”

“Jinu—”

He leans forward slowly, and presses his forehead to your bound hands. The lantern’s light glows between you. The cicadas hush. Far in the distance, a temple bell rings the hour. It’s almost time.

TOKYO, JAPAN. PRESENT DAY.

These days, you find it harder to sleep. The dreams are worse now, beguiling and long and sad. They stretch like old film reels behind your eyes, full of half-familiar cities and names that slip away when you wake. They end with Jinu, always Jinu—but not Jinu at the same time. He wears different clothes, speaks in languages you don’t remember learning.

You shift in bed, sheets tangled around your legs, one arm heavy and warm across your waist.

This version of Jinu sleeps with his mouth slightly open, his breathing even, steady. His chest rises and falls against your back, his palm curled gently beneath your navel. The window’s been left ajar, and the scent of sakura drifts in on the night air. You press your hand over his absentmindedly. His fingers twitch in his sleep and close tighter around you.

You sigh. Your forehead presses into the pillow. It’s too early or too late to be awake, and you’re tired—so tired—but your body doesn’t know how to rest anymore. Not when your mind insists on wandering. Not when you wake up crying into a man’s arms and can’t tell him why.

You almost speak, but he stirs before you can.

“Mmh,” he mumbles, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder. “You okay?”

“I… had that dream again,” you tell him.

Jinu lifts his head. He’s groggy, eyes swollen with sleep, but he’s already frowning. Already reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ear.

“The one with the snow?” he asks.

You nod. “And the red ribbon. And a jazz bar.”

He doesn’t laugh, though you’d expect anyone else to. Instead, he kisses your shoulder. “Come closer.”

“I’m already close.”

“Closer,” he says again, like the space between you could ever be enough to stop the ache. Like if he holds you tight enough, he can keep the dreams at bay.

You turn to face him, legs brushing his under the blanket. He touches your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“Do I do something wrong in the dream?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “But you’re sad. Like… you know something I don’t.”

His throat works. His thumb runs along the apple of your cheek, just once. “Maybe I’m dreaming it too.”

You stare at him. It’s too dark to read his expression clearly, but something in you catches at the thought. Maybe he’s dreaming it, too: the same ink-stained hands, the same gardens, the same unfinished goodbyes.

“You think so?” you whisper.

He nods. “Remind me,” he says. “I found this antique rabbit made out of jade yesterday at the market. It reminded me of you. Remind me to give it to you.”

“Okay,” you say, and bury your face against his chest and let him wrap both arms around you. You press your palm over his heart. 

“You talk in your sleep, too, sometimes, you know,” you murmur into the dark. “Who’s Gwi-Ma?” 

You’re teasing, mostly—half-asleep, your words loose around the edges—but there’s a small, curious lilt to your voice that makes Jinu still for a fraction of a second. Barely perceptible, just long enough for you to notice.

You continue, lightly, unaware. “Should I be worried?”

He should’ve prepared for this. He’s had five lifetimes to come up with a better answer. Five lifetimes of choices and mistakes and prayers spoken into temples and alleyways and bomb shelters. Five lifetimes of watching you slip through his fingers, of losing you just when he thought he might have a chance.

He should’ve been ready.

Jinu exhales slowly, lets his palm slide a little higher on your stomach, grounding himself in the warmth of your skin. Your breathing is calm now. You trust him.

He leans in and kisses your shoulder again, and says, “No one.”

You shift a little in his arms, not entirely convinced. “Sounds like a someone.”

He smiles against your skin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just a strange dream. One of those names that sticks for no reason. You know how it is.”

“We’re weird,” you mumble. “I mean… you and me.”

“I know,” Jinu says, and he means it more than you’ll ever understand.

You don’t see the way his gaze always rests on you in the dark after you drift off. You don’t feel how tight his arms become, how he pulls you closer like he’s afraid you’ll vanish in your sleep.

You don’t know that he remembers everything.

The snow in Bukchon. The teahouse. The library in the palace. The battlefield and your name on the inside of his sleeve. Paris and silence. New Orleans and the ribbon in your hair. The prison courtyard and the jade rabbit you clutched until the rope took you. All of it.

He remembers the taste of your ginger tea; the colour of your blood on his hands; the sound of your voice in French; the way you looked at him in a jazz bar in 1972 and said, “Don’t fall in love with me.”

Too late, he’d wanted to say. Too many lives too late.

Now, in this quiet Tokyo apartment, with your fingers unconsciously curled into the fabric of his shirt, he knows Gwi-Ma has finally allowed him to keep you. The king has grown tired of watching him suffer. That was the promise, that in this fifth and final life, he can keep you safe and warm, tucked into his side, where the only real concerns are whether he’s put the laundry to dry, or what to cook for dinner.

Jinu watches the sky begin to pale through the window, watches your lashes flutter in sleep. He watches your mouth part like you’re about to say his name, even here, even now. He thinks about the red ribbon he keeps tucked inside his coat pockets, and worn-out letter in his dresser, and the jade rabbit he keeps underneath his pillow, and he smiles into your hair.

a/n: hi! thank you so much for reading :) i watched kpop demon hunters on sunday and i could not stop thinking about how little we know about jinu’s past and about how rumi’s mother met and fell in love with a demon. that little thought about jinu’s past turned into a full-blown fic that i wrote imagining that jinu’s past sin was abandoning his family (except i obviously tweaked it) & that gwi-ma is more like hades in terms of punishment as opposed to like. a demon king. the poem that jinu reads out aloud is a translated version of quiet night thought by li bai. have a wonderful day!

[helaintoloki]

Back to You

pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

warnings: mild language, pining, fluff

notes: my bucky and yelena brain rot is off the charts which is how this came about

summary: Yelena’s interest in y/n forces Bucky to confront his feelings for her as the Thunderbolts take refuge in her home

“I can’t thank you enough for this.”

“Well, this is definitely more interesting than whatever I had planned today,” you respond jokingly as you finish stitching closed the gash on Bucky’s pectoral. “I will say, if I knew I’d be having company I probably would have tidied up a bit around here.”

Both yours and Bucky’s gazes turn to the group of beaten down misfits that occupy your living room at the mention of company. The amount of people taking refuge in your home made it appear almost comically small, but you weren’t exactly new to having to take care of super heroes- or in this case antiheroes- on a whim like this.

Before Thanos and the Blip, you had been a good friend of Steve’s. As his neighbor across the hall who also happened to be a nurse, he tended to treat your apartment like his own personal health clinic after a particularly grueling day of protecting the city. You welcomed him in without question of course, and after some time he had begun bringing friends in need of patch jobs with him. This was how you met Sam and Natasha, and eventually Bucky. You were enthralled by the turmoil swimming in his eyes and his reserved nature, and your gentleness and willingness to help a total stranger like him with no reservation had stuck with Bucky forever.

You lost touch with them all after the Sokovia Accords debacle and being turned into dust for five years, but once the work of the infinity stones had been reversed and you were able to attempt a life at normalcy, Bucky and Sam had returned right back to your doorstep.

In the years that passed, you and Bucky had been able to form a close friendship. It didn’t happen without growing pains throughout the process of course, and it took time for the super soldier to open himself up to you so intimately, but you’d been able to reach a point where Bucky could come to you for anything and vice versa. So when he’d called five minutes before his arrival asking to seek shelter in your modest home, you immediately agreed without question.

“Alright, you’re good to go,” you inform him after smoothing out the bandage on his chest. Looking out to the rest of the group, you hold up your first aid kit and ask, “Anyone else need some TLC?”

You’re met with silence to which Bucky offers you a comforting pat on the shoulder before hopping off of your counter. The group looks more exhausted and defeated than anything, and he convinces you they’ll probably be fine.

“Well, in the meantime, would anyone like breakfast? I think I have some pancake mix around here somewhere,” you murmur absently, and this gets some heads to finally turn.

“Pancakes… would be nice,” Yelena offers with pursed lips and a shrug, trying to be inconspicuous as she obviously snoops through your things.

“Do you have eggs?” John voices tiredly. “I could really go for some scrambled eggs.”

“Eggs and pancakes… anything else?”

“I cannot have eggs without bacon,” Alexei notes thoughtfully only for Bucky to roll his eyes.

“You don’t have to cook all of that,” he tries to assure you only for you to shake your head in response.

“It’s really no problem, I’m just glad I went grocery shopping yesterday.”

You give Bucky a reassuring smile before disappearing into the kitchen, allowing him the chance to finally walk over and snatch the frame Yelena had been scrutinizing behind your back from her grasp.

“What are you doing?” He retorts in annoyance before setting it back down on the shelf. “We’re guests here, you can’t just touch all of her stuff.”

“She has a photo of my sister,” the blonde rebuffs defensively, “I have a right to touch it. Why does she have it?”

“Before she was my friend, she was Steve’s friend. He introduced her to Natasha, and they became friends too. Good friends.”

“Hmm,” she replies thoughtfully, finally easing up a bit as she takes in the information. “If Natasha considered her a friend, then I will too.”

“Yeah, I think she’s good on friends right now,” Bucky scoffs. Yelena raises a brow at his annoyance before a coy smile begins to form on her lips.

“Are you threatened by me, Barnes?” She prompts with a laugh, only doubling down when she notices the aggravated tick of his jaw. “Because it’s okay if you are, I understand. I mean, she is a beautiful woman, and I can see how much you love her-“

“Hold on a minute, what are you talking about?”

“Surely you cannot be this stupid,” Yelena affirms with a teasing smile that soon falls at Bucky’s flustered demeanor. “Or maybe you are.”

“I don’t love y/n,” Bucky says defensively, voice hushed to avoid any prying ears from listening to their conversation. “She’s just a good friend.”

“Well, if she’s just a good friend then you won’t mind if I go talk to her and tell her how much I love what she’s done with this place,” Yelena states plainly with a mischievous smile as she makes her way towards the kitchen only to be stopped by Bucky grabbing onto her arm.

“Don’t,” he warns with a scowl. From his spot on the couch, Alexei laughs.

“You are smart to stop her, Barnes,” he notes proudly, “my Yelena is quite the lady killer.”

“What’s the harm, Barnes? You obviously do not want to date this beautiful woman who has opened her home to us, so why can’t I?”

“If I admit I love her will you stop?” Bucky begs despite the clear aggravation in his tone. With her hands raised in surrender and lips pulled into a small frown, Yelena suspends her march towards the kitchen once Bucky finally relinquishes his hold on her arm. “Thank you.”

“Life is short, James. Do not let her sit and wait for you forever.”

Bucky lets out a long exhale through his nose at her words, and despite how much she annoys him, he knows she’s right. Bucky loves you and has always held a deep sense of admiration for the selfless woman who had taken him and Steve in without question despite the fact that it would get her into trouble with the government. You were one of the first to show him genuine kindness after spending years under Hydra’s thumb, and he’d never be able to forget that. You are his light in darkness, his saving grace, his confidant, and that’s why he’s so hesitant to fully bring you into his world by asking you to be his partner. Being friends keeps you at an arm’s length from the dangers of his life, but being the one he comes home to after a high stakes mission puts you in a whole new light to his enemies, and he’s not sure if he’s ready to put you through that just yet.

“Breakfast is on the table!” You call out from the kitchen, and Bucky watches with a wry grin as every person in the living room moves their aching bodies hastily into the dining room to get a chance at scoring some of your pancakes. You meet him shortly after and present him his own plate of pancakes, eggs and bacon to enjoy in peace away from the rest.

“You look like you have a lot on your mind so I figured you’d want to eat out here,” you explain with a careful smile before joining him on the couch. “You gonna be okay?”

“I don’t know if these guys are up for this,” he admits almost dejectedly, casting a glance towards the dining room where the Thunderbolts sit loudly bickering over the syrup bottle.

“Hey, as long as they have you there with them, I think they’ll be okay,” you comfort reassuringly, reaching forward to give his arm a tender squeeze.

“I really doubt that, but thanks,” Bucky responds with a weak chuckle, “you keep me sane.”

“It’s my speciality.”

A comfortable silence washes over you then as you meet each other’s tender gazes and enjoy the rare moment of peace shared between you both. Bucky longs to just pull you into his arms and hold you, but he resists and instead returns to enjoying his breakfast.

“We’ll be out of your hair as soon as they’re done eating,” Bucky reassures you only for you to give him an indifferent shrug.

“That’s fine, but can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Are you ever going to kiss me?” You prompt with an innocent smile, catching poor Bucky off guard as he momentarily chokes on his pancakes.

“What?” He splutters, fist thumping on his chest to help the food go down.

“I mean, maybe I’m reading it all wrong, but I feel like sometimes you look at me like you want to kiss me,” you explain simply, “and I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

“That obvious, huh?” He sighs with a bashful smile before setting his plate down on the coffee table.

“Yeah, well, that and also Yelena might have told me something on her way to the dining room,” you offer with an apologetic laugh.

“Oh, god, what did she say?”

“Something along the lines of if you never man up and decide to tell me how you feel that I should give her a call.”

“She’s a pain in my ass,” he grumbles irately, but his tone softens as he looks to you in remorse and continues, “but she’s right. You deserve to know how I feel about you.”

Smiling, you move closer to the super soldier so that you can curl into his side and rest your head upon his chest. His arms immediately come to wrap around your figure as he kisses the crown of your head, prompting you to let out a content sigh.

“We can figure out all the details when you get back from saving the world,” you assure him, “but just know that I love you, and I’ll be here waiting for you to come home.”

“Home,” Bucky sighs wistfully, already mourning your time together as he thinks about having to leave you behind. “I can promise you this- nothing is going to stop me from coming back to you.”

You look up to meet his tender gaze and are pleasantly surprised when he leans down to press a careful kiss to your lips. Your heart beats rapidly in your chest as you savor the moment you’ve been longing for ever since you met Bucky, and by the way he kisses you as if you are the air he needs to breathe, you think it’s safe to assume he feels the same.

His heart is yours, and as you tenderly embrace from the comfort of your couch, you can rest assured that to Bucky, home is where you are.

[gumii-bearr]

thinking about... ❝ roommates ❞

featuring... megumi fushiguro

content warning: MDNI (18+), roommate!megumi, megumi is bad at feelings (who is surprised), subtle!alt!megumi, dick piercing (what who said that??), fingering, blowjob, alcohol

author's note: i freaking love this anon so i'm doing a drabble while i write the megumi car sex fic

── roommate!megumi who is super cold and dismissive when you first move in. you needed a place for college and your friend hooked it up but she neglected to tell you he was fucking hot.

── roommate!megumi barely talks to you, and when he does, it's brief and short and makes you think he hates you for some reason. but what you're really annoyed about is how attractive he is and he gives you nothing.

── roommate!megumi who is so fucking hot when he's fixing the sink or when he casually mentions your car is making a weird sound and he fixes it like it's nothing and shit– he takes his shirt off to wipe the grease off his hands and the man is sex on a stick with ink adorning his body like some kind of emo greek god.

── roommate!megumi who comes back from the gym in compression shirts and low hanging sweatpants and you're trying to focus on your college assignment but he's being really distracting when he lifts the bottom of his shirt to wipe his face, showing off his sculpted abs.

── you're starting to think he's doing it on purpose when he wordlessly brings you takeout or offers to drive you to campus when it's raining because "driving in this weather would be fucking stupid."

── but things are still weird between you and roommate!megumi because even tho he can be strangely considerate, he's also impossible to read. that is why you buy him a fancy bottle of liquor to thank him for letting you stay in the spare room.

── roommate!megumi who loosens up after a little alcohol, take out and movies, the two of you talking and drinking until well into the night.

── roommate!megumi who gets a little bold, moving some of your hair out of your face and telling you that you're cute when you get flustered because he's not dumb, he sees your sly glances and how you choke on air when he walks into the kitchen without a shirt on.

── but also roommate!megumi who is just as fucking guilty of checking you out when you come home from the club with your friends in a tiny fucking dress and heels, or when you lounge around in the tiniest shorts he's ever seen and a tight tank top.

── you operating on liquid courage and finally admitting that you find him pretty hot, "you gotta know i'm into you by now, fushiguro."

── roommate!megumi who thinks you're so cute, "yeah, i can tell." and he's running his thumb over your lips and suddenly you two are tipsy and clumsily making out on the couch.

── roommate!megumi who is so handsy, groping your tits through your shirt, grabbing at the flesh of your ass over your flimsy pyjama pants and manhandling you into his lap to grab at your hips and pull your shirt over your head.

── roommate!megumi who always wears rings on his fingers and they're so cold against your warm skin as he plays with your tits and pushes his hand down your panties.

── roommate!megumi who gets you off on his fingers alone while you whine and hump against his hard-on.

── and roommate!megumi who presses his fingers against your tongue until you suck his fingers clean of your arousal.

── and now you're sliding down his body until you're perched between his legs on your knees, his fingers tangling in your hair as he chuckles at your still quivering legs and hands as you reach for his hard cock in his boxers.

── and of course, roommate!megumi who has a secret frenum piercing. a cute silver barbell staring you dead in the eyes.

── and while you're beyond intimidated, you're fucking salivating at the idea of having him down your throat, but knowing you, you've always gotta be a teasing smart ass, "didn't take you for a jewellery kinda guy, megumi."

── roommate!megumi who chuckles lowly and sits back, "piercing isn't for me, baby."

── roommate!megumi who quickly becomes your scary dog privilege boyfriend and fucks you against every surface in your apartment like his life fucking depends on it.

author's note: and they were roommates (p.s. should i make this a series?? cus he got me feelin some typa wayyy)

[em1i2a3]

Detonate

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!/New Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: Move in day is happening at the Thunderbolts/New Avengers Compound, and Bob is having a hard time dealing with the changes.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Angst, Smut, and Fluff (the triforce of fun!), Reader and Bob are very close friends, Bob is still coming down from the Sentry medical trial he went through (going through a bit of a rough time), Bob is nervous and a bit scarred, but he’s super comfortable with the reader, they’re very close.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex, Bob is a darn yearner in this (but that’s just how it is), would I say this is hot hot sex? Yeah. Oral (fem receiving), Fingering, Hair Pulling, Body Worship (like in general), Praise Kink on full display here, Overstimulation Kink, Cock Warming (kind of…The vibes are there lol)

Author’s Note: This was a request made by an anon, I did kinda insert smut in this but I thought it kinda fit nicely into the landscape of the story! I hope everyone enjoys it! It’s a long one!

Word Count: 22,288 (holy fuck)

“Okay! Car is packed! You sure you got everything, Bob?” You asked, straightening up from where you’d just wrestled your final duffel bag into the trunk, the zipper half-stuck from being too full. A strand of hair clung to your cheek in the early morning heat, and you swiped it away with the back of your hand. The hatch creaked shut with a groan of protest– and your poor car was now packed to the brim with what felt like your entire life.

Labeled boxes overflowing with tech gear, your clothes crammed into vacuum-sealed bags that had slowly started to reinflate. Half a dozen posters rolled into tubes. A shoebox full of knick knacks, mismatched cords, and pins from old missions. And of course, the plastic bin of tangled charging cables that had somehow followed you from dorms to safehouses to apartments since 2020 without ever being untangled.

You turned, squinting into the sun, and found Bob exactly where he’d been standing for the last five minutes–rooted by the passenger door like he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to get in yet.

His hoodie sleeves were tugged down past his wrists, hands fidgeting near the frailed seams of it. His hair was still a little damp at the edges from his shower, and the morning light caught in the light brown locks that draped around his face, framing it and caressing it so nicely it was as if someone was holding his cheeks.

At his feet sat two cardboard boxes and that was it.

One was a store-bought shipping box, pristine and almost too clean, like it hadn’t been lived in yet. The other was older, more worn, marked in thick black Sharpie with your handwriting: Books for Bob.

He gave a sheepish shrug, his voice small.

“D-Didn’t really have m-much to bring. Just had those t-two boxes, remember?”

You paused.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that. Not the first time he’d gestured vaguely to the corner of your shared living space with that soft, self-deprecating shrug–two boxes and a borrowed life. But it still hit you low and hard in the chest, like it always did, because he wasn’t being dramatic.

That really was all he had.

Two boxes.

One was filled with clothes you’d helped him pick out on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, just a week after he’d admitted–haltingly, almost ashamed–that the threadbare scrubs Valentina gave him weren’t actually his. Just something someone had tossed his way after the Void incident, like a temporary name tag slapped on a stranger. You’d taken him shopping that day not because he asked, but because you noticed. Because the way he tugged at his sleeves and kept checking if his shirt covered the scars on his wrists said more than any words ever could.

The other box…Well, it hadn’t started out as his. The books inside were yours. Dog-eared, tea-stained, a few with notes scrawled in the margins. But slowly–so slowly you almost didn’t notice–they’d migrated across the apartment. From your nightstand to the coffee table. From the coffee table to the arm of the couch. Until they found a home at the far end of the sectional, right next to the blanket he always folded the same way and the chipped mug he used whether it was clean or not.

That corner had become his sanctuary.

He didn’t say much when he read–just curled in on himself, long legs tucked up beneath him, blanket pulled over his knees, tea going cold in his hands while the soft lamplight pooled around his shoulders. He read them again and again, like the words were anchors. Like they reminded him that he existed. That he was still here. Still allowed to take up space.

And every time he said it–this is all I have–you felt the weight of how much he meant it.

And how badly you wanted to give him more.

Because you remembered the day where you agreed to take him in.

Not in the vague, hazy way people recall calendar events or checkmarks on a to-do list–but in the bone-deep, clear-cut way that memories get branded when they’re born from moments that matter.

It had been the night after the last press conference. The final gauntlet of public statements, forced smiles, and tightly controlled answers. Cameras flashing. Journalists circling like vultures around roadkill. Words like “recovery,” “reform,” and “containment” were getting tossed around like they meant something, like they could undo what The Void had done in New York.

And through it all, Bob had stood just behind Valentina’s shoulder–silent, unmoving, eyes glassy like he was watching it all from underwater. Like his body was there, but he wasn’t.

When the cameras finally shut off and the world stopped demanding things from him, it was like watching a puppet go slack. His shoulders caved. His posture buckled. Whatever thin thread that had been holding him together snapped the moment no one was looking.

Then, for the first time in what felt like weeks, the team finally had the opportunity to sit down and talk. No comms in their ears. No missions ticking like time bombs in the background. Just silence, pure uninterrupted attention, and a problem that none of you had the answer for.

Bob was still in the compound, still alive and kicking, but he was barely present. He spoke in short bursts, when prompted, and gave mechanical answers–like he was on a scripted loop with a shaky voice. His eyes never focused on the person in front of him. He ate only when someone put something in his hands, and even then, it was minimal–just enough to pass as functioning. Barely enough to keep him upright. He slept too much for days on end, then not at all for a stretch so long that the medical aides started whispering about sedatives again.

He hadn’t even been given a proper room, he was just tucked-away in a corner bed in the medical wing, hidden behind a curtain that never fully closed. The air in there always smelled antiseptic and medicinal in a nauseating way. The lights were always buzzing faintly, like they needed to be replaced but nobody would do it. And the nurses assigned to check in on him swapped out too fast for him to learn anyone’s name.

You had passed by his bed once that morning, and you had caught him sitting upright with the sleeves of his scrubs tugged down over his hands, staring blankly at the white wall. His tray of food was untouched, and the plastic fork had been snapped in half.

And because of you Valentina called that meeting.

The conference room was too cold and too bright, the overhead fluorescents were a jarring contrast to the hollow, silent fatigue hanging in the air. You sat near the end of the long, mahogany conference table, with a dull ache still pulsing under your ribs–healing fractures from fighting the Sentry that hadn’t quite fused. Every time you shifted in your seat, the pain reminded you of why you weren’t on active rotation anymore, and why you were the only one not running logistics or field reports.

Valentina stood at the head of the table with her clipboard. Yelena paced around because she couldn’t keep still, sharp eyes flicking toward the window every few seconds because she thought something was going to fly through it. Bucky leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched–stone-faced, but simmering beneath because he had other things to do and this was just another thing he needed to deal with. Walker was on edge, a spitfire as you would call him, always loaded up with something to say, but for once, he kept his mouth shut. Ava stood beside you in total silence, and Alexei…Well, even he had stopped trying to lighten the mood, because he knew how serious the situation had become.

The air was thick, and palpable, heavy with everything that was unspoken between the group. Everyone was waiting for someone else to offer a solution.

Because the homing of Bob Reynolds–The Sentry, The Void–was a question none of you knew how to answer.

Until you said it…

”I’ll take him.”

The words slipped out before you’d fully thought them through, though you had been mulling it over for a bit.

The room had gone still in those moments, and Valentina’s eyes lifted from her clipboard to look at you, she seemed caught off guard that you were willing to take him in–especially after all he had done.

You could feel Yelena stop pacing behind you, the sudden absence of motion louder than her footsteps.

”I’ve got the space,” You said, quieter now, “And I’m not on active rotation right now because of…Y’know…” You gestured vaguely to your side, where your ribs were still taped under your shirt, “So I can keep an eye on him until the Tower’s ready. Just a few weeks. It’ll give him some place quieter and less…Sterile.”

For a moment, nobody responded, it was as if you had sucked all the air out of the room like a vacuum seal.

Then Bucky gave you a slow, almost unrecognized nod.

Yelena muttered something under her breath in Russian that you were pretty sure meant “Of course it’d be you.”

Valentina tilted her head and scribbled something onto her notes without comment.

Walker shifted like he wanted to object, but thought better of it.

And everyone else…Had nothing better to offer up, so they had to agree to it.

That night, when you pushed open the curtain to the medical wing, you found Bob was already awake.

He was sitting on the edge of the cot, motionless, elbows balanced on his knees, hands limp between them like they’d forgotten how to hold anything. His hoodie–one he must’ve asked for or found from the pile of clothes Valentina handed him weeks ago–was bunched at the wrists, the frayed threads twisted around his fingers. He hadn’t put the hood up, but his hair had fallen over his face in soft, uneven strands, just enough to shadow his eyes.

He wasn’t looking at anything. Not the wall, not the bed. Just…Out. Like the space in front of him was wide open, endless, and empty.

You stepped in quietly. No sudden moves. Just a presence, steady and real.

“Hey,” You said, your voice a hush in the too-bright room.

His head lifted a little. Not all the way. But just enough for you to catch a flicker of blue under the fall of his hair. You took a few steps closer, not touching, but close enough that your presence could be felt in the air between you.

“Thought you might want to get out of here.” He didn’t speak, didn’t nod. But he didn’t shrink away either. His gaze found yours–and for a second, just a second, you saw the faintest crack in the fog.

“I–I don’t…” He started, voice barely audible, rough like it had been unused for too long. “I don’t know w-where to go.” You felt your heart swell slightly, hearing the way he croaked out the words, how timid he sounded, how scared he was.

”You’ll be coming with me just for a little while…Until the Tower’s ready.” You explained softly, keeping your distance still. You could see his jaw tighten, and he shook his head.

”I–I can’t…What if…What if he comes back?” His voice cracked on he. It was barely a whisper, thick with dread and self-loathing.

And your heart fractured a little at the way he said it–not like a warning, but a confession. Like he believed The Void was a thing still inside him, curled in the corner of his chest, waiting to be let out. Like he believed he wasn’t safe.

”Well,” You started, voice quiet but sure, “Then I guess we’ll just have to figure it out. Hmm?” You let the words hang there–soft but certain. It wasn’t a dismissal, nor a sugar-coated promise, it was just a truth from you to him.

And then you held out your hand.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just…Open. Steady. Waiting.

It was a gesture to show you weren’t afraid of him or his touch. You weren’t bracing for him to break something or bolt or pull away. You simply stood there with your palm outstretched, and your eyes on his.

It took him a second to truly process what was happening, but then, with the hesitance of a person who was afraid of themselves, he reached out and wrapped his boiling hot hand around yours. You immediately gave it a small squeeze of reassurance, and gave him the warmest smile you could muster.

And that’s how it all began.

The first few days weren’t quiet.

They were full of soft noises, background ones–drawers opening, kettle whistling, the low static of the TV at night. Bob didn’t talk much those first couple of days, but he hovered around you, and he listened when you would talk to yourself. You never pushed for conversation, you just offered him space, and food…Lot’s of it.

You hadn’t realized how deeply the Sentry serum had affected him until the end of day one, when you caught him standing in front of your open fridge like he was looking into a portal.

”Are you hungry?” You asked, causing him to jump ten feet into the air–literally–with guilt flashing through his expression.

“I–I didn’t want to ask, I–I know we just ate two hours ago…I–I just…I’m starving. It feels like my stomach is e-eating itself…I–It really hurts.” Your brain immediately jumped to the conclusion that his metabolism had gone haywire after the serum, which caused him to have this unresolved hunger–you couldn’t imagine the pain he had been experiencing throughout the time in the medical wing of the compound, especially with food that was not too appetizing. So in an instant you were there to help, shuffling around him to look into the abyss that was your fridge, grabbing a stack of Tupperware and piling them onto the kitchen island.

“Let’s get you something to eat then…” He had pasta, leftover chicken and rice, cold soup, some roasted vegetables, and half a loaf of bread.

He ate and ate and ate and you sat nearby, flipping idly through your phone but mostly just watching him out of the corner of your eye. He wasn’t rushing, it was just a constant conveyor belt of his fork travelling to his mouth. His hands didn’t tremble–but his shoulders stayed tense, like he was waiting for you to tell him to stop.

You didn’t though…You just kept refilling his water and asking if he wanted anything else.

By the time he finished his second bowl of rice and reached sheepishly for the rest of your peanut butter with a spoon, you knew what the rest of the week would look like.

Thankfully Val had given you her credit card, because you had restocked the fridge twice in four days, and he apologized every time you brought a new bag of groceries inside the apartment.

“You’re not eating too much,” You said flatly on day three, unloading yogurt and apples and protein bars onto the counter while he slowly restocked the fridge, looking guilty, “Your body’s catching up, just let it.” You added. He bit the inner part of his cheek.

“But–“

”Bob.” You interrupted gently, giving him one of your looks, the one that encompassed all the words of reassurance. He stopped and nodded, surrendering.

Though he still apologized the very next morning when he finished all your maple cinnamon oatmeal–which had eight packs left last time you had checked.

By the end of the first week, the fog started to lift–just enough for you to really notice the change.

You had caught him lingering in the hallway after his first night of catching two full hours of uninterrupted sleep. He looked confused and unsure. Like he didn’t know what to do with the energy that began to vibrate through him again. Like he was afraid that if he overdid himself things would happen again.

So you handed him a basket of laundry and asked if he wanted to help, and almost in an instant he took the offer. It was an easy pastime, and he didn’t mind helping you, especially with everything you had been doing for him.

By the second week, you finally managed to drag him to Target in the early hours of the morning–when there wouldn’t be chaos, or crowds, just the hum of employees and muffled pop music.

The mission was to get him some clothes. Just an array of hoodies, sweatshirts, sweatpants, boxers and undershirts, and of course socks. He didn’t ask for any of it, but you had guided him aisle by aisle, nudging his elbow to encourage him to pick out whatever he wanted.

Once you reached the bath and body care section you helped him pick through scents.

”Get what you want,” You said, “Do you like lavender? Mint? Vanilla?” He shrugged, popping one of the caps open to sniff, before returning it to the shelf. He ended up picking one that reminded him of your conditioner–a mix of coconut oil, sage, and grapefruit.

You didn’t call him out on it, but he knew you noticed just by the smirk that came up on your lips, and how you gently bumped shoulders with him on the way to checkout.

That week, he finally showered alone.

The week prior, you had to sit on the floor of the washroom with your back turned towards the door, and knees drawn up to your chest. You listened to him closely, and heard him take shaking breaths behind the curtain as the steam curled around you.

When he asked you to stay in the washroom with him he knew it was an awkward request, but you listened intently to his reasoning, even though you had already made up your mind to do it regardless. If it helped him, the awkwardness was secondary to you.

”I don’t w-want to be alone…I’m afraid I’ll…I’ll see him…W-Whatever I was.” And you had been there every time, until day eleven, when he said he wanted to try to be on his own. You gave him that privacy, and closed the door. He came out fifteen minutes later, wrapped in the towels you had left on the radiator smelling like a whole citrus section in a grocery store.

By the third week, the apartment smelled like lemon zest and something faintly burning at least once a day.

You had started waking up to the faint clatter of mixing bowls and the low creak of cabinet doors. The first time it happened, you walked into the kitchen at 2:43 in the morning, to find Bob standing at the stove barefoot, sleeves rolled up, squinting at a dog-eared page in one of your long-forgotten cookbooks,

You startled him when you padded in.

”S–Sorry–I didn’t mean to wake y-you,” He whispered, glancing over his shoulder, “I–I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d try s-something.” You looked at the mess—sugar scattered across the counter, a cracked egg leaking beside a whisk, flour dusting the air like snowfall. It should’ve felt chaotic, but it didn’t. It felt like motion. Like healing, somehow.

“Want company?” You asked, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes with your knuckles.

He hesitated for only a second before giving you a tiny, grateful nod.

That happened again the next night.

And the one after.

He made banana pancakes at 1 a.m., grilled cheese at 3:00, and once attempted a souffle with comically disastrous results.

Eventually, you offered a different solution.

“How about we try watching a boring movie instead?” You asked as he stood in the living room one night, holding a bowl of half-mixed muffin batter. “Might help wind your brain down a bit more than cooking and baking.” He pursed his lips, looked down at the bowl, then back up at you.

”…O-Okay.”

You didn’t put on anything exciting, just some old obscure movie. It was the kind of film where nothing really happens, you didn’t need to observe and you certainly didn’t have to pay attention to it.

Bob settled onto the couch beside you, knees tucked up, arms wrapped loosely around them.

Halfway through, his head started to dip sideways.

You felt the soft weight of it first–hesitant but real–when he let it rest on your lap.

You froze. Not because it startled you, but because it meant something. The trust in that gesture was palpable. Heavy.

His hair, now finally growing out in soft, tousled waves, was thick and slightly uneven—darker at the roots, lighter where the sun had kissed it through your windows. A little unkempt, curling faintly behind his ears. You let your fingers hover over it for a second, unsure…

Then you touched him.

Gently.

You threaded your fingers into the locks at the crown of his head, letting your nails lightly scratch his scalp, slow and rhythmic. He didn’t pull away.

He sighed.

A soft, long exhale. And then–you felt it happen.

His breathing evened out. His shoulders softened. The tension in his jaw unclenched. He didn’t just rest his head on your lap–he slept.

It was the first time he’d truly let go.

The first time he’d let you hold him without flinching from the weight of being seen.

You stayed there for hours, barely moving, running your fingers gently through his hair while the muted light from the screen flickered across his cheekbones.

You didn’t dare wake him.

The next morning, you didn’t mention it.

Neither did he.

But something had shifted. A soft, invisible thing between you. A comfort that didn’t need words.

And when the email finally came through a few days later–Tower’s ready. Moving in next Friday–he was the one who walked into the kitchen holding a roll of tape and a stack of folded boxes.

“I can help you pack,” He said, and you let him.

Now after the weeks bonding with him you found yourselves in front of the car staring at the boxes that had defined his stay with you. You shrugged and opened the passenger door for him.

“Well, now you’ve also got the car full of my chaos to babysit with your boxes,” You teased, “Congratulations, you’ve been promoted to co-pilot-slash-box guardian.” Bob blushed at your comment and shook his head, stepping into the car with ease as you handed him both of his boxes.

“A-At least the ride is only half an hour. P-Please don’t drive like a m-maniac.” He commented, watching you place a hand on your chest, feigning offence.

”I follow the rules of the road…It’s everyone else’s fault that I have to drive the way I do.”

——————

The Tower loomed like a monument to a future neither of you were quite ready for yet.

All glass and steel, the building glittered in the late morning sun–its reflection cutting across the sky line in clean, perfect angles. The closer you drove, the more you felt the tension shift in the air. A pressure. Something expectant. It was the kind of silence that clings to the edge of change.

The security gate recognized your plates on approach, and the barrier lifted with a hiss, allowing you to pull into the underground parking garage that smelled like burning concrete. Your tires glided across the laneway, as you found your assigned spot–Bay 21A, right beneath the elevator hub.

With straight precision you backed into the spot, putting it between the lines perfectly without cheating–Bob liked challenging you by covering the screen that showed the footage of your review cameras, and every time you somehow managed to impress him with your pure skill of parking like an expert.

You let out a soft sigh and cut the engine, letting the silence envelop the car completely.

Bob sat quietly in the passenger seat, picking at the lid of one of the boxes in his lap. He was nervous to see everyone again–he had told you that multiple times when he was helping you roll up your posters in your room–and every time he said it you tried to reassure him there was nothing to worry about. This was another one of those times where his nerves were coming out to haunt him, along with guilt for what he had done to everyone.

Slowly, you reached over and covered one hand with yours, giving it the faintest squeeze, which brought him out of his trance.

”They’re not expecting anything from you,” You said quietly, “You being there is enough…Okay?” He nodded once, but didn’t look at you. His gaze was locked on the glossy dashboard, eyes wide with the kind of dread that sinks its claws in and pretends to be logic. You gave him a moment, then gently opened your door.

The air in the underground garage was cooler than the heat outside, but still held the faint echo of gasoline and ozone. You circled the car, popping the trunk and pulling out the first set of bags while Bob slowly emerged on the other side with his boxes in his arms. You could feel his nerves in the way he hovered, shifting his weight from foot to foot, watching you slowly empty your trunk and mentally checking off the things that you labeled.

Bob crouched down carefully, setting his two boxes on the smooth concrete with a quiet thud. You didn’t even have to ask what he was doing—because you already knew. It was in the set of his shoulders, the way he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows with precise movements, knuckles cracking once like a silent warm-up. You arched a brow as you slung one of your overstuffed bags onto the ground beside him.

“You’re gonna try to carry all of it, aren’t you?” He gave you a small, sheepish look as he reached for the nearest vacuum sealed bag.

“J-Just want to get it done in one trip…I-I can handle it.”

You didn’t doubt that he could. You’d seen what he was capable of–really capable of–once.

It had been during your second week together, when he’d sneezed of all things. A completely ordinary, human, unremarkable sneeze. But when he braced his palm against the edge of the counter, you heard the wood crack. Split straight down to the support beam. The look on his face afterward had been sheer horror. He apologized for an hour. Then he avoided touching anything solid for the rest of the day.

He hadn’t used his strength since.

Not until now.

You watched silently as he lined up the boxes like a game of cautious engineering. He braced your backpack against the top of the stack with his knee, then reached for the plastic bin full of tangled cords. You winced.

“You’re gonna throw your back out before we even get to the lobby,” You muttered, crouching beside him. But when you reached for one of the smaller bags, he stopped you with a gentle touch to your wrist.

“I got it.” He said firmly, with no stammer or nerves. You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Bob…” He didn’t look at you–just adjusted the bin one more time on top of the pile, his arms curling around the whole absurd tower of your combined belongings like it weighed nothing. And maybe it didn’t–not to him.

But the stillness in his face made you pause.

Without thinking, you stepped closer and gently reached out, fingers curling around his jaw to turn his face toward you. He resisted at first, a quiet kind of resistance–not physical, but instinctual. Like he didn’t want to be looked at too closely. But he didn’t stop you either. His eyes were closed tightly, as if he was shielding something from you.

“Hey,” You said softly, thumb brushing just beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Open your eyes.”

He let out a soft sigh and blinked, once.

The gold shimmered faintly through the blue–just a soft hue, like the sun glinting off metal buried under water. You smiled, small and knowing, a breath of fond exasperation curling from your lips.

“Knew it,” You murmured, tracing the warmth of his cheekbone gently, “You better shake the gold outta those eyes before the elevator doors open, or Yelena’s gonna throw a knife at you on instinct.” He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been nerves. But it was something. And then he nodded, clutching the tower of boxes tighter as you stepped back and popped the trunk closed with a gentle slam. You locked the car with a chirp, then turned and motioned with your head.

“C’mon, Hercules. Eightieth floor, express ride.” Bob followed you closely, his steps careful but somehow steady beneath the weight of everything he carried. You led the way into the sleek glass elevator at the far end of the garage, pressing your palm against the biometric scanner until the panel lit up green. The numbers climbed on the display, fast and smooth, the elevator doors sliding open to reveal a surprisingly quiet car.

“Eighty,” you said aloud, and the panel blinked in acknowledgement.

The doors closed. The hum of the lift filled the silence.

You glanced over at him. “Still with me?”

“Y-Yeah,” He whispered. “Just…Trying not to break anything.”

“You’re doing great,” You said, and reached out to squeeze his elbow. His knuckles were white around the box edges, but his jaw was unclenched. That was progress.

The numbers blinked in rapid succession, each floor a soft ding that echoed in the space like a countdown. Bob stood beside you, arms wrapped around the towering stack of boxes and bags, the gold in his eyes dimmed now to a whisper. You could feel the nervous energy vibrating off him—not in any visible way, but like static on the skin. His chest rose and fell a little too fast. His fingers shifted to tighten their hold around the base box. You glanced up at him and gave his elbow another quick squeeze.

“Hey,” you murmured, “Deep breath. This isn’t the press room. It’s home…Kind of.”

And then–ding.

EIGHTIETH FLOOR.

The doors slid open.

And chaos hit like a brick wall.

“DUDE, THAT WAS MINE!”

“It was not, I CALLED DIBS!”

“I tagged it with my name!”

“Your name is not ‘BOOG’, Walker, it’s not exactly an ironclad claim!”

The common area was a battlefield of cardboard boxes, scattered shoes, half-assembled IKEA furniture, and rogue throw pillows that looked like they’d been used in an actual skirmish. Somewhere between the couch and the kitchenette, Walker and Ava were tangled in a tug-of-war over a branded coffee machine neither of them had apparently paid for.

Alexei was shirtless, inexplicably, perched on top of the breakfast bar with a screwdriver in his mouth and a kitchen cabinet door in one hand.

Alpine was sitting in the center of the chaos like some smug, unbothered little queen, tail flicking as if supervising the disarray, licking her paws and wiping her face.

Bucky stood a little ways back, arms crossed, eyes scanning the scene like he was trying to calculate how quickly he could disappear before anyone roped him into it. His hair was tied back messily and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing his polished vibranium arm.

Yelena whipped around the corner, sleek boots scuffing across the hardwood, hair cropped into the fluffy bob you remembered but now styled back with deliberate, greasy charm. It looked like she’d stolen a page out of Bucky’s post-pardon playbook: part assassin, part disgruntled congressman. The effect was wildly successful. She froze mid-step the second she saw you.

Her eyes bounced from you to Bob.

To the boxes.

To Bob’s arms.

To Bob’s face.

“…Holy shit,” She muttered.

The noise didn’t die instantly, but it dropped. Just enough for everyone to glance up from their various ridiculous activities and follow her stare.

Ava blinked twice.

Walker’s brows lifted in slow, dramatic awe.

Alexei whispered something in Russian that definitely sounded reverent.

Even Alpine paused her paw licking, like she knew something was off in the room suddenly.

Because Bob Reynolds didn’t look like the man they’d last seen sitting glassy-eyed behind Valentina at that press conference. He didn’t look hollow anymore.

He looked solid. Stronger in more ways than one. It was evident he had been eating well with how broad his shoulders had become. In addition, the group could see the slight confidence in the way he stood beside you–like he wasn’t a disappearing act anymore.

His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, forearms flexed under the absurd weight of what he carried, jawline more defined, face not quite as sunken in. The faint sun-kissed warmth of his skin, the way his hair curled slightly at the base of his neck from the shower, the steadiness of how he stood–all of it painted a picture none of them were expecting.

Bob stood there frozen for a breath, blinking like the elevator had transported him to another dimension instead of the eighty-fifth floor of the most secure building in the country. The silence that followed was thick, stunned, and oddly reverent.

Then, without fully realizing he was doing it, Bob crouched down and gently eased the tower of boxes to the floor, careful not to drop or jostle a single thing. He took a step back, pushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead, and gave the room the smallest, most hesitant wave imaginable.

“H-Hey,” He said, his voice quieter than it had been all morning. It wasn’t shaky, but it wasn’t loud either–just a soft offering. “Uh…Hi.”

There was a beat of silence before the reaction hit like a slow-building wave.

Walker, never one to play things subtle, gave a long whistle and crossed his arms. “Damn, Y/N has really been feedin’ you, huh?”

“You’ve grown into the size of a house.” Ava muttered, almost in disbelief.

“You look better,” Yelena said simply, “Much better,” Then she paused, a rare smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “We’re glad you’re here Bob.”

“Da,” Alexei added from his perch atop the counter, “We thought you would show up glowing from the eyes shooting laser beams…This is better.” Bucky stepped forward at last, the quiet anchor among the chaos. He met Bob’s gaze evenly.

“You look good, man.” There was no flourish to it. Just truth. And it hit harder than any of the jokes or smirks.

Alpine leapt gracefully off the couch and padded over to Bob like she was the real authority of the floor, circling him once before rubbing up against his leg like she approved. That–more than anything–made Bob let out a shaky little exhale. You saw it in his shoulders. A sliver of tension released.

“I…Th-Thanks,” Bob said softly, pushing his sleeves back down and tugging them past his wrists again. “It’s good to see you guys. I-I didn’t think…you know…”

“We’d all be here together under one roof?” Yelena offered helpfully.

“I was gonna say ‘still like me,’ but–yeah, that too.”

“We’ve all had our Void moments,” Walker said, slinging an arm lazily around Ava’s shoulder, who ducked out from under it immediately. “Just glad you’re back. For real this time.” You gave Bob a small nudge with your elbow, and he glanced at you like he still wasn’t sure if he was dreaming this part. Yelena stepped forward, clapping her hands once.

“Alright, you two. You’re both in the south wing–rooms 804 and 805. Hopefully you two are okay with sharing the washroom.” You snorted softly.

”We’ve been sharing a washroom for the past four weeks, I’m sure we will manage just fine.” Bob’s ears turned pink, but the faint grin tugging at his lips told you he didn’t mind.

The others returned to their chaotic unpacking–Walker trying to assemble a lamp with brute force, Ava muttering about WiFi passwords, Alexei still shirtless for absolutely no reason–and Yelena waved you and Bob off with a lazy salute, “Go get settled!”

You nodded and turned down the hall with Bob trailing just behind you, his eyes darting over the sleek white walls and polished wood trim like it all felt too new to touch. When you reached the south wing, the hallway widened. Soft LED lights glowed inlaid against the baseboards. You reached two adjacent doors labeled 804 and 805.

“This one’s you,” You murmured, thumbing the pad on 804 until the panel clicked green. The door slid open, soundless.

Bob stepped in.

And stopped.

The room was huge. High ceilings stretched up, a soft echo already present in the sterile quiet. White walls. Pale oak flooring. A twin-size mattress resting on a raised platform bed frame with no sheets. A basic black desk and chair in one corner. A minimalist bookshelf built into the wall with three empty shelves, and natural sunlight beaming through the large window panes that lined the walls with a cityscape. That was it.

No color. No lightbulbs warm enough to feel like home. No blankets tossed over couch arms. No ceramic mug sitting on a coaster. No smell of your lemon-ginger tea or vanilla candles. Just newness. Cold and clean and…Blank.

You didn’t miss the way his body language changed. His shoulders didn’t drop. They stayed stiff. His mouth twitched–not with a smile, but with something like confusion and disappointment carefully stitched together.

Because sure he was back, but he’d lost something in the return.

The cozy warmth of your living room–the worn grey sectional with the throw pillows that never matched. The bookshelf bursting with novels stacked sideways and double-layered. The corner where the floor lamp glowed gold at night. The soft scent of cinnamon, lemon, and fresh laundry that clung to the fabric. The hum of your voice talking to yourself in the kitchen while he sat curled under the blanket with a book cracked open across his knees.

This place didn’t have any of that. This place was a reset button. And Bob–after weeks of slow, careful healing–was suddenly standing in an empty room with nothing that looked like it remembered him.

You stepped in beside him quietly.

“You okay?” You asked, voice soft. He nodded, but it was the kind of nod that didn’t carry truth behind it. His eyes were scanning the walls like he was waiting for them to close in.

“It’s just…Quiet,” He said finally. “Too clean…It kind of reminds me of the lab in Malaysia.” You touched his elbow, giving it a gentle stroke, a comforting smile appearing on your face.

“We’ll fix that.” He turned to look at you, brow furrowed, like there was no way that would be possible, “You’ve got your books. Your mugs. The blanket. We’ll get your lamp and your tea, and I’ll buy one of those weird lemon candles if you miss the smell.”

That got the tiniest laugh out of him. Barely there. But his eyes softened.

“I miss the couch,” He admitted.

“I miss it too.” You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “But we’ll make this work, Bob. Just give it time.” Bob gave you a small nod, slow and silent, eyes lingering on the bare bookshelf now, like he was trying to will it into holding memories that didn’t exist yet. You let out a small sigh and reached up to touch his warm smooth cheek to draw his attention down to you.

“Tomorrow, we’ll go out,” You started gently but firmly, like it was already decided, “And we’ll pick out paint, plants, decorations, throw blankets, dumb little desk trinkets…Whatever it takes to make this place feel like it’s yours okay?” Your thumb brushed just beneath the curve of his eye, and his lashes fluttered like he wasn’t used to being held this gently.

His eyes were glassy–not with tears, but something close. That strange shimmer of overwhelm that comes when your heart is too full of quiet things. When someone sees you exactly where you are. For a long second, he didn’t say anything. Then he sighed, low and quiet, and leaned into the touch–not all the way, but enough to press his cheek into your palm, like he was absorbing it.

“…Okay,” He whispered.

The single word carried a thousand more underneath it. Agreement. Gratitude. Hope. A soft kind of surrender.

You let your hand fall away gently, not wanting to make it weird, not wanting to overstep–but you caught the way his eyes followed the movement like he wasn’t quite ready for it to end. So you cleared your throat lightly and nudged him with your shoulder again.

“Alright. Enough brooding. Come help me set up my room before I lose my mind trying to untangle all those extension cords I packed like an idiot.”

Bob blinked, then let out a small breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

There wasn’t a single second of hesitation. No pause to overthink it. He just followed–like he always did with you now. Like he wanted to be where you were, because that was the only place that made sense anymore.

Bob went back to where he had left your boxes and gathered everything into his arms again, balancing everything with pure precision, cradling the whole mess in his arms as he walked down back to your room. You tapped the panel on your own door–805–and it opened with the same quiet hiss.

He followed you slowly making sure he didn’t bump into you in the process as the door closed behind the both of you once he stepped in fully. The quiet that settled over the space was immediate and unforgiving.

The room was the exact same as his. White walls, pale oak floors, empty shelves, the bed frame with no warmth, the desk, and the wonderful view of the cityscape. You stood there for a moment, expression unreadable, then sighed, letting your shoulders relax.

“Well,” You muttered, stepping into the room a little more fully and crossing to the wide, clean-lined windows. You pressed your thumb to the side panel, and with a soft click, the glass slid open, letting in a breeze that stirred your hair and carried in the smell of the city: hot concrete, wind, and faint smoke from a food truck somewhere below. Bob set everything down in a neat row near the foot of the bed–the vacuum sealed bags, and the labeled boxes with generic scrawl ‘Desk Stuff + Nightstand’, followed by ‘Y/N’s Books,’ and ‘THIS HAS BREAKABLE STUFF IN IT DON’T DROP!’. He set that one down with exaggerated care, like it contained lit dynamite.

You put your hands on your hips.

”Guess we’ll start with whichever box is first.”

Bob gave a soft huff of acknowledgement, already crouching down and slicing open the tape on the topmost one with the side of a key he pulled from his pocket.

The first item out was your worn, pilled blanket. Fleece, with a weird faded pattern of crescent moons and stars and old Sharpie stains you swore were from high school. You plucked it from the box and immediately tossed it across the bed, smoothing it out with a flick of your wrists. The effect was instant. The sterile mattress looked lived in now.

Bob handed you the next item without comment–your bedside lamp. An old brass thing with a twisted base and a shade that looked like it had been mauled by a cat in a past life. You plugged it in and clicked it on. The bulb flickered once, then glowed with a soft amber hue that made the whole corner of the room feel warmer.

“Better,” you said softly.

Next came a small cluster of mismatched mugs–two chipped ones with cartoon characters, one heavy ceramic thing that looked handmade, and one novelty mug that said ‘Running on Coffee’. You lined them up on the desk next to your portable kettle and stash of teas and hot chocolate packets–something that you also had in your old room in your apartment as well, it was just for convenience, especially if you were enthralled in whatever you were doing and didn’t want to leave your room.

Bob unpacked your books with care, handing you each one like it was fragile. You stacked them on the shelf haphazardly: poetry first, then science fiction, then a tiny shrine to emotionally devastating literary fiction. You placed your favorite–Never Let Me Go–face-out on the middle shelf like it was sacred. Bob didn’t question it.

There was a box of trinkets and sentimental chaos next. You fished out a tiny figure of a goat in a superhero cape–a gift from Ava–a tarnished lucky coin, a broken watch you hadn’t had the heart to throw away, a photo strip of you and Bob from the CVS kiosk. You pinned that to the corkboard on your desk without a word, right above your calendar–like it was something you wanted to remember, especially because it was one of Bob’s good days during the four weeks of staying together.

Soon, the space began to fill.

Your flannel was tossed over the desk chair. A plant was set by the window–half-dead, but stubborn. You arranged your pens in a clay cup. Bob found your spare set of fairy lights and handed them over without being asked, and you looped them around the headboard, twisting the cord to keep it tight.

And then…Came the collection of posters.

You pulled the long cardboard tube free from the box with a reverent sort of care and twisted the cap until it popped with a quiet snap. Bob glanced over as you began to slide the rolled posters out, one at a time–each print carefully preserved with tissue paper and worn edges. There were no fold lines. These weren’t flimsy college dorm reprints. These were theatrical releases.

Real ones.

Bob crouched down beside you looking at them closely with curiosity. You could imagine the questions going through his head.

“I used to work at a theatre during my internship,” You said, peeling the tissue from the first one and holding it up against the light. “Whenever we’d change the marquee, they’d let the staff take whatever we wanted from the promo bin. I fought for this one.”

The poster was tall and dramatic–Vertigo by Hitchcock. Bright swirls of orange and red, the silhouettes locked in that spiraling, dangerous fall. It was striking. You stood slowly, angling it toward the wall above your bed.

“They’re all long like this,” you added. “Old school sizing. And I want them to start high and cascade down like a film reel.” You grinned to yourself. “I know it’s excessive.”

Bob stood up behind you, brushing off his hands. “It’s you.”

You turned to glance at him.

He looked a little sheepish. “I mean…You love movies…So…The r-room wouldn’t be yours if you didn’t have s-something dedicated to it…” You rolled your eyes with a quiet laugh, grabbing the removable adhesive tabs from the supply pile and peeling one open between your teeth. But when you hopped up onto the mattress and tried stretching, the top corner still sat a full foot out of reach.

You frowned and leaned on your tiptoes, paper flopping awkwardly in your hands.

“Damn it…Maybe I could get a stool or so–.”

“I could, uh–“ Bob cut in, voice low and a little unsure, “I–I could…Put you on my shoulders?” You paused mid-stretch, glancing back over your shoulder.

He was standing just behind the edge of the mattress now, hands half-lifted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you or if he’d made some kind of grave error by suggesting it. His eyes flicked up to yours and then back down to the floor, as if it might open up to eat him alive to give him a better alternative.

You turned the rest of the way around, brows lifting, poster still in hand. “You’re offering to carry me like one of those boxes over there?” You asked, motioning to the discarded cardboard.

“No! I-I mean–not like that, I wouldn’t–” He flinched a little at himself, then groaned softly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not like a box. I wouldn’t treat you like a box.”

You couldn’t help but grin at the way he stumbled awkwardly through his explanation.

“So, not like a box,” You teased gently, stepping closer to the edge of the mattress and letting the poster droop at your side. “You sure you’ve got me? Because I’m not exactly made of foam peanuts, and I just recovered from my broken ribs…” Bob looked up at you then, really looked, and something in his face shifted. Softened. You weren’t sure if it was the golden glint rising behind his blue eyes again or just the quiet steadiness that lived somewhere deep in his chest now—but it was enough.

He swallowed once and nodded “I–I know he’ll be c-careful…You’re…You.”

Your heart gave a traitorous little flip.

And then you held out your hands.

“Alright, alright…What’s the worst that could happen? Let’s do it…” He stepped close and braced his warm, soft palms at your calves, waiting for you to climb onto his shoulders with careful movements that bordered on meekness. You perched cautiously, gripping the top of his head gently for balance as you settled on the muscles shifting a bit to make sure you weren’t hurting him. His hands moved instinctively–large and steady–one resting just above the backs of your knees to keep you stable, the other hovering in case you swayed.

From your new height, the top of the wall was suddenly accessible. You could reach it easily now, the edges of the Vertigo poster fluttering against your chest in the soft breeze from the window.

“This…Is weirdly effective,” you murmured, peeling the backing off the adhesive tabs. “If anything fails with the Thunderbolts…Or New Avengers…Whatever we’ll be named…I think we could go do circus work.”

“Don’t tempt me…” Bob said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, even if you couldn’t see it. You turned the poster and pressed the top corners to the wall with slow precision, smoothing the paper down with practiced hands. The steadiness in him was almost soothing–warm and solid and unshakable. Bob shifted slightly beneath you as you pressed the last corner flat, moving his hands to the tops of your thighs–strong, but gentle. Always gentle. You could feel the warmth of his palms through the fabric of your shorts, and every so often, you caught the subtle rise and fall of his breath, steady like the rhythm of an old song you didn’t know you’d memorized.

“There,” you said softly, leaning back just enough to take in the full image of the Vertigo poster now secured high on the wall. It looked perfect–like it belonged. “One down, five to go.” Bob let out a quiet laugh, almost a breath more than a sound, and gently backed away from the wall to give you space. His hands never left your legs until the very last second–he steadied you instinctively as he shifted, his palms ghosting along your thighs before slipping away like the weight of a blanket being pulled off in slow motion.

You wobbled slightly, still perched up high, but Bob crouched at your side before you could even flinch. With practiced precision, he reached into the pile of still-rolled posters and plucked the next one out of the tube without looking. He offered it to you with both hands like it was sacred.

You took it with a quiet “Thanks,” but he didn’t move right away.

Instead, he tilted his head back to look up at you.

And in that moment, something flickered behind his eyes again–the soft, golden, like glow of a late summer sun cresting through the clouds. It wasn’t bright. It wasn’t overwhelming. Just there. Lurking in the blue like a memory half-awake. His mouth parted, barely.

You looked down at him and saw it immediately. That faint shimmer. That quiet power. That strange, ancient thing that gave him the ‘power of a million exploding suns’ as Val had coined.

Your free hand moved without thought. You reached down, ran the side of your thumb along the sharp line of his cheekbone with a featherlight touch, and felt him still completely beneath you, his eyes still locked on yours.

“Does he know me?” You asked softly.

Bob blinked once, then twice.

His lips parted again, and this time, sound came—barely more than a whisper, shaped around hesitation.

“H-He does,” He said, voice caught somewhere between himself and something deeper. “B-But he…he doesn’t remember what he did. When we all fought…” You felt his breath catch just slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say it aloud in this space. Like voicing it would make the memory real again. But he kept going.

”I think…He remembers you from the night that Val’s people gunned me down…” His eyes scanned over yours, unreadable, searching, “But I don’t know for sure…It’s like–like flashes.” Your thumb stilled against his cheek. You could feel the muscles in his jaw shift beneath the skin, tense and taut like he was trying to hold the rest of it back. His pulse was hammering against your inner thigh, you could feel it radiating into his muscles.

“W-We aren’t fully c-connected anymore,” He admitted. “At least…Not the way we used to be. It’s quieter. But also…Stranger.”

You didn’t speak. Just listened.

Bob swallowed hard, then added in a low, almost guilty murmur, “I can still do the whole s-super strength thing–I mean, clearly,” He gestured halfheartedly to where you were still balanced comfortably on his shoulders, “But I d-don’t know where he begins and I-I end anymore. It’s not like flipping a switch. It’s not that clean.”

You brushed his cheek again with the pad of your thumb. “Does it scare you?” He shakes his head immediately.

”I-It used to…A l-lot but I think I can manage it a bit b-better. You’ve been able to help w-with that.” You were about to say something–something honest, something warm, something just for him.

Maybe it was going to be “You’re doing better than you think.” Or maybe “I see you, Bob. All of you.”

But the words caught on the edge of your tongue like a thread snagging in fabric–because the door hissed open with a hydraulic sigh, and Walker’s voice cut through the room before you even had time to turn your head.

“Jesus Christ–”

Bob stiffened instinctively beneath you.

You both turned at the same time–which was unavoidable due to the position.

Walker was frozen in the doorway, one hand still braced against the panel, his eyes squinting like he couldn’t quite compute what he was seeing. His gaze flicked from you–perched high on Bob’s shoulders, one hand still cradling his face like a lover’s whisper–to Bob, who was blushing so hard it looked like he might actually combust on the spot.

Walker blinked. Once. Twice. Then gave a slow, amused whistle.

“Well…That is not what I expected to walk in on.”

“Walker,” You deadpanned, not moving from your place. “Knock next time.”

“You don’t even have a real door,” He said, walking in like he owned the place, arms crossed and boots heavy on the floor.

“I was just–s-she needed help with the posters,” He mumbled, carefully lowering his arms to begin letting you slide down. “I w-wasn’t–It’s not what it–”

”No need to explain yourselves….It’s all good.” You finally slid off Bob’s shoulders, landing with a soft thud on the hardwood, your hands brushing his shoulders gently on your way down. Bob looked like he wanted to retreat into the nearest drawer.

Walker, mercifully, spared him further commentary.

“Anyway,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Lunch just got here. Got delivered a bit late, but it’s hot. Couple boxes of noodles, some dumplings, and that weird green juice that Yelena keeps pretending she likes. If either of you want in, better grab a plate before Alexei eats everything but the box liners again.”

“Thanks,” You said simply, brushing your hand on your shorts. “We’ll be there in a few.”

Walker gave Bob a wink that made him flinch like he’d been hit with a spotlight. “Don’t take too long.”

Then he was gone, the door whispering closed behind him like nothing had happened.

The silence that followed was thick with whatever had just almost happened–suspended, tender, delicate like breath on glass.

You glanced over at Bob.

His face was still flushed. His lashes low. But there was the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Embarrassed, yes. But not retreating.

You let the silence stretch for another beat, just long enough to let the moment settle without breaking it.

Then you turned to him, voice soft, but sure.

“We’ll finish after lunch,” You said, like a gentle nudge. “I don’t trust Alexei not to start sampling the furniture if we wait too long.”

Bob exhaled a short, nervous breath through his nose–half a laugh, half relief–and nodded.

“Y-Yeah…Okay.” You reached down to the scattered pile of posters and gathered them into a neat stack, tucking them carefully into the cardboard tube like you were handling film reels from an archive. Bob crouched beside you to help without being asked, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he adjusted the cap and clicked it back into place.

“Thanks,” You murmured. You meant it for the posters. And everything else.

He just nodded, eyes flicking up to meet yours, then back down again with a faint flush still clinging to his cheeks.

You rose to your feet first, offering him a hand to stand. He took it without hesitation, his palm warm and steady in yours. You didn’t let go right away–even once he was upright again. Not until you had squeezed once, just barely, and let it go as if you hadn’t done it at all.

As you both turned toward the door, Bob hesitated–just for a second–and looked back at the Vertigo poster on the wall. The first thread of something new stitched into this blank place.

His voice was low when he spoke. “It looks good up there.”

You glanced at him with a quiet smile.

“Yeah,” You said. “It does.”

And then you left together–out into the bright hallway, toward the sounds of laughter and clattering chopsticks, and the smell of soy sauce and scorched dumplings

———————

The next morning rose slowly, spilling honeyed light across the edge of the skyline just beyond your window. It kissed the walls in soft amber streaks, warming the pale wood floors and the flannel still slung over your desk chair. The city was just beginning to wake–quiet traffic below, a distant horn, the hush of wind curling through the slight crack in your window.

You stirred beneath the weight of your fleece moon blanket, legs tangled and one arm draped across your stomach. The pillow beneath your cheek was the same one from the apartment, the cotton worn soft from too many washes, still faintly infused with the scent of lemon detergent and something unmistakably Bob–clean, warm, a little tangy from that body wash he never bothered to read the label of. You turned your face into it without thinking, breathing in deeper, letting the scent settle in your chest as you thought about yesterday.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you. Head tilted back, lips parted slightly, eyes wide and gold-touched like he was seeing something divine.

Your chest tightened a little as the image flickered back to life behind your eyes.

You could still feel the curve of his hands on your thighs, the way they held you steady–not possessive, not hesitant, just… Sure. Like you belonged there. Like he couldn’t imagine you anywhere else.

You’d meant to say something.

You had–right before Walker burst in and shattered the moment with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

But you hadn’t forgotten.

Neither had your body. Your pulse thudded low in your belly, not urgent, but present. Like the idea of him had taken root in your blood and was now blooming slowly, quietly, just beneath the surface.

You turned onto your back with a soft sigh, eyes tracing the ceiling for a few slow seconds before throwing the blanket off and sitting up. The floor was cool beneath your feet as you padded across the room, pushing your hair out of your face to cool yourself down.

You crossed into the shared bathroom, the silence between your quarters familiar now, softened by the faint scent of mint toothpaste and warm skin left behind in the air. You knocked lightly on the frame–habitual, gentle–before stepping through into his room.

Bob was already awake, bent slightly at the waist as he tugged the drawstring of his dark sweatpants into a loose knot. The hem of his maroon sweater had ridden up with the movement.

Your mouth went a little dry.

It wasn’t even that much skin. Just a sliver. A glimpse of pale muscle right beneath his navel, the edge of the soft line that led lower, disappearing into the fabric of his waistband. But there was something about the way it caught the light–casual, unbothered, unknowing–that made your pulse jump traitorously against your ribs.

It was too early for this. Too early to feel like your skin was buzzing with the ghost of his hands. Too early for your brain to short-circuit over a slouchy sweater and a knot being tied.

Bob straightened slowly, letting his sweater fall back into place. He reached up and raked a hand through his hair, tousling it gently between his fingers, like he hadn’t bothered to check the mirror yet–maybe he didn’t need to though. A few strands stuck up stubbornly, and his palm lingered for a second at the crown of his head, like he was debating whether it was worth taming.

Then his gaze slid over to you.

His eyes lit up the second they landed on your face–gentle and warm, crinkling slightly at the corners, and you felt it hit you low and soft in the chest.

“M-Morning,” he said with a small, sheepish smile. It was the kind of smile that curled just a little to one side and took its time settling in like it had nowhere else to be. “You, uh…Slept okay?”

“Yeah,” You said, and you meant it. Then, after a beat: “You?” He shrugged, rubbing at the back of his neck.

”I got…Maybe an h-hour or two, b-but it’s a new place, so any sleep is good sleep.” You gave him a small nod, agreeing with him. Bob’s eyes flicked over you–just for a second. There was a blink of hesitation before they dropped down, tracing the loose hem of your sleep shirt where it hung just past the tops of your thighs. You were still warm from sleep, hair mussed from your pillow, collar stretched just enough to show the slope of your shoulder. Nothing scandalous. Nothing intentional. But his breath still caught.

You saw it.

The way his throat flinched with a quiet gulp as he tried–bless him–to return his gaze to your face like he hadn’t just nearly lost it at the sight of your bare legs and bed-warmed skin.

His ears pinked, and he gave a small, nervous chuckle–like he had been caught red handed stealing something, “Uh…W-we’re still doing the shopping thing, right? F-for the room and all?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” You said, smiling as you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe. “Of course. I’ll go get ready.”

You turned, heading back toward your room before either of you could combust from the tension curling quietly between you. Just before you slipped out of view, you looked over your shoulder.

”Oh, make sure you eat something by the way,” You added softly, “We may lose track of time…Don’t want to risk you passing out or something.” He let out a breath that was probably meant to be a laugh, eyes following you with something tender, almost awestruck.

“R-Right, I’ll d-do that.” You gave him a small smirk, then disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind you with a quiet click, letting the buzz in the air ebb.

—————————

The store was massive.

That was the first thing Bob said–softly, under his breath–as the automatic doors whooshed open in front of the two of you and the sheer overwhelming scale of the home decor superstore revealed itself like a cathedral of curated domesticity. Neatly stacked rugs, end caps of throw pillows arranged by season, hanging plants suspended like jungle chandeliers from industrial beams. It smelled like eucalyptus, lemon oil, and waxed wood floors. Music played somewhere overhead—something instrumental, cheerful, and entirely ignorable.

“Stick close,” You teased, brushing his elbow with yours. “You get lost in the storage section and I’m not coming to rescue you. That place is a labyrinth.”

“I-I won’t,” He muttered, eyes wide as they took in the sheer number of lamps.

Despite his nerves, Bob was easy to lead. You grabbed a cart–he insisted on pushing it–and you moved together aisle by aisle, your steps steady, his just a half beat behind. He didn’t say much at first. Just sort of…Hovered. Eyeing everything like he wanted to throw it in the cart. You gave him space to acclimate, letting your fingers trail over textured blankets and woven baskets until, eventually, his hand reached out too.

The first thing he touched was a throw pillow.

It was simple–soft knit, goldenrod yellow with a stitched sun on the front. He ran his thumb over the embroidered rays like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

You watched him for a moment, then smiled.

“That’s a good one,” You said. “Warm. Soft…And the design suits you.”

“M-Me?” He asked, pointing at himself.

”Yeah…It’s the sun…And you…Y’know…Have the power of a million exploding suns…Remember?” You murmured, nudging him gently, watching his ears turn pink as he looked down at the pillow again with a sheepish smile on his face.

Bob held the golden sun pillow a second longer, running his thumb along the stitched rays like he was trying to memorize the texture. Then, after a beat, he placed it gently in the cart.

From there, it got easier.

The two of you drifted down the aisles in quiet tandem, picking out what felt right and skipping what didn’t. In the paint section, Bob stood still in front of the wall of color swatches for a long moment, brows knit as he scanned shade after shade of white-gray-beige. You could see the hesitation brewing in his eyes–too many choices, too many wrong ones.

You touched his arm lightly, drawing his gaze.

“What are you drawn to?”

He hesitated, then reached toward a swatch a few rows up. It was a soft, cloud gray with the faintest cool undertone. It looked almost blue in some light, depending on how Bob held the little tile. You took it from his fingers and read the name.

“Cathedral.” You muttered.

“L-Little dramatic for a p-paint swatch.” Bob replied, his eyebrows crinkling together slightly.

“It’s fitting I think…Could’ve been named anything though, Dolphin Gray even.” That got the smallest smile out of him. The kind that tilted the corner of his mouth before he looked away like he hadn’t meant to do it.

The employee at the counter mixed the paint while you grabbed a tray, rollers, edging tape, and a drop cloth Bob insisted was overkill because he wouldn’t make a mess, but you threw it in anyway. While the shaker did its thing, you pulled him back into the decor section. That’s when he stopped at the string lights.

“Warm white,” He murmured, almost to himself, fingers brushing the edge of the box. “Not too bright.” You nodded and added two sets to the cart.

Next aisle over, you spotted a small section of candles on a recessed shelf–there were only a few options, and they were all tucked into recycled glass jars. Your fingers drifted over a few of them until you settled on one that caught your eye. You slid it off the shelf and popped the lid off before inhaling slowly. Vanilla. Lemon. Something faintly earthy beneath it all, like ginger or roots. It wasn’t exact, but it was close. You turned and held it out to him

“This one smells like my apartment.” He took it from you immediately, cradling it in both hands like it was something fragile. He slowly lifted it to his nose, and closed his eyes, as if he was absorbing every inch of the scent. You couldn’t help but smile at the moment, at the gentleness, the calm that invaded his face, like he was remembering your living room. When he opened his eyes again, they were soft and relaxed.

“I-It really does…” He responded before slipping it into the cart without any explanation.

A few minutes later, in a section of half-price indoor plants, Bob paused in front of a small hanging basket. A trailing pothos, lush and green, leaves curling over the edge like ivy from a fairy tale. He crouched slightly to get a better look, brushing the soil gently with his knuckle.

“I-I think I’ll get this one,” He said after a moment. “Room’s got a lot of light…Feels like something should grow in it, y’know?” You smiled at his train of thought, looking down at the greenery.

“I think it’s perfect.”

He picked it up, holding the pot carefully against his chest like he was already invested in keeping it alive. It suited him more than you could’ve imagined. This gentle care. The quiet desire to nurture something in his own space. To bring life into a place that had once only held silence.

By the time you circled back to pick up the paint, the cart was full: the sun pillow, the plant, the candle, two boxes of lights, a gray fleece throw blanket, a small framed print of an old seaside map Bob claimed reminded him of something he couldn’t quite place, and a wooden picture frame you nudged into the pile without comment. For the extra photo strip you had–just in case he ever wanted it on his nightstand.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

And when you caught Bob glancing down into the cart, his eyes tracing over the soft, mismatched collection of items, you saw it: the slow, quiet realization that this wasn’t just stuff.

It was the beginning of something that could finally feel like his.

He looked over at you, his hair slightly mussed from where he’d run his fingers through it too many times, and smiled–really smiled this time.

“Thanks for helping,” He said softly.

”Don’t thank me yet, we still have to paint and get all this stuff set up.”

——————————

Back at the compound, the city traffic gave way to the familiar hush of the underground lot as you pulled into Bay 21A. Bob unbuckled quickly, murmuring something about “not letting you carry anything,” before slipping out of the car and circling to the back. You barely had time to pop the hatch before he was already stacking the bags in careful tiers against his chest, paint can balanced on top with the plant cradled like a fragile infant in the crook of one elbow.

“I can help, you know…I’m not a piece of glass,” You said, raising a brow as he adjusted the throw blanket and tucked the bag with the candle under his arm like a seasoned pro.

“I-I got it,” He insisted, cheeks already pink with effort and pride. “B-Besides…This stuff’s important. I don’t wanna j-jostle it.” He glanced down at the plant with something bordering on reverence.

You rolled your eyes fondly, grabbing only the receipt and the keys before trailing behind him toward the elevator.

Back on the eightieth floor, the moment the door hissed open to the hallway, Bob adjusted the box of lights with his forearm and moved with quiet precision down the hall like a man on a mission. You tapped the panel for his room, and as the door slid open, he stepped inside and finally exhaled.

Everything was still as it had been the day before–blank walls, stripped bed, faint echo in the corners. But the weight of your shared errand buzzed in the air like something alive now. Potential. Comfort waiting to be built.

You breezed across the room and tapped the window control again, letting the breeze rush in.

“Not getting high off paint fumes today,” You said over your shoulder. “If we pass out mid-coat, Alexei will probably assume we were huffing it.” Bob let out a breathy laugh and carefully lowered the mountain of bags to the floor.

“I’m gonna change,” You added, already backing toward the door. “Don’t want to ruin my decent street clothes.” Bob gave a little nod, brushing the back of his hand across his brow where a stray curl had fallen.

“Y-Yeah, I’ll probably do the s-same,” He murmured, already toeing off his shoes by the entryway. You ducked out with a small smile and padded back into your room, flicking on the light. The process didn’t take long, you pulled on a pair of sleep shorts–soft and worn from years of laundering–and a baggy, sun-faded t-shirt, with the Stark Industries intern logo barely visible across the chest. The hem hung loose past your hips, and the neckline was wide and flimsy. A small smear of old red paint still clung to one of the sleeves from a project you’d long forgotten.

You grabbed a few bobby pins from your nightstand and pulled your hair back loosely, pinning the front sections away from your face, before returning back to Bob’s room soon after.

He was standing by the window, adjusting the drop sheet with one hand, the soft gray fleece blanket already tossed over the desk chair behind him. The sweatpants were still the same–dark, loose, slung a little low on his hips–but the sweater was gone now, and in its place…

A white undershirt.

And not just any undershirt. The kind that clung.

It clung to him like a second skin–thin cotton stretched just slightly across his chest and shoulders, outlining the sharp lines of his upper body like someone had sketched him in soft charcoal and left the strokes unfinished. The fabric hugged the slope of his collarbones and dipped gently over the muscles in his arms–biceps carved like they’d been sculpted by Phidias. You could see the outline of every ridge, and every subtle shift as he moved. The shirt was just snug enough across his stomach to trace the flat plane there, but loose enough around the hem to flutter when he bent slightly at the waist to grab the roller tray. The light from the window hit the curve of his deltoids, casting shadows you didn’t know cotton could catch.

He looked like a man carved from warmth. Golden light bled across his skin, tracing the veins in his forearms as he flexed his grip on the tray, veins that twisted like poetry across the backs of his hands and up toward the cuffs of his sleeves. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this–but God, it still felt like it.

Every time felt like the first.

Bob looked over his shoulder and caught you standing in the doorway, his mouth parting slightly when he saw you in your baggy shorts and oversized shirt, your hair pushed back with a few stray wisps curling around your temple. His gaze flicked over you slowly–hesitantly–like he didn’t mean to look but couldn’t stop.

“Y-You, uh…Look ready,” He said finally, his voice a little rougher than before. “G-Good shirt for painting.” He added, motioning to the outfit. You stepped in slowly, trying not to stare. But he looked like something out of a sun-drenched dream. Still gentle. Still Bob. But the kind of quiet you wanted to trace with your hands.

“Same to you,” You murmured, voice soft. “Didn’t know we were modeling for a Carhartt commercial today.”

He flushed instantly, tugging the hem of the shirt like it might somehow hide the obvious breadth of him.

“I-It’s just an undershirt,” He replied, his face turning a deep red–even though his lips were twitching into a smile that was a slow bloom of nerves.

Bob’s hands moved with care as he peeled the lid off the paint can, the soft metallic creak cutting through the quiet of the room. The scent hit immediately–sharp and chemical, softened only slightly by the breeze curling in through the open windows. He crouched to pour the soft gray paint into the tray with slow, deliberate control, letting it pool into the rigid plastic until it settled into a smooth, mirrored surface.

You stood beside him, your roller already in hand, trying hard not to stare at the way the muscles in his arms tensed as he steadied the can. He looked…Absurdly good. The undershirt hugged his frame like it had been designed with reverence, clinging to every dip and line and curve that his oversized sweaters usually swallowed whole. The light caught the pale sweat glistening at his temple, and when he reached back to set the can down, his shirt pulled just tight enough across his back that you had to actually will yourself to blink.

“You ready?” he asked gently, offering you your tray like he didn’t know he looked like a golden-age painting of ‘boy-next-door who also bench presses cars for fun.’

“Born ready,” you murmured, grateful your voice came out steady.

You dipped your roller into the tray and began to work, and Bob followed without hesitation, starting from the opposite wall. The gray went on smooth and clean. It was a quiet shade–not dull, not harsh–something in-between that felt like soft stone or the sky right before a storm. It caught the light well, turning the blank sterility of the walls into something deeper. Something lived in.

You painted in tandem, the rhythm of your movements syncing without you even realizing it–dip, roll, sweep, and stretch. You didn’t speak much at first. Just worked. Occasionally you’d catch him glancing at your section, making sure your coverage was even, and you’d glance over a beat later and find that he had already finished another wall and was patiently waiting for you to catch up, roller dripping, his shirt sticking slightly to the curve of his spine.

After about thirty minutes, you both stepped back, breathing a little heavier now, speckled with the first coat and faint dots of gray flecked on your arms and calves.

“It’s… Already better,” Bob said softly, wiping his hands with a rag he’d found in the bag. His eyes were on the wall, but they flicked to you after a second. “It doesn’t feel so…Blank anymore.” You nodded, brushing a stray streak of paint off your wrist.

“Yeah. Kinda feels like a place a person might actually live now.” You both stood there in the middle of the room for a moment, shoulders relaxed, the hum of the city outside brushing the edge of the silence. And then he sat–right on the floor, cross-legged in his paint-streaked sweatpants, undershirt rumpled slightly at the waist. You followed, easing down beside him, knees knocking once before settling close.

Conversation stirred back up–light, easy and in hushed tones.

But you weren’t really listening. Not completely.

Because Bob was…Glowing.

Not in the Sentry way. Not that raw cosmic glare that split the sky. No–this was something else. Something low and golden and warm. It lived in the curl of his laugh, the tiny streak of gray on his collarbone where he’d bumped the roller against himself and hadn’t noticed. It shimmered in the way he looked at you–really looked at you, like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your smile every time it curved. And when he talked, it wasn’t just words–it was an offering. A thread pulled between you. One you both kept holding.

You realized then that you hadn’t stopped watching him for the last five minutes.

And based on the way his eyes dropped to your mouth mid-sentence–lingered there, soft and stunned like it wasn’t on purpose–you weren’t the only one.

Bob blinked once–slowly–and then again, like he was trying to recalibrate his vision. His gaze kept flicking down from your eyes to your mouth, like he couldn’t help it, like something in him had given up on pretending not to notice the way you looked sitting there beside him, sun-drenched and soft and glowing in the afterglow of effort.

Then he cleared his throat, but it came out more like a gulp. A quiet hitch of breath that gave him away.

“You, uh…” His voice barely rose above the quiet in the room. He reached up and gestured with two fingers, a small motion toward your cheek. “Y-You’ve got paint… Right here.” His hand hovered near his own cheekbone, mirroring the spot. “Can I…?”

You didn’t answer with words. You just leaned forward, heart suddenly pressing against your ribs like it wanted to rip out of you and escape. Bob’s hand moved slowly as if rushing might ruin the moment that was simmering between the two of you. His fingertips grazed your skin with a featherlight touch, his thumb brushing the smear of gray just below your eye.

He didn’t pull away when it was gone.

Neither did you.

The hush that settled between you was different now. It wasn’t silence. It was a sound held gently between two people on the edge of something too big to name. His hand lingered against your face, thumb tracing the faintest curve of your cheek like he needed to memorize the texture. And when you looked up at him you saw it.

That same light.

Not the blinding kind. Not the kind that cracked the sky and split atoms. But the kind that came just before dawn. Soft. Resolute. The kind that touched everything gently and asked nothing in return. It lived in the blue of his eyes now, threaded through with something honey-warm.

“Y/N…” He whispered, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say your name like that–soft and aching, like it meant something he hadn’t dared admit aloud yet.Your hand found his cheek the way it always did. That familiar path of comfort, of care. The one place he always let you touch, even when everything else in him trembled. Your thumb brushed just beneath the apple of it–soft and supple–and his eyes fluttered at the contact, lashes dark against flushed skin.

He leaned into it, just a little. Just enough to let you feel how much he needed it–how much he needed you.

And then the air changed.

It was subtle. A breath caught in a hush. A tremble at the edge of stillness. Like the second before rain kisses the ground. Bob’s eyes held yours–not with uncertainty, not with apology–but with care so tender it undid you. As if this–your hand on his face, your knees pressed close to his, the light painting silver across your bare shoulder–was the holiest thing he’d ever known.

“I–” he started, voice barely a sound, and then stopped. His throat moved around the words he didn’t have yet. Instead, he reached up–slowly, slowly–and covered your hand with his own, pressing it further into his cheek like he didn’t ever want it to leave.

You could feel the tremor in him.

Not fear. Not anymore.

Just the weight of everything he was finally ready to let you see.

Your other hand rose without thinking, fingertips tracing the edge of his jaw, then curving around the back of his neck where soft curls dampened with heat. You pulled him closer–just enough for your foreheads to touch. Just enough to feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your lips.

“Bob…” You whispered.

Your lips were almost touching now, but you continued to let the moment swell, and ache.

His mouth hovered a whisper away from yours, the barest sliver of air separating you–shared breath, warm and trembling. You could feel the curve of his bottom lip brush yours when he exhaled, and that smallest touch–so light, so accidental–made your stomach coil with heat. You leaned forward instinctively, but he didn’t move back.

He didn’t move forward either.

Not yet.

You felt it when his lips parted. When the tip of his tongue darted out, barely grazing your bottom lip in an attempt to taste you. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a question. A pull. And it made your breath catch so sharply that your chest almost forgot how to fall.

Then he whispered it.

Something small.

Something that cracked your ribs open with its softness.

“…I-I’ve daydreamed about t-this moment.”

His voice was low and shaken, like a confession whispered in a church pew. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he inched just closer–his nose brushing yours now, and the tremble in his hands telling you this was costing him something to say aloud.

everything in you was focused on the man in front of you—on the tremble in his voice, on the way his breath feathered across your lips, on the reverence in his eyes like he was standing at the altar of something holy.

His confession lingered between you like incense—soft and heavy, curling into your ribs. You could feel it there, warm and aching, as your thumb swept the line of his jaw. His hand was still covering yours like it was a lifeline, like if he let go, the whole world might collapse inward.

So you didn’t let him fall.

You leaned in first.

Just a little.

Just enough that your lips brushed his again—deliberately this time.

A whisper of a kiss. A promise made in the hush between heartbeats.

He shuddered the moment you touched him, and you felt it everywhere—in the curl of his fingers at your jaw, the way his breath hitched low in his chest, the quiet gasp he let out like the wind had been knocked clean from his lungs.

And then—

He kissed you back.

Not rushed. Not greedy. But slow.

So slow it made your skin prickle.

His lips moved against yours with the kind of aching reverence usually reserved for relics and prayers. It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t unsure. It was careful—like every second of it mattered. Like he didn’t just want to taste you—he wanted to remember you. Your shape. Your breath. The way your lips parted for him like a secret being told for the first time.

It was holy.

You tilted your head, deepening it slightly–your hand sliding from the back of his neck to tangle in the curls at his nape, anchoring him to you. His hands curved along your hips, firm and trembling all at once, like he wanted to pull you closer but didn’t dare.

And God–you wanted closer.

So you shifted.

One slow, smooth motion.

You moved into his lap, straddling his thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world–your knees pressing into the paint-flecked floor, your body fitting against his like you were meant to be there. Bob inhaled sharply against your mouth, and you swallowed the sound with a kiss deeper than the one before.

He melted beneath you.

You felt it–every inch of tension releasing from his body like a dam giving way to floodwaters. His arms wrapped around your waist now, strong and warm, pulling you in with a groan so quiet you could’ve mistaken it for a plea of mercy. His hands splayed at your lower back, fingers flexing like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to hold you like this.

Your lips danced together, slow and consuming, mouths parting just enough to breathe the same air, to taste the softness in each other’s sighs. His tongue brushed against yours in the subtlest question–timid but wanting–and you answered him by tilting your hips forward ever so slightly, deepening the kiss until your whole body was singing with it.

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

There was nothing else.

No city outside the window. No walls still half-painted. No ghosts of past lives or broken silences.

Just the quiet miracle of his mouth on yours–every kiss a verse in a psalm neither of you had ever dared to read aloud until now.

When the kiss finally broke, it was slow. Lingering. His lips chased yours for one last brush, like he didn’t want to stop. Like the parting itself was unbearable.

You pressed your forehead to his again, your breaths mingling, your chest rising and falling in time with his. He looked at you and his eyes were liquid sunlight, the warm glow invading the ocean blue of his irises–but they were unbearably tender.

And then he closed them tightly.

Like it was too much for him. Like having you this close was triggering something in him he needed to get control over. His hands at your waist tightened ever so slightly, as if anchoring himself. Bracing for impact.

You leaned in.

Not to tease. Not to rush. Just to give.

And with aching care, you pressed your lips to one of his eyelids.

A whisper of contact. A kiss that was less about passion and more about trust. You felt his breath stutter–his body going still beneath yours like he’d just been blessed. Like no one had ever done this to him. Not like this.

You kissed the other eyelid just as slowly.

And when you pulled back, his breath trembled out of him—ragged and low, laced with something that made your stomach tighten and your hands ache for more.

Then–

He surged forward, finally.

His mouth found yours again, harder this time. Still gentle, still reverent, but charged now. A hum of electricity laced through the softness. The kind of kiss that made your toes curl and your hands instinctively fist into the fabric of his shirt. You clung to him—not out of desperation, but out of instinct. Because of course you would hold onto him. There was nothing else in the room. Nothing else in the world.

Your fingers curled at his shoulders, dragging across the thin cotton, feeling every flex of muscle beneath it. He groaned softly against your lips when you tugged just slightly–his hands slipping lower, cradling the curve of your spine like you were something breakable and divine all at once.

You kissed him like you meant it.

And he kissed you like he couldn’t believe it.

When he finally pulled back–barely, just enough to breathe–his forehead pressed to yours again, his breath hot against your cheek. His lips brushed the edge of your mouth with every word.

“I–uh…” He murmured, voice cracked and raw around the edges, “I think maybe we should go to your room.”

You blinked, still catching your breath.

He swallowed, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. “I mean–just ‘cause–there’s a lot of paint fumes in here,” He added, clearly flustered, clearly not thinking about paint at all, “A-And I don’t wanna get dizzy and…Fall over or something while you’re…O-On my lap…”

The way he looked at you then–flush blooming down his throat, hands still cradling you like he didn’t want to let go–it was too soft to be funny. Too vulnerable to mock. You leaned in, brushing your nose against his and letting your lips ghost across his jaw.

“Right,” You whispered. “Wouldn’t want to pass out while kissing or anything.”

His breath caught again–so beautifully–and he nodded.

“Y-Yeah,” He murmured, dazed, “That would be…A tragedy.” Your lips hovered just over his skin, brushing the warmth of his jaw with a breathless smile. His hands stayed firm at your waist like he was still trying to convince himself you were real–that this was real–that you were really curled into his lap with paint on your legs and want in your eyes.

You let your mouth ghost lower, just to the edge of his neck.

Then, softly–like a secret–

“Take me to my room,” You instructed gently.

Bob inhaled sharply through his nose, fingers twitching at your hips like the words had struck something sacred in him. He blinked once, as if to double-check he’d heard you right, and then nodded–so small it was barely noticeable.

He rose with you in his arms, like it was nothing. Like you weighed less than air.

And he didn’t hesitate.

Instead of going through the hall like any rational person might have, he turned and headed straight for the bathroom that adjoined your quarters and his–taking the shortcut–the private path. You giggled under your breath at the way he moved with such gentle urgency, like the act of walking was suddenly too slow. Like he needed to get you there now.

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck as he carried you, your lips brushing the delicate skin just beneath his jaw, sucking gently at the faint stubble there. His steps faltered for a second when he felt your lips there–nothing more than a soft press of your mouth to his pulse and a little pull–but it was enough to make him grunt softly and pick up the pace.

“Y-You’re really not helping,” He muttered, breath shaky and hot, his fingers tightening just slightly around your thighs where he held you. You kissed his neck again, smiling against him.

“Didn’t realize I was supposed to be,” You replied.

He let out something that might’ve been a laugh, or maybe a groan–then fumbled with the bathroom door, kicked it open a little too fast, and spun the both of you through it like a man possessed.

By the time he reached your side of the quarters, he was a little breathless, and completely flushed–enough that you could’ve sworn you saw blush peeking through his white undershirt. You kissed his throat again, and that was it.

You felt his hands shift as he bent forward, setting you gently on the bed, your back sinking into the familiar comfort of your duvet. Bob hovered over you for a breathless moment, suspended between want and worship. His chest rose and fell above yours, his curls shadowing his forehead, damp from the warmth blooming beneath his skin. Your legs were still loosely looped around his waist, cradling him there, holding him in that weightless space between everything you were and everything you were about to become.

Then he leaned in.

And kissed you.

Not on the mouth this time. But everywhere else.

Soft, fluttering presses of lips to skin. A brush at your cheekbone. Another to the edge of your brow. A third to the tip of your nose, which made you let out the kind of breathy laugh that pulled something tight in his chest.

He kissed your forehead last, and lingered there, just long enough to let you feel the shape of it. When he finally pulled back, his hands slid gently to your thighs. He rubbed slow, reverent circles into your skin–paint-flecked, warm from effort, bare from mid-thigh down. His thumbs pressed into the dip just above your knees, and then, with a soft inhale, he murmured–

“Let me go lock the door…So we don’t get interrupted.”

His voice was low. Still frayed around the edges with awe.

You nodded, your legs loosening around his waist as he coaxed them gently down with the flats of his palms. You let them drop to either side of him, feet brushing the floor now, knees parted slightly around where he still knelt between them.

He rose with quiet care, and you sat up slowly onto your elbows, the hem of your oversized shirt falling back into place, bunched slightly around your hips. The cotton was thin and soft and stretched with sleep, one side still slipping off your shoulder. You shifted your weight just slightly, legs swinging idly off the edge of the mattress, watching him.

The room glowed with the kind of light that only happened at dusk.

Evening had begun to settle behind the skyline just outside your windows–cool shadows bleeding slowly across the hardwood floor. But the city’s sunset didn’t reach this far into your quarters. Not fully.

Instead, the soft amber glow of your nightstand lamp lit the space.

It cast everything in a warm, golden haze.

The bulb was shielded behind a woven linen shade, diffusing the light until it looked like honey melting through gauze. It hit the edges of the room with a quiet softness–just enough to turn skin to candlelight and shadows to velvet. The kind of light that made everything feel slow and sacred. That turned every breath into something you wanted to hold.

You watched him walk across the room barefoot, his white undershirt clinging to his frame like it was woven from sunlight and tension. The muscles in his back flexed beneath it, pulling at the thin fabric just slightly with every movement. His hand reached for the sleek panel on the wall near the entryway and pressed his thumb to the edge of the glass.

A quiet chime confirmed it. The soft swoosh of magnetic locks sliding into place.

And still–he stood there for a second longer, his hand lingering against the door panel.

You saw it, even from across the room.

The rise and fall of his shoulders.

The silent inhale. The weight of the moment catching up to him in the hush between the lock and the turning back.

Then he did turn.

And when he looked at you, it was like gravity itself had shifted–like you were the axis now.

That soft glow from your bedside lamp painted amber along the edges of his jaw, spilling gold into the hollow of his throat and casting his frame in the kind of warmth usually reserved for cathedral windows or old film reels. His undershirt clung to him in the most unfair way–ribbons of cotton stretched delicately over muscle and tension, bunched slightly at the waist from where your legs had wrapped around him only moments ago. And yet, he looked…Hentle. Steady. Like something you could pray to if you didn’t know better.

He came back to you slowly.

Each step measured.

Deliberate.

His gaze never left you–not once–as he returned to where you sat on the edge of the bed, your thighs parted just enough, feet brushing the hardwood, shirt draped long over your hips. You shifted as he approached, moving like you meant to scoot farther up the mattress, to lay back and make room. But his hand stopped you. Gentle. Firm.

“N-No,” He said, voice soft but sure. “I…I want to stay here. L-Like this…Trust me.” Bob leaned down, hunching slightly to meet your mouth where you sat at the edge of the bed–legs parted, eyes glowing in the lamplight, waiting for him like gravity waited for stars. His hands braced on either side of your thighs, and then he kissed you again–slow and a little clumsy this time, the angle not quite perfect, his spine bending to reach you. But it didn’t matter.

You moaned into it anyway.

Because he was right there. All of him. The weight of his chest against yours, the tension in his arms, the way his breath hitched as your hand slid back up beneath the hem of that cruel little undershirt.

Your fingers clawed at it. Not delicately. Not with patience. Like you needed it gone. And Bob–sweet, reverent Bob–broke the kiss just long enough to whisper,

“Y-Yeah, okay–hang on–”

His voice cracked as he tugged the shirt over his head in one rushed motion. The cotton caught briefly on the back of his neck, then slipped free with a quiet shh of static and landed somewhere near your feet.

And then there he was.

Bare.

Bathed in lamplight.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You had imagined this. Of course you had. It was always in flickers and flashbacks–like when his scrubs had been practically shot off him when he distracted Val’s special ops so you, Walker, Ava, and Yelena could escape the vault. But this–seeing him like this, lit in soft honey gold, the shadows of his body sloping into the hollow of his ribs and the rise of his chest—this was different.

He wasn’t chiseled. He wasn’t flawless. But God, he was real.

The kind of real that could wreck you again and again and you would say thank you.

His skin was flushed, warm from exertion, and his arms flexed where they framed you–long and lean, thick in the right places, his veins peeking just beneath the surface like scripture written under skin. His shoulders were broad, with scattered beauty marks kissing his skin, and all you could do was bite the inside of your cheek.

Your eyes drank in every inch.

And then your hand followed.

You reached for him–almost reverently–palm sliding flat against his stomach. The skin there was soft, but the muscle underneath twitched, hard and sudden, at your touch. His hips jolted the barest bit, a sharp inhale escaping through parted lips.

You let your fingers drift up.

Across the ridge of his abs, over the slight dip between his pecs, tracing a slow, steady line up the center of his chest.

“You look like a god,” You whispered.

And he hummed.

Low. From somewhere deep in his chest. Like the compliment vibrated straight through him and he couldn’t contain it.

His head dipped as he let out a breathless sound against your cheek–half a laugh, half a groan. “Th-That’s… That’s not true…”

You pressed your hand flat over his heart.

“It is,” You murmured, voice soft but insistent. “You’re the sun, Bob. You shine.”

And he hummed again–longer this time.

The sound of it curled between your legs like silk.

He shuddered a little, then kissed you again–harder this time, deeper, like he didn’t know what else to do with the feeling. You moaned into it and dragged your nails lightly down his ribs just to feel the way his body reacted to you–twitching and shifting a bit.

And when you whispered, “God, I could worship you like this,” His breath hitched so hard he nearly stumbled.

His breath was ragged now–hot and uneven where it puffed against your cheek, like every single thing you said was costing him control he barely knew how to hold onto in the first place.

“You…” He rasped, voice frayed and unsteady, like it was coming from somewhere much deeper than his throat, “You don’t… You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You smiled against his jaw.

“Yes, I do.”

His hands gripped the blanket–white-knuckled, grounding himself in the cotton and not the way your voice made his muscles twitch beneath your touch.

“You don’t understand,” He whispered, eyes squeezed shut, like he couldn’t even look at you without giving something away. “I… I can’t keep–if you keep saying things like that–if you look at me like that–I don’t know if I’ll be able to—”

His voice broke off with a shuddering inhale. His whole body trembled slightly over yours, caught between restraint and desire, and God, it was glorious.

You lifted your hand again–slow, gentle–and brushed your knuckles along his cheek. The scruff there was warm and soft, velvet over steel. He turned his face toward the touch before he could stop himself.

“Look at me,” You whispered.

He hesitated.

But only for a second.

Then he opened his eyes.

And it confirmed everything.

That glow wasn’t just a metaphor. It wasn’t poetic. It was real. His irises shimmered like molten honey shot through with starfire–like something barely leashed beneath the surface had opened a single, trembling eye.

The Sentry.

You saw it flicker there. Just enough.

Not violent. Not threatening. But watching.

And you smiled.

“I was right,” You murmured. “You really are the sun.”He tried to look away again. His throat bobbed with another hard swallow, his arms trembling where he held himself over you.

“You’re playing a d-dangerous game,” He warned, voice hoarse. “I don’t think you…I-I don’t think you know what you’re asking for.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking for,” You breathed, sliding your hand down the curve of his ribs, across his waist, back to the firm plane of his abdomen. He flinched under your palm, hips jerking forward slightly before he caught himself. “I want all of it. I want both of you…And I know you can control it.”

Bob let out a sound then–something low and wrecked, somewhere between a moan and a growl, like the words had reached some part of him buried deep and sacred.

“Y-You don’t understand,” he whispered again, almost begging this time. “You don’t u-understand what you’re doing.”

You cupped his jaw and kissed him again, slow and hot and certain, your tongue sweeping into his mouth like a vow. His hands flew to your thighs, fingers gripping tight now, anchoring himself there as he kissed you back with everything he had. Desperate. Consuming.

And when you pulled back just enough to speak again, lips brushing his as you said it–

“I do understand.”

You leaned in and dragged your teeth lightly along his bottom lip, and his whole body shuddered.

“And I want it anyway.”

He groaned–loud this time. No holding back. No shame. Just the pure, guttural sound of a man unraveling.

And when he kissed you next, it wasn’t careful.

It was devotional. No longer the soft, trembling offering it had been moments prior. This one was hungry. A little rough around the edges. A gasp swallowed. A whimper chased. Bob’s hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt like he couldn’t stop himself, and you arched up instinctively, giving him the space–giving him everything.

The fabric lifted slowly, dragged over your ribs, baring warm skin to cooler air. You raised your arms, and he pulled it over your head in one fluid motion. His breath caught when he saw you in the golden light, chest rising with something close to reverence.

Then his hand slid behind you, trembling but sure, fingers working the clasp of your bra. It came undone with a quiet snap, and he slipped the straps down your arms with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. He let it fall to the floor like something holy, something he would not dare to crumple.

And then you laid back.

Slow, easy.

Your shoulders met the mattress first, followed by the curve of your spine, the arch of your hips, and the duvet puffed beneath you, soft and sun-warmed from the light still pouring through the linen lamp shade. Your chest was bare now, rising and falling with anticipation, skin kissed in shadows and gold.

Bob just stared.

And for a second, he didn’t move.

Because you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

The way the light painted across your collarbones, soft and sloped. The subtle curve of your breasts, rising with every breath. The softness of your belly, the delicate line of your ribs. You looked like art. Like a myth. Like something that should’ve only existed in dreams.

He swallowed hard. His eyes shimmered.

And then, slowly, he sank to his knees between your thighs again.

His hands slid up your sides–warm, large, trembling just slightly. He mapped every inch of you like he needed to learn it by heart. His palms ghosted over your waist, up the softness of your ribs, and then…

He cupped your breasts carefully.

And let out a sound so low, so shattered, it made you ache.

“You’re…” He whispered, voice catching, “You’re s-so soft… So—God—beautiful.”

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, and the contact sent a ripple through you—sharp, electric. Your back arched slightly, and he leaned in without thinking, mouthing gently at the swell of one breast while his hand continued to cradle the other. His lips were warm. Open. His breath huffed against your skin as he kissed, sucked, nuzzled—like he couldn’t decide what to do first.

“You’re perfect,” He whispered again, voice rougher now–lower, tinged with something molten that flickered beneath the surface.

His mouth closed around your nipple–slow and hot–and you gasped aloud, your fingers threading into his curls as your thighs shifted on either side of him. He moaned into you. Soft. Almost desperate. His tongue flicked gently, again and again, drawing it into his mouth with a devotion that bordered on worship.

“You d-don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured between kisses, dragging his mouth across your chest to give equal attention to the other. “Y-You’re everything… Every fucking thing–”

His voice cracked again, and this time there was no mistaking it.

That tone.

Just slightly deeper. Not quite his. Not quite the Sentry either–but something born of both.

It vibrated through his chest, warm and unsteady, like two frequencies overlapping. He kissed you again–lower now–over your ribs, then your navel. Every press of his lips was filled with awe. His hands stayed at your waist, holding you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable.

“I c-could die right here,” He whispered, his voice still shaking, still fighting to stay human. “You…You’d be the last thing I see and I’d be okay with it. I swear, I—”

His mouth found your stomach, trailing down with the heat of his breath and the brush of his lips, his hands never stopping their gentle, grounding rhythm. Circling. Worshipping.

You reached down, fingers finding his jaw, guiding him up for another kiss. And when he kissed you again, it was with more hunger. More heat. But still careful–still Bob. Even when his hands roamed again–up, over your ribs, back to your breasts, where he cupped them and whispered broken praise between kisses.

“So soft… Fuck, you’re so soft…Please let me… Let me love you–let me remember all of this–”

His voice shook with restraint, with reverence, with want so deep it nearly broke you. Your fingers still cradled his jaw when you whispered it.

“I’m yours.”

You didn’t even realize the words were leaving your mouth until they’d already cracked the air between you open like a vow, and Bob stilled like you’d just spoken the incantation that undid him.

His breath caught, sharp and audible–like his lungs didn’t know whether to inhale or collapse. His eyes fluttered shut. And when they opened again, they glowed. Not bright. Not blinding. But deeper. Gold laced in blue. A quiet surrender written in starlight.

His hands clenched at your waist, and his voice came out low. Lower than before. The edges rasped with something rough, barely reined in. Like the Sentry had pressed just behind his teeth, watching from the shadows of his throat.

“Can I…” His voice broke. He swallowed hard. “Can I take these off?”

His fingertips brushed just beneath the waistband of your shorts–trembling, reverent, barely there.

“Yes,” You breathed, hips tilting upward in offering.

He let out a sound like a prayer and leaned forward to kiss your mouth again–deep, slow, aching–before pulling back and sliding down the bed. His hands rose to your hips, and with careful fingers, he began to peel your shorts and underwear down your thighs. Inch by inch. Like unwrapping something sacred.

He didn’t rush. Not for a second.

He took his time baring you to the honey-colored light. His gaze never left your skin–like he was memorizing every inch, every curve. Like this was the moment he’d waited his entire life for.

And then, when the cotton hit your knees, he paused.

He bent forward.

And kissed the top of your thigh.

Soft. Open-mouthed. Warm, and wet. Doing the same to the other.

His breath stuttered, and he sank lower–kneeling now. Fully. Both palms spread wide across your thighs, grounding himself there. And it made sense then, why he had stopped you from crawling back on the bed. Why he kept you on the edge like this.

Because it let him kneel. It let him worship. He kissed your thighs like they were holy. Lips brushing up toward where you ached for him most, the anticipation a silk-wrapped noose around your lungs. He looked up once, just once, and the heat in his gaze nearly burned you alive.

“I-I’ve wanted this,” He whispered, breath trembling against your skin. “I’ve dreamed of this–of you–just like this…”

He didn’t finish the thought.

He didn’t have to.

Because his mouth descended, slow and devastating.

A kiss–directly over your folds.

Tender. Lingering. His breath was warm. His lips parting against you in something deeper than intention.

You gasped–soft and sharp–as his tongue followed, slow and exploratory, dragging upward with a pressure that made your whole body seize. He moaned into you. Like the taste of you had broken something open inside him.

And then he did it again.

And again.

Until your hips were arching. Until your hands were in his hair. Until all you could hear was the wet, reverent sounds of him worshiping you like you were his only tether to the world.

He kissed every part of you like it mattered. Like he could feel your heartbeat in his mouth. His hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting, spreading, cradling you wider. His thumbs pressed into the crease where thigh met hip, holding you open for him, and he groaned–deep, low, wrecked–as his mouth found your clit.

He sucked gently, lips sealing around it, and your whole body jerked. A breathless cry ripped from your chest, and you felt his hands tighten, grounding you. His tongue circled, slow and sure, his lips sliding against you in worshipful rhythm.

“Bob–” You gasped, the name slipping out like a plea. “Oh, my God–”

He moaned again–vibrating against you–and the sensation made your head fall back. The edge of the mattress bit into your spine, your legs trembling where they hung over his shoulders, and still–he didn’t stop. He didn’t even falter.

His mouth moved like it was built for this.

Slow. Devoted. Intoxicating.

You felt the tension coil–tight and deep–in your belly, in your spine, in the backs of your knees. And Bob felt it too. You could tell by the way his hands gripped tighter. The way his tongue flicked just a little faster, more precise now, teasing and coaxing as he devoured you. He drank your sounds like nectar. Like every moan was oxygen. His own breath was ragged now, and still–he praised.

“You taste like heaven,” He whispered, lips brushing you wet and wanting, voice thick and torn in two. “So fucking sweet–so good–God, you’re everything–”

You were shaking.

You were unraveling.

Your thighs clenched around his shoulders, and still–he stayed locked in place, mouth relentless and full of worship. One hand slid up your belly to your chest, grounding you again, his fingers curling over your ribs while the other stayed hooked beneath your thigh.

And then–

He flattened his tongue and dragged it up the center of you, slow and hard, and sealed his mouth around your clit one last time–sucking, flicking, groaning into you with a desperation so tender it broke you wide open.

The orgasm hit like sunrise.

Warm. Blinding. Slow at first—and then fast and full, like light spilling over the edge of your bones. Your whole body arched into him. You cried out–his name, the stars, everything–and his arms locked around your hips, holding you steady as he worked you through it, mouth still worshipping, still licking, still kissing every quake of pleasure like it was a gift he’d been waiting a lifetime to receive.

And when you finally collapsed–boneless and glowing, chest heaving, eyes wet with aftershocks–Bob pulled back slowly, lips slick, face flushed, and looked up at you like a man reborn.

He was breathless.

Shaking.

But his eyes were molten gold.

“You’re…Everything,” He whispered again, voice reverent. “Everything.” The words melted into your skin like heat, and when he spoke next–his lips still brushing just above your knee—it wasn’t just Bob.

“I want to give you another one…”

His voice was wrecked. Darker. Threaded with something molten and greedy.

“I want to feel you fall apart again, just for me…”

Before you could speak–before you could even breathe–his hand slid up the inside of your thigh. His fingers were slow, wet from where he’d worshiped you moments ago, and when they reached your center, he groaned softly at the heat still there.

“So warm,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Still trembling for me.”

Then—you felt it.

The press of two fingers, thick and slow, gliding through your slick folds, parting you with devastating precision.

You gasped—legs twitching from the aftershocks still fluttering through your body. “B-Bob—wait—”

But he didn’t pull away.

He looked up at you, eyes glowing—lit with starlight and hunger—and smiled. Soft. But feral.

“I know, baby,” he whispered, fingers still dragging gently through your folds. “I know you’re sensitive. But I promise—I’ll be so gentle.”

And he was.

Even when he slipped the first finger in, and then the second—stretching you slow, curling inside you with aching care—his touch was worship. His breath shook with restraint, with reverence, with something barely caged beneath his ribs.

You cried out—half from pleasure, half from overstimulation—as his fingers began to move. A steady rhythm. In and out, in and out, curling at the top each time until sparks flared up your spine.

“You’re doing so good,” he rasped, eyes locked on yours. “So fucking good for me.”

The pace never quickened. But the pressure built. And built.

He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your thigh with every stroke, like he was timing his mouth to your unraveling. Your hands fisted in the duvet, your hips twitching every time his fingers brushed that devastating spot inside you—and still, he moved like a man being fed by your pleasure. Like this—wrecking you gently—was salvation.

“I can feel you,” he whispered, voice thick. “You’re clenching around me already, aren’t you? You’re so close…”

You whimpered, nodding, barely able to hold yourself up.

He pulled his fingers nearly all the way out—then pushed them back in, slow and deep, curling them harder this time. You choked on a sob.

“I want it,” he murmured. “Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go again—one more. Just one more for me.”

Your thighs shook. Your lips parted on a gasp as the pressure bloomed hard and fast this time—your body raw and exposed and aching for him.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your inner thigh as he worked you open on his fingers. “I want to see your soul when you come. Please, baby, show it to me.”

The second orgasm hit like a wave breaking against rock.

Rougher. Hungrier. You cried out again, back arching clean off the mattress, thighs locking around his wrist as you shattered all over him. The sound that tore from you wasn’t pretty–it was real. It was desperate. It was a gift.

Bob groaned–deep and guttural–as you pulsed around his fingers, your release soaking him, your voice ragged and broken as you whispered his name again and again.

He didn’t stop until your body finally slumped back against the sheets, spent and shaking, your skin glistening with sweat and devotion.

Only then did he slide his fingers free slowly, and lift them to his mouth.

He sucked them clean.

Eyes locked on yours.

And when he finally stood–shoulders heaving, sweat dripping down the curve of his throat–he looked like a god descending from whatever mythical place they belonged to

The Sentry was still there in the golden flicker of his eyes. Greedy. Glowing. Waiting.

“Now,” He said, voice low and reverent as he reached for his waistband, “I’m going to make love to you.” You were still gasping, chest rising in sharp, uneven waves, your limbs spread across the bed like they’d melted into the duvet. Your fingers twitched where they gripped the sheets. The light from the nightstand made everything feel golden and close, like time had slowed just for the two of you.

Bob moved carefully.

Softly.

You barely noticed at first–only the shift of pressure beneath your thigh, the way his hand skimmed under your back. But then he was there, lifting you just enough to guide you farther up the bed. His touch was trembling but sure, all Bob again–no flicker, no pulse of divinity. Just the man. The hands that had brushed paint onto your walls, the voice that had whispered to you in the dark when nightmares clawed through the silence.

“L-Lay back,” He murmured, eyes searching your face like he needed permission again. “J-Just wanna get you comfortable…”

You nodded, boneless and warm, your heart still fluttering in your chest.

He kissed your neck as he helped you settle, lips brushing right where your pulse fluttered. It wasn’t sexual, not yet. It was grounding. Anchoring. The kind of kiss that said you’re safe. That said I’ve got you.

You sighed against him.

And when he pulled back just enough to stand again, his hands went to his waistband.

He hesitated.

Only for a second.

But then–he slipped his thumbs beneath the edge of his sweatpants and boxers, and pushed them down slowly, hips rolling just slightly as the fabric slid over his thighs.

And there he was.

His erection stood proud and flushed, the head a soft blush red, glistening at the tip, his length thick and veined–aching and heavy with want. It wasn’t just beautiful–it was intimate. Unfiltered. Bob, exposed. Unhidden. And yet… utterly perfect.

You inhaled softly, lips parting around a soundless gasp. He looked vulnerable like this, not in shame, but in reverence. He wasn’t flaunting it. He wasn’t posing. He was present.

Breath stuttering slightly, Bob stepped out of the bunched fabric around his ankles and nudged it aside with his foot before crawling onto the bed, careful not to jostle you too fast. He kissed your knee first, then your hip, then the soft underside of your ribcage, working his way up your body with aching, deliberate slowness.

You reached for him without thinking, needing to touch all of him now. Your hands slid across his chest, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your fingers, the little tremors in his arms. He nestled between your thighs as he reached you fully, bracing himself on one forearm while the other arm hooked gently beneath your thigh, guiding it up and around his waist. Then–

He slipped one arm behind your neck.

Cradling you.

Like you were the most precious thing in the world.

His hips rested just above yours, the heat of him brushing your center, not yet aligned–but enough to make you both moan at the contact. His body blanketed yours, but not heavily. He held himself up with care, like every ounce of pressure he applied was measured, considered.

His lips found your throat again, this time pressing just below your jaw. “Y/N…” He whispered, voice cracking. “T-This is all I’ve e-ever wanted.”

You turned your head, your lips brushing his temple, then his cheek.

“Bob,” You breathed. “You’re so good. You’re so perfect…I want you so bad.”

He let out a shuddering sound. A whimper, almost. And when he kissed you again–open-mouthed, lips dragging along your collarbone–you felt him whisper something against your skin.

“I’m gonna go slow… I–I wanna feel all of you. I want you to feel me.”

His voice stuttered again, and that alone almost undid you. Because it was him.

Not the Sentry.

Not the glowing power that had shimmered behind his irises. Just Bob–soft, trembling, and wrecked with love, and holding you like you were divine.

Bob shifted just slightly–allowing his hand to slip between your bodies, low and slow, until he wrapped his fingers around himself. You could feel the tremble in his arm as he lined himself up, the heat of him pressing right where you were still soaked and aching for him.

“Okay?” he whispered, eyes searching your face.

You nodded–barely, breath caught in your throat–and lifted your hips just enough to meet him.

His hand slipped to your thigh, guiding it back up around his waist, and then–

He kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Tongue brushing yours like it was a prayer. And as your mouths moved together, slick and open and gasping, he began to press in.

The stretch stole your breath.

The head of him pushed into you, thick and hot and slow, and your lips parted with a gasp that he swallowed greedily. His whole body shuddered over you as he sank deeper–inch by inch–your walls fluttering around him, still trembling from the afterglow of the orgasms he’d already given you. Every nerve ending felt raw and alight, turned inside out by pleasure, by sensation, by him.

“Oh my God,” you whimpered, nails digging lightly into his back.

He moaned into your mouth–long and low and desperate–and pushed in further, your body yielding for him, stretching to accommodate the full length of him. His hips trembled with restraint, his hand never leaving your thigh, thumb brushing small circles into your skin to soothe you as he sank deeper and deeper.

You felt full.

You felt wrecked.

You felt like you were being split open in the most perfect, intimate way–and still, he didn’t stop. Not until he bottomed out completely, hips flush against yours, his chest heaving above you like he couldn’t believe it was real.

And then…

He stilled, breathless, inside you.

His forehead dropped to yours, and you could feel the sweat on his skin, the warmth of it, the shiver still running through him as he tried not to move. He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then your temple–his lips brushing each place like a whispered offering.

“You feel…” He choked, “You feel so good–so warm–so soft–”

Your hands slid up his back, anchoring there, and he kissed the corner of your mouth again.

“I don’t ever wanna move,” He whispered, voice wrecked and thick and glowing at the edges. “I just wanna stay right here. Inside you. Forever.”

You whimpered, barely holding onto your breath, your hips twitching slightly beneath his.

”Bob…I’m all yours and…My god you’re amazing.” He groaned against your skin–low and needy–and kissed the tip of your nose, your eyelids, your throat.

Then, softer–

“Tell me when,” he whispered. “I won’t move until you’re ready.”

You breathed in slowly, body still adjusting to the stretch of him, to the heat and fullness and sheer beauty of having him this close. His thumb was still brushing lazy circles against your thigh, the other hand stroking your hair back from your temple.

And then you nodded.

You turned your face to his, kissed him slowly, and whispered:

“Now.”

He moved.

Just a little.

Just enough for you both to feel it–just enough for the glide to send a shudder through your spine. His hips drew back, slow and measured, and then pressed forward again with aching care. Your mouth dropped open around a moan—his name falling from your lips—and he echoed it with a broken sound of his own.

Every thrust was deliberate.

Every movement was a confession.

Every time he sank back into you, he gasped–like the sensation was too much, like he still couldn’t believe you were real beneath him, taking him in, holding him so tight and perfect and wet.

“You’re perfect,” He rasped, hips rocking into you slow and deep, his lips never straying far from your skin. His hips rolled into you slowly filling you with each deep, reverent thrust like he couldn’t bear to pull away too far. His lips trailed up your jaw, brushing your cheek, then your temple, and every time he bottomed out, he moaned like your body had answered a question he hadn’t dared to ask.

You gasped again–sharp, breathless–your back arching into him. The motion pressed your chest to his, and your nails curled slightly into his back. Just enough to drag. Just enough to leave a faint trace.

Bob shuddered. His breath hitched, and he groaned–low and ragged–into your skin.

“D-Do that again,” He begged, voice breaking, “God–please–do that again.”

You did. Fingertips digging a little deeper this time, dragging down his spine, and the reaction was immediate–his hips stuttered, rhythm faltering with a gasp that sounded possessed with pleasure.

His head dropped into the crook of your neck, his voice muffled against your skin.

“Fuck–you feel like heaven–you are heaven–” He breathed, hips beginning to move again. A little faster now. Still deep. Still careful. But urgent.

His hand cupped the side of your face, brushing hair from your cheek, and the other remained locked at your thigh, holding it high around his waist. You could feel every inch of him–the stretch, the heat, the connection–and God, it was unbearable how good it felt.

“I’m not hurting you a-am I?” he whispered, just barely audible. “T-Tell me if I am, tell me–”

“No,” You gasped. “No, Bob, it’s perfect–you’re perfect–please don’t stop–”

That made him whimper. His whole body shivered above you, and you felt the light from the lamp begin to shift. It had been warm and muted before–but now, it pulsed. Like a heartbeat. Like something responding to the heat in the room. Each time he thrust into you, it grew just a little brighter.

Neither of you noticed at first–too lost in each other, in the intimacy coiling tight between your bodies–but you felt it. That warmth. That power building in the air. The glow of something just beneath the surface.

Bob kissed you again–messy, deep, almost broken–and your hips rolled up to meet his. You were moving with him now, chasing the friction, your body writhing beneath his, needing it. Needing him.

“I-I can feel all of you,” He moaned, pulling back just enough to look down at where your bodies met, his voice wrecked. You keened at the words, thighs tightening around him, heels pressing into the backs of his legs. He was fully inside you now with every stroke, and you could feel another orgasm building, hotter and faster than before–simmering low in your belly, pulsing in time with the light around you.

His face hovered over yours, sweat clinging to his temple, lips trembling with restraint.

And his eyes–

They glowed.

Bright now.

The Sentry wasn’t gone.

But he wasn’t in control, either.

Just there. Watching. Letting Bob feel it all. Letting him worship you with everything he had—every thrust, every kiss, every broken praise.

His voice dropped, deeper than before. Still Bob. But laced with something else.

“Where do you want me?” He asked, his breath hot against your cheek. “Where do you want me to come, sweetheart?”

You met his eyes–gold and blue and glowing–and you moaned through clenched teeth, your whole body beginning to tremble again.

“Inside me,” You gasped. “Please, Bob–I want you to come inside–I want to feel it–want to feel you fill me up–”

He snapped.

His rhythm faltered. His hips ground against you harder now—still deep, but no longer controlled. There was hunger now. Desperation. He chased it with everything he had, every stroke punctuated by breathless moans and praise, his mouth dragging along your skin like he couldn’t stop kissing you, couldn’t stop telling you how perfect you were.

“Gonna give it to you,” He choked out. “Gonna give you all of it—fuck—you’re mine—”

The light in the room brightened to a crescendo–gold washing over every surface, turning the walls to fire and your skin to sun-kissed silk. And just as you felt your orgasm snap again–fast and hard and all-consuming, your body tightening and convulsing around him–

Bob let out a broken moan, that sounded like he was on the brink of crying. He was out of breath, and so hot it felt like he had fallen from the sun.

And then the lightbulb burst.

Glass popped with a sharp, cracking sound, shards raining harmlessly inside the shade as the room flickered and dimmed.

And he poured into you.

Thrusting deep one last time–hips locked against yours, arms shaking, his name echoing from your mouth as his pleasure hit–blinding and endless. He held you through it, his body shaking over yours, gasping your name like it was the only word he knew.

And somewhere–distant, muffled–you heard raised voices. Muffled arguing, like yelling.

But it was all far away.

Because your ears were ringing.

Like someone had struck a tuning fork behind your ribs and sent the vibration through your entire body. You could feel the aftershocks echoing in your spine, down your legs, across your fingertips still curled in his back.

Bob’s body trembled against yours, skin damp with sweat, chest heaving like he’d run miles through a sunstorm just to get to you. He didn’t move—not right away. He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, his forehead resting against the curve of your shoulder as he whispered your name again. Softer this time. Wrecked. Worshipful.

Your hands were still in his hair, fingers brushing through the damp curls at the base of his neck, your heartbeat thudding in your throat. Your whole body felt molten—boneless and glowing, like you’d been struck by lightning but kissed by it too. And the warmth between your legs, the slow throb where he still pulsed inside you, grounded it all in something sacred.

You shifted slightly—just enough to feel him twitch as he began to soften, still deep inside, your bodies tangled like ivy in the low light of the room.

He kissed your collarbone. Then your jaw. Then your lips—slow and trembling, a thank-you in every brush.

“I-I love th-that I get to call y-you mine…” He breathed, barely audible against your lips.

One of your hands cupped the side of his face, thumb stroking his flushed cheek, and he leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut.

But then…

The sound of shouting finally cut through the quiet.

Your eyes opened.

Bob’s head lifted slightly, brow furrowing. Somewhere down the hallway—muffled through the compound walls—came the unmistakable sound of bickering. Loud. Confused. Walker’s voice, sharp and irritated. Yelena’s voice following with something distinctly Russian and exasperated.

“…I’m telling you that wasn’t the oven–” Walker yelled.

“Then what was it, genius? Light bulbs don’t just explode like that!” Ava screamed.

“Maybe you sneeze too hard–” Alexei chimed in.

“Oh my God, shut up, all of you–there’s glass in the hallway–”Bucky interrupted.

Bob pulled back slowly, just enough to look at you. His eyes were still a little dazed, his hair curling at the temples from sweat, and his cheeks were flushed pink from effort and something more vulnerable, and then he glanced over at the remains of your lamp's lightbulb. The connection was immediate.

”Oh…O-Oh Jesus Christ…” He whispered, and you watched his face go a deeper red. “Oh god…T-They’re gonna know it’s me…W-What the hell is wrong w-with me?” You let out a soft and breathless laugh, before reaching out to caress his face.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.” You leaned in and gave him a gentle is on the lips, as he groaned.

”I just b-blew every lightbulb on this level…God o-only knows what e-else I did.” You snorted, now picturing every level of the Tower needing replacement light bulbs and tears of laughter began prickling at your eyes.

And Bob, still buried inside you, still flushed and glowing, started laughing too. Quietly at first. Then louder. The kind of laugh that shook through his chest and softened everything. Like the sound of guilt melting into joy. Like sunlight cracking through the last remnants of a storm.

”We’re definitely going to need a really good excuse.” You murmured, leaning forward to steal another kiss, earning a soft hum from Bob.

”I k-know…But that’s f-for future us t-to worry about I think…”

[traumaone]

Lead The Way

pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Senior Resident!Reader

wordcount: 3.3k

warnings: mentions of cheating, age gap (late 20s and late 40s), brief mention of human trafficking (suspected in a patient)

synopsis: after over a year of pining over Robby, reader gets into a relationship to try and get over him, and gets cheated on. Robby (after putting up with a snippy reader) comes to the rescue

masterlist

!! not proofread so apologies for any mistakes !!

5:34 am

An hour on the treadmill this morning and the loudest, grittiest metal playlist you could find had done nothing to burn away the pure vitriol coursing through your veins.

Eight months of your life now wasted with one of the stupidest men on earth just so you could find him screwing a med student in your apartment. It hadn’t even been the act of catching them that had hurt the most, no, it was the fact that you hadn’t had a chance to break-up with the asshole before he’d screwed you over.

Embarrassment and rage were working double time to keep the fire burning in your chest even as you stepped through the doors of the ED. Your home, your sanctuary, now tainted by your thoughts about the fact that you’d been cheated on by a plastic surgeon.

Dana knew something had happened the moment she’d spotted you walking through the waiting room, back a day early from holiday and almost an hour before your shift, had you even been working, would’ve started.

“You look like you’re about to bring the wrath of God down on this place, kid.” Dana teased, but there glint of concern in her eyes.

“I don’t even have the words right now.” You leaned against the front of her desk, gripping the counter so hard you were sure it would leave marks.

“Let's start with why you’re back a day early from the break you desperately needed.”

That simple sentence sent another wave of wrath through your body.

“I’m well aware I needed the break, and it was fantastic until I came home last night to find my boyfriend screwing one of his med students in my bed.” You spit out the last part in a harsh whisper, careful to not let the elderly patient being wheeled by hear you.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Dana’s mouth was agape.

“I save lives for a living, Dana. I’ve lost count of the number of patients I've treated.” You ranted, running your hand down your face in exasperation. “I have manually pumped a human heart with my own hand, and he pumps implants into trophy wives… and he cheated on me.”

“Woah, woah, you got cheated on?” Ellis had somehow, despite having a usually recognisable gait, snuck up on you, her brows furrowed in concern and anger.

You let your head fall against your folded arms, letting out a groan as you heard Dana chuckle. Ellis’ hand rested on the middle of your back, comforting and familiar.

“Is this that asshole you met at the conference Gloria sent you to?”

You let out another groan at the memory. Gloria had insisted someone from the ED attend a conference on the modernization of emergency medicine (read: how to prioritize money over patient care). Robby, Gloria’s favourite man to torment, had been the obvious choice. He was an attending, pretty much the face of the ED at this point. And you, an ex-nightshift senior resident, not enough of a people person to be sent to a conference meant for networking, were completely powerless against the look in his unbelievably sad brown eyes when he’d complained to you about it over coffee, and offered to take his place.

It had been miserable, a weekend filled with board members who had never set foot in an ED telling you, an actual doctor, how you should be doing your job. Coping came in the form of multiple glasses of whiskey in the hotel bar, and that was when you met Preston. Overly charming, a little slimy, even, but he was there, sitting in front of you, and the man you wanted was not.

He’d wooed you, paid for your drinks, commiserated with you over how stupid this conference had been, asked to take you out to dinner when you both got back to Pittsburgh, and you’d agreed. An obvious mistake, but hindsight is always 20/20.

“The very same.” You nodded, peeking out from beneath your arms.

Ellis scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “Who was that guy anyway? You never talked about him.”

A fact you were very grateful for at this moment.

“He was a plastic surgeon at Presby.” You explained, wincing as the words left your mouth. “I caught him with one of his med students last night.” 

“Of course you did, he was a plastic surgeon.”

You shot Ellis a glare.

“Okay, sorry.” She relented, raising her hands in surrender. “Not the time.”

“Not the time for what?” Abbott, the newest member to your pity party, questioned, regarding the three of you with a suspicious glance.

“Not the time to keep digging into my personal life.” You recovered quickly, halting any attempts from Dana or Ellis to spill your problems. “Got a case for me?”

Abbott frowned, but pointed at the board above you. “Got a girl in central fourteen who needs pain management for endometriosis.”

“I’ll head there now.”

You pushed away from the central counter with a soft smile from Dana. Abbott tracked you across the room with his gaze, not unusual, but you knew he wasn’t going to let what he’d seen at the front desk go easily.

As predicted, once you’d set your bag down at your desk Abbott had appeared at your side, his head slightly tilted as he tried to catch your eyes.

“You okay?”

Abbott was your oldest, if not your closest, friend since you’d started at the ED. you’d done your first three years of residency with him before switching to the day shift. According to Robby, he still called you his best resident. It’s not exactly a false statement. During the massacre that had been pitfest, the two of you had fallen back into your old rhythm, moving like a well oiled machine even after a year apart.

“I’m fine. Just had a rough start to the day.” You forced a smile that in no way convinced Abbot.

“You wanna go get some air before you start?” He offered, a knowing look on his face.

Abbott had introduced you to his ‘special spot’ after you’d lost your first patient. You never crossed the railing, not like he did, but you had found there to be something humanising about watching the sun set over the city.

“I’m good, I promise.” You assured, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze. “Just need to get in the groove.”

“If you change your mind you know where I’ll be. Sunrise is looking real nice this morning.” Abbott raised his brows at you, nodding towards the door to try and lure you away.

“Unlike you, I’m not a slacker.” You laughed, pushing at his shoulder. “Now leave me alone. I’m busy.”

“You don’t even have a patient yet.”

“Busy!”

7:22 am

Your first hour had passed by in a blur. You made your way through a patient needing pain management, road rash after a triathlon, botched boob job (not done by your ex, unfortunately), and an incredibly cute baby with an overcautious new mom before Robby had walked through the door.

He’d shown up in his usual uniform; dark cargos, scrub top with a clean white tee underneath, and his favourite hoodie with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. A simple outfit, yet somehow the most alluring thing you’d ever seen a man wear.

He’d taken a quick glance to the board, said a good morning to Dana, and taken the long way to the stairwell, sparing a quick glance into the room of your only current patient on his way. He and Abbot had created a small morning routine, meeting each other on the roof where they could debrief in private before descending to the chaos of the ED.

You envied that kind of relationship. You and Ellis had been close when you were still on night shift. The only two female residents on shift, commiserating over your dead social lives and keeping a tally of all the drunken patients who’d hit on you. She’d made work fun for you.

Collins, Landgon, and Samira weren’t bad company, they were honestly great, but shifting your entire work crew after three years had thrown you for a loop. They were all welcoming, but three years of working together had naturally formed bonds that unintentionally kept you on the outskirts, not as much anymore, but things had been lonely at the start.

Robby, however, had taken you in immediately. You’d spent years hearing stories about him from Abbott, reading the notes he left in your charts, hearing patients talk about how handsome the doctor from the shift before had been. He’d been intimidating at first, but it had only taken you your first shift to realise the two of you got on like a house on fire. Even Gloria had made a comment on it.

“Um, excuse me?” Whitaker’s voice brought you out of your reverie.

“Whitaker, good to see you.” You greeted, tapping into your computer to edit a chart. “How’re you doing?”

“Not too bad, a little tired.” He answered, shrugging his shoulders. “How are you?”

“I’m not doing too bad. Do you need me?”

Whitaker’s cheeks flushed at your phrasing. “Oh, um yes. A patient just came in with who she says is her aunt, but their dynamic’s a little… off.”

“Aunt’s answering questions for her? Patient checks in with the aunt before answering anything on her own? Both insist on not being separated?”

“Yeah, exactly that.”

You nodded. “And just to double check, the patient is above eighteen?”

“Yes, she’s twenty-six.”

That made you turn your head. “Okay, could just be a strange dynamic, but let's flag Kiara and I’ll come check it out.”

Whitaker led you to the patient, taking you straight past the stairwell Robby and Abbott had just emerged from.

Robby caught you by your shoulder, guiding you back so he could see your face. “You got a minute?”

You shook your head, pulling away from his touch. “Whitaker needs me for a possible case of trafficking. I’ll come find you after?”

His brows furrowed, his eyes searching your face for something you couldn’t figure out, but he nodded.

“Sure.”

8:07 am

“Hey, you still need me?”

Robby sat reclined at your desk, his glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose as he read over a chart.

“How’d things turn out with Whitaker’s patient?” He asked, peering at you over the rims of his glasses. 

God, you loved it when he did that, but your moment of enjoyment cut itself short for professionalism.

“It was a good catch on his part. We put the girl in a private room under the guise of a pelvic exam and Kiara is with her now.”

“Nicely done. Keep me updated when you learn any new information.”

“Yes, sir.” You nodded, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet. “Did you need me for anything else, or…”

“Abbott mentioned that you seemed a little bit off this morning. Came in a day early, at five in the morning no less.”

“Rat.” You muttered under your breath. You should’ve known that Jack would say something. “I’m fine, just caught a case of cabin fever. ‘M not used to having so much time off, just needed to get into the groove of things again.”

Robby nodded, but you could tell immediately that he hadn’t fallen for the lie.

“Okay, just remember I’m around if you need me.”

“Of course.”

11:48 am

Robby should’ve been focusing on his patients, focusing on the med students he had been tasked with teaching, but each time you crossed his path he couldn’t help but take a moment to admire you.

He could still remember the first shift he’d ever worked with you.

You were Abbot’s best resident, the nurse's favourite doctor (donuts and coffee every Sunday had secured you that position.), and despite being an R3, the two of you had never crossed paths.

Sure, he’d seen glimpses of you from across the ER, read the sticky notes you left scattered around your desk, had a million and one patients ask for the ‘charismatic, young doctor’ from the night before.

After almost three years of unsatiated curiosity, Robby had made peace with the fact that you’d become nothing more than an urban legend in his life. That was until a year ago when Abbott had needed him to cover a night shift, something to do with the wedding of an old friend he’d served with.

You’d greeted him with a smile and a fresh cup of coffee, shook his hand, and told him Abbot talked about him so much you felt like you already knew him. Robby had repeated the sentiment and tried to match your smile, but he was slightly too aware of just how soft your hand felt against his.

It had taken him less than an hour to realise why Abbot liked you so much. You were incredible at your job, even better with the patients, and the moment an urgent trauma had crossed the doors of the ambulance bay, you transformed. Warmth had quickly been traded for brutal efficiency. Your every move was clean, smooth, practiced to perfection.

Robby had been hooked on you by the end of the shift.

He hadn’t made a move on you. Even after only an hour he’d known you were miles out of his league, not to mention that the gap in age hadn’t been anything to blink at. He’d been sure you’d have no interest.

He’d clearly been wrong.

The shift had ended without incident, only a few immediate cases had come through the ambulance bay, but other than that it had been the victims of drunken brawls, sick kids, and elderly people falling in the dark.

You’d stopped him outside, laid a hand on his arm, offered him the sweetest smile he’d ever seen and told him how much you’d loved having him on this shift, and made him promise to say hello when your shifts crossed paths. It hadn’t been a declaration of love, but it had opened a new door.

He’d spent the next few weeks clocking in just a few minutes earlier, catching you just as you crossed the threshold back into the outside world. Robby would flirt (in his own way), and you’d flirt back. It had been a good start to his mornings, made him feel a bit younger, put a new pep in his step.

After a particularly long day, he’d found himself up on the roof with Abbott, staring out at the city looking for a reason to keep going, and Jack, as if he’d read his mind, had dropped the bomb that you were switching to the day shift. He hadn’t specified why, had just accused Robby of stealing his best resident. That simple sentence had kept him fueled for the next week.

The true nail in his coffin had been almost a year ago. You’d fallen on the sword for him, taken his spot at yet another ridiculous conference Gloria had insisted someone from the ED attend. That had been the moment he knew he was falling in love with you. And he fell fast.

He’d spent the entire week you were gone thinking about you, planning the best way to ask you out for dinner without forcing you into a corner if he’d read the signals wrong. And then you came back, exasperated by the amount of ridiculousness you’d put up with over the last week, as happy to see him as he’d hoped, but with a dinner date for a week ahead locked in your calendar.

You were incredible, he couldn’t blame another man for noticing, he’d just wished he’d noticed sooner.

Robby had spent the next eight months watching parts of you slowly fade away. Your smile lost its usual sparkle, your hair didn’t shine under the fluorescent lights the same way it used to. He had asked you about it, pressed you for details on more than one occasion to no avail. You always seemed to be carrying a weight on your shoulders, until this morning.

Even without Abbott’s words bouncing in his head, he could tell something in you had changed. Your eyes looked tired, shadowed by bags under your eyes, but that weight he’d noticed had finally seemed to leave your shoulders. Even with your exhaustion (and snappy attitude), you seemed lighter, happier than he’d seen you in months.

He knew he’d get the information out of you eventually, but for the time being he was just glad to see your true smile again.

7:21 pm

One death, four close calls, and one too many idiot patients later, You found yourself on the cool bench across from the hospital, beer in hand as you laughed with your coworkers. Robby sat next to you, as usual, a serene look on his face as he watched Perlah and Princess argue semantics about an old patient.

As the calm night washed over you, the guilt of snapping at Robby finally settled in your stomach. It hadn’t been fair of you, it wasn’t his fault your ex had turned out to be a piece of shit. A cruel part of you had still blamed him though, thinking that if he’d acted on the feelings you hoped he had for you, you wouldn’t have had to put up with subpar treatment for eight months.

One by one your coworkers headed home, wishing you a good rest of your night and promising to see you again in the morning. Before you knew it, only you and Robby were left in the comfortable silence.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you today.” You spoke softly, picking at the tab of your beer can. “I took out my anger on you and it wasn’t fair.”

“Thank you.” Robby nodded. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

You let out an exasperated sigh. “Do you remember that guy I’ve been seeing?”

Robby nodded again, a small frown furrowing between his brows.

“I found him in bed with one of his med students last night.”

Robby let out a heavy sigh, his head shaking slightly as he looked down at his shoes. “That is…”

“Yeah.” You almost laughed. He didn’t even need to speak for you to know what he would’ve said.

A moment passed before he spoke again. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” You let the laugh escape you this time. “He was an absolute asshole.”

Robby laughed with you. “I didn’t know much about the guy, but what I did know, I didn’t like.”

That shot a strange feeling up your spine.

“Wanna know the worst bit?” You asked, pushing down the feeling.

“Of course.”

“I was more upset about the fact that I didn’t get to break up with him first than I actually was about the cheating.”

He laughed, a true deep laugh, the kind you heard rarely but loved.

“You shouldn’t have to put up with that shit.” Robby lectured, resting a hand on your knee where it almost brushed his. “As cliche as it sounds, it’s worth waiting for someone who you know will treat you right.”

“Someone like you?” You questioned, suddenly emboldened by the alcohol coursing through your veins.

Robby paused, his eyes flitting from your eyes to your lips for a split second. “I’m not sure I’m the man you want.”

“I know you are, Robby.”

His calloused hand moved to rest against your face, his thumb tracing over the ridge of your cheek. In the subtle glow of the park lights you could perfectly see his features, those gentle brown eyes you could never seem to forget. You leaned in, brushing your nose against his in a quiet invitation.

The feeling of his lips against yours had been more perfect than you’d imagined. They were slightly chapped, warm, and just right. His beard scratched against your cheeks in a way that made your thighs ache.

He pulled away after one kiss, ever the gentlemen, and rested his forehead against yours.

“Let me take you back to my place.” He begged, brushing a quick kiss against your cheek. “I’ll wash your clothes, walk you back to work in the morning.”

You struggled to bite back the smile on your lips. “Lead the way.”

[neodazed]

enhypen - 🎀 - raw offer

enha!xfem!reader - letting them hit raw for the first time

includes: hee, jay, jake, riki (cuz i didnt think it fit for sunoo and hoon that much, and i have a longer similar fics for won coming up)

warnings: unprotected sex (obviously), breeding kink, mentions of actual breeding, rough sex, pull and pray, creampies, lowkey implied noncon BUT ITS CON, reader is different in all lol, lmk if i missed smth

guys dont mind the header not being pretty im in a depressive episode rn my asks are open tho

masterlist

HEESEUNG

Top three raw lovers in Enha for sure.

Like, he has been wanting to do it raw since your very first time, but that was unfamilair terrority for you, so he didn’t push it.

But you were able to see it.

The subtle distaste on his face every time he unpacked the condom, and positioned himself, feeling the latex keeping him from feeling your pussy around him.

Maybe he couldn’t help it, maybe he did it on purpose, so you’d feel bad and just give in to his (your) desires.

Whether it was intentional or not, it was working. You got that damn Plan B after pills, you doubled the punctuality of your already instense everything shower, and now you are ready.

Well, mostly. Still nervous, and thinking about all the possible way this could go wrong, or like, what if it won’t even feel any better and you did all that for nothing? Embarassing. You better see those dark bambi eyes roll back to know it was worth it.

His reaction to this is already paying off a big part though.

‘Oh yeah? You did that just for me?’

You nod, a little shy under his deep gaze. He’s currently hovering over you in bed, after a long makeout session you literally broke with saying “I bought Plan B”. First, he was taken aback, then he started to smirk like he is doing now, which you weren’t sure what kind of smirk was, somewhat unusal.

‘You want me to fuck your little pussy raw?’ Heeseung tiltshis head to the side, one of his hands already in your tiny sleeping shorts. It’s kinda weird, because that wasn’t originally your idea, but…you do want it, right? So you nod, not even sure if it was a real question.

He suddenly grips your jaw, harsh, and forces a firm eyecontact.

‘With words, Y/N. Answer me.’

Oh so it is.

‘I-I do…’ — Clearly still not enough — ‘I want you to fuck my pussy raw’ A messing blush that you are, seriously. Way too crude.

When he pushes in, you start to get why he’s kinda obsessed with this idea.

He’s obviously a lot more into it now, judging by the way he’s snapping his hips forward, and bruising your tights by gripping them so hard.

And…

‘Fuck, I’m coming inside. I can, right? — He answers his own question before you could even breathe — Of course I can. I’m filling you up, I’m- gonna breed you full’

Wait, pause.

Full? Breeding? That’s not-

Suddenly, he’s roughly rubbing your bundle of nerves, and the words on your throat die and evolve into whimpers of pleasure. He takes that as a firm ‘yes’.

His cum is hot inside you.

JAY

God, you're both so into it.

You were literally just both hesitant to bring it up without sounding like an absolute freak to the other.

Because it wasn’t just the feeling of each other without layers — it was the feeling of the risk, the possibility.

What would happen if he actually ended up impregnating you? No one really cares about that in the moment when a specific wish slips out of your lips as he drags the red, angry head of his cock to your cervix and back with every thrust.

‘Please, Jay, i-inside’

His hips shatter, pausing for a minute.

‘Inside? Baby, are you sure?’

Despite his question, he’s still not stopping entirely, his slower, but deeper thrusts keeping you both on edge.

‘Yes, yes-please, come inside’

No more reluctance, just his hand finding your throat, pinning you to the bed and pounding his big load into your eager cunt. When he pulls out after the last thrust, he sees his cum drip out of you. Might be the prettiest sigh he’ve ever seen.

Yeah, he might have ran for Plan B after this, but it was pretty hot.

JAKE

You and Jake are at a party. You came with some of your friends, but as the night went on, you eventually separated from them.

Some shots down, a little bit of dancing (your back aligning with Jake’s chest and ass grinding back against his crotch), he pulls you into a bathroom upstairs. No questions, just sloppy kisses, dress pushed up, belt hitting the floor, boxers and panties pulled to the side.

You are both tipsy, so even you, who is usually the more thoughtful and cool headed one, loses focus, which results in you only noticing that Jake is bare, when he has already pushed the swollen head past your rim.

‘Jake, wait! You didn’t put on a condom!’ You gasp, grabbing his shoulders.

‘Babe, we don’t have a condom!’ He whines into your neck. He stopped when you told him to wait, but he is still half-buried inside of you, and doesn’t make a move to pull out.

You’re ready to scold him and tell him to pull the fuck out, but when you make eye contact with him, you already know you’ll let him. Because damn he’s good at this whole ‘desperate, almost crying but holding on’ look.

And yes, he was a whiny mess.

‘Ah, Y/N, fuck. You feel so good- why haven’t we done this before?’

And you would smack him for that if it wasn’t so good.

RIKI

It all started with running out of condoms and the sentence ‘I’ll just grind down, I won’t put it in’.

And now Riki’s long, thick length is sliding through your folds, drawning out low groans of him and soft gasps from you. He is pulling your soaked thongs aside with one hand, and grips himself with the other, pumping his whitish liquid out of the angry head of his cock onto your mound.

He also leans down to give those sloppy kisses of his just in the right moments, and the way he licks into your mouth and pushes his hard shaft against your clit makes you want to suck him in like a vacuum. Or whatever.

And, you know, it might have been too slippery, you might have been too lost in the moment to notice that he is, well…inside. You both let out probably the filthiest sound so far.

Warm. Hard. Pulsing.

Warm. Tight. Gasping.

Feeling each other deep inside without anything in the way had to be the hottest thing in the world.

And you couldn’t move.

‘Should I pull out?’ He asks, but he is still pressing you down, and he has pushed all the way in now.

He should. You’re not in the situation to just do it like this, but…

‘No, don’t’

It’s all a blurry mess of chase after that.

Long story short, he cums into your more than one time, and you leave your pretty white rings around even more times by the end.

[xazse]

Ahhhh I loved your reader hybrid works, literal chefs kiss 😩🤌 can you pls pls pls do a bunny! Reader x Suguru and Satoru

You can’t!

Synopsis: Poor Bunnygirl and puppyboySatoru are experiencing the worst heats ever, good thing their owner Suguru is there to take care of them.

Notes: Hi I decided to bring in our Puppy!BoySatoru if you don’t like it just let me know and I’ll revise this entire thing for you!!

Pairings: Puppy!HybridSatoru x Bunny!GirlReader x Suguru

Warnings: Hybrid!Reader + smut + humping + Hybrid!Satoru + drooling + licking + penetration + lots of cum very nasty + Suguru is a good owner + collars

Suguru is exhausted when he read online that getting a hybrid would take a lot of work they weren’t lying especially Bunnygirls and Puppy!Boys.

He thought he would be ready and prepared, it should be a walk in the park! Of course bumps and falls would occur but with someone as patient as Suguru everything will turn out fine.

A year in everything was so fucking perfect, You and Satoru listened so well he really lucked out with the two of you. Most people would complain on online forums that handling was the hardest thing.

The issues started arising when you and Satoru started getting needy, you were kinda independent before but now you both are always on or under Suguru, you both felt the need to always have your hands on him, roaming his body and even touching each other. More issues started to come when it felt like you and him were so feverish and always sore.

A quick google search brought Suguru to the page of hybrid heats. It happens often and can be unpredictable, it’s slapped in his face and he isn’t sure what to do

“Please-Suguru hurts so bad..”

He surely wasn’t expecting to walk into the scene he’s seeing right now, Satoru laid on his back with you atop him, tears are brimming in both your lashes it looks like you two have been crying and whining for the longest time.

You’re in nothing but panties and a thin tank top with him sporting just his underwear. Satoru’s cock is fully hard pressed agains’t your cunt so snugly and he’s already made a mess: his cum seeping through.

It looks like this is what you two have been doing for all this time, just grinding against each other. He feels terrible, he hadn’t taken the time to fully explain what would be happening to your bodies.

He makes his way over to his dumb pets and you both follow so obediently, leaving each others arms to fully envelope in his. Satoru starts licking and sucking on his neck, he isn’t shy to rub his cock so blatantly, smearing his thick load even more.

He needs to teach his hybrids how to pleasure themselves whilst he isn’t here, he stops Satoru from his suckling. He gently has you lay down admiring just how cute you look, your ears are standing at full attention but your hazy eyes aren’t all there.

He pulls off your sticky panties, a clear line of your cum visible when they’re discarded.

He’s met with an even messier sight when admiring your pussy, your folds are glistening as well as his fingers when he teases your little clit.

Suguru positions Satoru in front of your spread legs, he isn’t sure what to do with himself besides following Suguru’s every direction.

Suguru dips his fingers in your cunt again, guiding them to Satoru’s mouth he has him suck them clean.

Satoru absolutely loves the taste of you, he groans so lewdly as he’s lapping up what’s left of your essence.

When he finishes that up Suguru grabs Satoru’s leaky cock with a rough grip and taps it a few times on your soddened clit, this elicits a few moans out of the both of you. It feels so good already, and yet Suguru can’t wait to show you both just how good cumming feels.

He guides Satoru’s hips pushing his sensitive pink tip past your tight entrance.

“Ahh..ngh…”

The whimpering starts, poor puppy Satoru’s brain can’t comprehend this feeling, he knows the pleasure part of his brain is needing more but his body wants to pull away at the same time, he’s scared at how wet and hot it feels. He isn’t telling Suguru to stop so he continues.

His bunny isn’t fairing any better, you’re gripping the pillows for dear life as a fat cock, something foreign pushes inside of you for the first time.

Suguru sets a slow nice pace, hands still on Satoru’s hips guiding him inside of your wet cavern and out again and again. He’s doing all the work but he doesn’t mind one bit.

Suguru pauses working Gojo into you and lets him feel you, for real this time. Your walls are twitching and clamping down on him so hard.

He slides down into the crook of your neck and cries right there, it’s such a sad sight but so arousing at the same time.

“Cmon Toru, gotta make bunny feel good too.”

Satoru listens and begins licking your sensitive neck, he knows that’s a weak spot of yours, always triggering it when he’s roughhousing with you. His hips begin speeding up, the wet sounds of your cum mixing together and being slammed against one another is loud and bounces off the walls.

You cry out loud letting Suguru know that you feel weird, your tummy feels weird and it’s hurting. He reassures you and says to just let it go.

Suguru teases and grabs Satoru’s balls, head diving into his first load of the afternoon, it’s a good bit of cum he produces, Suguru is going to spend a good hour cleaning the both of you up!