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nicholasluvbot · 5 months ago

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ㅤㅤI'LL LIKE YOU ✶ 보이넥스트도어

𝑓emale 𝑟eaderㅤ۶ৎㅤidol!reader & idol!bndㅤ☘️ㅤONETHOUSAND / fluff ʚɞ non established relationshipㅤ( CLiCK FOR MORE )

alternatively ───── when your fans ship the two of you together.

myung jaehyun.

jaehyun is the epitome of shy but calculating.

in front of you, he can barely string a full sentence together. he isn’t even able to look you in the eyes, his voice shaking as he blurts out, “y-you’re really talented. um—i, uh—really like your new song,” before practically sprinting away, face turning beet red.

fans live for his adorably flustered behavior, constantly making jokes like, “it’s not his fault he went to an all-boys school and has no information about the other chromosome in his database.”

but what they don’t know is how hard jaehyun works behind the scenes to fuel the ship.

he’d scroll through your instagram for hours, obsessively studying your outfit choices, your favorite colors, even the brands you wear.

then, out of nowhere, he’s spotted wearing suspiciously similar clothes to yours, down to the tiniest details. fans, of course, catch on quickly, posting side-by-side comparisons of your photos, sending the internet into a frenzy.

when asked about it, jaehyun acts surprised, laughing nervously while scratching the back of his neck, “haha, i guess we just have similar tastes?” but inside, he’s thriving. he’s totally smug about it—he knows he’s been caught, but he’s secretly loving the attention.

when the members start teasing him, saying, “didn’t you just buy that bracelet because you saw yn wearing the same one?” jaehyun’s face turns bright red as he stutters, “n-no, i just like the design, that’s all.” sure, jaehyun... we’re all buying it.

park sungho.

sungho is a walking contradiction.

he tries so hard to act cool when the ship is mentioned, brushing it off with a shrug. “ah, fans are just having fun,” he’d say, his tone so nonchalant it almost seems convincing. but his red ears? they give him away every time.

fans live for the moments when he accidentally lets his guard down. like when someone shows him a video of you during a variety show—he’d sit there watching quietly, trying to suppress a smile, his lips twitching ever so slightly. but then jaehyun would chime in loudly, “why are you smiling so much?” causing sungho to immediately snap, “i’m not!” his voice a little too defensive as he avoids all eye contact, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.

if you ever approach him at an event, though, his whole “cool guy” act crumbles. he’d stammer out a polite greeting, bowing so low and so awkwardly that his members have to stifle their laughter in the background. his hands fidget nervously, and he can barely meet your eyes.

later, when clips of the interaction inevitably surface online, fans zoom in on the way sungho sneaks lingering glances at you throughout the event. they also catch the soft, almost dreamy smile he wears whenever you’re speaking. within minutes, the clips go viral, with captions like, “bro is down bad.”

when he’s alone, though, he replays the clip of the two of you interacting like he’s preparing for a dissertation, his eyes glued to the screen as he analyzes every detail—how close you were standing, the way your voice sounded, and whether or not you smiled at him. his members tease him relentlessly about it, but sungho just mutters, “it’s not a big deal,” even though he knows he’s so far gone.

lee riwoo.

he is so obvious it hurts.

fans catch him dancing to your songs a little too much during livestreams, his grin wide and his moves full of energy, as if he’s the biggest fan. “it’s just a catchy song!” he insists, trying to downplay it, but the way he lights up whenever your music starts playing says so much more.

his real feelings become painfully clear when you invite him to do a dance challenge together. on the outside, he’s all smiles, nodding eagerly, but on the inside? he’s screaming. internally losing it.

the moment you step into the same frame, though, his usual confidence evaporates. he stumbles over the choreography, his nerves getting the best of him, laughing awkwardly as he messes up. fans immediately notice how red he goes, and they absolutely eat it up. meanwhile, you just find him adorable, completely unaware of how flustered he is.

he’s a shy babygirl™ through and through, so whenever someone asks about it directly, he stammers, looking to his members for help like they’ll come to his rescue.

fans catch on quickly, noticing how he starts fidgeting, avoiding eye contact, or blushing whenever your name comes up in conversation. he denies being affected, always trying to play it off, but his members totally snitch on him during live streams, exposing how he practices greeting you in front of the mirror, muttering to himself, “hi, yn, i’m jaehyun, nice to meet you…” while his face turns as red as a tomato.

obvious, but too cute for words.

han taesan.

this man is a pro at subtlety.

he doesn’t outright acknowledge the ship, but fans quickly catch on to how much effort he puts into feeding it.

during music shows and award events, he’s always in the background, staring at you like you hung the stars in the sky, and it's so obvious that fans can't help but point it out. whenever you’re on stage or accepting an award, he’s just there, soft smile plastered on his face, his eyes shining with pride. fans zoom in on clips of him, his gaze lingering on you, and caption them with things like, “taesan’s proud bf energy!” and the ship goes viral.

he’s definitely the type to secretly read fanfiction about the two of you..

when the members tease him about how much he lights up whenever your name comes up, he completely freezes. sungho teasingly asks, “taesan, didn’t you say you wanted to collab with yn?” and taesan, flustered and caught off guard, panic-answers, “n-no... i mean, maybe... let’s move on,” but you can tell he’s dying on the inside, trying to keep his cool. secretly, though, he’s probably rehearsing how he’d casually talk to you during the collab

he’s the type to subtly bring you up in interviews, too—“yn’s songs are great; i’ve been listening to them a lot lately”—just to see if fans catch it. and spoiler alert: they absolutely do.

kim leehan.

the definition of soft.

the first time he sees a ship edit of the two of you, his reaction is straight out of a romcom. it’s almost too cute to handle—he lets out an embarrassed laugh, his hands immediately flying up to hide his smile. “ah, fans are so funny,” he says, but his voice is so much softer than usual, and his blush? it gives him away. his ears turn red, and he’s absolutely melting inside, not knowing how to react to being the subject of such a sweet edit.

whenever he’s around you, he can't even hold a normal conversation without giggling nervously and stumbling over his words, offering compliments in the most awkward yet endearing way. and then there’s that awkward pause where he starts fidgeting, trying to salvage what little dignity he has left. but it's clear to everyone that he’s completely flustered and totally into you.

Still, fans adore how genuine and sweet he is, especially when he unknowingly matches his mood to yours—smiling when you’re happy or looking concerned when you seem tired.

kim woonhak.

woonhak is so loud in denying the ship that it’s painfully obvious he’s head over heels in love with you.

during live streams, as soon as fans even hint at mentioning you, he immediately shouts, “no way! that’s not true!”—almost too loudly, as if trying to convince both the fans and himself.

but behind the scenes? he’s absolutely dying. when no one’s looking, he’s re-watching every single interaction the two of you have had, replaying the moments over and over, giggling nervously and trying to convince himself it’s not a big deal, but deep down, he knows it’s everything to him.

his members absolutely love stirring the pot, casually bringing you up just to see woonhak completely flail. “didn’t you say yn’s your ideal type?” taesan asks with a smirk, clearly enjoying the chaos. woonhak's face goes red in an instant, his eyes wide as he shakes his head vigorously. “i NEVER said that!” he insists, but everyone can see the way his lips twitch into a nervous smile, the way his hands fidget. fans eat it up, capturing every moment of him flustered.

he’s definitely the type to act all cool in front of everyone, but when it comes to you? he turns into a nervous, giggly mess.

once, he accidentally liked one of your posts while scrolling through your feed, and when fans pointed it out, he immediately went into full denial mode, spamming “NO” on weverse and trying to distract everyone by starting a random conversation about something totally unrelated. but in his mind, he's already panicking—did they see that?

even when it’s not about you directly, you can see how his mood changes whenever your name is mentioned, like his face softens a little, or he just gives a tiny smile that he tries to hide. he’s loud, energetic, but soft for you in ways that he’s too embarrassed to admit.

ㅤㅤiRAㅤ:ㅤwe all know what inspired me to write this 🤭

ㅤㅤ•ㅤㅤfeedback 🗯 reblogs ───── highly appreciated ˆᗜˆ

tags @sgz-net @kstrucknet @k-films

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myrleius · 7 days ago

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unscheduled — aizawa s.

aizawa s. x detective fem!reader│wc: 4k

synopsis: It's late. You're working. And Shota brings fast food.

cw/tags: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship, suggestive themes

The office is quiet, save for the low hum of your laptop, the occasional creak of old plumbing, and the steady scratch of your pen across paper.

The overhead lights are off, replaced by the soft glow of your desk lamp and the blue light of open tabs—city surveillance footage, license plate databases, a paused video from a bodega robbery.

You’d been reorganizing your notes for the last hour, half out of necessity, half to keep your mind from spiraling after thirty-two hours with little sleep.

You’re mid-sentence, scribbling something about time discrepancy, when you felt it. A warmth at your back, a slow exhale ghosting over your neck.

Arms eased around your waist. Familiar. Strong. And oh-so gentle.

You stiffened for a breath, instinct prickling—but then you melted.

“Detective,” Shota murmured, voice low against your ear. “A word?”

You sighed, letting your eyes flutter shut as the pen slipped from your fingers. “Mmm… you’re going to say two,” you murmured back, your lips quirking into a smile. “Probably ‘go’ and ‘home.’”

“Funny,” he said, pressing a kiss to your nape. “I was going to say ‘come’ and ‘here.’”

A quiet laugh bubbled from your throat. You slowly turned in his arms and there he was—tired eyes, dark circles, hair tied back loosely. Stupidly handsome, as always.

You leaned up to kiss him, soft and quick, before wrapping your arms around his waist. Tucking your face in his shoulder, you breathed him in. He smelled like clean soap and night air.

It had been two months since you last saw him.

Your gaze caught on a plastic bag resting on one of the tables behind him. That hadn’t been there before, and the red logo was unmistakable.

“You brought dinner?” you asked, knowing full well it’s past 2 A.M.

He shrugged, the barest of smiles tugging at his mouth. “I figured you hadn’t eaten. Or slept. Am I wrong?”

You pinched his cheek, shifting slightly to at least pretend to hide the chaos on your desk. “You haven’t either,” you muttered, gaze flicking to the shadows under his eyes.

He chuckled, then nodded toward the couch in the corner. “Come on. Before it gets cold.”

The couch creaked beneath your combined weight as the two of you settled in. Shota set the takeout bag on the coffee table, unwrapping its contents. He handed you your portion without a word.

You accepted it with a small smile, the wrinkle of wax paper loud in the quiet room. “So,” you started, peeling back the wrapper of your burger, “what’s the occasion?”

You took a bite before he could answer, humming in content. It was only then that you realized how hungry you were.

“Your cholesterol wasn’t high enough,” he replied dryly, popping a nugget into his mouth.

You laughed, stealing one for yourself. “How romantic.”

“I try.” He smirked, nudging the nugget container closer to your side.

“But seriously, didn’t you have patrol tonight?” you said around a mouthful. “And it’s a school day tomorrow too.”

“I switched shifts,” he said. “And I’m not staying long. Just for a few hours.”

Your heart warmed at that. Of course he’d trade rest for this. For you.

You ate in silence for a few minutes, but you didn’t mind. It felt nice to share a meal like this again, a sliver of normalcy in your sleepless world. You didn’t realize how much you’d miss this. How grounding it was to just be next to him.

You glanced at him.

As you chewed, a few strands of your hair slipped loose, falling over your eyes. You tried blowing them away with a breath, though unsuccessfully.

Then, without a word, Shota leaned forward. Fingers brushed your hair back behind your ear, the backs of them lingering against your cheek for a beat too long. You felt the warmth trail after them like a tide pulling back, slow and reluctant.

“What?” he said, but his mouth curved into that lazy, knowing smile.

“Nothing,” you murmured, and turned away.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth and found a smudge of ketchup near the corner, barely noticeable.

Without thinking, you reached over, wiped it away with your thumb, and licked it clean like it was second nature.

And it was. You’d done it before, countless times.

But the way he looked at you, you’d think it was the first time.

“That was kinda hot,” he murmured, voice amused but soft.

You huffed a laugh, gently nudging his shoulder. “That’s all it takes to get you going? You’re more sleep-deprived than I thought.”

His chuckle vibrated against your palm, but that look—that wasn’t him getting turned on. Not even close.

Then, without warning, he said, “I missed you.”

You paused, the words landing somewhere deep.

Shota never said things like that first.

You usually had to tease it out of him, pull it loose behind a wall of dumb jokes and half-hearted grumbling. And even then, he’d deflect, tossing some excuse like, “The cats keep looking for you,” or “The bed’s too cold.”

Yet, here he was, handing it over without a fight.

You put your food down slowly, more carefully than needed, as if sudden movement might startle the moment away. After a pause, you wiped your fingers with a napkin and shifted closer to him.

Then, you leaned in, resting your head against his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt was warm, soft from too many washes.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you exhaled, long and quiet, letting go of something you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“I missed you too,” you murmured, cheeks warm. “Even when you’re here right now.”

There was a brief silence. Then came the low rumble of his voice, deadpan and almost fond.

“You always get like this when I say nice things.”

But he didn’t pull away. If anything, his shoulder stayed steady beneath your cheek. He tilted his head, just enough to rest his cheek against yours. The bristle of his stubble scraped your skin, and something fluttered low in your stomach.

You snorted. “Wow. Groundbreaking observation. What’s next? ‘Water’s wet’? ‘Sky’s blue’?”

You leaned back just enough to meet his eyes, already rolling yours. “Yes, Shota, when you’re nice, I like it. I know. Shocking.”

His lips twitched, trying to hold back a grin. “Damn. With this level of skill, I think I deserve a promotion.”

His hand slid up your shoulder and gently pushed, guiding you back into the cushions as he shifted to hover above you. His weight didn’t press—but the suggestion of it was there.

“What’s above a detective again…?”

You burst out laughing, half at awful innuendo, half at the ridiculous way his eyebrows wiggled. “Oh my god. That was so bad.”

He didn’t budged, still caging you in, but his smirk softened. “Worked on you, though, didn’t it?”

“Barely.” You shoved at his chest—half-hearted and not really trying. His presence was solid, familiar. And oddly comforting. “And the answer is nothing, because you’d be a terrible boss.”

“Oh, really?” he murmured, dipping his headcloser. “You weren’t complaining when I bossed you around in bed last time.”

You squinted. “Perv.”

But you didn’t move. And neither did he. Until his mouth found yours.

The kiss started slow, gentle. His lips moved with unhurried certainty, like he had nowhere else to be, like this was the only thing on his list tonight. You curled your fingers into the front of his shirt, already halfway to dragging him closer when—

Your stomach let out a loud, traitorous growl. It sounded halfway between a snarl and a dying cat.

Shota froze, lips still hovering close. “... Wow.”

“Shut up,” you groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “I’m hungry, okay?”

“Clearly.”

He stayed where he was for another second, intentionally putting his weight on you just to be difficult. And your stomach made another dramatic complaint.

He chuckled, finally easing off you and helping you sit up. “Alright, alright.”

He reached for the abandoned takeout, pressing it back into your hands like it was a peace offering.

“Here,” he said. “Eat. Before you start chewing on me.”

As you both settled back into the food, the conversation drifted easily into life updates. You told him bits about the case, nothing sensitive, just the parts that frustrated you most. He listened the way he always did, never offering solutions unless you asked for them. Just letting you talk, until you didn’t need to anymore.

You rolled your eyes but took the burger anyway, biting into it with a vengeance.

Then, as if on instinct, you kicked him lightly in the shin.

He didn’t even flinch.

In return, he gave you updates from U.A.—small things, subtle milestones, the kind of stories that made you realize just how far you’d slipped from the normal rhythm of life. And how much you’d missed it.

“Oh, right,” you said as the last of the wrappers were balled up and tossed into the bin.

You crossed the room to your desk, rummaging through one of the drawers until your fingers closed around a white envelope. It was pristine, elegant, embossed with delicate swirls that shimmered faintly in the light.

“Kaede and Ren got engaged,” you said, offering the envelope as you returned to the couch.

The words came out too carefully, like you were reciting a report rather than sharing news.

Shota raised an eyebrow, fingers brushing over the embossed edge. “Really?”

“Yeah. Sent us an invite. It’s next spring,” you said, watching him too closely as he opened it. “She says she’s thinking of quitting the field too. Maybe start a consultancy firm instead.”

He nodded slowly, skimming the invitation before sliding it back into the envelope and leaving it on the coffee table.

You bit your lip. Why was this so hard? You weren’t asking for a promise. Not even a plan. Just a thought. A possibility.

But the fear was there, coiled tight in your stomach.

What if he hadn’t considered it at all?

What if you were the only one letting your mind wander there?

You didn’t talk about these things. Not unless they were buried under sarcasm or deflection. And even then, only when you were brave enough to pretend you weren’t serious.

But tonight, with that envelope glowing white against the dark wood, and with his warmth pressed beside you after too many nights apart, the words just hung on the tip of your tongue, desperately wanting to be said.

You glanced at him sideways, heart hammering. “Does that… ever cross your mind? Stuff like that?”

He didn’t answer right away.

But he didn’t look away either.

“Sometimes,” he said at last. “Lately, more often.”

You nodded, your fingers toying with a napkin, twisting it slowly.

“I never used to think about it,” you said. “I was always focused on work. And I thought… what we have, it’s enough.”

And then, with a rush of panic, you waved your hands in front of him.

“And it is,” you rushed to say. “It still is. I just—”

You exhaled shakily. “I’m starting to realize how temporary everything is. How one day you’re this invincible twenty-something and the next you’re watching everyone move forward while you’re still…”

The sentence crumbled under its own weight, the rest of the thought too vulnerable to voice.

Your gaze dropped, voice softer. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if wanting more than what we already have—on what we agreed on—makes me… selfish.”

The word tasted bitter in your mouth.

You hadn’t meant to say any of it. These were just silly thoughts, the kind that came in waves after too many hours at your desk, when you passed a bridal shop and your reflection lingered in the glass, or when you found yourself staring at high chairs in restaurants, imagining a tiny hand reaching for yours.

Just stupid yearnings you tucked away before it could take root.

You shook your head, trying to laugh. “No, forget it. That was dumb,” you muttered. “I’m probably just missing you too much.”

The attempt at humor didn’t land, not even with yourself.

Shota shifted closer. His hand found yours, threading your fingers together.

“I don’t think wanting more is selfish,” he said, his voice low but certain. “And it’s not dumb.”

You stared at your hands, at the way his thumb moved in circles against your skin. “But we agreed—”

“We agreed on what made sense then,” he cut in. “That doesn’t mean we can’t want something different now.”

You fell quiet. And then, softly, almost as if he wasn’t sure you’d believe it—

“You’ve never asked for more than I could give. Not once. Even when you should have. So… be selfish. It’s okay.”

Your chest tightened.

Of course he knew.

Of course he’d noticed all the ways you held back. The weekends you gave up without complaint. The way you buried your feelings when his schedule didn’t align. The way you told yourself—and him—that you didn’t need anything else.

You thought you were being understanding. Strong. Low-maintenance.

But he’d seen you. All of you.

And now, hearing it out loud, hearing him say it, had you remembering all the words you’d swallowed. But for once, they didn’t taste so bitter.

He exhaled. “I know I’m not easy. My job, the hours, the unpredictability… And yours is just as bad.” His eyes searched yours, steady and dark. “That’s why we told ourselves this was enough. Because we used to think people like us weren’t meant for that kind of thing.”

His fingers curled tighter around yours, guiding you gently into his arms. He pulled you in, tucking you beneath his chin.

“But right now,” he murmured, “it doesn’t sound so far away anymore. Doesn’t sound so foolish. Even if it’s messy. Even if we’re scared sometimes. If it’s with you… it’s something I’d want. And—”

He hesitated, the words catching in his throat.

You felt it in the way his fingers stilled, in the subtle shift of his breath. For all the steadiness in his voice earlier, this part had been harder for him to say.

Your heart softened.

Shota never fumbled his words, not even under pressure. Apparently even he had his limits.

So you tilted your head toward him, voice no louder than the hush between heartbeats. “And?”

He looked down at you, gaze steady. Open. “And I wonder,” he said quietly, “if it’s something you’d want… with me.”

You almost laughed, but it came out as a shaky breath instead.

Not because it was funny, but because the weight you’d been carrying—years of quiet yearning, careful restraint—suddenly felt so light.

All that time spent tiptoeing, stuffing those dreams into the corners of your mind, convincing yourself not to need too much… and he’d been thinking the same things all along.

You’d both been afraid. Overthinking the same silences.

But here you were.

Asking the same question.

And finally wanting the same answer.

“Of course I do,” you whispered, words thick with emotion as you hugged him tighter. “I always have.”

Something in you finally let go.

It hadn’t broken anything. Saying it out loud hadn’t made it fragile. If anything, it had stitched the two of you closer—tightened something that had already been strong for years, but now felt even more solid. More real.

“I mean,” you added, blinking quickly to fight the sting behind your eyes, “I wouldn’t stick around for eight years with your grumpy ass if I didn’t want to.”

That earned a small huff against your temple. The tension in his shoulders eased all at once, and you felt the exact moment his smirk formed.

“Grumpy, huh?” he murmured, mock-offended.

“You scowl, like, constantly.”

“I’ve saved cities with this face.”

You pulled back, snorting. “Yeah, by making villains think you’re one of them.”

His hand dragged lazily up your arm, warm and familiar. “You’re not exactly sunshine yourself, detective. Didn’t you threaten to arrest me the first time we met?”

You scoffed, indignant. “You were covered in blood and refused to answer any questions.”

“I did answer,” he said. “I told you it was mine.”

“After fifteen minutes of silence,” you shot back. “And only when I blocked the exit.”

You could still remember that moment with startling clarity—the way his capture weapon had twitched when you stepped into his path, the way your quirk had hummed under your skin, ready to activate. A standoff between two overworked, underslept people with too much pride and no patience.

“I was trying to avoid paperwork,” he muttered, but there was no edge to it now. Only warmth and a hint of amusement.

“And I was doing my job,” you said. “Some scruffy stranger ducking out before forensics arrived? Covered in blood? Yeah, forgive me for finding that suspicious.”

A beat.

Then you both cracked.

Soft laughter spilled out between you, warm and unguarded.

He shook his head, his eyes crinkling faintly at the corners. “We’re so stupid.”

“Mmm. Speak for yourself,” you said, smirking. “I’m delightful.”

Shota rolled his eyes, but his grin gave him away. “Sure. That’s why I keep coming back. For the delight.”

“Damn right.”

Your smirk barely had time to settle before he leaned in. His lips ghosted over yours, not kissing, just letting you feel the possibility of it. It was enough to steal the smugness right off your face.

“Oh, screw you,” you muttered, and kissed him first.

He chuckled against your mouth, the sound low and warm, vibrating between your lips as you tugged him in by the collar. It started off soft, familiar, but the way he gripped your waist told you exactly where this was headed. There was no rush, but no hesitation either.

“I love you,” he murmured in between kisses, just barely.

Your breath hitched. Fingers stilled against his shirt.

But before you could say anything back, he took advantage of the pause—your lips parted and your guard down. He kissed you deeper, rougher. Tongue sliding in, stealing the words right out of your mouth.

By the time you pulled back, flushed and breathless, his hands had already started roaming. One arm circled your waist, pulling you flush against him; the other palmed your chest through your blouse. He gave a squeeze, and you let out a startled snort, half scandalized, half amused at the sheer nerve.

“Are we really doing this on my couch?” you breathed, not quite stopping him.

He glanced around, casual. “There’s a desk right there.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mumbled, swatting at his arm.

“What?” he said, unbothered. “You were complaining.”

“Shota—”

“So the desk thing’s a no?”

You narrowed your eyes, already fighting a grin. “I thought you already knew I like it when you take charge.”

He laughed hard, his hand sliding beneath your thighs.

You barely had time to react before he lifted you, strong and steady, his breath brushing your cheek as he carried you the short distance across the room. Mischief burned in his eyes. You could’ve walked, but that wasn’t the point.

He set you down on your desk with a soft thud, knocking over a pen holder in the process. Neither of you cared. Not when his fingers were already working open the buttons of your blouse, slow but practiced, like he knew the exact rhythm that would drive you just a little crazy.

The fabric slid open and his mouth followed—shoulder, collarbone, a scrape of teeth that pulled a quiet sound from your throat.

You arched into him, gasping, and tugged at the hem of his shirt in return. Your hands slipped underneath, dragging your nails lightly up his back.

He shivered. And you smiled.

You loved that. How easy it was to unravel him. How willingly he let you.

You tipped forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I love you too,” you whispered.

And just before things went further—before more clothes hit the floor, before the night dissolved into heat and motion—you cradled his face in your hands.

You kissed him one more time. Gentle. Devoted.

A seal on all the things left unspoken yet deeply and undeniably present.

Whatever the future held, you’d figure it out.

Together.

The lights were off, save for the faint glow of a desk lamp behind them—left on, probably, as an afterthought in the mess they’d made of the office.

The couch cushions shifted beneath his weight.

Yn lay draped over him, her bare skin warm against his, cheek pressed to his chest, her breath slow. One leg curled between his. A hand rested lazily over his ribs. She was heavier now than she’d been an hour ago.

He wasn’t tired. Not yet.

His fingers moved through her hair, slow and steady. She liked that, or at least, she didn’t ask him to stop. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe not. He didn’t move to check, not wanting to disturb her.

The silence was soft here, and they didn't get much of it.

He closed his eyes for a moment, just breathing with her. Letting the heat between them fade. Letting his body cool and settle.

She smelled like him now. Like night air and sweat and something sweet beneath it all.

He liked that more than he probably should.

They’d done this before, more than a few times. On couches, in beds, cheap hotel rooms. Hell, once on the floor of the dorms, curled up in his sleeping bag after she’d shown up past midnight with exhaustion in her voice and dirt on her boots. They were good at this—at catching up, making space, carving time out of whatever cracked hours they had left.

It always meant something.

But tonight felt different.

Not because of what they did.

Because of what they said.

His eyes opened again and he looked down at her.

Her lashes cast faint shadows across her cheekbones. Her lips were slightly parted, breath brushing warm against his chest. She looked… relaxed. Completely.

That was new.

Even asleep, yn was usually tense—wired from caffeine and adrenaline, her body half-braced for whatever new emergency might pull her from rest. But now… now, she was still. And Shota wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her this peaceful before.

His hand slipped from her hair, tracing slowly down the line of her spine. Not sexual, he’d done that plenty earlier. This was just… feeling her. Like he was mapping something fragile and didn’t want to leave a mark.

She shifted slightly, murmuring something in her sleep he couldn’t quite hear. Her face nuzzled further into his chest.

And that’s when he saw her hand again, splayed over his ribs. Unguarded and vulnerable.

He reached for it gently, cradling it on his own.

His thumb brushed over her knuckles, then down toward her ring finger.

And paused there.

Shota had never been a romantic. He wasn’t built for that kind of thing. Marriage had always sounded like too much noise, too many expectations. He didn’t think he had space for it in his life, and he didn't want to be someone else’s obligation.

He knew what it meant to be loved with conditions.

And worse, what it meant to love in spite of them.

But yn… she never asked him for more than he could give.

Never once made him choose.

And now, with her asleep on his chest, her hand in his, her ring finger bare beneath his thumb—he wondered, not for the first time, if maybe he could give her more.

Not because she asked.

Because he wanted to.

Not now. Not tomorrow. But someday.

When the world was a little quieter. When the nights weren’t quite so short.

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to that ring finger. A soft, fleeting brush. Nothing she’d feel. But maybe something he’d remember.

She stirred faintly, but didn’t wake.

He exhaled through his nose, then tucked her hand to his chest. His other arm came around her, drawing her in closer, as if to shield her from the weight of everything outside this room.

He closed his eyes.

Sleep came easily now.

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revelboo · 7 days ago

Note

Could we get some Dad Skyfire? Cute domestic stuff- he’s such a darling

thank you for your service to the Transformers community

Sure!

Domestic

Skyfire x Reader

• Venting as she twists her face away with an unhappy warble, her tiny wings flaring, he sets the bottle aside and runs a big hand over his helm. Thought he had it right this time. Refining out impurities from the energon to try and make it easier on her internal systems, but she still won’t take it. He’s tried liquid and semi solid energon goodies both. The latter she’s only interested in smearing everywhere. Popping one into his own mouth, he can’t detect anything off about it. So why won’t she eat?

• Looking up when his shadow falls across you and smiling at the soft press of his mouth against your neck, you feel the tiny sparkling in his hands grab a fistful of the back of your shirt, chirping and bouncing. And after he pries her servos loose, you turn and even mass displaced, she’s so small in his big hands. But he’s just huge, smiling affectionately as you reach to take her, the forming nubs of her wings flicking when you brush them getting her settled against you. “Did your sire manage to get any energon in you?” You tease, shifting her weight so you can use the tail of your shirt to wipe her face as she warbles protests and leans away.

• “Very little,” he murmurs, optics pinched as his sparkling pats an energon smudged hand on your cheek to leave a blue smear. “It’s not agreeing with her,” he adds and you lean your head against her helm, eyes closing. “I’m going to try and refine what the Autobots are giving us further.” Knows it could be that she’s only picky, but he can’t help but worry as she clears her little vents with a harsh noise, big optics blinking and he reaches to wipe away the fine spatter of energon the sparkling left on your neck. He did it right. He’s sure he did, scoured the old databases to learn how to create a protoform, so why does he feel like he failed? Like he’s still failing?

• “Maybe you should take her in. You said there’s a medic at the Ark,” you say, the words tentative. Know he likes his autonomy and doesn’t want to get sucked back into picking a side. But his worry is starting to affect you. Trying to smile, but now you’re aware of every noise your daughter makes. Terrifying yourself because she’s not human and you have no idea what’s normal. Surely you’d know if something’s wrong? You can tell he’s concerned, but he won’t talk to you. Won’t say why he’s worried. “Skyfire?” And he’s cupping the back of your head in his palm, leaning his helm against you. “Talk to me?”

• Knows he’s stressing you, that you’re picking up on his worry. How to explain that he’s scared to let the Autobots know about you, about his sparkling? That he’s scared the war he didn’t want to fight will become hers? Hears her chirping softly, mouth open against your skin and his jaw clenches. Warbling hungrily as her wings flick and her face twists in distress. Needing energon and unable to keep it down. “The Ark,” he says on a growl, hoping he’s not making a mistake as your head lifts and you search his optics. “It’s just the fuel, she needs better energon. That’s all.”

• Blowing out a breath as she begins a raspy wailing, you rock her and watch him run the tip of a servo along one of her little audial fins. “Today,” you whisper and he vents to stir your hair, but he nods. ‘Now,’ he agrees and some of the worry eases. There’s nothing wrong. It’s just the fuel like he said. Brushing a kiss between her optics to make her warble and blink, you carry her outside into the sun, feeling the warmth sink into you. Watching him mass shift and transform, dropping a ramp for you both, and there’s still a moment of disconnect. Sometimes having a hard time reconciling that this is also Skyfire as you walk inside his alt mode and your daughter starts fussing again, chubby legs kicking and tiny servos clinging. Moving deeper inside him, you find a seat and a belt snakes around you as you settle her in your lap, bouncing your legs to try and distract her. And she looks up at you with wide optics while you search for yourself in her face and use your thumb to wipe away a smudge of energon from the corner of her mouth.

#transformers x reader #skyfire x reader #idw skyfire

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sparklystarrrr · 4 months ago

Text

No Chance, No Way!!

Synopsis: In which (Y/n) falls in love with none other than Idia Shroud, but is scared to fall in love because of her freshly broken heart.

Contains: Idia S. x Fem! Megara! Reader, set in a garden in the Island of Woe, Idia & reader are hopelessly in love, Ortho our fav wingman who's sick of the two being hopelessly in love, Idia in Hades' toga and Reader in Megara's dress... I need that (I'm Greek, I want the rep), told from the reader's perspective, YES THIS IS BASED ON THE ACC SCENE WHERE MEG SINGS I WON'T SAY I'M IN LOVE it's gonna be so cliche and cheesy but WHATEVER

It was a rather warm summer night, the moon was shining and all seemed peaceful. That was until I got lost in my thoughts, walking and picking a delicate blue flower and landing myself on a bench in the garden of the Island of Woe. This was the perfect night to get lost in my thoughts. The only thing accompanying me was the cool breeze and the ruffle of leaves. I twirled the fragile flower around between my fingers, noticing how the flower's petals faded from a dark blue out to a light yet bright blue and all I could think about was him. A small grin formed on my face.

Oh, him... It felt so fleeting to feel this way, as if I was jumping on clouds with the wind in my hair... That was when I felt that feeling I was all too familiar with. I was in love... Ugh no.. I am not in love! I learned my lesson from the first guy this cannot be happening! I crossed my arms over my legs, propping my head up on my hand, I grumbled to myself "What's the matter with me... You'd think a girl would learn..."

I got myself up and walked around the garden. It seemed to be decorated with little cupids and statues of lovers, this was certainly an icky feeling... I sighed hopelessly while turning the little cupid from pointing its arrow at me to the other direction"If there's a prize for rotten judgment, I guess I've already won that..." I sauntered around aimlessly, passing a hedge of bushes"No man is worth the aggravation, that's ancient history... Been there, done that!" I flung the blue flower behind me in frustration.

As if on queue, a pair of big bright yellow eyes poked out from inside the bush. Suddenly, a determined Ortho popped out and caught the flower I tossed. He seemed to be giggling to himself, "Who do you think you're kidding! After doing a few scans on you, my databases tell me that big brother's the "Earth and Heaven" to you!" My cheeks flushed at his sudden interjection. I grunted as I plopped down onto a bench, holding my head in my hand's as I pouted... I can't really be feeling like this after just getting broken up with a few months ago, could I? "Don't try to keep it hidden (Y/n)! My scans can see right through you!" Ortho's child-like robot voice broke me out of my thoughts. "Oh no..." I moaned out while covering my face with my hands.

"You can't conceal it forever (Y/n), I know exactly how you're feeling and who you're thinking of!" He floated above me and dangled the flower beside my face in hopes I would catch it and just confess to these heavy feelings. I ignored the flower tickling my cheek and brushed it off of me. Ortho made a "hmph!" sound like he was determined to get me to say it. I stood up, feeling slightly ashamed for these not so new feelings,"No chance, no way! I won't say it, nope!" My frustration easily got to me. Why can't these feelings just pass!

Once again, Ortho kept pushing, "You're swooning, sighing, and your dopamine levels skyrocket when you're around Idia, all signs of being in love! Why deny it?" He had a point... but I won't say it!,"It's so cliche, Ortho! I just can't say i'm in love!" I walked away holding my arms close to my body. These feelings were so warm yet so uncertain... Ortho sighed and followed me to the path full of statues of lovers "I thought my heart had learned its lesson... It always feels this good when it starts out." I grumbled and looked up at all the statues while feeling a pang of loneliness I didn't know I felt until now.

My head was practically screaming 'Get a grip, girl! Unless you're dying to cry your heart out!' at me! I then felt Ortho's mechanical hand pat my shoulder and he looked up at me with those adorable big yellow eyes of his"You keep denying who you are and how you're feeling, but I'm not buying it! You practically hit the ceiling whenever the two of you talk!" I turned away from him and pouted, was it really that easy to see my feelings towards Idia..? "Facing it and owning up to these emotions will release a weight off your shoulders. And my databases are 101% sure you won't get rejected!" That comment made me feel... hope? Why was I feeling hopeful about this?! I can't believe myself!

"No chance! I won't ever say it!" I say stubbornly as I hop across pedestals that stuck out in the clear blue water of a pool. On the last pedestal I trip and nearly fall into the cold water! That's when a male's hand reaches out to me. I grab on and he pulls me onto the ground before I could fall. I looked at the hand. It was pale, bony and was larger than my own. I looked up at the man who owned this warm hand and it was none other than Idia.

"..Hey... Y-you good?" His awkward sharp toothy grin was really cute and I couldn't help but smile when I saw the pink tips of his blue hair going wild and crazy. 'Wow.. he looks really good in this outfit he was wearing though, I see his biceps and everything...I knew he had a sleeper build...' Shut up mind! I can't think like this... I smiled gently up at him and muttered a small, "I'm fine..!" I said as we both giggled awkwardly. I turned away, trying to hide my blush and he did the same. My hands brushed through my long (h/c) locks and I saw Ortho who seemed to be ushering me to confess because the Seven know Idia won't. He created a small hologram that had the words "Give in!!" "I can see that smile from here, (Y/n)!" He shouted at me. He put up a thumbs up for me to confess.

I covered my ears and shut my eyes as if I was trying to shut the whole world out. "This scene won't play Ortho! I just won't say it, get off my case!" I yelled back to him as I ran off to the fountain to sit and be irritated. I plopped down with a scowl and put my hand down on the cement to lean myself on my arm. The feeling of a stem was under my palm and I suddenly knew exactly what it was... the blue flower. I picked it up, smiling to myself in content as I put it up to my nose and smelled the fragrance. It smelled almost sweet, but perfect.

I touched the petals delicately with my free hand "Well, at least out loud I won't say I'm in love..." I held the flower to my chest and sighed, my body going to lay down on the edge of the fountain when suddenly I felt someone beside me. I heard a small "Eep!" from the person my head had bumped into and I turned around in surprise. "I-Idia?" We felt close.. too close for us to just be friends. "Uh.. Ortho sent me here.... Sorry... I-i can go if you need me too." And with that he started getting up, his hair going a bit more crazy than usual with the pink tint still there, even his ears were a light pink, his cheeks too.

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. All I did was suddenly grab onto his arm. I'm so gonna be embarrassed for this later... "Sorry... but don't go. Sit with me, Idia..." I felt my face heating up a bit, him clearly turning pinker as seconds passed. I pulled him to sit down next to me. "So... clearly Ortho wanted the both of us to be here." I mumbled. "Yeah..." He said while nervously playing with his hair that was glowing a brighter pink. There was an awkward silence for a moment. We didn't really have anything to talk about in this situation. I sighed. "I'm sorry for... being in love with you, I guess." My hand wrapped around his hands which were still busy fiddling with his flaming locks. My other hand sat in my lap, twirling the blue flower.

He choked on air for a moment at my sudden confession. Obviously he wasn't expecting it. "N-no! It-it's fine it's just... Idk.. I'm not used to this stuff..." At this point all his hair had been colored a bright fuchsia. "Well I am you could say... I'm just scared of being in love." He looked at me, then away from me, at my flower, then back at me. "... Why? You seem like that girl everyone wants... like some normie... couldn't ever be seen with me..." He muttered the last part under his breath.

I scoffed at myself," If you really want to know, I got my heart played with." I looked away as my shoulders slumped and I looked down at my hands. His silence made it awkward but I knew he didn't really know how to respond. "That's stupid of him...." I heard him quietly whisper to himself. I looked at him with a smirk, "Yeah, really was stupid of him. Glad you think the same, Shroud..." He squeaked and his face turned almost as pink as his hair.

"But you know, I'm past him." He looked at me with his bright yellow eyes that I adored so much. "I don't think I could be scared of love when I'm with you..." I said while smiling up at him. His deep blue lips parted as I got closer to him, our hands still touching as they went down together and leaned on the stone fountain. He picked up the flower laying in my other hand, and feeling bold, he tucked it behind my ear."...You know... (h/c) looks mega cool with blue..." I smiled at his words.

Without a second thought, my now empty hand went up to his jaw and I dragged him down to get closer with me. I crashed my rosy lips against his icy blue ones. Suddenly the whole world seemed to disappear. His hands froze in their spot but as the kiss deepened, his hands went to my waist, his thumbs rubbing against my sides while he pulled me closer.

We pulled away to catch our breath. I smirked at his now bright red face. "I love you, Shroud. Don't break my heart.." I said in a breathy tone. I already knew he wouldn't, I trust him with my life. "I wouldn't dare, πριγκίπισσα." We crashed our lips together once more, grabbing onto each other like our lives depended on it. And the rest was history~

(queue lil Ortho celebrating in a bush and watching them, then covering his eyes when the two start getting a little steamy)

I've had an Idia hyper fixation for the past 2 days, I NEEDED THIS

Edit: πριγκίπισσα is princess in Greek<333

#idia shroud x reader #idia x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #idia shroud #ortho shroud #twisted wonderland Idia shroud #twisted wonderland ortho shroud #ignihyde #twisted wonderland fluff

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secretaccountlol · 2 months ago

Text

GDA SUPERHERO No More, pt 2

part 1

18 + theres smut in here go away!

Authors note : Hi, so for the ppl who liked the last fic, heeyy besties! I decided to make part two i might do more chapter might not. I've decided to not force myself to write a masterpiece everytime lol as always I read every repost n comment!

If you like father figure cecil and donald youll love this.

Warning : Angsty!! All the angsty : not directed at mark though, more about readers past. flashback! So many flash backs! Reader is a damn mess! Can you blame them?

Reader is AFAB, if i missed anything let me know! I try to be incluvise as I can!

also no beta reader sooo sorry for typos or runons lol!

SUMMARY :

With new found freedom, mark elects to show you around, but everything just reminds you of the GDA.

4,139

1 Smut scene : blowjob, sub! mark x dom! reader

Is this what a loving home felt like? Your gaze lingers on the photo of young Mark and Debbie on the flat sun-warmed tile, of the well-loved shoes, near the door, the framed flowers lined the walls.

Your eyes trace the wall, the frames had been moved, plaster poorly concealed scratches, but the wall still bore scars. It was crystal to you, they use to hold different moments, tender moments. Maybe her and Omni-Man, her son and Omni-Man, maybe?

All three of them, in all likelihood.

You wanted that.

“Sooo.. What brings you to our humble abode ?” Debbie shatters the silence first.

“I- uhm. Well, I was hurt. I remember what your house looked like from the GDA’s database.” You gnaw your lip as you watch Debbie’s face plunge into a frown before perking up, a sunken burn bubbles up in your body, you shouldn’t have mentioned it, GDA.

“I- haven-haven’t been to your house before, Ms.g-Miss Debbie. It’s very nice, very homie. I wi…wish I could have grown up here.” You try to flash a joyful smile, but it falls stiff, an anxiety-induced squeak follows it.

Mark's palms soothe your scorching skin as they brush against your skin under the table.

“They uh- recently left the GDA, for me actually.” Mark's eyes shift you, throwing you a quick smile and a squeeze.

Normally, you lob a razor remark, but under the soft but stout perception of his mother, your lips confine your sounds.

Debbie endured so much from what Cecil told you. How could she stand before you? Welcome you with a soothing smile. How could she be like spun sugar, so sweet?

Your empty plate seems very interesting to you right now.

“I don’t know how you do it, you’re so strong. Miss Debbie.” Your eyelashes shoot up as you realize a sentence slipped from your mouth, “I- I’m so sorry I didn’-“

“No no it’s fine, I- thank you. It makes me feel… Better-“

Your neck cranes up to watch her speak, though you’ve stopped taking in the words falling from her mouth.

You rake over her features, her button nose like Mark's, her dark circles, her laugh lines.

The look of a mother, a true parent. You catch part of her rambling as she mutters the word “family,” her head motioning to the photo you scanned before.

Your gaze snaps back to the photo of them again.

You had that, Cecil was like a father to you, and Donald, too. You reminisce as you continue to stare. Did he throw away the photo you shared of each other on his desk?

One of you smiling, holding a fish, his mouth uncharacteristically in a slight smile. You had begged him to let you go catfish noodling after you watched YouTube videos on it when you had free time after training.

He surprised you, after a mission completion, asking Donald to take you, but you insisted that he’d come too, literally dragging him to the car.

You remember as your tingly skin soothed against the crisp river. Your giggles swell in the air as you look back at them. Donald and Cecil wore matching grins as you ran back to them, fish in hand. Donald swings a camera out from the back of his jacket, a clicks.

That’s what made it so grueling to leave, made your core heavy.

You should have aired it out, let Cecil- no, your father talk to you.

But then again, how did that go for Mark, for Debbie?

It hurts, everything hurts. It burns, it aches, burrows deeply into your essence, his words torment you as you Sonic booms out of the room. The last flash of his face was one of chagrin.

Mark was right, was family worth the pain?

“Oh, honey,” Debbie’s voice awakens you again. Mark’s arms wrap around you like a life jacket. Your fingers pat your face, which is wet with tears.

“Oh- I- I’m so sorry I didn’t realiz-, I’m sorry -“ your words spill from your mouth as embarrassment creeps into you.

Debbie takes your chin gingerly, dabbing your tears away.

“Don’t be.”

“I totally ruined breakfast, I’m sorry, I’ve never - I’ve never really had a sit-down breakfast before, and then we talking about family, and I-“

Debbie’s hands press into your shoulders, a gentle squeeze. “I’m just happy to have someone who enjoys my cooking as much as you.”

She motions to your bone-dry plate, and you flush.

“Yes- it was very, very good. You should keep that new recipe.”

—

“What do you want to do today?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s your first day out. We- should do something? Y’know?” Mark belly flops on his bed, it protests with a groan.

“Mm, no I don’t know.” Your eyebrows heighten.

“Okay, well most young adults like to go shopping, eating, go see movies, look at nerdy shit?” Mark grins, you tilt your head to the side as your feet swish, oscillating.

“Nerdy shit..?”

“Yeah, yeah!“ Mark ripped his body from the bed, hauling your body up to meet your gaze.

“Like figures?”

You shake your head.

“Like- like uh” he snaps his fingers.

“Like you know! Cartoons?”

Your face moves slide to slide, thinking. “Uh- okay?”

“Comic books?” He stares at you in disbelief.

“Nope.”

“Oh my god- movies?” His hands eject in disbelief.

“Oh! Yeah, I like movies, they're nice. Never been to a movie theater though.”

“Oh, we’re fixing this. I have a whole world to show you. Like god, were you kept in a pris-“ Mark seizes mid-breath. “I’m sorry I shouldn-“

“Mark, it’s fine. I didn’t grow up in a prison anyway. I just- didn’t think of that stuff much, that’s all.” You exhale, “I don’t think he kept me away from it intentionally. Donald used to bring me unicorn toys, and I did watch YouTube and stuff.” You smile at the memory.

Donald's meek voice wakes you up from a nap, your name is softly spoken, congratulating you on a job well done. Pulling a plasticy box from his vest, squeaking as he straightened the plastic.

“It’s a toy,” he tells you, he laughs nervously, “You might be too old for it but-“ you hold your breath as you hesitate before grasping the toy.

“What is it?” You ask, Donald's mouth plays a smile, “a unicorn, mythical creature- at least that’s what we think- but “

You nod along as he speaks, giggling as he moves his hands around.

“He used to bring me dolls and stuff.” You smile at Mark, “I was a pretty big fan of Mythical Monster World.”

Mark's eyebrow raised, “Mythical Monster World?”

Your body spine cracks as you whip around to fully face Mark, “Yes!! Mythical Monster World! They are these girls who are based on mythological creatures who are going to high school. I've always wanted to go there, high school? and - and they’re a lot of funny puns! Like a lot, like they have one on the back of the box, that went like. ‘What’s a dragon’s favorite snack?’”

You giddily bounce as Mark beams, “Come on, guess! Guess!” Your hands flap at his face, his hand clasps, planting a kiss on the palm of your hand. Before thinking.

“Uh- I don’t know .. humans?”

”No! Hot tamales!” Your cheeks hurt from how hard you're cheesing.

“That is hooorrrible!” Mark laughs into your palm, his breath tickles your senses as you watch him writhe and cringe.

“I’d listen to a thousand puns if I get to see you that happy all the time, though.”

“I-you-“ The room feels hot as you stare up at him.

“Leaving you speechless is a close second, though.” Mark's lids dipped as he spoke, hands grasping at your waist.

Your brows pinch together, throwing your hands on top of his. “I- you shut up-“ his lips flushed at yours, a groan slips through your lips, you can’t tell if it’s frustration or arousal.

Your fingers trail down his chest, flush against his shirt, fumbling to find its edge before his hand catches yours.

“Tsk, we’re going slooow, remember?” Mark smirk pissed you off.

“You wanted to go slow, not me. Personally I’d like to fuck the shit out of you. “Your remark, plain and simple, ignites a fire in his pants, sweeping upwards to his face.

“Fuck- “

“Yeah, exactly. I wanna fuck.”

“No- god- fuck you so much right now.” His hand swipes at his face before striking his forehead repeatedly as he whispers “no horny thoughts” to himself.

“I know how to help with that.”

His head tilts as he looks at you through the slivers of his fingers.

“I-i- fuck! Nopppe! Nuh-uh! Your bedroom eyes aren’t gonna get me this time.” His neck juts to the side, barring him from your face. A wicked swell in you, you sink to your knees, slow, soundless collapse.

“Mark, please, I’d like to repay you for last night. Please?”

His breath hitched as his eyes cast down, before shifting away.

“Oh god, you’ll be the death of me shit.” His breath was barely above a whisper.

Your thumb grazes the zipper of his pants, slow as a tongue along a seam.

“Come on, Mark. At least you could look at me before I suck your cock?”

His fingers drag his cool covers, crushing them in his palm, his eyes downcast as his heart fills with your face. “I- fuck, how do you even know how to dirty talk?”

“Cecil and Donald, despite being literally government officials, were very bad at figuring out parental controls.”

You kiss his clothed member, your warm tongue mouthing it through his precum-stained underwear.

“Oh I’m sooo cooked.”

You watch as he loses his composure, that confident façade falling as he twitches.

“Please, take it out?” Hitched breath followed as your kitten licked the soil fabric.

A vicious grin adorns your features.

“Aw but you said you wanted to take it slow, remember?”

“No-Nono- please, please don’t use my words against me right!” He whines, like actually, through gritted teeth.

You’ve never felt so egged on.

“Beg.”

“B-be,hh beg?”

“Yes, Mark. Beg”

“G-fuck, please! Please-please” your slips through his waistband, he’s thick and so deliciously warm as you let his cock slink out of his boxers.

“Fuck! Thank you thank-“

“Don’t stop begging.”

You don’t look at him, only his leaking tip as it bobs up and down. twitching.

He felt like ropes were bonding his hands to bed, “please- ba-baby? Please, I’m dying over here- I need your mouth- or or your hand, anything! Just please! Don’t leave me like- like this- ah!” Mark falls rigid as your thumb glides over his slit.

“You’ve never called me baby before.” You drag your hands down, grasping his cock firmly to the base of it before repeating the motion, Mark bucks up, jerking to match your pace, whines falling again and again.

“Pleas- ahn. Faster-? “

“Oh? So impatient-“ Your shrill springs a whimper from Mark.

“No-please don-don’t tease me! I can’t fucking hand- god just go faster please!” Your name falls from him in a broken plea.

Oh, that was it, that was all you needed.

“I’ll do you one better.”

Your mouth dove to capture his length, you feel the warmth of cock as he twitched in your mouth, fuzzy your head tilts up to watch him writhe.

“Fuckooohfuck-oh fucking fuck” He repeats like a mantra, as you descend your throat down his cock.

“Wai- hu-am- no- pull back I c-“ Your tongue flattens, rubbing against the vein that trails down his shaft as you. Mark whimpers and whines, fuel your hunger as you bob up and down.

His palms grip the back of your head, trying to pry you off your hands grip his thigh as you gag, plunging him deeper into your throat.

“FUCK!” He tugs at your neck as a warning, chanting. “ please- sto- wait-hhgn, I do- fuck I’m ggo-“

A warm liquid flows cascades into your mouth, slivers of spit still connect your lips and Mark’s cock as you pull away.

“Holy- holy shit..” A huff of air explodes through his body as he crashes down onto the bed.

“How-how’d you- you were so-? Fuck- you swallo-so much?”

You shrug, shoulders raised as you gaze at the floor, swiping your fingers at the puddle of cum.

“I dunno, porn. Wanted to be prepared for an encounter.”

“Prepare for an encounter?” He groans, shifting back up, to question you about your choice of words

“Dude! Gross don’t finger paint with the cum on the floor!”

—-

“Okay, so shopping first, then eat, then we can maybe look at some nerd shit as previously discussed, which is more shopping because I - like NEED to pick up the new seance dog comic.” Mark hands scratch his chin as he rambles.

Your eyes light up, a mall. The bright colored playpit, the end rows of stores. The clothes, you can’t decide where to look. You're finally here! not because villains are attacking, or you're saving people from rubble, but because you’re a customer, because you want to be there! It’s all so- so-

All so- overwhelming.

You hold tight to his arm as eyes dart to the couple chatting away, their kid running around them in a pattern.

The teens laugh at their phones as they dance to TikTok.

One word repeats, Overwhelming.

“I think we should go here first” Your name name doesn’t resonate with you as you keep repeating your eyes darting to the same people.

Doesn’t make sense, you have fought wars, smashed a head with your bare hands.

But you're bested by a busy mall.

Soft hands caress your face, “Hey, you’re okay.”

Your eyes shine in the defused light of the mall’s skylight, you nod.

“Okay.”

“Look I- I’m not the best with clothes, honestly I should’ve asked Eve to come, but I kinda wanted to spend more alone time with you.”

“Selfish.”

“You know it.”

“Well, will you ask Eve.. to teach me how to do makeup maybe?” Your eyes flicker to his, you chew on your nail as you watch his eyebrows knit together.

“Aw, of course, I’m sure she’d love to- y'know! I bet the other girls on the team would love to style you, too!” He scoffed, upset at his obliviousness.

“They’d wayyy be better than me! Stupid-!”

“Mark- wait..”

“Hm?” His head lolled toward your face, etched in worry.

“Mark. I’m essentially homeless. Even if I could buy these clothes, where would I put them? We should just walk around, I would still like to eat at the food court!” A bitter smile played on your lips.

“Mm, no! We’re shopping, you have a place, it’s called my home.” Mark’s hand snakes over yours, a tight grip as he tugs you towards the store.

“I- what home? Your mom’s home! That’s not your home, you can’t just- like invite me to stay there! It-“

“Ohhh, tsk, but I just did-!” He shakes his phone in front of your face, your hands grasp the slide of the screen, “Oh my god, stop shaking the damn screen! How- when did you text this? I didn’t even see you reach for your phone! Mark, I can’t inconvenience your mom and you like that- I’ve definitely overstayed my welcome.”

He stops dragging you, his body 180 degrees towards you. You exhaled as you flinched from surprise.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

His hands float next to his head in air quotes, “I’m overstaying my welcome, I should leave, I’m a burden.”

You cross your arms, “I-i didn’t say that last one.”

“Oh, but I know you’ve thought in your head.”

You groan, yup. He got you there.

“I know you like the back of my hand, you can’t hide anyttthing for meeee!” He pokes your noses, you grimace as your hands swipe it away, he’s tugging you away again into the generic clothing brand.

“New beginnings mean a new you. Where you shouldn’t feel like a burden. People like you! Eve likes you!”

He takes your hands in his arms and pulls you towards the t-shirt rack. He drops it as you immediately relocate your arms, wrapping them around your body.

“We’ve established that even if you don't have people- who- uh like youu-” He pauses, lips pursed as he thinks, staring at a shirt that adorns a silly phrase. He takes it off a rack.

“Put your arms in a T-pose.”

“T-..pose?” your eye squint.

“Uhm okay?” Your hands fall from their self-soothing gesture and move up to a lopsided T.

He holds up the shirt, he hums an approval, throwing it over his shoulder before turning back to the rack.

“Plus-“

“You can just meet new people! Like best friend William? Dude, he’d love you. Both of you would torment me with stupid puns and snarky jabs. “ he throws an elbow at you which you quickly dodge.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

“You don’t know for sure he’d like me, but appreciate it.”

Mark sighs as he drags his hands across his face.

“What happened to that bold snarkiness I love? This mopin’? It isn’t you.”

“Yeah, that’s what happens when you decide to leave the only ‘family’ you’ve known, Mark. You’re gonna be depressed for a while.” You deadpan.

“I-“ his mouth sags for a moment before pressing into a thin line. “Right- uhm.”

You watch as he gnaws on his bottom lip, rubbing the shirt cloth through his fingers as he thinks.

“Cecil-“ he sighs, “Cecil and Donald- they’re.. reasonable people. I’m sure they don’t hate you.” Your lids lower, you can hear the clicking of his molars as he mutters, he turns towards you again, pushing another shirt on your body and a matching set of pants.

It dawns on you again, as you watch Mark’s eyes try not to flash with anger as he tries to soothe your sorrows.

He did not have the same working relationship. Cecil was afraid of him, he didn't know why Cecil does what he does for the greater good, not like you do.

To you, Cecil is a parent, to him, he’s an enemy, no-

He’s a frenemy, they’re no love there to cloud judgment, at least not anymore, not on Mark’s side.

But he still tries to comfort you, both of them do.

Your lips curl into a tight lip smile as you listen to Mark try to speak ‘compliments’ as his enamel crunches and jaw strains.

“If you truly wanted to speak to them again, they wouldn’t cast you aside.”

The memory of Cecil clouds your mind as Mark quiets down, throwing pants over his shoulders, ushering you to the next rack.

“ I feel…bad.” You trace nonexistent lines on the white floor of the GDA.

“Feel bad about what, kiddo?” he doesn’t glance at you as he taps at the screen,

Your biting your lips, and digging your shoe into the ground.

“You’re going to break the floor again if you keep doing that.”

“Sorry.”

“Why are you upset? Talk to Shrink about it yet?”

“Nope.”

“That’s what they’re there for..” he clicks one final time before shifting to you.

“It’s Mark, isn’t it?”

Your head bobs up and down as you frown, an exhale escapes Cecil’s lip, hands sliding into his pockets, leaning against the console.

“Kid, you did what you were told and you did good.”

“I know but-“

“First time doubting my command?” His head tilts.

You hug yourself, that was it- but the words can’t leave your mouth.

“Look, you’re not going to agree with everything I tell you, it’s fine. Honestly- I’m surprised it’s the first time you’ve doubted me. Donald’s been my right-hand man for years, and he doubts me on the daily.” He taps his foot,

“I liked Mark.”

“You did?” No judgment, just repeating your statement.

“Yeah.. he was nice, funny.”

Cecil groans, you know he doesn’t expect this from you, you’ve never trickled your heart out like this, emotions aren’t easy for you, especially talking about it.

“Look- Kid.” His hands grasp your shoulder, soft as you look from the floor, eyes weaken at your misty tears.

He rubs your shoulders, “Hey, Mark and Debby. They’re reasonable people. He- can’t-..he won’t be mad at you forever. He’ll understand you did what you had to do, we did what we had to do.“ He pats your shoulders as he brushes past.

“Go to your room, Go relax“ he shuffles at the door.

”You should really talk to the Shrink.” The soft shhh of the door leaves you in your thoughts.

You swallowed harshly, he lied.

He’s never done that before? Why - why would he do that?

Mark was not easily swayed, Stubborn to a fault.

You know that, he knows that. So why would he say something so wrong like that?

The idea repeats in your head as you stroll to your room, tinkering in your brain, there is no logical reason.

Your back shifts on your bed as you lie down.

That only left emotional reasoning.

He did it to protect your feelings, to make you feel better.

That makes you smile.

A soft mutter of your name plays in your ears.

“Hey, you okay? You’ve been quiet for a while?”

“I- yes. I was just thinking about how similar you and Cecil are right now.” You grin, leaning against the coat rack of the store, Mark's face twists into a very unpleasant expression.

“Ugh- dude. Gross! Don’t compare me to your pseudo-dad.”

“Yeah, I know, Sigmund Freud would be so proud right now.” That earns a gag from Mark as you both rock up to the cashier.

“Wait, Mark, I don-“

“I didn’t expect you to pay anyways, dumbass.”

“Dumbass- Dude fu-“

You open your mouth to protest, trying to shove him away as his hands clamp down on your mouth, pulling against his back as he leans forward to the cashier.

“So sorry about her, my partner just haaatesss when I spend money on them, what can you do, y’know!”

The cashier gives a hearty laugh as he pulls you closer, lips gracing your cheeks.

Your cheek flushes behind his hand, and with that, he shuts you.

“I think you look fucking adorable.”

Your eyes pan down your body, baggy jeans and a T-shirt with a silly graphic of a kitten that says “hang in there”, stupid beanie crowns your head, and you tired scuffed sneakers.

“I feel like a dork, and I know you're lying! You’re literally snickering at me!” You thrust a finger at him as you approach the house door.

“You’re cute when you're angry.” He shrugs, keys jingle as he unlocks the door.

“Won't be so cute when I shove my foot up your as-Hi Miss Debbie!” You grin anxiously as she raises an eyebrow at you both before slipping into her soft embrace again.

She speaks your name as she stirs a pot of food.

“I set you up in the room.”

“Oh, Miss Debbie, I told Mark not to burden you with that. I-I’ll find-“

She starts stirring the pot, Your hairs stand as you watch her eyes settle on you intensely. “You’re not a burden. Plus, when Mark is gone, you can keep me company, hm?” Smiles adorn her face once more.

You nod, breathless. “Okay.”

You see where Mark truly gets his drive from. “And what are you wearing?” She points her spoon, letting it trail down your body, sauce drops slowly from the spoon before she starts stirring again.

“Uh- Mark took me shopping.”

“He has terrible taste. “

“ I know right?”

She rubs her hands together, wiping sauce on the kitchen towel.

“Come upstairs with me I have some old clothes you can pick from in the wardrobe “ Mark gently guides you towards his mother as he kisses your cheek, Debbie’s stretches her hand to you.

”Don’t worry, I have all sizes since I used to volunteer when I was younger I just hoarded them all, just in case!” She throws a chuckle in the air.

“You used to volunteer?” You blink, taking her hand as she leads you.

“Yeah! It's very lovely, would that.. interest you?”

You think for a moment, a chance to meet the people you’d been working for in the shadows.

“Yes, I think- I think I would.” You smile lightly, Debbie’s eyes crinkle in delight, “Wonderful.”

“That’s great! I can call Amber. She's great with that stuff- and she always needs help!!”

Mark‘s sudden yelp spooks you, causing you to grip Debbie’s hand tighter.

“Mark! Don’t yell in the house!”

“Sorry..”

#invincible #invincible x reader #invincible x reader smut #invincible x you #invincible smut #mark grayson #mark grayson smut #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x reader smut #mark x you

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chadobi · 27 days ago

Text

Bayverse TMNT Boys React to Reader’s Specific Talent (Headcanons)

Leonardo – Reader is a talented calligrapher and traditional artist

•Leo spots your sketchpad one day and flips it open expecting doodles… only to find perfectly executed calligraphy and serene ink drawings of Japanese landscapes, spiritual symbols, and even his katana.

•He’s quiet for a moment, flipping pages. “You drew these?”

•“It’s meditative,” you say, handing him a brush. “Want to try?”

•He’s reluctant, but soon you’re teaching him how to hold the brush, how to let his breathing guide the strokes.

•It becomes a bonding ritual: silent, focused time together with tea and ink.

•You even start writing him notes in delicate calligraphy. He saves every single one.

•On your birthday, he gives you a blank scroll. “Your art brings me peace. I figured… maybe you’d share it with me.”

Raphael – Reader is an amateur boxer who trains for fun

•You two are sparring in the dojo and Raph’s holding back — until you duck, twist, and land a perfect shot to his side (with love, of course).

•“Holy hell,” he grunts, grinning wide. “Where’d you learn that?”

•”Boxing gym. Did it for confidence. Didn’t think I’d need it to fight a mutant turtle boyfriend.”

•He’s impressed, like genuinely hyped. It’s not about strength — it’s your footwork, your fire, your control.

•You start training together. It turns into flirt-sparring: punches, banter, the occasional kiss mid-round.

•He brags about you to everyone. “My girl? She could drop you.”

•When you knock out a would-be mugger one night with a clean jab, Raph is so proud he forgets to throw a punch himself.

Donatello – Reader is a speed reader with a photographic memory

•He hands you a blueprint to get your opinion, expecting to explain every detail… but you just skim it and respond with a perfect breakdown.

•He blinks. “Wait… did you just memorize that whole thing?”

•“Yeah? I’ve always had a weird memory for stuff like this.”

•You casually reveal that you can quote entire books, recite news articles, or remember the order of a deck of cards after glancing at it.

•He’s fascinated. He starts testing you — hands you technical documents just to see if you can do it. You always can.

•You become his research buddy. You read things ten times faster and summarize like a pro.

•“You’re like… my living database,” he says in awe.

Michelangelo – Reader is a skilled dancer

•One night you’re goofing off while music plays, and you suddenly drop into a freestyle routine — clean footwork, isolations, body rolls that are way too smooth.

•Mikey’s jaw hits the floor. “WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT???”

•He jumps in immediately, turning it into a dance battle that ends in both of you panting, laughing, and collapsing into a tangled mess on the floor.

•From that point on, dance-offs are your love language.

•He starts choreographing silly couple dances for TikTok (even if you don’t post them), and begs you to teach him your slickest moves.

•You make him playlists, he makes you custom LED sneakers.

•”You’re like a human rhythm goddess,” he says. “And lucky for me, I’m your #1 backup dancer.”

#tmnt mikey #tmnt headcanons #tmnt leonardo #tmnt #tmnt raphael #tmnt x reader #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt donatello #tmnt bayverse x you #tmnt bayverse raphael #tmnt bayverse leo #tmnt bayverse donnie x reader #tmnt bayverse raph #tmnt bayverse mikey #tmnt bayverse donatello #tmnt bayverse #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2016

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capricorn-writes2 · 1 month ago

Note

Hey! Can I Get a headcannon of Wheeljack, Bulkhead, Optimus and Ratchet with S/O that got infected in cybonic plague?

Wheeljack, Bulkhead, Optimus and Ratchet with S/O Who Got Infected with Cybonic Plague

➽───────────────❥➽───────────────❥

I try my best to make the portrayal of their character based on their personality, and I would like to apologize for replying to the ask late because I had horrible carpal tunnel syndrome in my right hand and depression, and I had to focus on finding jobs as well as therapy. Thankfully, I graduated in July from my university and able to get a quick 6 months of internship before leaving to find a new job.

Gender: Neutral

Warning: Angst to Fluff, sickness, mention of injuries and Profanities

➽───────────────❥➽───────────────❥

OPTIMUS PRIME - Autobot

When Ratchet first tells Optimus you're infected, his spark clenches. He masks the fear behind his usual stoicism, but his optics dim. The Cybonic Plague is a deadly, ancient virus, and he vows silently that you will not meet the same fate.

Optimus spends long hours at your side, even when he should recharge. He watches your spark signature fluctuate on the monitor with quiet intensity. Every labored intake of your vents feels like a countdown ticking louder.

He searches the archives for ancient medical data, something even Alpha Trion once wrote. Sleepless and single-minded, he sifts through fragments of forgotten science. If the answer lies buried in the Well of All Sparks itself, he’ll find it.

When Megatron offers a cure to him but in exchange a cruel price. Optimus would consider surrendering himself if it means you’ll live going through Megatron’s database to get the cure. He volunteers instantly to deliver it, no matter the danger.

Inside your subconscious, he finds a corrupted image of yourself. It’s terrified, glitching, dissolving into plague data. He kneels beside it, shielding you with his own spark energy.

The process nearly destabilizes both of you. Your systems scream under the pressure, and Optimus begins to fade. But his spark surges, wrapping you in protective light.

After what feels like forever, your optics flicker back online. You see him there, battered and dim, but smiling just for you. “You… stayed,” you rasp, and he nods, servos brushing your cheekplate.

Recovery is slow, and he never rushes you. He adjusts your routines, brings Energon himself, and reads to you aloud. No mission takes priority over your healing, not even war. He keeps a fragment of your corrupted code stored away safely. Not as a reminder of the pain, but of the strength you showed.

Your near-loss changes him, even if subtly. He becomes gentler in the quiet moments, less afraid to show his affection. When you reach for his servo now, he squeezes back without delay. He lets you stay by his side in the command center now.

Sometimes, he wakes up from recharge fearing he lost you again. You always pull him close, resting your helm against his chest plate as your arms wrap around him to comfort your sparkmate. “No plague. No pain. I’m here,” you remind him.

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

The first symptom was a flicker. Just a minor glitch in your visual sensors, nothing big, just a half-second blackout that you chalked up to fatigue. But then came the spasms. Your servo twitched, then locked. The base lights blurred, the floor shifted beneath your feet, and Ratchet’s voice faded into a muffled hum. By the time you collapsed in the medbay, Optimus was already on one knee beside you, calling your name repeatedly.

Ratchet’s diagnosis was quick, in a second, and brutal: the Cybonic Plague. A virus from Cybertron’s darkest past. You barely heard the details, lost in a haze of heat and static, but through the buzzing in your head, you caught one thing: from your receptor, the fear in Optimus’s voice. No, he didn’t shout; he didn’t panic. He never did. But when he asked, “Ratchet, is there a cure?” The weight behind his words could’ve cracked stone.

You drifted in and out of stasis, each moment flickering between memory and dream. Sometimes you were back on Cybertron, laughing in golden-lit corridors. Other times, you were locked inside your own mind, fighting the virus as it twisted your code. On the other hand, the leader of the Autobots sat beside you, silent, his servo resting against yours.

When your vitals began to crash, Ratchet proposed a dangerous solution: someone had to enter your mind through a neural link and manually inject the cure. Optimus didn’t hesitate. “Prepare the link,” he said. "Optimus Prime, Are you sure?" Ratchet was surprised. The medic even warned him of the risk, of the chance he might not return, but Optimus had already decided. “She is worth the risk.”

Inside your mindscape, the virus had created a corrupted version of you. It was ugly, fractured, glitching, and afraid. Optimus found you there, curled in a pit of static. He didn’t rush to pull you out; instead, he knelt beside you, his sparklight flickering in the dark like a pulse. “You’re stronger than this,” he said, his voice echoing like thunder through the data storm. “And I’m not leaving without you,” His voice was louder. You reached for him with a trembling servo as his hand gently held your hand.

The battle inside your mind was like drowning in code, each surge of infection trying to rewrite who you were. But with every wave, Optimus pushed back, pouring light into the cracks. He shielded you with part of his own spark signature, even as his systems began to flicker too. “Stay,” he whispered when your form began to fade. “Stay with me.” And this time, you did.

You woke to the soft hiss of medbay monitors and the familiar warmth of his servo against yours. Your optics blinked open, and there he was, damaged, dim, but alive. And smiling. “You’re back,” he said, as if those two words were enough to rewrite the universe. You tried to speak, but all you could do was nod, the heat of tears burning behind your eyes. He leaned forward, pressing his helm gently to yours. “I believe in you; I know you could do it.”

Recovery was slow, but he was patient. He helped you walk again, holding you up when your joints trembled. He sat through quiet recharge cycles with you, read aloud during your checkups, and let the others take the front lines so he could stay close. The war could wait, he told them. Because for the first time in a long while, the hope had won against the cybonic plague virus.

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

❀

RATCHET - Autobot

Warning: The doctor is tsundere

The moment Ratchet scans you and detects the Cybonic Plague, his spark skips a beat. He double-checks the readings, then checks them again. But the data doesn’t lie, your code is breaking down. “…No. No, no, not them. Not you,” he mutters while already grabbing tools.

He doesn’t even try to hide how shaken he is, there’s no time for pride. His servo trembles for the first time in centuries. You try to joke about him being dramatic while the rust starts to form, but he silences you with a look.

Ratchet keeps a close vigil at your bedside, monitoring blinking over your spark signature. He rarely leaves your side, only to mix compounds or pace violently. The others offer help, but he snaps at them without meaning to.

He digs into archives older than the war itself to find a possible cure. Your medical file grows thicker by the hour, stained with energon smudges. He barely recharges, too afraid that he’ll wake to silence from your berth. Your steady pulse is the only thing keeping him from destroying himself.

When your systems crash temporarily, Ratchet genuinely breaks down. He slams a servo into the wall, a spark roaring behind his chassis. The monitors scream, and he’s barking orders at the others like a war general. No one dares disobey him when you're on the line.

He eventually constructs a prototype antivirus—but testing it is risky. Ratchet debates for only seconds before deciding: he'll inject it directly. If it fails, it could speed up the deterioration… But doing nothing is worse. “Better to die trying than to watch you fade.”

He injects the cure with a shaky servo, optics locked on your frame. You seize up, systems sparking, and he nearly overloads from panic. But then your vitals stabilize a little. It was not perfect, but enough. He doesn’t breathe until your optics flutter open.

He’s exhausted, hunched over your berth like a rusted-out frame. When you whisper his name, his entire posture softens. “Don't ever do that again,” he says quietly, voice raw. But there's relief under the gruffness, and it bleeds through.

Ratchet orders a full scan every two hours after your recovery. No exceptions, no excuses, even if you insist you're fine or if you just have a simple cough from dust. It’s annoying… but deeply sweet in a Ratchet kind of way.

He brings you energon personally, even if he pretends it's 'standard check-in protocol'. He triple-checks its composition, temperature, and nutritional balance. When you smile at him, He huffs and mutters, “Don’t get used to this.”

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

You were just teasing him over another one of his grumpy lectures when it happened. A sharp pain cracked through your spark, and suddenly your systems seized up, dropping you to your knees. Ratchet barely caught you in time, optic panels wide in alarm, shouting your name like it was a medical emergency code. “No, no, no! Stay with me!” He barked, already scanning you with shaky, frantic digits.

The diagnosis was something Ratchet had hoped he’d never see again: the Cybonic Plague. A virus so ancient and insidious that even whispering its name made bots flinch. You were already twitching, glitching, fighting to hold onto reality as the virus gnawed at your code like rust in your processor.

Ratchet didn’t react with panic. No, panic was inefficient. But his voice lost its edge of sarcasm, and his hands never once stopped moving. “You are not dying on my table.” The others offered help "Ratchet What happened?!" Bulkhead asks with panic in his voice. "We can help you," Arcee tried to step up as Bumblebee buzzes.

But Ratchet didn’t let anyone else touch you. Instead, his optics silently glare at the other Autobot teammates and blocking them away. “No one knows their system like I do!” he snapped, the words heavy with something more than professional pride. "You all step away from (Y/N)!"

He worked tirelessly for hours, then days, ignoring recharge and energon warnings, digging through corrupted Cybertronian medical files older than Orion Pax. You were more than just a patient. You were the only one who’d ever made the old medic feel again, you're his sparkmate and the only one who could understand him.

Every time your spark signature flickered, something in Ratchet faltered. He’d pace the medbay like a caged beast, muttering equations under his breath, cursing the virus and whatever careless god had let it survive this long. He really wishes that time Megatron hadn't made a virus as the biology weapon as he remember all of those passing comrades who rusted away from the cybonic. Even when Optimus offered to assist, Ratchet nearly shouted him down. “Don’t take this from me! I have to be the one to save (Y/N)!”

When your systems dipped into emergency stasis, Ratchet broke protocol. He ignored the risks, activated a neural bridge, and entered your mind full in desperation and determination. Inside, your consciousness was a mess of static and corrupted data. He found you in the center of it, your voice distorted and broken, barely able to reach out. But he knelt beside you anyway, optics locked on yours, his touch gentle as he whispered, “I am not losing you, too.”

Fighting the plague from the inside was like performing surgery in a hurricane. Every data spike you sent at him nearly knocked him offline. But he kept moving forward, shielding you with pieces of his spark signature, injecting the antivirus into your core line of code while taking damage himself. “You're worth every scratch,” he said quietly, even when you begged him to leave. “Don’t ask me to walk away from the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

You came back slowly, stuttering and disoriented, optics dim but conscious. Ratchet was there, slouched in his chair, faceplate smudged with energon and exhaustion. When your hand twitched, his optics widened, and the relief that washed over him nearly dropped him to the floor. “You stubborn glitch,” he whispered, and for once there was no bite in his voice. Just soft gratitude, like your survival had rebooted something inside him.h

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

❀

WHEELJACK - Autobot

Wheeljack doesn’t panic often, but the moment Ratchet says 'Cybonic Plague' his spark freezes. He clenches his servos so tightly they spark. He’s used to battlefield injuries, not watching someone he loves slip away without a fight. “You’re not fraggin’ leaving me,” he growls, already planning something reckless.

He tries to play it cool around the others, but you can tell he’s on edge. His optics flicker faster, and he paces like a caged beast. He gets into three arguments and almost punches a wall in the first hour. No one dares call him out, except maybe Ratchet.

He hates not being able to fight the plague with his blades or explosives. But he sits beside you anyway, blades sheathed, just watching you breathe. Because being there is the only fight he can win right now.

Wheeljack once storms into the medbay covered in Energon because he thought you flatlined. Turns out it was just a system recalibration. Ratchet yells at him for scaring everyone and nearly bleeding out but he doesn't care, he just wants to see your condition.

When Ratchet finally gets a possible cure, Wheeljack insists on testing it himself. He offers his own code as a host “Load me with it. I can take it.” Ratchet refuses, but Wheeljack doesn’t stop trying to bargain.

He holds you through the injection of the antivirus, despite Ratchet’s warnings. You’re spasming, screaming, nearly overheating, but he won’t leave. His armor gets scorched, his frame rattles with yours. “Easy, sweetspark. You’re tougher than this thing. Just hold on.”

Once you are awake when your vital stabilized, , he cracks the dumbest joke to make you smile. It’s so bad you groan, but it breaks the tension. Of course he does this is because he wants to distract you and himself from what just happened.

He actually hugs Ratchet after the cure works, and then immediately denies it. The medic bot would pushes him away, rejecting his hugs but secretly the doc was smirking and says nothing. Everyone at base teases him about it for weeks.

Wheeljack would secretly builds a private recharge chamber for the two of you. It’s lined with Wrecker badges and LED lights shaped like stars. It is a sanctuary for you two.

He puts your spark signature into his own HUD overlay. He monitors it 24/7, even when you're fully recovered. Says it helps him 'focus' but you know it just helps him breathe easier because after what hapened he became twice more protective around you as he tries not to show it (but it's too obvious).

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

You didn’t even feel it at first. Just a flicker in your HUD, a small static delay in your vision. You chalked it up to a power drain or a bad line of code from your last mission. But when your limbs started locking up mid-step and your systems spat out unfamiliar alerts, you knew something was wrong.

The moment Wheeljack caught you collapsing in the hallway, optics wide and frantic, you knew things were about to get worse before they got better. He carried you like you weighed nothing, sprinting to the medbay with a speed that would’ve impressed Flash from the DC Universe.

Ratchet was already scanning your systems before your optics flickered out. His voice is grim, “It’s Cybonic Plague.” That’s when Wheeljack went completely still. Not in fear but in that deadly kind of stillness that comes before a storm. “You sure?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “Because if you’re wrong—” “THE DATA IS NOT WRONG!” Ratchet snapped. "Get out of my way and let me try to save them.” But Wheeljack didn’t leave after Ratcher ordered him.

He stayed by your side like a guardian drone, arms crossed, pacing only when the tremors in your frame got bad. He didn’t speak unless spoken to, but the tension rolled off him in waves like a bomb waiting for someone to trigger it. His fists were clenched the entire time, even when your body seized and your vents wheezed like you were drowning on dry air. “I’ve seen ‘bots fall apart in my hands,” he muttered one night, eyes locked on your dimmed optics. “Never thought it’d hurt like this.” His voice cracked for just a second before he stuffed it down.

No one else saw that moment. He made sure of it. But you heard it—through the haze of pain and corrupted data, you heard the fragging heartbreak in his voice. The worst night came when your spark signal flatlined for 4.3 seconds. Ratchet got it back, but Wheeljack didn’t speak for an hour after. Not one word.

He just stared at you like he was memorizing everything in case it was the last time. When you jolted awake with a scream during the antivirus injection, he held you down himself, letting your thrashing scorch the paint off his arms. “Easy, sweetheart. Come on. I’ve got you,” he whispered like a promise.

When it was finally over, and your vitals stabilized, he didn’t cheer like the others. He just slumped into the wall and let his optics close. You’d never seen Wheeljack rest before, it was almost unsettling. He didn’t speak until you weakly reached for his servo, and he took it like it was the most precious thing in the universe. “Welcome back,” he whispered, smiling with that cocky lopsided grin that always made your spark flutter. “Told you you were tougher than scrap.”

Late at night, when the others were recharging and the base had gone still, he’d sit beside your berth and tell you Wrecker stories, a wild, impossible tales of explosive stunts and near-death victories. But there was always a pause at the end. A breath. A moment where he looked down at your frame and whispered, “Nothing I survived out there scared me half as much as this did.”

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

❀

BULKHEAD - Autobot

Bulkhead instantly panics the moment you stumble mid-step. You’ve handled worse injuries before, but this was different. Your optics dimmed, and your balance gave out. He caught you before you hit the ground, yelling your name so loud it echoed through the base.

When Ratchet announces it’s Cybonic Plague, Bulkhead nearly shuts down. He’s heard of it, he’s lost Wrecker comrades to it in the war, and the thought of you having it nearly crushes him.

Bulkhead refuses to leave your side, even when ordered to. He snaps, “I don’t care if Megatron walks through that door. I’m not leaving them.” Miko tries to convince him to get some rest, but he just shakes his head.

He strokes your helm gently whenever you’re unconscious. It’s a side of Bulkhead few ever get to see, soft, wordless care. His massive servos are surprisingly gentle, brushing away coolant leaks and static from your face. Sometimes he whispers old Wrecker stories, just to fill the silence.

He threatens to storm the Decepticon base for a cure if needed. When Ratchet mentions the cure once came from Soundwave’s systems, Bulkhead's optics flash with rage. “Tell me where, and I’ll smash my way through if I have to.” The team knows he means it.

When Ratchet tests an experimental antivirus, Bulkhead is the first to volunteer to help. He doesn’t care about the risks. “If it saves them, then I’ll take ‘em all.” He’s the wall that keeps everyone moving forward.

He keeps a record of your vitals and treatment schedule. It’s scrawled in messy handwriting on datapads. “Just in case someone else gets sick. I want them to have a head start.” Even in your worst moment, he’s thinking about helping others.

When your systems finally begin to purge the virus, he almost collapses with relief. “They’re stabilizing,” Ratchet says. Bulkhead just lets out a broken laugh. “You fraggin’ did it, sweetspark!” The first time you speak after recovery, he nearly sobs.

He organizes a celebration after your full recovery, but it's more of a quiet hangout with the team. He brings Energon treats and music, keeping you close. The way he smiles when you're laughing? Pure sunshine.

He starts spoiling you with homemade energon treats. They’re not great. He accidentally makes them too spicy, too sweet, or too burnt. But he tries, and he beams every time you take a bite. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

Even after you recover fully, he watches you like a hawk. He pretends to be casual, but you catch him staring every few minutes. “What? Can’t I look at my favorite bot?” he teases. But deep down, he’s still guarding your spark with all he’s got.

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

Bulkhead had seen a lot in his time, explosions, Decepticon traps, close calls that would make any normal mech fold under pressure. But nothing could have prepared him for the moment you collapsed right in front of him. One minute you were laughing, teasing him about how slow he was on recon, the next, your legs gave out, and you hit the ground with a terrifying clang. “(Y/N)?!” he shouted, running to you so fast the ground shook beneath his feet.

Your optics flickered, static buzzing through your words. You tried to smile. Primus, you tried, but all that came out was a pained whisper of his name. Ratchet didn’t need a scan to know something was wrong. “We need to get them to the medbay. Now.” Bulkhead didn’t wait for anyone else; he scooped you up like fragile crystal, whispering your name like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

The word 'Cybonic' nearly made him drop. He’d heard it before, on the battlefield, whispered like a curse. It was a plague that turned circuitry against itself, shutting down bots from the inside. “ You’re kidding,” he muttered to Ratchet, his voice cracking. But the medic just gave that grim look he always wore when hope was wearing thin.

Bulkhead never left your side. He sat beside your medberth with Miko’s blanket wrapped awkwardly around his shoulders, your servo gripped tightly in his own. He didn’t care if the others thought he was being dramatic; he’d rather be dramatic than alone. Every time your frame spasmed or your systems flickered, he flinched like he’d been hit. It was like watching the world end, one glitch at a time. “C’mon, Y/N… you’re stronger than this,” he murmured on the third day, optics bloodshot from lack of recharge.

His voice was soft, nothing like the boisterous Wrecker tone everyone knew. “You still owe me that race through the canyon, remember?” His laughter broke into static halfway through, and he leaned forward, pressing your servo to his cheekplate.

On the sixth day, your vitals dropped, and Ratchet yelled something Bulkhead didn’t understand, some medical code, some numbers, some urgent demand. But all Bulkhead could see was the way your body arched, seizing, like it was rejecting life itself. “No, no, no! Stay with me, (Y/N)!” he begged, almost in tears. The world blurred, and he wasn’t the strong, dependable Wrecker anymore. He was just a mech in love, losing his everything.

When you stabilized the next morning, he didn’t dare believe it at first. Ratchet hesitated, then finally said, “They’re responding to the treatment.” Bulkhead didn’t say anything. He just slumped forward, his forehead resting gently against yours, shaking. You were still there. You were still here.

The day your optics lit up fully again, the first thing you saw was Bulkhead slumped in a recharge chair next to your berth, snoring loudly, with dried energon streaks staining his cheek. You reached out and poked his shoulder. He jolted up like he’d been shot, optics wide. “Y/N?!” he shouted, voice cracking. You smiled. “Hey, big guy.”

The energon tears shed openly, and unashamedly. Not the silent kind, not the pretend-tough tears. Real ones. He gathered you in his arms so gently it nearly hurt, rocking you like you were the last spark in the universe. “Never—never—scare me like that again,” he whispered. You could feel the tremble in his voice, but beneath all of it… you felt the safest you’d ever been.

Ⰶ║ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ║Ⰶ

❀

159 notes · View notes

brookghaib-blog · 25 days ago

Text

The Weight of Familiar Things

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: After breaking up in high school, Y/N had never really moved on from the best relationship of her life with Bob after he disappear out of thin air. While working on her shift, Bob reappears the same away he went away.

Word Count: 3,4k

The store buzzed softly with the usual low hum of midweek monotony — the steady beep of barcode scanners, the distant whirr of the refrigerator units near the dairy aisle, and the occasional squawk from the ancient intercom that insisted on cutting off half of every announcement.

Y/N stood at the express register, elbows resting on the cool laminate counter as she lazily spun the lid of a half-full bottle of Gatorade she’d stashed behind the till. The clock above the frozen foods section blinked indifferently — 4:07 PM. Still three more hours until she could bolt out of here, rip off the stiff red vest with the faded name tag, and try to salvage enough brainpower for a database systems assignment.

Her shift had been... tolerable. Not slow enough to be bored, but not busy enough to lose herself in the chaos either. Just a constant trickle of shoppers with shopping carts full of existential dread and discount coupons.

“You will not believe what just happened in aisle six,” came the dramatic whisper of Meg, her bestie and co-worker, who appeared from around the shelf like a gossip-hungry ninja.

Y/N straightened up, instantly suspicious. “What now?”

Meg leaned against the counter with all the grace of a wounded goose and sighed deeply, like she was about to recount war crimes. “So, I’m helping Mrs. Kowalski pick out a gluten-free cereal because her nephew has, like, six allergies, and suddenly this dude — I swear to you, hand to my future nutrition degree — this absolute menace shows up and starts harassing everyone in the cereal aisle.”

Y/N blinked. “Wait, like, harassing how?”

Meg rolled her eyes so hard it looked like she might pass out from the effort. “Like ‘hey, girl, are you cereal? Because I wanna eat you for breakfast’ kind of harassing. To Mrs. Kowalski. Who is, like, seventy and barely understands what a protein bar is.”

Y/N nearly snorted out her drink. “No. He did not.”

“He did!” Meg stabbed a finger at the air. “And then when she looked confused and kind of alarmed, he tried to recover by saying she had a ‘youthful aura’ and asked if she believed in reincarnation because he thinks they met in a past life.” Meg paused, raised an eyebrow. “In ancient Egypt. I wish I was making this up.”

Y/N was wheezing now, covering her mouth to avoid attracting customer attention. “Was he on something?”

“I don’t know, but if he was, I want a refund for him because whatever it was clearly failed.” Meg looked genuinely insulted on behalf of humanity. “I told him he had five seconds to get his Tutankhamun-loving ass out of the cereal aisle before I got Jason from produce to ‘escort’ him.”

“Oh my God,” Y/N giggled, leaning over the counter as if it helped her breathe better through the laughter. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Jason threatened to hit him with a bunch of unripe bananas. It was poetic.” Meg smiled smugly, brushing invisible dust off her shoulder like she was a bouncer at a nightclub instead of a student in a grocery vest.

Y/N wiped her eyes. “And this all happened during your gluten-free consultation?”

“Oh, Mrs. Kowalski was living for the drama,” Meg said, lowering her voice. “She literally asked me if she could follow me on Instagram after. Said I had ‘star energy.’ I think I accidentally became her new granddaughter.”

“That’s better than when she told me I look like someone who forgets to eat lunch.”

Meg clutched her chest. “Ouch. Brutal. But also accurate.”

“Rude.” Y/N narrowed her eyes but smiled. “Anyway, are you sure this guy left? I don't want to deal with some reincarnated cereal prophet asking me if I believe in destiny while I'm trying to stock the frozen waffles.”

Meg gestured dramatically toward the front doors. “Gone. Jason banana-walked him out. One of the little kids clapped.”

They both laughed again, louder this time, drawing a suspicious glance from Dan, the thirty-something manager who took his job too seriously and wore khakis like a lifestyle. He always hovered just a little too close to the walkie-talkie strapped to his belt like it was a police badge.

“Act busy,” Y/N hissed.

Meg grabbed a roll of receipt paper and pretended to read the ingredients printed on the cardboard core. “Wow. 100%... pulp.”

Y/N bit her lip to stifle a laugh.

The moment passed, and Meg leaned against the counter again, looking more relaxed. “Hey, you okay today?” she asked quietly, nudging Y/N with her elbow. “You’ve been zoning out between customers like you’re trying to access a hidden file in your brain.”

Y/N sighed. “Just school stuff. I’ve got a network systems quiz tomorrow, and I think I forgot how logic gates work.”

“You’re too smart,” Meg said. “I read a label backward today and got excited that I can still read.”

“I’d trade my brain for your social skills and sense of self-worth.”

“I’d trade my lungs for a nap.” Meg sighed. “And maybe a boyfriend. Or at least someone taller than a bag of dog food.”

Y/N smirked. “You’re setting the bar low, huh?”

“I’m setting the bar realistic,” Meg said. “You ever lifted a 50-pound sack of kibble? That’s some sturdy energy. I want a man who could stop a shopping cart with one hand and still help me study anatomy later, if you know what I mean.”

Y/N made a choking noise. “You’re disgusting.”

Meg grinned. “You love me.”

Y/N shook her head, but she did. She really did. Somehow, amidst their shared suffering at the mercy of impatient customers and barcode scanners, they’d built a friendship that made even the worst shifts manageable.

Just then, the front door sensors gave a low chime as someone new entered the store.

Meg peered over Y/N’s shoulder, then leaned in again. “Oh. Speaking of kibble-worthy men…”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Don’t say it—”

“Tall. Brown hair. Weird posture. Looks like he doesn’t know how to buy cereal either. Wanna bet if he’s gonna ask about reincarnation?”

Y/N followed her gaze toward the cereal aisle.

Y/N squinted toward the cereal aisle as Meg leaned in like a commentator at a fashion show.

“Tall,” Meg whispered. “He’s wearing... what is that? Cargo pants? And—yep, oversize sweater that looks big even on his hands. Tell me that doesn’t scream your exact type.”

Y/N huffed. “You think every man is my type if he’s above six feet and looks like he hasn’t slept in three days.”

“Because those are the men who write poetry about you in the dark,” Meg said, eyes narrowed like a seer. “That guy? He looks like he’s been through something. Like he owns exactly one bowl and stares out the window when it rains.”

Y/N tilted her head again. The man — tall, broad, messy hair that looked like he ran his hand through it too often, faint stubble on his jaw — was crouched in front of the granola. Not really inspecting brands. More like… zoning out. His hand hovered over a box, then pulled back.

And there was something about him. Something familiar.

“I… I think I know him,” Y/N muttered, brow furrowed.

Meg gasped. “Wait. Seriously? You dated someone with main character hair and didn’t tell me?”

“I don’t know if I dated him—! I said he looks familiar. Like I’ve seen him before. But I can’t place it.” Y/N crossed her arms. “Maybe from campus? Or a lab partner from freshman year?”

Meg wiggled her eyebrows. “Lab partner turned life partner, let’s goooo.”

Y/N gave her a look. “Meg, he’s buying cereal.”

“And we sell hope. Don’t kill the vibe.”

The two broke into giggles again, their laughter light in the otherwise empty front end of the store. Dan was thankfully nowhere in sight, probably grilling someone in frozen foods about FIFO rotation again. The store was in its sleepy lull between the after-school snack rush and the post-commute dinner crowd, which meant just enough time for existential dread or flirting, whichever came first.

A few minutes later, the man — still slightly hunched, as if he hadn’t fully adapted to existing in public — approached Y/N’s register with a small wire basket.

She straightened up automatically, scanning him as professionally as she could. The basket only held a few items: a loaf of multigrain bread, two cups of plain Greek yogurt, and a small bundle of bananas. Not even the good kind of snacky grocery run. It looked… survivalist.

Up close, he looked even more out of place. Handsome, definitely, but not polished. Like he had been handsome by accident, without any effort or maintenance. His hoodie had a tear near the left cuff. His knuckles looked bruised.

“Hey,” he said, his voice gravel-soft and low. “Just these.”

Y/N smiled politely, fingers moving to scan the items. “No problem.”

There was a brief, awkward pause.

She glanced up. He was watching her — not in a creepy way, but like he was trying to solve a puzzle. And for some reason, that expression made the back of her neck tingle.

“You look… really familiar,” she said before she could stop herself.

He blinked. Then gave a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah. I was gonna say the same.”

There was another second of hesitation — and then he set the basket down fully, like he was settling into the moment. “Y/N L/N, right?”

She stiffened a little. “Wait—what?”

“I’m Bob,” he said, slow and unsure, almost like it felt foreign coming out of his mouth. “Bob Reynolds. We… used to date. Back in high school.”

A beat passed.

A very long beat.

Then Meg, who had suddenly materialized from behind a gum display, made a noise that sounded like a suppressed sneeze, only it ended in a strangled laugh. She coughed wildly, slapping her own chest like she was choking on an Altoid.

Y/N’s mouth opened, then closed again. Her eyes scanned his face now, digging past the messy hair and sunken tiredness, through the faint stubble and older, more grown-out shape of him. And yes — yes, of course — it was him.

“Holy crap,” she breathed. “Bob. Bob Reynolds. You… you used to have an earing and used to wear those terrible denim jackets.”

Bob cracked a half-smile. “Guilty. I, uh… grew out of one of those.”

“Yeah,” she said, still stunned.

“Figured I’d evolve,” he replied dryly, glancing down at his feet.

Meg was gripping the gum rack now like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“You were... in my chem class,” Y/N said slowly. “And you used to draw on your notebooks and refuse to dissect frogs.”

“You did the frog for me,” Bob added.

“You looked like you were going to cry,” she shot back with a grin.

“I was very emotionally sensitive about amphibians.”

“I thought you moved away,” she said, still trying to reconcile high school Bob — the quiet, awkward guy who somehow got her attention despite being allergic to school spirit — with the man standing in front of her now.

“I did. For a while. Just got back recently. Kind of laying low.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t expect to run into anyone I knew. Let alone you.”

Meg, now fully inserted into the conversation, leaned in way too far over the counter. “Y/N was basically queen of the school, by the way. You got the cheerleader valedictorian combo and then ghosted? Savage.”

Bob looked mortified. “I didn’t ghost.”

“She’s kidding,” Y/N said, elbowing Meg. “Mostly.”

“Mostly not,” Meg whispered behind her hand, still grinning.

Bob shifted awkwardly, then finally held out his hand, as if trying to restart everything. “It’s really good to see you, though. You look… the same. Better, actually.”

Y/N took his hand, surprised at how warm it was. Solid. Grounded. “You look…” she hesitated. “Different.”

“Good different or ‘have-you-been-living-in-a-bunker’ different?”

“Depends. How long has that hoodie been alive?”

Bob laughed — a quiet, honest sound. “Long enough to be considered a roommate.”

Meg dramatically fanned herself with a flyer. “I’m going to die right here in aisle one from sexual tension.”

“Go. Stock yogurt.” Y/N hissed through her teeth.

“Yes ma'am.” Meg whispered, backing away with a wink and mouthing call me later like this was a teen drama.

Y/N turned back to Bob, who was trying to smother a grin. She bagged his groceries quickly, handing them over as if she needed her hands busy or else they’d start shaking from the weird flood of emotions creeping up her spine.

“So… you staying around for a while?” she asked.

“Yeah. Trying to figure things out.”

“Well. You know where the bread and yogurt are now.”

Bob took the bag with a nod. “Thanks. For… uh. This. Talking to me.”

She shrugged, softening. “Anytime. I work most afternoons.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

And then he left — walking back out into the spring afternoon like a dream someone half-remembered after waking up. The automatic doors hissed shut behind him.

Meg came sprinting back over like a cartoon character. “Okay. What the hell was that?”

Y/N stared at the door, eyes wide, mind buzzing. “That was Bob. From high school.”

Meg’s jaw dropped. “That’s the Bob? The Bob??”

“I didn’t know he was back.”

Meg stared at her. “Girl. You had a mysterious sad boy phase before it was cool, and you never told me?”

Y/N blinked, mouth slowly turning into a smile. “It’s been a weird day.”

Meg sighed dramatically. “I’m buying you a lottery ticket after shift. Because clearly, the universe is sending you something.”

“Bread and yogurt?”

Meg grinned. “Or closure. Or maybe just the hottest second chance romance I’ve ever seen play out between cereal and a banana threat.”

They both dissolved into laughter again, the kind of laughter that bubbled up from something bigger — something starting.

And in the distance, Bob Reynolds walked home, a little confused, a little nervous.

High School Cafeteria, Junior Year

The cafeteria buzzed with the chaotic energy only high school lunch breaks could summon. Trays clattered, someone’s Bluetooth speaker played muffled bass under a hoodie, and the student body fractured into its social tribes: athletes hoarding pizza slices, theater kids rehearsing lines with dramatic fork stabs, and the STEM table arguing over something on a calculator like it was national policy.

Y/N sat with her usual group at the round table by the window — the so-called “popular kids,” though she hated the term. It felt like something from a teen drama rather than real life. Still, it was true that most of the school knew her name. Not in the mean-girl, tiara-wearing way, but because she was… everywhere. Cheer team captain. AP classes. Friendly with the faculty. Genuinely kind. She was the kind of person who remembered people’s birthdays and always knew which vending machine stocked the good trail mix.

Today, though, she was buzzing with something else entirely. Her eyes kept darting to the cafeteria doors every few seconds, even as her friends gossiped.

“So then,” said Jasmine, twirling a plastic spoon like a wand, “I caught Chloe writing ‘Mrs. Max Danvers’ in her notebook. In gel pen. With hearts.”

“She’s so delusional,” Lexi groaned, picking at her salad. “Max hasn’t liked anyone since eighth grade and that was his dog.”

Y/N laughed but not fully — her mind halfway across the school, willing a very specific someone to walk through those doors.

“Okay, Y/N,” said Jasmine, poking her. “Are you even here? What’s with you today?”

“Huh? Oh—” Y/N flushed slightly, biting into a grape and glancing back at the doors.

Lexi gasped. “Oh my God. She’s waiting for her emo prince, isn’t she?”

Y/N tried to look annoyed, but her smile gave her away. “He’s not emo.”

“He literally wore a shirt with a crow on it yesterday,” Jasmine said. “And headphones inside class.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, just as the doors creaked open with a buzz of late students scanning in.

And then—there he was.

Bob Reynolds stepped into the cafeteria like he didn’t belong to it. Tall, slightly slouched, backpack slung over one shoulder with a broken strap safety-pinned together. His hoodie was faded, his jeans frayed at the edges, and his hair looked like he had woken up five minutes ago — but God, her heart skipped every time she saw him.

He scanned the room once with those deep-set eyes and barely smiled — but Y/N knew the look he saved just for her.

Her entire face lit up like a switch flipped. “I’ll be right back,” she said, practically leaping from her chair.

Jasmine looked like she was watching a royal engagement. “She’s sprinting. We’ve lost her.”

Y/N weaved through tables, ignoring wolf whistles from the football guys and eye-rolls from sophomores, until she reached him. Without hesitation, she threw her arms around his neck.

“Hey, stranger,” she beamed, hugging him tight.

Bob’s expression softened like snow melting off a roof. He caught her waist, pulling her close. “Hey.”

And then she kissed him.

Not a peck. Not a shy hallway kiss. This was the full, smile-into-it, kiss-you-like-I’ve-waited-all-morning kind of kiss.

Someone behind them muttered, “Jesus, get a room,” but neither of them noticed.

“You’re late,” she murmured against his mouth, smiling too hard to be stern.

“Had to stay behind in chem. My sulfur compound exploded. Again.”

She laughed. “You’re really bad at chemistry.”

“I’m not bad at it,” he said, feigning offense. “It’s just hostile toward me.”

“Come sit with us.” She tugged his hand, already pulling him through the maze of tables. “You need to eat something that isn’t vending machine trail mix.”

Bob hesitated, but didn’t resist. “Are you sure?”

“They love you,” she said.

That was… a stretch. But he followed anyway.

Back at the table, Jasmine made a dramatic bow as Y/N returned with Bob in tow. “Ah yes. Our table’s brooding king returns.”

Bob raised a hand in greeting. “Hey.”

Lexi gave him a once-over. “Still refusing to cut that hair, I see.”

“It’s almost finals season. I’m growing it in protest.”

“You protest everything.”

He shrugged. “Someone has to.”

Y/N took her seat and dragged him down next to her. His tray only had a banana and a bottle of water, so she immediately started giving him half her sandwich.

“You’re gonna die of scurvy,” she said, breaking it in half.

“You say that like it’s dramatic,” he replied, but took the sandwich anyway.

The group settled into chatter — mostly about the upcoming dance, rumors about a surprise fire drill, and whether Mr. Thomas was dating the substitute gym teacher. Bob didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. He sat with an ease he didn’t have his sophomore year, when people whispered “Isn’t that the guy who tagged the music room lockers?”

He was still a mystery — still quiet, still aloof — but Y/N changed how people looked at him. She always touched his arm when she spoke. She brought him into jokes. She looked at him like he mattered.

And that mattered.

As the others got distracted ranking the weirdest school lunch meat ("Turkey, then ham, then the one they call 'mystery cube'"), Y/N turned slightly, her knee brushing his.

“I missed you today,” she said quietly, almost too private for the lunchroom’s roar.

He looked at her — really looked — and his voice dropped. “I missed you too.”

“You okay?” she asked, tilting her head.

Bob nodded. “Just tired. But I’m good now.”

She kissed his cheek. He turned. Their lips met again, slower this time.

From across the table, Jasmine let out a strangled groan. “You guys. Please.”

Lexi fake gagged with her spoon. “You know we can see you, right?”

Y/N leaned back with a huge grin. “You’re just jealous.”

“I’m jealous of the PDA fog you two are putting out,” Lexi said.

Bob smirked. “We’ll tone it down.”

“No, you won’t,” Jasmine sighed. “You’re gonna get married and make out in the produce aisle and we’re all gonna have to pretend we didn’t see it.”

Y/N leaned her head on Bob’s shoulder. “Promise we’ll invite you to the wedding.”

Bob whispered, just for her, “You know I love you, right?”

She turned her head, eyes soft. “Yeah. I love you too.”

And there it was — in the middle of greasy pizza trays, laughing friends, and the smell of old tater tots — a perfect little moment carved out of time.

Two kids in love.

So stupidly, beautifully in love.

141 notes · View notes

xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 2 months ago

Text

𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞. 𝐀𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭.

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ]

𝐚/𝐧 : To all my crows—If you’ve been here a while, you know I usually haunt the angsty, aching, slow-burn corners of the fandom. Fluff? Domestic chaos? This is all new territory for me. But sometimes, the right prompt (and the right queen) can coax even a gloom-monger into the light.

So here’s my first real venture into soft moments and kitchen concerts. I hope you enjoy a singing, dancing MC, a teasing, unexpectedly-soft Sylus, and the kind of found family comfort that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.

This was a big step out of my comfort zone, so please be kind in the comments—your support (and softness) means the world!

𝐝𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : For @someprettyname — Thank you, your majesty, for this delightfully fluffy prompt. Without you, this kitchen would be a lot quieter (and far less sparkly). This is yours.

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓 to wander.

It started as just a walk—an excuse to stretch her legs, to shut up the static humming beneath her skin after sitting too long in a place that didn’t even echo her name, let alone remember it.

But Sylus’s mansion was never meant for soft things. Not for bare feet on chilled marble, or cotton pajama pants brushing against furniture that probably cost more than her entire existence. Every inch of the place screamed: You don’t belong here. With a very tasteful, very intimidating accent.

And honestly? She felt it. In her bones, in her lungs, in the careful hush of every step.

The hallway stretched ahead like something out of a villain’s Pinterest board—endless, empty, lined with faceless portraits and obsidian statues so shiny they probably judged you if you wore cheap mascara. Silver light puddled across the floor in cold, dramatic swaths, filtered through frosted windows that showed her absolutely nothing.

This place is a villain origin story waiting to happen, she thought. And I’m the idiot wandering into it in bunny slippers.

She almost laughed. Almost.

But the air was too still.

Behind her, the soft flutter of metal wings sliced through the quiet. Mephisto landed on the bannister with a delicate clink, his red optic blinking slow. Watchful. Patient. Judgy.

“You again,” she murmured, not bothering to turn. “Of course you’re the nosy one. You probably have spreadsheets.”

Mephisto, as expected, said nothing. But the crow tilted his head, mechanical feathers gleaming like razor-thin blades. She didn’t need words to feel his gaze settle along her spine—a second, silent heartbeat.

Weirdly enough, it was... comforting.

Like the house wasn't watching her anymore.

Someone was.

Not with suspicion. Not even with disapproval, which would've been understandable.

Just... interest. Measured. Curious. Maybe a little ominous.

She slowed, fingers trailing velvet-lined walls as she drifted deeper into the hush. She didn’t know where she was going—only that her pulse was finally calming down. That this—this strange, silent domesticity—felt more real than anything waiting outside these walls.

The fear didn't vanish.

But here, it was... negotiable.

As if the mansion, with all its sleek menace, had decided she might be worth tolerating. As if Mephisto had already logged her movements in some terrifying database labeled Potential Threat: Probably Harmless. As if Sylus—

Nope. Absolutely not.

She cut that thought off so fast it probably got whiplash.

She was still a guest here.

Still a girl in borrowed clothes and morally questinable slippers.

But when she glanced back and saw Mephisto trailing her—silent, loyal, and radiating mechanical judgment—she found herself smiling.

Just a little.

And kept walking.

She followed the corridor’s gentle curve, the floor cool beneath her feet, the air laced with the faintest trace of something botanical—expensive, rare, the kind of scent that whispered you’re underdressed. The light softened here, splintered through patterned glass that painted restless shadows across the walls like they were having a mood.

Mephisto perched on the edge of a side table, talons tapping out an erratic rhythm—half warning, half invitation. He was practically theatrical in his stillness: unblinking, overly dramatic, like a judge in a reality show no one signed up for.

She paused, glanced back over her shoulder, and smirked. “He’s not about to jump out from behind a curtain, is he?” Her voice was low, swallowed by the hush.

Even the security sensors seemed to lean in.

She spun on her heel, calling out, “Sylus? Are you lurking? Or did you finally decide to trust me not to set the place on fire?”

Her laugh slipped out, sudden and small—a startled sound she immediately pretended wasn’t hers.

She turned back to Mephisto, raising a brow. “You’d warn me, right? Blink twice if the twins are about to pop out and scare me into early retirement.”

Nothing. Just the soft, mechanical whir of Mephisto’s gears—a helpful reminder that she was never entirely alone, and never entirely not being judged by a bird with WiFi.

She dragged her palm along the back of a velvet chair, fingertips tracing unfamiliar swirls. It felt oddly intoxicating—unchaperoned, unsupervised, a tourist in a house built for control freaks and beautifully repressed secrets.

“Just you and me,” she murmured, voice warming, shrinking the room to something less vast and more… negotiable.

A hush settled. Not quite comfort—she wasn’t reckless—but almost. Closer than she’d been five minutes ago.

With a last conspiratorial look at Mephisto, she stepped into the light and warmth spilling from the next room. The kitchen—blessedly, miraculously—looked like it might have let someone human inside.

The kitchen was a revelation.

Amber lights crowned polished countertops, casting soft warmth over chrome and ceramic. The air hinted at citrus and something herbal, like a garden had once flirted with the windows and left behind a secret. It was the only room in the mansion that didn’t seem to mind a little clutter: a perfectly folded dish towel, a fruit bowl with exactly three apples, a single mug air-drying beside the sink—proof that someone, somewhere, had been here and survived.

She lingered at the threshold, part-thief, part-tourist, curiosity winning out over self-preservation. “I guess this is as close to normal as I’ll get,” she muttered, glancing back for Mephisto’s verdict.

He’d already claimed the highest cabinet, talons wrapped around the molding like a gargoyle at a black-tie gala.

She drifted to the refrigerator and pulled open the door, letting the cold rush over her like an interrogation light. Inside, everything was arranged with military precision: brand names she’d only seen on TV, more imported cheese than actual food, and a rainbow of jars so organized it was either genius or a cry for help. She stared, half-impressed, then plucked a pear and set it on the counter, grinning.

“You think he alphabetizes his condiments?” she whispered to Mephisto, like she was sharing state secrets.

The silence practically cheered her on.

Her confidence grew with every discovery: drawers lined with artisanal teas, a militant row of spice jars with intimidatingly perfect labels. “Of course he drinks white tea,” she scoffed under her breath. “Probably the kind that comes with a rulebook and a thermometer.” The knots in her shoulders began to unravel, replaced with the quiet thrill of snooping somewhere slightly forbidden.

She made a slow lap around the kitchen, poking at spice jars, lifting lids, seeing how much she could get away with before a robot army descended.

“All right, featherhead,” she called up, “I need your expertise. Are you a sous chef or more of a kitchen overlord? Because I don’t work for tyrants.”

Mephisto shifted, wings fluttering with all the enthusiasm of a disinterested judge.

She dropped into a theatrical bow, pear in hand. “Your Majesty, may I have your blessing to steal exactly one snack and promise not to poison your master in the process?”

No answer. But she could’ve sworn the angle of his head was a yes.

This time, her laughter lingered—a little brighter, a little more hers. In the gentle chaos of everyday life, her heart remembered how to settle.

For the first time since arriving, she felt almost safe.

Almost herself.

The quiet shattered—split by a low, traitorous grumble. Her stomach, voicing its concerns in no uncertain terms.

She blinked down, then glanced at Mephisto, who held his perch with the regal calm of someone who’d never skipped lunch. They exchanged a slow look: hers mildly accusatory, his forever inscrutable.

“Don’t give me that face,” she muttered. “You’re the one who made me forget I haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t vacuum-sealed or 90% caffeine in days.”

Her gaze slid to the pantry, then the fridge. She could’ve grabbed something quick—a handful of crackers, a wedge of terrifyingly expensive cheese—but it would’ve felt like stealing. Worse, it would have felt temporary.

She didn’t want a snack.

She wanted to cook.

“Alright,” she announced, clapping her hands like she’d just been handed her own Food Network special, striding to the countertop with all the misplaced confidence of someone about to burn water. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Mephisto cawed, sharp and judgy—a sound that said, Oh no, she’s serious.

She shot him a look. “Relax, Mephie. I’m not about to hack Sylus’s music archive unsupervised. I know how he gets with his precious things.”

But the kitchen had already started to melt into a lounge she’d previously avoided like a tax audit—walls in matte black, brass accents winking in the low light like secret agents. And there, in the far corner: the record wall.

She stopped. Whistled. Tried not to look like she wanted to marry the entire vinyl collection.

Floor to ceiling. LPs filed with such aggressive neatness it bordered on a kink. Jazz, classical, synthwave, operatic rock, imports in languages she’d need Google Translate just to insult. Each spine lined up like soldiers in a musical army, daring her to touch.

She drifted closer, fingers skating the spines. “I knew he was intense, but this…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, awe and mischief doing a duet. “This is serial-killer-level obsessive.”

Mephisto cawed again, the sound pure disapproval.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” she sighed. “No breathing near the vinyl. Don’t even think too hard in their direction. But—” She paused at a battered sleeve. “He actually owns this?”

The record was worn at the corners—loved, not just collected. She slid it out, lips curving, nostalgia blooming for a memory she hadn’t lived.

“Oh, I definitely like him more now,” she told the bird, as if Mephisto was taking notes for a future roast.

She lifted the lid, set the record down with the reverence usually reserved for ancient relics and overpriced shoes, and dropped the needle. A heartbeat of crackle—then music, lush and golden, pouring into the room. The kind of song that demanded kitchen dancing and a reckless disregard for dignity.

She glanced at Mephisto, cranked the volume with a devil-may-care grin. “Hope your circuits are ready, because we’re doing this my way.”

The first beat dropped—crisp, insistent, absolutely not optional.

She felt it before she moved. Drums slipping under her skin, bass strutting in like it owned the lease, and suddenly the whole room felt like it belonged to her and her alone.

“Oh, this?” she called, eyebrows doing a victory dance. “This is what music is supposed to feel like, Mephie. Take notes.”

He lingered in the doorway, feathers bristling, optic blinking in a way that screamed, I regret everything.

She did not care.

Not with Amy Winehouse swirling through the air—silk, smoke, and heartbreak. Not when the rhythm took her hand and refused to let go. Not when, just for this moment, nothing belonged to Sylus, or the Hunters, or anyone who thought they could tell her how to be.

This moment belonged to her.

She spun, playfully reckless, toes sliding on cool tile, shoulders grooving to the beat. One hand claimed an invisible mic; the other thumped her thigh, mouthing lyrics with the confidence of someone who’d never met shame.

“Why don’t you come on over, Valery…” she crooned, dragging every syllable, gloriously off-key.

Mid-chorus, she spun, pointed dramatically at Mephisto—conductor summoning a deeply reluctant soloist.

“You going to flap a wing or what? No? Suit yourself, but you’re officially in the band.”

He didn’t budge. But for a second, she’d swear his optic squinted—a fine line between judgment and a tiny bit of ugh, fine, I’ll allow it.

“Come on!” she laughed, arms thrown wide, slicing the air. “This is peak music, my guy. Not dancing is basically illegal.”

The tempo soared. So did she.

Not literally, but in the way her body caught the horns, rhythm rolling through her hips and knees, her spine arcing with joy. Hair swinging, laughter bubbling—breathless, real, the kind you only set free when you finally, truly stop caring who’s watching.

No fear. No surveillance. No expectations.

Just music. Just movement. Just her.

And the echo of joy, blooming in a room that—until now—had probably thought “fun” was a security risk.

She glided back into the kitchen, hips swaying, beat urging her into a performance no one had requested—but one she desperately needed. She sang without a shred of shame, lyrics tumbling wild and loud from her lips, filling the cavernous space until it felt a little less like a luxury mausoleum.

With a flourish, she flung open the fridge. Tomatoes, basil, fresh pasta—she gathered them up, spinning toward the counter as if every ingredient had been choreographed. A jar of sauce, a hunk of cheese, a heroic fistful of garlic. She lined them up and delivered a deep, theatrical bow.

She snatched a spatula, twirled it like a baton, and pointed it straight at Mephisto. “Your solo, maestro,” she declared, matching her voice to the music’s drama.

And—miracle of miracles—Mephisto obliged. He cawed, sharp and perfectly on beat, then hopped from cabinet to counter, displaying that strange, mechanical grace only he could pull off. Every time she brandished the spatula his way, he responded on cue—an unlikely duet that dissolved her into helpless, infectious laughter.

The song faded; a new track flared to life—brass, synth, swagger: “Uptown Funk.” She whooped, unable to help herself, and kicked her dance into a higher gear. Shoulders popped, feet tapped, she shimmied past the stove like she’d been training for this her whole life, waving a box of pasta overhead like a victory banner.

A saucepan clattered onto the burner. Garlic hit the oil, sizzling, the air swelling with the scent of home she’d never had. She never stopped moving—spinning to chop basil, hair flying, spatula now her fearless microphone as she belted out every lyric, off-key and glorious, head tipped back in total abandon.

Mephisto watched, cawed again, wings flapping in a half-hearted attempt to keep up with the madness. She grinned, emboldened, hips swinging even more, letting herself dissolve into the music. Every chorus, she leaned in, spatula pointed at her unlikely backup singer. He never missed his cue.

She was everywhere at once—stirring sauce, salting water, tossing pasta with the casual confidence of someone who’d never been a guest. Flour streaked her wrist, sauce marked her cheek, a wild, reckless light igniting her eyes.

For the first time, she wasn’t a guest.

Not a captive.

Not a girl lost in someone else's fortress.

She was chaos incarnate, barefoot and divine—lips parted mid-lyric, apronless goddess conjuring a universe from steam and song. Every pot and pan a moon in her orbit. Gravity bowed to her, not the other way around.

And Sylus…

Sylus stood in the doorway, silent as a ghost, all sharp lines and softer shadows.

He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t clear his throat. His entrance was seamless, slipped in between bass lines and the golden haze of garlic and laughter. Now he leaned against the frame—one arm folded, the other draped loose, mouth curved in something gentler than a smirk.

A smile no one else ever saw.

Reserved. Unscripted. A secret shaped by her presence alone.

She hadn’t noticed him—not yet.

Too busy performing for the only audience that mattered: herself, and a crow with questionable taste.

The music swelled, brazen and bright. She answered it with her body—hips snapping, shoulders rolling, fearless and free. She bounded as the chorus demanded—dance, jump on it—dropping low and springing back up, joy unraveling in every line of her.

“If you sexy then flaunt it…”

The spatula jabbed at Mephisto, daring him to keep up.

“If you freaky then own it…”

She spun, breathless and beaming, surrendering to the moment, utterly unguarded.

And Sylus watched.

He watched the tumble of her hair, the dusting of flour on her temple, the clatter of a wooden spoon dropped and forgotten. The mess she made of his kitchen. The much greater mess she made of him.

He’d seen her composed. Cautious. Sharp.

But this—this was something else entirely.

This was softness, wild and unmade. Chaos with a beating heart. The raw, unfiltered version of her that bloomed only when she forgot to care who might be watching.

And gods, she was beautiful like this.

Not in the way he could protect. Not in the way he could teach, tame, or control.

But in the way that made him ache—to stand silent in the doorway, memorizing every untamed, radiant beat she spun through, already lost to her orbit and far too willing to stay there.

She spun mid-chorus, spatula raised in triumph, lips curled around the next lyric—

—and froze.

Her body stalled first. Then her breath. The words died, caught in a hush thick with shock. The music played on, gloriously oblivious.

He was there. Still leaning in the doorway, still watching—smirk deepening, lazy and devastating, stretched across his mouth like he had nothing but time. His eyes—red, amused, unblinking—had never left her.

They’d been there the whole time. Fixed. Steady. Impossible to ignore.

She stared. Spatula midair, hair stuck to her cheek, sauce bubbling behind her like a forgotten subplot.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

Then, louder, horrified and breathless: “How long have you—?”

Sylus pushed off the frame, arms unfolding with the kind of deliberate grace that should come with a warning label. “Long enough to consider selling tickets.”

A strangled sound escaped her—half squeak, half mortified groan, all dignity in retreat.

He stepped fully into the room, his presence sweeping away the last shadow of cold. “Tell me,” he drawled, voice pure velvet, “was that rehearsed? Or should I come back for the encore?”

Her cheeks caught fire. She tried, desperately, to salvage her dignity. “It was… not for you. Obviously. It was just—”

She flailed the spatula, as if she could swipe the memory away.

He arched a brow. “Your way of buttering up the bird?”

She spluttered, caught between laughter and outrage. “No, I was cooking. And vibing. Alone.” She shot a betrayed glare at Mephisto, who cawed—perfectly on cue—then preened like a theater critic after a standing ovation.

“Et tu, Mephie?” she groaned.

Sylus blinked. “Mephie?”

Her stomach dropped. “Oh god. Did I say that out loud?”

“You gave him a nickname.” He sounded genuinely scandalized. Then, with growing offense, “Where’s mine?”

She stared, deadpan. “Do you want one?”

“That depends.” His eyes were all secrets, mouth curving. “Does it come with a song and dance routine?”

She laughed—breathless, pink-cheeked, ruined in the best possible way. “Only if you bring your own spatula.”

He stepped closer—just a fraction, but everything felt different. Mischief still glinted in his eyes, but something softer simmered underneath, private and reverent, like a secret meant only for them.

She felt it: humming between them, threading through the quiet.

Something had changed.

Not just the air, not just the tension, and definitely not just the fact that she’d just given an impromptu kitchen concert while pasta boiled in the background.

It was the knowing. The being known.

And for once, it didn’t feel like she’d been caught.

It felt like she’d finally been seen.

Then the pot hissed.

Violently.

She jolted, eyes wide as the pasta water surged up in a steamy revolt, bubbling over and crashing onto the burner with all the fury of a kitchen crime scene.

“Shit—shit, no, no, no—”

She lurched for the stove, nearly tripping over her own feet, spatula abandoned mid-air. Mephisto cawed in protest, scandalized by the chaos.

Steam curled upward, warm and sticky against her cheeks as she scrambled to turn down the heat, muttering curses under her breath—none of which remotely matched the delicate melody still drifting through the kitchen.

Behind her, Sylus didn’t budge. He stood like a living sculpture—arms crossed, mouth quirked, one brow arched with glacial amusement.

“Is this part of the performance?” he drawled, his voice drier than the air outside N109.

She didn’t even look at him. “This is what happens when someone materializes out of nowhere and distracts the chef.”

“Ah.” He cocked his head, feigning deep thought. “So it’s a staged kitchen emergency.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder, exasperated. “I was hungry. And I didn’t want anything vacuum-sealed or—what was it—science-project adjacent. So I made pasta. Like a normal person.”

“Mm.” His gaze lingered, intent, as if she were a puzzle that would solve itself if he watched long enough. “And the dancing?”

She stabbed at the noodles. “That was for morale.”

A beat passed. Then, quietly—his humor softened at the edges by something warmer: “Of course it was.”

He didn’t offer to help. Not yet. Just watched her—the way her shoulders loosened with every stir, the way she exhaled like she was finally figuring out how to breathe.

Steam rose between them, a shimmering veil—more charged than distant, more invitation than barrier.

Something had shifted.

Not quite close. Not quite far.

Just enough space for him to wonder how long she’d keep dancing when she thought no one was watching.

And how long it would take for her to let him join in.

He moved at his own pace—unhurried, unbothered, like he’d always belonged here. He slipped past her shoulder with barely a brush of fabric, rolling up his sleeves and baring skin she’d only glimpsed in stolen seconds. Light caught on the veins of his wrists, the old scar along his knuckle, the flex of tendon as he took the wooden spoon from her hand.

She clung to simple tasks: slicing tomatoes, stripping basil, listening to the sauce hiss and thicken. But she was acutely, almost painfully, aware of him—every movement amplified, every shared breath somehow heavier.

Sylus tasted the sauce, slow and deliberate. “You’re heavy-handed with the garlic,” he observed, lips quirking.

She shot him a glare that tried to be scathing, but ended up affectionate. “Maybe I like flavor. Not everyone’s a food snob.”

He feigned horror, brushing past her again—close enough that the heat of his arm sent goosebumps racing up hers.

Suddenly, their hands reached for the same jar of pepper. Her fingers grazed his—just a flicker, just enough to spark. She pulled back, hiding the jolt behind a soft scoff.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“Relax. I don’t bite,” he murmured, his voice pitched just for her.

She nearly fumbled the grinder. “That’s not what the rumors say.”

Sylus’s mouth curved into a private smile—the kind reserved for empty rooms and, apparently, this kitchen. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

He added pepper with theatrical precision, glancing at her like he was challenging her to critique his style. She nudged him with her elbow—light, playful, the opening move in a game she’d only just realized she wanted to play.

“Fine, chef. Show me how it’s done.” Her voice came out a little breathier than she meant.

He obliged, and for a heartbeat their hands overlapped on the spoon. Her skin tingled where his fingers brushed hers—just a second, just enough. She tried not to react, but the electricity was impossible to hide.

Sylus’s gaze lingered on her face, sharp and unexpectedly gentle. “I thought you were fearless,” he teased.

She ducked her head, pretending to scrutinize the bubbling water. “Only in the field. Not in… domestic warfare.”

A low laugh rumbled from him—rare and unguarded. “And yet you take on my kitchen like it’s an enemy base.”

She grinned, letting her own laughter bubble over and fill the room. “I go where I’m needed.”

They slipped into a new rhythm—awkward at first, then easier by degrees. Sylus corrected her grip on the knife, his hand wrapping over hers, lingering a fraction too long before letting go. She dusted flour off his forearm with a shy flick, only for him to follow the movement with softened eyes and a half-smile that felt almost private.

At one point, she reached across him for the colander, her hip bumping his. “Sorry,” she mumbled, cheeks prickling with warmth.

He looked at her—really looked, like he was searching for a way out but finding none.

Instead, he reached up—almost tentative—and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His knuckles traced the curve of her jaw, gentle and reverent, leaving heat in their wake. She blinked, lips parting, the whole world shrinking to the space between them.

The air turned thick and honeyed, everything suspended—neither of them quite willing to move, everything balanced on the knife-edge of something quietly, breathtakingly new.

From the counter, Mephisto cawed—sharp as a starting bell, shattering the spell just as it threatened to turn into something else.

She ducked away with a shaky laugh, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “He’s judging us,” she said, nodding toward the bird.

Sylus’s smile didn’t fade. “Let him. He’s seen worse.”

And, for the first time, she believed it. The tension melted from her shoulders, replaced by something warmer, lighter, threaded with laughter she couldn’t keep in.

Cooking got easier after that—messy and collaborative, punctuated with whispered jokes and shared glances. They moved around each other, learning a duet older than language.

With every accidental brush of skin, every glance held a beat too long, she let herself trust the moment.

Just a little more.

The kitchen quieted again. Not the awkward silence of strangers, but the earned hush of familiarity—a quiet that wrapped around them like a secret, where nothing needed explaining anymore.

Steam curled from the pot in lazy ribbons as Sylus plated the pasta with a care that almost surprised her. The dish looked elegant, considering its riotous birth, and when he handed her a bowl, there was no ceremony—just the simple, practiced ease of something shared.

“Chef’s orders,” he murmured, voice low and teasing.

She grinned, accepting the bowl with both hands as if it were a holy offering.

Without asking, she hopped onto the counter, legs swinging above the tile, tucking one foot behind the other. The bowl settled warm in her lap, steam curling under her chin as she leaned in for a bite.

It tasted… right.

Not perfect. Not fancy. But real—tangy, warm, too much garlic, just enough salt. She hummed, cheeks full, then offered him a forkful with a conspiratorial tilt of her hand.

He didn’t move to take the bite. Just watched her, elbow braced against the counter, his own bowl resting forgotten in his palm.

“What?” she asked, half-muffled by a mouthful of pasta.

Sylus’s gaze lingered—not sharp, not analyzing. Just… seeing her, like he was piecing together a puzzle and realizing he liked not having all the pieces.

“You should sing more often,” he said at last.

She blinked, startled.

There was no irony in his voice. No teasing edge. Just a quiet certainty, so sincere it made her throat tighten around her next bite.

“It suits you,” he added, softer this time. Then he turned his attention back to his food, as if he hadn’t just cracked her heart wide open.

She stared at her bowl, cheeks warming, not quite sure what to do with all that tenderness he’d just given her—no games, no flirty dodge, just something rare and quietly dangerous.

Because when he said it, she knew he didn’t just mean her voice.

He meant this—her, barefoot on his tile, wild-haired and flushed from the stove, music still humming in her bones. He liked her messy. He liked her real.

And she liked being seen that way.

Maybe more than she should.

Her chest lifted on a slow, careful breath—the kind that settles deep, the kind that whispers you could stay. Just a little longer.

Maybe even longer than that.

She glanced at Sylus—posture easy, expression unreadable, but somehow softer than before. Then at Mephisto, grooming himself on the windowsill as if chaos had always included him.

The kitchen was still a beautiful disaster.

But for the first time, she didn’t feel like an intruder in it.

She felt… woven into the fabric of it. Of them.

Like the chaos and the calm had finally made space for her. And so had he.

She dipped her spoon back into the bowl, taking another bite—slower this time, as if to savor the moment—and thought:

This feels dangerously close to home.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus qin #lnds sylus #lads sylus #sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus fluff #qin che #sylus x mc #sylusposting #lads #lnds #l&ds #he's so in love it's disgusting #fanfiction #love and deepspace fanfiction

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livelaughlovesubs · 11 months ago

Note

Dan Heng. Poor, sweet Dan Heng. He needs a break after everything that's happened and what better way to relax then to give him a massage? But, (un) fortunately, he gets turned on when you touch his body, so he has another problem to deal with.

poor little sensitive baby :(

Dom!Reader x sub!dan heng

warning: massage, Dan heng is super sensitive, a little nsfw

After coming back from penacony, you noticed Dan heng looking more tired and fed up than usual. It must have been a stressful event, for him to look this exhausted. You also caught him rubbing his own neck and trapeze muscle from time to time. He definitely overworked himself again, his muscles must be so sore from being strained so much. That boy, he really doesn’t know how to take care of himself does he? which is why you, as his lover, had to care for him especially well. Who will take care of him if not you? That’s why one day, after he returned to his room in the database, he saw you sitting by his bed and looking through his stuff. “What are you doing here? It’s late.” He asked, it’s rare for you to come to him this late. Isn’t this setting a little too intimate? Sure, the two of you have been dating for a long time, but you two never slept together yet. Reason? He’s too embarrassed.

“I was waiting for you! Come here.” You chirped cheerfully, waving him over to you. When he got close enough, you moved to the side and patted the spot next to you. After a bit hesitation, he reluctantly sat down, frowning in confusion. “So, what is it?” He questioned you again, in response you grabbed his hand and intertwined your fingers. “I feel like you’ve been tired lately, can I do something to help?” Since he was curious, you decided to be honest with him.

Ah, so that’s what this is. You were overprotective of him again. “I’m fine, there’s no need to worry.” Dan heng straightened his back, trying to appear as unbothered and normal as possible. But to you, his posture seemed very tense. “Are you sure?” The sincerity could be heard from your voice, and he felt it becoming more challenging to refuse your kind offer. “Yes, but I’ll let you know if I need help.” This should put you at ease, right?

You stared at him for a while, then looked down, sighing, “I see, alright then.” He felt bad for worrying you like this, thinking you must not like seeing him in such a pathetic state. So he mumbled to himself that he’d put up a better act next time. Just as he thought you were going to leave, you proposed another idea, “can I at least massage you then? I know your muscles are tense.” Dan heng was going to refuse again when you pushed him down, grabbing his wrists and pinning them to the bed. The boy immediately turned red, eyes widened as you said, “no but’s, I promise it will help!

after a rather long debate of him reassuring you that he was fine and you insisting on wanting to take care of him, he finally surrendered and turned to lay on his belly. You wanted him to take off his clothes first, but once again, he was too ashamed. At least he took off his coat, so now he’s only wearing his black top and pants.

Gently, you brushed your index finger over his neck and shoulders, trying to feel where the bumps are. These are the tense and uncomfortable parts. Then you kneaded the skin, starting off lightly and gradually becoming more persistent. You also used more strength, always making sure to ask him first before regulating the force you use. Your fingers rubbed him up and down, massaging every spot. At some point his body also moved back and forth due to the amount of strength you used.

Once his muscle loosened up, you moved lower, hands now massaging his shoulder blades and back. Your movements slide across his body, gliding along his spine, all while making sure he’s comfortable. He haven’t uttered a single word yet since you started, he didn’t even groan or gasp. At least you knew by his body language that he was doing fine. When you went even lower, to the point you were basically holding and squeezing his waist, he couldn’t help but squirm around.

At first your fingertips felt cold, and he flinched when you grabbed his hips. Then it tickled, causing him to shake and wriggle which he found very humiliating. Just when he finally got used to it, you turned him onto his back, making him look at you and raised his leg over your shoulder. “W-wait..!? Why are you…!” He instantly covered his face with his hands out of reflex, and turned to the side to avoid your gaze. “I’m massaging you?” You replied sceptical, holding his shin before kneading his muscles there. “I bet you’ve been running around a lot as well.”

After hearing that, he understood what you were getting at, but it was still too much for him. Now you were sitting between his legs, spreading them apart and clasping one over your shoulder. It looks so weird, considering he was at the lower angle, looking up to you massaging his leg from the bottom to the top. This didn’t help his already trembling and twitching body, it only intensified the sensations. “Ha-hnnGh…” Dan heng let out a quiet whimper, and you stopped to lean closer to his face.

“Sorry, was that too much force?” You asked, wondering if you hurt him. His face was all red and sweaty already, was it that painful? “I-I’m fine.. go on.” The male whispered, brows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. “Alright then.” You said, before continuing what you did moments ago. And of course, when you were done, you had to repeat the same process with the other leg. He has the same reaction, hands desperately covering his mouth while his quivered.

Slowly, you took him by his knee and ankle, then slipped his leg down from your shoulder again. “I’m done.” You proudly proclaimed, only to be met with a flustered dan heng who’s still hiding away from you. His hair was messy from him turning and trashing so much, face still carefully out of your view. His entire frame was shaking, and you had to admit, he was adorable. When your oblivious gaze accidentally scanned over his lower body, you finally caught on and froze. So that’s what got him acting this way.

You pinned him down by hovering over him, hands pressing down on the bed on either side of his face. He noticed how your shadow creeped over him, signalising you noticed. “…I don’t want to hear you say anything.” Dan heng muttered under his breath, still against showing you his face. But how could you not tease him when the situation is like this? In the end, you still chuckled and said, “well? I didn’t know you were such a naughty boy.”

Oh-oh, his face just got even redder.

#sub character #sub!character #dom reader #dom!reader #sub hsr #sub honkai star rail #sub dan heng #hsr dan heng #honkai dan heng #dan heng #dan heng x reader #dan heng x you #dan heng x y/n #dan heng x gender neutral reader #dan heng hsr #dan heng honkai star rail

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drgnflyteabox · 5 months ago

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Simon x gn!reader. Simon gives you a neck massage<3 some body horror imagery (like just description of pain), migraine, shame about chronic pain / having to take a break, soft, abrupt ending (sry)

Your neck pops, shoulders stiffening, little crackles dancing up your spine and to the base of your skull. Straightening doesn't help, no matter how much you try. You roll your shoulders back, lifting them, breathing deeply to try and relieve the pressure.

Nothing.

You stay unbearably stiff, hearing the inner machinations of your overwrought musculature with each breath, feeling it pulling at your scalp.

God, your skin pulls back while your eyes are pulled forward, pulsing, barely hanging on in your head.

You sit up again, eyes blurring, squinting to see the words on your laptop screen. They jumble together, frying your sensitive eyes, taunting you as your neck pops once again.

They should call you rice krispie, or at least make you one of the mascots. You could be snap or pop. That almost makes you laugh, but the heavier breaths send pulses of pain to your head and you stop yourself.

But your writing.

You know there's gonna be a phone call tomorrow at 11, that it's going to expect words on pape, words you just don't have.

You know you could just... send an email and explain. Offer to attach a doctors note, even though they've given you accommodations. You could delay, and probably nobody would say a thing. They haven't yet at least.

Yet you feel that coil of dread in your stomach at the thought. That poisonous little snake sinking it's longfanged teeth in you.

How many times have you had to delay? It feels like too many - too many to be normal, functional, surely.

That venom tells you you'll be fired, ostracized, that a big red stamp will be stuck onto some permanent database and you'll never be hired again.

You don't know how long you sit there, in pain, despairing your job when Simon walks quietly into your home office and lays heavy hands on your shoulders.

"It's late," he murmurs. His thumbs find your traps, digging in, and you moan softly.

"I gotta finish this," you mumble.

"It's late," he says again, "and you're tense. How's your head?"

He can probably feel how rock hard your muscles are, how the long line of your back is as rigid as a board.

"I just need to take another advil," you murmur, rolling your shoulders against his hands.

"You could," he slips on palm to your front, gliding over your collar, then gently holding your neck right below your jaw, "or you could let me give you a rub and go to sleep."

"I really need to finish this," you try, though you know it's weak. That you'll give in. You aren't accepting it- you're resigned to it.

Simon can tell.

"I'm not asking, honey," his hands move again, gliding, slipping under your armpits to nudge you up and out of your chair.

You stand, dizzy for just a moment before you let yourself lean back into him. He's a good sport about it, always is, half-dragging you to the bathroom.

"Brush your teeth," he puts the toothbrush in your hand, already tooth paste-ed, and leaves you in the bathroom for a moment.

He comes back with your pyjama's. The flannel ones you'd gotten last Christmas, worn in now and comforting. Your eyes tear up at his consideration, and you sniffle while he undresses you.

"Thank you," you mumble around the toothbrush, "my head really hurts."

"I know, honey," he says back. His voice is soft, still gravelly, but purposefully soft. That's enough to make you cry, though you can only let tears fall out of your eyes. Anything else would make your head worse.

"Do you need any advil?" he finishes buttoning your pyjama top as you spit your rinse into the sink.

"Yeah, I think so," he gives you four, which you swallow with water, "can you still rub my neck?"

He hums yes, guiding you by the elbow to the bedroom. You lay flat on your back, trying to relax, feeling his weight shift the mattress as he climbs in behind you.

His hands are perfect for this. Strong, thick, turning the muscles of your neck and shoulders into mash potatoes. You groan, grateful tears soaking into the pillow.

His thumbs find the base of your head, pushing, pushing, until the tension wrapping your skull gradually lessens. You begin to sink into the mattress, breathing deeply, hands twitching.

"Thank you," you sniffle.

"I should'a stopped your earlier," he digs into a tense spot, making you gasp for just a moment before you relax again, "know how you are."

"Mm'workaholic," you mumble.

"Ridiculous is what you are," he says. It's gruff, but it's fond. If you hadn't known him so long you'd have maybe been hurt.

That's how you fall asleep. Thinking of calling your supervisor tomorrow, apologizing, feeling better now that you aren't totally overwhelmed with pain.

Simon stays behind you as you drift, never relenting, moving his hands across your back and unknotting your stubborn muscles one by one.

"Love you," you mumble, half coherent.

"Love you too, honey," Simon murmurs. His lips find the nape of your neck, enveloping you with his body and his warmth, as your energy peters out.

#drgnfly writes #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley/reader #ghost/reader #my weekly migraine is here so wooo #here we go

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lyragoth · 20 days ago

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Three rings for the Elven-kings under the sky

On an autumn afternoon, Celebrimbor teaches Galadriel how to make bubbles with Nenya, the ring of water. (Later, he would teach Gil-galad to wield Vilya for the noble art of flying kites, much like Gandalf, who would one day use Narya to conjure fireworks for the hobbits' children.) _________________________

I wasn’t planning to vent with this drawing, but I feel like I have to. Today is a sad day in Lyraland. I was accused of something I always fought against: using AI in my artwork. Art are stolen to feed AI database and this is very shitty. I have never used AI in any part of my drawings. Realistic art is my passion. My work isn’t “perfect”. I make plenty of mistakes in lighting, shadows, blending, anatomy, and more. They may not be obvious to others, but my eyes see them clearly. I know what works and what still needs work. But I must say that not everything that strays from realism is a flaw. Some things are intentional, and they’re part of my style. A loose brush stroke, raw lineart, or selective rendering, these are choices, not errors. They’re what make my work mine. I keep studying, improving, experimenting. Sometimes I simplify. Sometimes I go all in and render deeply. Sometimes it’s just the face that gets the detail. It’s a process... one that evolves, but is always mine. My art is mine. Always has been. And I will continue creating with my hands, my eyes, and my heart. Anyway, have some non-AI Galadriel spending time with her cousins Celebrimbor and Gil-galad.

#celebrimbor #gil galad #galadriel #I'm obsessed with blond gil-galad #Galadriel and Gil-galad love to spend time with their favorite cousin and BFF Celebrimbor.#silmarillion #lord of the rings #lotr #silm crack

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kksverse · 2 months ago

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Winters Touch

A/N: This is part of a series, you can find the other chapters and the masterlist below! Did I write this while recovering from surgery? Yes. Do I have any regrets? No. Enjoy!

Thank you to @buckysgirl27 for beta-reading this!

I also posted this on ao3!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

masterlist

Summary:

Soulmate AU where the name of your soulmate is seared into the skin above your heart when you first make eye contact with them.

Reader discovers that Bucky Barnes is her soulmate when he is the Winter Solider.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count 2005

Chapter 3: Cold Touches

You weren’t prepared for the rush of cold air that came when the doors to the living room dramatically opened. Nor were you prepared to see Tony Stark in front of you. A breath got caught in your throat as you watched him carefully when he looked down at you before glancing at Bucky and Steve.

“I thought you guys might have gotten stuck out here. Since you have made me wait for now…” He quipped as he dramatically brought his arm up to his face to check his watch.

“30 minutes” He looked at Steve waiting for a reply holding both sides of the double doors preventing anyone from getting in.

You began to feel the anxiety building up in your chest as you subconsciously began rubbing your palms against the material of your leggings. You felt a, now familiar, bite of coldness brush against the top of your hand. Chills ran down your spine at the contact of him. You could feel now just how close he stood to you. You knew if you focused hard enough you would be able to feel the warmth radiating off him. The smell of him.

Your trance was broken as Tony looked back at you stepping against gesturing you to come in. Only when he was out of your viewpoint were you able to see the living room. You looked around the room stunned at the extravagance of the room.

You heard Steve and Tony bickering behind you as you approached the conference table that seated the rest of the Avengers, including the infamous Black Widow who was staring at you.

“So you must be the girl that’s been causing a riot in this tower” She spoke with a warm smile looking between you and Bucky who was now standing behind you.

You gapped not knowing how to answer instead you simply returned her smile and sat down at the two chairs that were seated next to each other. Like you and Bucky were at trial.

Bucky glared at Natasha at her choice of words to you. She chuckled at his glare holding her hands up playfully. It seemed friendly, but you’ve seen that look before. You stiffened remembering the fight that led you here. Your body didn’t relax as he sat down next to you not knowing who was sitting next to you.

You didn’t know what had happened to the Winter Soldier. If he was erased never to be seen again and this is simply his shell sitting next to you. Or if the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes were one and the same, able to switch from one to the other seamlessly.

You hoped he wasn’t entirely gone and that thought scared you. You hoped you would get to know your soulmate’s good and bad parts. You shook your head gaping at the burning feeling in your chest. A sign of the bond taking root and vibrating throughout your body.

Tony rounded the table with an agitated Steve as the entire group was now seated and focused entirely on the two of you.

A familiar feeling of anxiety began to spread through my chest as Tony typed into his database before finally pulling up a slideshow labeled “RULES FOR S.O.A”.

Steve shook his head and held it in his hands before letting out a loud sigh. Tony was quick to shush him dramatically before continuing to a group of annoyed Avengers.

You felt a knot in your throat that you couldn’t swallow. The reality of this crashing down on you, hard.

“Rules for Soulmates of Avengers” Tony read from the hologram. “Even though Bucky is not technically an Avenger we are just going to let it slide”

Your hands tightened in your lap as your breaths came out too quickly. Bucky tensed beside you as well, hands balled into tight fists and his jaw clenched as he looked sharply at Tony.

Tony ignored his glare, “First things first, all soulmates of the avengers will live in the tower alongside their soulmates. As a form of protection and also so no soulmate can be used as leverage towards an avenger”. Tony spoke as if these words held no weight as he continued, as if it was obvious this was the right thing to do.

“Soulmates may work within the tower if they want but will have access to anything they wish for. When they leave the tower they must be with an escort whether that be an Avenger or a guard when the Avengers are gone”

You pictured life at the Avengers tower. A life with no job, no morning coffee shop, no strolls in the park. A life that doesn’t involve the same apartment that you have spent the past 3 years laughing and crying with your friends. The ceiling of your bedroom that you stared into picturing a life with your soulmate. Dreams that were filled with love and happiness.

Overwhelming pressure formed in your chest with a feeling that you could barely recognize, dread.

Steve reached over Tony, slamming his palm onto the projector shutting off the slideshow.

“Are you insane?!” Steve sneered in Tony’s face, the whole of the avengers were now on their feet.

Natasha held Steve back from Tony while Sam held back Tony. Wanda and Vision idled at the side waiting for tensions to cool.

“In what world do you think this is the way? They don’t even know each other yet for Christ’s sake and you go and parade a life of being a prisoner in the tower” Steve raised his hand to put a finger in Tony’s face.

“You know this isn’t the way” Steve huffed.

Your thoughts spiraled as they fought. You didn’t think you could do this. Any of this. It was your first time even meeting him. How can you just move in with him? Is this what having a soulmate is like? Is this what is expected of you?

You felt the familiar panic crawl into your throat as you looked around the room, looking for an escape.

Tony and Steve were still arguing, loudly, the rest of the table joining in. You glanced at the man next to you. He was deadly silent watching the scene in front of you, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. You could tell that it was too much for him.

Leaning over slightly you whispered to him ,“Can we leave?” your voice shook against your will as you desperately needed out of the room. His head snapped to yours almost forgetting who was sitting next to him. His grip on the chair softened and the vein in his neck disappeared as he stared at you.

You watched as he looked at you softer than you expected before nodding his head. You swallowed nervously as you watched him stand waiting for you to do the same. You rushed out of your chair awkwardly waiting for him to guide you.

You both slipped out of the conference room unnoticed as you could hear the arguing echo through the hall.

Your body relaxed slightly as you finally felt like you were able to breathe. You shook your arms slightly trying to shake off the rest of the tension. You followed Bucky silently as he guided you towards the balcony of the Avengers tower. Your steps slowed down slightly and as if he could hear it he turned around looking towards you.

“I don’t do very well with heights” you said softly, trying to weigh your fear of heights for your need of fresh air. Bucky watched as you fidgeted with your hands, contemplating going to the balcony. You looked up at him nervously as he took a small step towards you. A wave of sandalwood and spice crashed into you, stifling a groan and the need to press your nose into his chest.

“I won’t let you fall” Bucky looked at you, intensely serious. You smiled brightly at him almost laughing at how serious he was. A wave of warmth rushed through you and settled in your chest. You hated how much you liked the feeling, how much he makes you feel like that.

Bucky looked down at your lips almost in awe like no one has ever smiled at him like that before. You pressed your lips together looking towards the door of the balcony before gesturing to him.

“Can you go first?” you asked, a little nervous. He looked at you a moment longer before nodding and heading to the door. You held your breath as you followed him out onto the balcony. The wind rushed through your hair as you stepped out onto the thick glass. You closed your eyes as you accidentally looked down and realized just how high you were. A heavy hand settled on your back as you snapped your eyes open to find Bucky right next to you.

“It’s ok” he murmured, guiding you towards the chairs. Your stomach fluttered and not because of your fear for heights. You closed your eyes again trying to focus on his touch, the way his hand feels against you, the warmth of his skin seeping through your thin shirt. You forgot about the balcony and soaked in his touch. Your focus snapped as your knees bumped into the leg of the chair forcing you to take a seat, ripping the hand off your back.

A blush rushed to your cheeks as he stepped away from you sitting in the chair next to you. You didn’t want him to know that you noticed the way he scooted the chair closer to yours before sitting down. You also didn’t want him to know how much you liked that.

You took a deep breath as you leaned back into your chair, your chest feeling lighter already. You could feel Bucky’s stare on your face as you looked towards him offering a soft smile. “Thank you for this” You said softly, looking away from him.

He didn’t reply as his gaze traveled the distance from your eyes to your lips. His chest rising and falling deeply as he looked away, fingers tightly gripping the armrest.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this” he looked towards you, his metal arm shifting away from you unconsciously as you adjusted in your seat to face him better.

“Like what?” your hands played with the material of the chair as you watched him carefully.

“You shouldn’t be forced to do anything. You have a choice” he spoke gruffly, like the words were hard for him to get out. A pang of longing flourished in your chest. You knew he was speaking from the heart, knowing he didn’t want your free will to be taken away like his was.

You held your breath as you slowly placed your hand over his metal hand. You felt him stiffen as you touched him. “Is this ok?” you asked lifting your hand to hover over his, placing it fully on him when you saw him nod.

“I know this is a lot, it feels like a lot. While I don’t want to move in as fast as they think I should I still want to get to know you. As my soulmate” your heart was racing in your chest as you spoke. “We can take this slow, as slow as we want to” you looked at him as an emotion you didn’t recognize flashed over his face.

His eyes looked lighter, body looked more relaxed. “I would like that” he said softly. Looking down at his hand intertwined with yours, he softly tightened his hand in yours rubbing his thumb over the skin of your hand.

Your chest was so warm looking at him, watching him. You knew that this would be tough for both of you. But up on that balcony you looked at him with a sense of hope he had never seen before. With soft touches and soft smiles, you knew that you were going to be ok.

taglist: @scott-loki-barnes @mcira @livwtfhaha @romanoffthreal @scarletgaurd123 @whisperingashgarden

#bucky barnes x reader #marvel cinematic universe #bucky barnes #fluff #bucky barnes getting the love he deserves #mcu #marvel mcu #thunderbolts #fanfic #soulmate au #soulmates #the avengers #steve rogers #tony stark #reader insert

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