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dex0s · 2 days ago

Text

DON'T WORRY 'BOUT A THING// YAN!KPDH x READER

WORD COUNT: 2.7K

WARNING:: YANDERE?, OOC GWI-MA, PLOT

CHAPTER 3 <<< CHAPTER 4 (Here)

(A/N): I know I said there maybe smut, but I feel like it would be to quick in the story to have smut so maybe in chapter 6 or chapter 7 after you meet the Saja boys.

As you step through the front door of your house, a strange stillness greets you—familiar, yet almost surreal. The soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet echoes like a question in your mind. You pause, glancing around, wondering if everything that just happened was nothing more than a strange, vivid dream.

Maybe none of it was real.

Maybe it was all just your imagination. But then your thoughts drift to Rual. The memory of his smile, his voice, the way he looked at you—it all comes rushing back like a warm wave.

And suddenly, you know. If Rual was part of that dream... then you never want to wake up. That wouldn't be just a dream. It would be the best dream ever.

But deep down, you know better.

This isn't a dream. This is reality. A reality steeped in shadows, one where demons walk freely, where the rules you once lived by no longer apply.

It's a world wrapped in layers of the unknown, where truth hides behind riddles and every answer only leads to more questions. Mysteries linger in the corners of your vision, just out of reach, whispering warnings you can't quite understand.

And yet... this is your world now. Real. Dangerous. Unforgiving. But still, somehow, breathtakingly alive.

But what if those so-called mysteries aren't mysteries at all? What if they're simply truths, fragments of information buried by time, forgotten by the world but not lost forever?

The thought hits you like a spark in the dark.

Your heart lurches with urgency. Without thinking, you break into a speed walk, almost a run, feet thudding against the floor as you make your way to your bedroom. You push open the door, breath catching in your throat.

There it is. Sitting on your desk like a beacon of hope in a collapsing world—your computer. Your lovely, loyal tool. Cold, glowing, silent. But maybe it holds the answers. Maybe the secrets you're desperate to uncover have been sitting there all along, just waiting for the right questions.

You drop into your chair without hesitation, your fingers already dancing across the keys before your mind fully catches up.

What is the Honmoon?

The screen blinks, loading.

Can you have one soul but two bodies?

That one makes you hesitate for a second. The question feels too big, too impossible. But you hit enter anyway. You're not here to play it safe.

The history of the Honmoon. What is the meaning behind the Honmoon. Are demons real?

One question after another, you chase the answers like you're chasing oxygen. A sense of urgency buzzes in your veins. Every click, every scroll feels like peeling back layers of something ancient—something long buried beneath silence, denial, and fear.

Somewhere, deep down, you know this is only the beginning. But at least now... you're finally looking.

And there it is.

Your breath catches as your eyes lock onto the screen. The answer, the reason behind all of this chaos, the thread tying everything together, appears like it was waiting for you.

"Honmoon and the History Behind It."

Your heart thuds louder. You click it without hesitation. It's not even a modern article, not a blog post, not a research paper. It's a PDF, scanned images of pages from an ancient, time-worn book. The pages are yellowed and uneven, the ink faded in places, but the words still pulse with weight—like they've been holding their breath for centuries, waiting to be read again.

"Whatever," you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. "I just need to know how the hell I'm connected to this."

You sigh, but your eyes stay locked on the screen.

Then you begin.

The first page is written in ornate script; each letter carved like it was never meant to be forgotten. At the top, a phrase stands out in bold:

"The Honmoon: The Soul's Divide."

Your pulse quickens.

You scroll.

A hand-drawn diagram of a body split in two. Two figures sharing the same soul at their core, stares back at you. The text around it speaks of ancient rituals, cosmic laws, and forgotten truths. It explains how the Honmoon is not just a bond... it is a mirror, a tether, a curse and a gift. A soul split across time, across flesh, meant to awaken only when the world is on the brink of collapse—or evolution.

And suddenly... it's not just a search anymore.

It's your story. Or past story

You lean in closer.

Because this isn't just information anymore.

This may be the key to your future. Or your undoing.

You stare at the screen, heart slowing to a deep, steady beat as the pages begin to unfold a story—not in words, but in pictures. Ancient illustrations, weathered with age, yet strikingly detailed, begin to tell a tale older than language itself.

On the first page: A demon, tall and regal, a jagged crown atop its horned head, sits slouched in sorrow. Its face is drawn in heavy shadows, eyes hollow, lips pulled into a deep frown. Loneliness radiates from the ink like heat.

The next image: A human—or something that looks human—approaches the demon, hand outstretched. In its palm is a glowing object shaped like a heart, though it pulses with light, not blood. The two figures speak, but the language is written in symbols you can't understand. Still, the moment feels... intimate. Sacred.

You scroll again. Now the crowned demon wields that heart-shaped power. It uses it—on others, on the world, on the very human who gave it. But something has changed. The human figure stands at a distance, no longer reaching out, but watching. Saddened. Disappointed.

The next page: The figure, crying now, takes the glowing heart back. The demon is reaching out, pleading. Symbols spiral out of the figure's mouth, sharp and jagged like broken glass. Then, in the final frame of the sequence, the figure fades—vanishing in a swirl of ink and shadow—leaving the demon alone, kneeling, arms outstretched in silent desperation.

And then, the last page.

You freeze.

A detailed drawing stares back at you—eyes. Wide, cold, and unblinking. The pupils are thin slits, like a predator's, surrounded by intricate runes and swirling smoke. They look straight at you. Through the screen. Through you.

Your skin crawls.

Beneath the image, a final line in modern text—a translation.

"By thread and smoke I weave the night,

A name once breathed, now locked from light.

I watch, I wait, I call you near.

Through the walls of thoughts, through the dreams and fears.

What's bound in want is mine within."

You read it aloud without thinking. The words fall from your lips like someone else is speaking through you.

flicker. The lights blink twice.

Then they begin to stutter wildly.

Your computer screen glitches, distorting into unreadable symbols. And then—the ground trembles. Your whole house groans. Furniture rattles, the window creaks in protest. Earthquake?

Panicking, you duck under your desk, heart slamming against your ribs.

Then you see it.

The air ripples like heat above a stove, and from the center of your room pink flames burst into life—swaying unnaturally, dancing in silence. Within them, a grin appears—wide, monstrous, and made of purple fire, curling into an expression that's nothing but hunger and glee.

It doesn't blink. It doesn't move. But it knows you're there. And it's smiling just for you.

".다간 가내 제이 니으렀불 을양 내"

The air grows thick—too thick to breathe. Your chest tightens as the flames shift and twist, taking on a form that feels impossibly old, impossibly familiar.

And then... it speaks.

Its voice is layered—low, echoing, threaded with whispers that don't match its mouth. It speaks as though it's waited eons, as though time itself bent backward just for this meeting.

"You are back..."

You freeze.

Your mouth opens, but no words come. Your throat is dry, your thoughts scattering like ash in wind. What do you say when a flaming demon is standing inches from your reality?

Nothing. You just stare, trembling, lips parted in silent shock.

If it had a human face—if it had a soul—you're sure it would've tilted its head just then, curious, like a dog listening to its master. Instead, it remains still, flickering, fire crackling softly in the quiet like a heartbeat in a cave.

Then its flames shift.

With a hiss and a gust of heat, the swirling fire contorts and tightens. Flesh. Skin. A face. A body. The fire morphs until it's no longer just a demon—it's him. The demon from the book. The one who lost everything. The one who fell from grace because of power.

The one who was left behind.

His humanlike form steps toward you, slow and deliberate. His eyes—slitted and ancient—glow with an unreadable mix of pain and obsession. He doesn't blink. He doesn't stop.

You scramble back on the floor, pressing your back against the wall.

"S-Stay back!" you shout, but your voice is thin—weak against the weight of his presence.

He doesn't listen.

He leans down, face inches from yours, and his flaming hand, now shaped like a man's but still burning with otherworldly heat,��grabs your face.

It doesn't burn—but it should. It feels like fire and ice and memory all at once.

He studies you.

Eyes scanning, not just your face, but you—like he's peeling back layers, looking through your skin, into your blood, into your soul.

His expression softens, and he whispers, voice trembling with something between wonder and grief:

"I lost you so long ago," he murmurs, his voice breaking like a cracked bell, low and mournful. "So long ago, I thought I would never see you again... my love."

The words hit you like a thunderclap. My love.

You sit frozen, heart thudding painfully in your chest. Your mouth is slightly open, but there's nothing to say. What could you say?

The man—no, the demon—kneels before you now, his flaming hand still gently holding your face, his eyes locked on yours as if you're the only thing left holding his universe together.

You stare back.

Not out of courage, but because you can't look away. He's too beautiful in that otherworldly way, too sad, too haunted. Like a forgotten god grieving something he once had and never deserved.

"You don't remember... do you?" he asks softly, his voice almost tender. His expression falters for just a moment—like hope slipping through his fingers. "Not yet."

A flicker of flame trails down his cheek like a tear. Then he leans in closer, his forehead nearly touching yours.

"Let me help you... my love."

Before you can react, before you can speak, he places two fingers gently against the center of your forehead. The contact burns and soothes at the same time—a searing sensation that wraps around your mind like a velvet chain.

And then—the world vanishes.

Flashes flood your mind.

Under the earth's crust under the hot fires Your own hands, glowing with the same light as the heart-shaped object in the book. The demon—him—kneeling before you once again, only in another life, another world, whispering your name with such longing it aches in your chest even now. A war. A betrayal. A goodbye soaked in sorrow.

And just as quickly, it's gone.

You gasp as you're pulled back into your bedroom, heart racing, skin clammy with sweat.

But nothing's the same now.

Because a part of you—some hidden, ancient part—is whispering back:

You knew him. You loved him. And you left him.

Gwi-Ma. The name echoes in your skull like a drumbeat from a memory you didn't know you had.

The Demon King. The one you once loved. The one you left... because of his hunger for power. Because he chose the throne over you.

Now here he is again, not as a dream or a myth, but flesh, flame, and fury.

You feel him—really feel him—his hand grasping at you beneath the desk, his grip firm but not cruel, pulling you closer, dragging you toward him with a desperate kind of reverence.

"N-No!" you shout, panic rising in your throat like bile. You cling to the desk leg, fingers turning white from how tightly you grip it. "Let me go! I'm not the same person you lost!"

His eyes darken. The fire around him pulses��anger crackling in the air like a storm brewing.

"Yes, you are," he growls, voice thunderous now, all gentleness gone. "You're the same. You feel it—don't lie to me."

His face is closer now, twisted in frustration and longing. "Don't fight me. Just come with me... so we can go home."

Home.

The word makes your stomach twist.

"No, no, no!" you scream, voice rising into a piercing pitch, raw and full of something ancient and terrified.

Then—light.

A sudden, blinding golden glow erupts from your chest, bursting through the front of your shirt like a star being born. Gwi-Ma jerks back, startled. His hand falls away from your skin, his eyes widening—not in anger, but in awe and recognition.

Beneath him, the Honmoon—the symbol, the force, whatever it is—flares to life. A brilliant, sacred light floods the room. The same kind of glow from the book. From the past.

He stumbles backward, shielding his face with one arm as the light intensifies.

And for the first time, he hesitates.

His gaze lingers on you, expression unreadable—torn between fury and heartbreak.

"You can run..." he says, his voice now low and edged with something bitter. "But know this..."

His flames twist upward, licking the ceiling, curling around his body.

"I will always be in your shadow."

With that, the pink fire swallows him whole. A swirl of embers. A hiss. And he's gone.

The room is silent again.

Your chest still glows faintly, slowly fading. You're alone. For now.

But the words linger in the air like smoke.

Your phone starts ringing, its shrill tone cutting through the eerie silence like a knife. You flinch, the sound jarring after everything that just happened. For a moment, you just stare at it, still sitting under the desk, the faint glow on your chest finally gone.

Your legs feel shaky, but you force yourself to move. With effort, you crawl out and stand, one hand gripping the desk to steady yourself. Your right leg trembles under your weight, residual fear or maybe something deeper, but you manage to shuffle out into the living room, the ringing growing louder with every uneven step.

You pick up the phone without even checking the caller ID.

“Hey,” comes a familiar voice, warm, casual, unaware of the chaos you just lived through. “You have a show request with the Saja boys tomorrow. Do you want to do it?”

It’s Rual.

His voice feels like a rope tying you back to normal life, but your mind is still spinning. The Saja boys. The memory hits you instantly, Huntr/x calling them demons. Those yellow eyes. The glowing marks. The strange aura they carried like armor.

And after everything you’ve just seen, the book, the flames, the pink fire, Gwi-Ma, you believe it now.

The Saja boys are not normal.

They might know what the Honmoon really is. They might know who you really are. They might even know how to stop whatever the hell is happening.

But what if they’re dangerous? What if you're walking into something you’re not ready for?

You barely made it out of one encounter. You don’t know how to fight demons. You don’t even fully remember yourself yet.

Still, you think of the golden light, the way it burned out of your chest. Whatever this Honmoon is, it’s a part of you and you’re starting to realize you can’t run from it anymore.

After a pause, you steady your breath and lift the phone back to your ear.

“Yeah… sure,” you say slowly. “I’ll go.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end. Then Rual speaks again, teasingly, “That didn’t sound very confident.”

You manage a small, dry laugh. “I’m just… tired.”

“Fair enough.”

You hesitate for a second, then add, “But… I have a request for the Saja boys.”

Rual hums, suddenly curious. “A request?”

“Yeah. It’s important. Can you set it up?”

You don’t say more. Not yet.

You don’t know how much you can trust anyone right now. But if there’s even the slightest chance that the Saja boys hold the key to this puzzle You're ready to take the risk.

TAGLIST (Comment on this post to be put on) : @reni502, @zomqiez, @sylum, @bad4amficideas, @apelepikozume, @notheroverthinker

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hcrringtonshair · 2 days ago

Note

We need “I don’t like (x), I like you!” With anakin x reader im begginggg like fluff into cute smut

omg I was so happy when I read the request this morning! I have a bunch of drafts with Anakin but it's been yeeears since I wrote for him.

I didn't know how to solve the cute smut part, since I don't write it. But I think I handled it quite well :) (don't mind the title, I couldn't really come up with a good one. And I listened to Fortnight quite a lot while writing this. Here's the playlist I listened to)

It's ruining my life

Anakin Skywalker x Senator!Reader

Warnings: angst, a bit of cheesy romance, cute 'smut' and I didn't proof read it. (English is my second language sorry lol)

Word Count: 2728

A/n: " I don't like (x), I like you!" From my prompt list you can find here!

Comments, reblogs and likes are very welcomed!<3

Jealousy was what you felt whenever you saw him with her.

It was undeniable that they had something going on and even though you weren't sure what exactly it was it still influenced your mood.

The bright teeth showing smile Anakin gave Padme whenever they met made you feel like someone punched you in the face.

Your heart tightened and the skin on your face burned.

Jedi weren't allowed to have attachments.

You knew it.

He knew it

and she knew it.

But still they were giving each other that looks.

It was a sunny afternoon, the air was thick and it was inevitable to walk outside without searching for shadow.

The cars in the sky were loud as you walked underneath them towards the senate. The spotless clean windows of the buildings you passed were reflecting your silhouette.

The chatting of people who dared to be outside was muffled to you, the clacking of your shoes on the hot grey asphalt were everything you concentrated on.

The heat made it unbearable to walk fast, but the faster you walked the faster you would be in the grand building.

You passed the hanger where ships came and left within 30 seconds. Today there was a lot going on. Representatives of every corner of the galaxy arrived and you fastened your steps to get a proper distance to them.

“Is it really necessary to walk this fast? We are nearly there and way too early.”

You jumped by the melodic voice that was the closest to you.

Risha, your counselor a few steps behind you, had a hard time to keep up with the pace.

Without turning around you raised your right arm to made a gesture that told her that she should be quiet.

“Don’t do that to me y/n. "I dare you.”

You ignored her angry undertone and continued walking, head up high. No emotion readable from your face.

Finally you reached the shadow that the senate threw. The dark marble columns were cold when you leant against it for a few seconds.

The long dress was thick and felt uncomfortably tight around your corpse.

With a grown you leaned your head back facing the high ceiling before closing your eyes.

The short relief was interrupted as you heard someone chuckle in the distance.

You would recognize it under hundreds and a shiver creeped down your back.

It was Anakin with Padme and another few members of the Jedi Council who made their way to the entrance.

They walked slowly, relaxed even. His long wavy hair moved with his steps, his hands were crossed behind his back. He looked effortlessly good and unawarely you bit your lip.

While straightening up you watched the scene, should you greet them or wait until they passed you.

It was more of a question how much you wanted to hurt yourself today. Being near him was an undefinable joy and pain at the same time.

On one hand there was Padme, she looked stunning as usual with her goddess-like appearance. She flirted with him even though she knew she shouldn’t. Maybe it was unintentionally but you chose to be petty about this.

The other thing was the Jedi behind and next to them. Stern but peaceful faces. They had an aura about them that was kind of calming but the feeling of being watched by them could not be ignored and they definitely did.

“Good day Senator y/l/n”

It was Padme that brought me back into reality. While being deep in your thoughts they nearly reached you.

Her angelic voice hurted in your ears. It was something about her, most likely her acting all innocent and good, that made you want to throw up.

Now it was too late to escape the situation and fighting through seemed to ruin the day even more but it was your own fault.

“Good day. Hot today isn’t it?”

With a lot of effort you managed to bring your brightest smile onto your face as you made one step towards them.

“It most certainly is. You want to join us? We are on our way inside.”

Of course she offered to join them, why wouldn’t she?

“Then we leave you alone.”

You didn’t face him when he raised his voice and your heart skipped a beat. “Senator y/l/n. It was a pleasure.”

As you dared to look over he lowered his upper body a bit to bow, locking his eyes with yours.

Breathless you kept eye contact until he was standing straight again. Before you were able to answer him, Senator Organa joined the group.

“Senator Amidala, do you have a minute?”

The tall older man did not look too pleased and it was certain that the topic he wanted to talk about was nothing fun.

Padme gave Anakin and me an apologizing look before she hurried after the other Senator who already started walking.

“I would wait with her until the Senator returns.”

The seven Jedi, two of them were still Padawans, nodded in response before they walked towards the hanger.

“I don’t want to hold you back. Risha is with me.”

Almost immediately you regretted saying it. It has been at least a year since you spoke to him without others around you.

“I feel more comfortable when I can make sure that you are safe.”

His words went down like a warm shower.

“Thank you Anakin.” Was it even right to call him by his first name? He was no longer a Padawan but also no Master. He was a General in the clone wars but it felt like a safe option. “So what was the business with Naboo and the Jedi?”

What a poor attempt to make small talk. Not bothered at your very forward question he shrugged briefly. “Nothing special. I was in command for a delegation of Jedi to protect Pad- Senator Amidala.”

The way he nearly called her by her first name.

“Sounds fun. What is necessary to get a personal Jedi delegation?”

The sharpness in your voice was too much but it was too late, his face was already changing and he raised one eyebrow.

“I mean of course it is not fun. Excuse me, that was rude. I did not mean to either insult the Jedi nor the Senator”

Your in front of your upper body already folded hands clenched, the skin around your knuckles were lighter as usual. Ashamed by your own disrespect. It was not possible to look up.

“It is not” he confirmed, “You are always free to request a delegate.”

You looked up from the floor. He had stepped closer but no hints of him being angry.

With amusement he scanned your face, he seemed to enjoy your stuttered excuse.

Risha cleared her throat behind you but he ignored her and so did you.

“I guess then I will do that.” you gasped.

“y/n, Senator Bel Iblis is coming towards us.”

Snapped back into reality the hot air around you and the Jedi cooled down and you made a step back turning towards the approaching Senator. Anakin didn’t so his chest was nearly touching your shoulder.

“We can have a talk about that later. I see you at the party.”

Before you could react the Jedi distanced himself into the direction where Padme and Senator Organa showed up again.

Garm Bel Iblis, a charming man and impressive political figure started talking when he arrived at where you were standing but his words were muffled in your tunnel view where you could only see the Jedi with the dark blue eyes who had already laid all his attention onto the two other Senators.

It had finally cooled down as the sun was gone behind the tall towers of the city when you climbed into the car that was waiting at the hanger of your residence in the middle of Corruscent.

Until you were reminded earlier you had forgotten about the dinner party hosted by Mon Mothma.

Luckily it was a short journey, the dress was a standing up dress. The itchy rose golden fabric glittered in the lights coming from the inside of the rooms where already the majority of politicians and wealthy people of Coruscant gathered.

This time you were alone, Risha deserved an evening for her own and you planned not to stay that long.

Inside the high ceiled room one of the servants who had tablets with drinks in their hands offered you one and with a relief you took one. With one fast sip it was empty and you exchanged it for another full one.

Nervously you combed through the crowd, unfortunately the champagne did not cool down the burning sensation in your throat.

Every few steps you had to raise the corners of your mouth to smile, it was exhausting.

In the following two hours several people made conversation with you and the heavy topics made you dizzy.

Instead of taking another drink the cool air should solve it. Before reaching the doors to the balcony a broad shouldered body took in all the room.

“Senator y/l/n”

“General Skywalker.”

“You are already leaving?” It sounded like you heard disappointment in his deep voice.

To be honest you were considering leaving. Everyone had seen you, the job was basically done and it was late.

“I think so-”

Without hesitation he reached for the door gesturing to you to go first.

Slowly you made your way outside, the steps of him behind you were damped by his boots while your heels clicked on the concrete and it was the only thing to hear as the door shut and muffled the music and chatter from inside the building.

At the pick up and drop off area you stopped turning around before speaking.

“You don’t have to wait with me. It will take a bit until my driver is here.”

“There is no time to wait. I will bring you home.” the words overly casually spoken echoed in your ears and your mouth stayed open slightly as a car stopped on your level.

“Express Jedi Service. Don’t say no, just get in.” he softly demanded.

The way back home was quiet, insecurity held you back from speaking up and so you focused on the traffic.

You felt his eyes on you from time to time so you glanced over to him. He was adorably beautiful.

The car stopped all of the sudden and your heart sank. Staying longer at the party would have maybe been a better idea. Having conversations with Politicians was a price you would’ve happily paid if that meant that he was around.

On the platform you stretched your tired arms for a brief moment. A jawn leaving your mouth.

“Long day huh?” He grinnned as he appeared next to you.

“It was. Thank you for the ride back. I really appreciate it.” You made a few steps towards the terrace of your apartment and he followed.

"Anytime. I made you an offer this morning.”

After climbing the two steps up into the entrance area you stopped at the door that led directly to your bedroom, he did the same at almost the same time.

“And I will certainly not forget about it.” You replied with a small smile.

“But I guess you are quite occupied with Senator Amidala.”

“What was that?” Instead of only thinking it, you had muttered the comment about Padme and his posture stiffened, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing. Excuse me, sometimes I tend to speak out my thoughts.” A nervous giggle slipped out of your mouth, eyeing his reaction.

“I serve the republic, so when I offer it I will make sure that I can fulfill it.”

Your face became hot. The relaxed atmosphere shifted into a serious one.

“I get that. But you seem to be pretty happy with being basically the bodyguard of Padme. So it’s not important, really”

“It is important because you are important.”

Silence. The snappy confession of him took you both by surprise. His gaze was like he looked right through you into your soul.

“What do you mean? You-” Your stomach twisted, “You like her.”

His eyes widened for a short moment, he stopped halfway in the step he made into your direction. His posture relaxed and made clear that you didn’t discover a big secret about him.

“You are far off y/n.” he snickered. “I don’t like Padme. I like you. But you were always out of reach.”

“That is not true. Please Anakin.” Your voice broke down.

Whenever you imagined him confessing his love for you, you thought it would be pure happiness and relief but instead it was anxiety that took over your body.

Now that he openly reciprocated the feelings you had for him, a paralyzing pain took over your body.

He became blurry as the tears were building up and you broke eye contact and looked at the white marble flooring.

“We cannot- You know that we cannot.” Finally the tears slowly made their way down your cheeks before dripping onto your chest.

His stern stare softened as sob left your mouth that you tried to suppress.

The smooth warm skin of his palm and thumb on your face made you flinch as he dried the tears without breaking the silence.

Heavy breaths filled at emptied your lungs but it felt like you were choking on the heavy weight that weighed on your ribcage.

Carefully he lifted your chin, forcing you to lay your eyes onto him. The dim light highlighted his cheekbones just right. You could feel his warm breath on your skin as he leaned forward, his other hand on your lower back. All of it creates goosebumps across your body.

“I need you y/n.” His voice wasn’t more than a whisper against your cheek, his lips brushing over it, as you tried to shake your head.

“Please y/n. I’m craving your presence.” He slowly leaned back, his face still only a few inches away, your noses nearly touched. “There is not another minute I can live without you.”

He glimpsed down to your slightly opened lips, the knot in your stomach tightened only to be released as you took all your courage to lean into a soft kiss.

Pure relief took over with every tender movement of his lips against yours.

“We shouldn’t do this.” With a sigh you pulled away a little bit, your eyes moving up to his.

“Then stop.” his voice was husky.

“I cannot.”

He chuckled, his thumb still caressing your cheek. The tears had stopped, the damp traces and swollen eyes were the only remains.

The dizziness that had clouded your head cleared up.

A short wave of panic rolled over you as you realized your surroundings. He leaned into another kiss as you fumbled for the door knob behind you.

The clicking of the door opening was accompanied by a hum from Anakin.

Because of his grip tightening around your waist it was possible to safely walk backwards into the dark room. All the blinds were almost completely closed so you could only tell his frame when he let go of you to lead the way.

Panting, your heart was painfully hard pounding against your ribcage, you grabbed his hand to pull him closer again. The edge of the bed touched your legs so you let yourself fall back.

Both of you laughed as he nearly fell onto you, only his arms holding him up while he crawled onto the bed pushing you upwards until lowering himself not putting his whole body weight on your body.

“I-”

"Shh. Not now”

With another deep kiss he silenced you again, he sank into your embrace. Your fingers combed through his long hair, grabbing strands and pulling on them making him shudder.

Sighs of pleasure echoing through the room.

“You are so beautiful.” His look lingered on you, taking in the attire. He rested his head against the bed frame sitting halfway up to be at the same level as you. The white blanket wrapped around you, covering your chest. Heavily exhaling, you tried to sort your ruffled hair.

“Anakin-”

“Give me the chance to prove that this works.”

Your eyes wandered over his smooth chest, rapidly rising and lowering again, while biting your swollen underlip.

“Theres nothing I ever wanted more.” With a long sigh you moved towards him on your knees and hands. “Than you, Anakin.”

#anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker #anakin x reader #anakin skywalker smut #star wars #star wars fanfic #fluff prompts #prompt list #star wars fandom

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reallyromealone · 10 hours ago

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another part for resilient please!! 🥹🥹

Title: resilient

Chapter 3

Fandom: stranger things

Characters: stranger things cast

Fic type: angst

Pairings: Eddie x reader

Warnings: male reader, reader insert, omegaverse, angst, single parent reader, arguments

Notes:

🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️

(Name) Sat at the diner booth once more, staring at his cup of coffee anxiously as he glanced out the window, Steve sitting beside him watching calmly for any sign of Eddie "You know you don't have to do this, right?" Steve said to his friend, the Omega letting out a shaky breath "I gotta do this, this isn't about me... This is about my son" (name) focused on the task, face going calm as the sound of the front door bell jingled and the two looked to see... Nancy.

The beta woman walked in to collect her lunch order, having placed it over the phone as she locked eyes with Steve and smiled at the Alpha before glancing at the Omega beside him and the room went cold. It wasnt a secret that Nancy still had feelings for Steve despite being in a relationship, she acted like she could collect mates without any thought of others feelings.

(Name) Just stared at her, the other straightening her back at the omegas cold stare but still she walked to them "(name), Steve" she tried to keep civil and (name) spoke "don't worry, we aren't fucking so you don't need to be here" he smiled and Nancy glared at him "Ok can you get over that?"

"Over you turning my rape into a reason to ruin my life further? Not a chance in hell"

"Nancy leave" Steve said seriously to the woman who glared at (name) but the Alpha tone wasn't one she could ignore as she angrily left, passing Eddie who seemed confused at the affair that went down but decided not to press as he was here bigger reasons than petty drama Nancy is starting.

"Steve... Long time no see" Eddie seemed a bit nervous at the other alpha who could fold him like a lawn chair within seconds, (name) holding a paper of His rules and boundaries be wanted set for his son.

"Munson" Steve said flatly and (name) sighed "lets get started" he whispered as he slid his list to the rockstar "visitations are supervised, he eats what I allow, he goes where I go and you don't buy him things unless I approve it" he said seriously "my focus is my son, if you try any shit I will have Steve drop kick you into the next century"

Eddie never seen (name) so composed and serious "and if you want to be in my son's life, you don't go running off and leaving him" (name) got close as he stared at Eddie seriously "I will not let you hurt my son" Eddie kept composure, he had years to grow up and he did "I will do whatever is needed to be with my son" and you, god he wanted to hold him close but he knew if he even got close to him that Steve would punt him.

"Good, we can arrange the meeting next Wednesday" no room for any nonsense as (name) sipped his drink "he has naps at 12:30 till 1:30 so come for 2:15" Steve was proud of (name) "do you have any questions or things if the sort?"

"Can I buy him a toy?" He asked genuinely and (name) bit his cheek but nodded "nothing that makes mess" Eddie's smile could blind a person and (name) held back from any reaction as to not give the Alpha any hopes, even if his heart fluttered just like when he was a teenager.

"And nothing that will drive me up the wall!" (Name) Said seriously and the rockstar deflated slightly "not even a guitar?"

"Maybe when he is a bit older" (name) stood up with Steve while Eddie followed suit, offering his hand to shake "see you then?" He asked hopefully and (name) took a deep breath 'for (sons name)' he thought and took his hand, tentatively shaking it and Steve could see the stress in his eyes.

When the two got into the car, Steve watched (name) silently cry in the passenger seat and decided to start driving to avoid any eyes on the Omega "why does he have to be like this!" (Name) Sobbed out, hugging himself while Steve watched heartbroken "H-he just vanishes and suddenly is father of the fucking year!"

Steve just let (name) go through the motions, driving back to the omegas home and by time they got there, be mostly composed himself.

"I just want this party to go well... Please god" he mumbled getting out of the car and Steve Pat his shoulder.

Wednesday came way to fast.

(Name) Watched his son eat some grapes while paw patrol played on, (sons name) transfixed while having his 45 minutes of tv time. Hopp in the back working on something but close enough to be there in a second if (name) needed him.

Knock knock.

God no he was here.

(Name) Stood up and shakily walked to the door, mentally preparing himself for the Alpha who indeed was standing there looking equally as petrified.

"Hello Eddie" (name) said softly, staring at the brunette with false confidence and Eddie nodded with a sheepish smile "hey.... I brought a not annoying or messy toy" in his hands was a teddy bear that wore a little leather jacket and a kids parody of Metallica.

"Let me go tell him he has a guest... Wait here"

(Name) Let Eddie stand I'm the entrance before going to see his son "hey buddy... I have someone I want you to meet..." (Name) Said softly to the pup looked up at him confused "you can come in now" (name) said to Eddie who stepped in, shoes off and heart racing at the sight of his son. God he was perfect.

"It papa" (sons name) pointed to the rockstar with a calm tone, looking up at (name) for confirmation and (name) nodded softly "he knows me?" Eddie asked with a wet voice, tears threatening to fall as (sons name) toddled towards him and handed him a cracker.

"Hi... I'm your papa" Eddie accepted the slightly soggy cracker and let the boy lead him away while (name) watched them interact in the background, not wanting to interfere unless needed.

"Papa make music" (sons name) said confidently and looked to (name) "daddy! Music?"

"He knows my music?" Eddie asked (name) who sighed "he wanted to know who his dad was... I wasn't going to lie to him, he only listens to the clean versions though" (name) said simply and grabbed some drinks for the adults, little (sons name) wanting a sip from (name)s, always curious to try his Dams food.

"So, sweety why don't you show your papa your paw patrol toys?" (Name) Urged the tot who gave a shy little smile, the same one (name) had when he was really happy and flustered.

"I gaw them awl!" (Sons name) Said excitedly, his slight speech impediment more prominent as he got more amped up "come!" And with that, Eddie was dragged to his toy box and (name) got thirty minutes of peace.

What he wasn't expecting was Eddie to be so invested in his son's favorite show and his toys, absorbing everything in. (Name) Loved his son and the things he enjoyed but he heard this stuff... Constantly, 24/7 and it was nice to not to hear paw patrol lore for a bit. He watched the two interact and for a second, his heart felt the warmth of them being a family but quickly crushed that sensation.

Eddie was going to be a proper father.

Nothing else.

Not after what he did.

(Name) Admired how his son, his world was so insistent on showing every single thing and being so proud of it all "I got this with my money!" He said with pride and (name) spoke up "he gets an allowance for helping around the house, two dollars a chore" pointing to the chore Jar, a cutely decorated jar half filled with dollar bills and coins.

And a twenty that grandpa Hoppy put in.

"You must be such a big helper!" Eddie cheered to his son who smiled that big Eddie smile.

"I am!" Big help!"

(Sons name) Made both his parents play with him, (name) knowing what nonsense the pup was trying to convey and Eddie struggled to keep up.

"I missed so much" Eddie said in a solemn tone, standing outside the house and (name) stared without any pity "you did" his words flat and Eddie flinched a bit at how cold (name) was "when can I visit next?"

"His party, don't be late it starts at 12"

#x male reader #omega male reader #omegaverse #male reader #stranger things x male reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things angst #eddie x reader #Eddie Munson x male reader

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moondvncer · 2 years ago

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tucked myself in bed and the horrifying realisation that my earphones are still on my desk just hit me

#the desk is really close to my bed but #I don't want to feel cold for like... 3 seconds #thoughts #― rea's thoughts 💭

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gladiius · 1 month ago

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I really do need to reread through or replay everything. Need to remember how cranky he was in the real.

#[ some talks about canto 6 spoilers + minor sweeper intervallo spoilers </3 #≏ 《 ooc . 》 – ≎ – trip to inferno .#tbd.#[ need to remember how to write the earlier canto Vergs - and other characters for my multi #[ but god. guy who's character development is one of the most ever to me #[ guy who cares so much that even when he was distant and cold signs of him caring were still there ❤️#[ i hope he explodes.#[ sighs. When he lets them believe that he just doesn't help them because he doesn't feel like it because it's better that way #[ this is a job. A job none of them strictly /want/ to be doing. Don't get attached #[ guy who eventually confesses once he gives in to caring for them.#[ It's so. Note to self also on Canto 6 analysis at some point because he's so sickening.#[ what if the sudden realization that No Vergilius Did care all this time he just. Literally Couldn't. And then That realization #[ right as he breaks his contract to help them. He sickens me so so so much #[ and in canto 8/intervallo showing that there Are Consequences...#[ and in the check up intervallo just how Quickly Vergilius /ran/ to save them. Because he could. Because the contract couldn't stop him #[ in this instance.#[ grips head. I have so many thoughts about this man.#[ sir what is it like to wear grief as a second skin and continue finding reasons to live in grief

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secondbeatsongs · 5 months ago

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Food Crime: Frosty the Slawman

so a while ago, I saw this photo going around on tumblr:

at first, I thought this was photoshopped. I mean, "welcome new man in your life"? that feels like a translation error, or someone being silly on purpose.

but guess what! turns out, Frosty Slaw Man is real!

and soon...he will be mine. let's get cooking

(full disclosure: I crafted this snowman and took notes about it over a year ago. and then, like with many things in my life, I forgot about him, and let him drift into the ADHD void of Things I'm Not Currently Staring At, where object permanence is tentative and largely unrealized.

but here we are! and here he is: the slaw man. it's time to share him with you, so that you can suffer as I have suffered, and/or rejoice in my gelatin creation!)

so this recipe photo originally came from Mid-Century Menu (archive link), a blog that seems like one after my own heart, and which once tried to make the Slaw Man (with not much success; but we'll get back to that)! but it's not just that blog that has copies of this ad. I also found it on reddit, and in a few different places on ebay!

lookit that guy! he's a real guy!

both the reddit post and some of the ebay listings say that this is from 1963 (though I haven't been able to figure out which magazines it was printed in, to confirm this for myself). but in looking this up, I discovered something else fun! there's another version of this ad!

Best Foods is what Hellmann's stuff is called on the west coast, and the "this is no place for second best" thing makes a lot more sense when you consider that the ad was probably made for Best Foods first, and then just reused and rebranded for the east coast

the more you know!

anyway the benefit of finding this alternate ad is that the scan on this image is a lot clearer, and so the recipe is more readable! and in looking at it, I've realized something important:

when Mid-Century Menu tried this recipe, they got an ingredient amount wrong.

when they made their beloved Slaw Man, they had the water amount written down as 1/4 cup, but looking at this scan up close, it is actually 3/4 cup of water! something that might make a significant difference, considering we're working with gelatin!

(there's also another change I want to make compared to what they did, when I do this recipe. but we'll get into that in a sec.)

for now: we begin

so. there's no way I'm making a Slaw Man this large. I am just one person, and considering the ingredients of this, I don't think I'm going to be able to consume that much Slaw.

two entire heads of cabbage? three pounds of cottage cheese, a thing that I don't even like to eat? no. that's a bad idea.

so I'm starting small here and making this 1/3 the size of the original:

2 packets of unflavored gelatin 1/4 cup cold water 1 cup mayo 1 tsp salt 1lb cottage cheese 4 cups shredded cabbage

surely this will result in a reasonable amount of Man

...okay, I started chopping the cabbage thinking it would be easier, but I've given up and pulled out a grater. this is much better! and somehow more violent (affectionate)

the recipe says to soften the gelatin in cold water, and then stir over hot water until it's dissolved. I'm going to assume "stir over hot water" means a double boiler, so let's do that

hmmm, the gelatin is very foamy? it’s melted, but the bottom of the pot feels really....sticky

okay. after a couple minutes more and no change, I’m calling this good enough.

so one thing that others who have attempted this recipe have not taken into consideration is the cottage cheese. you see, the others used normal cottage cheese, but the recipe says to use "cottage cheese, cream style"

I’ll be real, I’m not 100% what that means, since we don’t have that here. but I can take an educated guess! so let’s blend the cottage cheese!

(with an immersion blender. I am not willing to wash an actual blender because of this)

mmm, yes. very smooth

...actually. why isn't all cottage cheese like this? the thing I hate about cottage cheese is the texture, so why isn't it all smooth and creamy like this?? I could eat this!!

a new discovery is made every day in this house.

okay, time to start mixing things together.

ah, frosty. I opened a whole new thing of mayo for you! do you feel special?

(I'd make a "pre-dinner snack?" joke, but sometimes I think I'm the only one that remembers Regular Ordinary Swedish Meal Time)

okay, the mayo, cottage cheese, and salt have been added to the gelatin. but as this cools, the texture is getting...hmm. less than appealing.

lastly: the cabbage

oh. oh this is not very nice

next it says to pack the "salad" into a one pound container, and two six-cup bowls, but since I made this recipe so much smaller, I'm going to uhhhh. uh. find some bowls that seem like they'd be correct...snowman? proportions?

ah. this bowl is too big.

hey, these'll work!

now I just have to let them chill for a while, and continue another day.

(edit from current!me: ahhh oh my god I forgot this was pretty soon after we adopted Jackie! look at these cat pics that I took while I was food crime-ing!

look at them having their little interactions! Knuckles was trying so hard to be friends with her! I love them)

hello! two days later and we are ready to assemble the slawman. and my sibling has started referring to him as "frosty: attorney at slaw", so that's fun.

I've done a thing where, as these set, I flipped them around in the bowl so that hopefully they'd be more round. we'll see if they actually stay like this.

I have also made some decorations for him out of peppers, olives, and carrots!

let's build our boy

oh he's so heavy. and wobbly

no no no he almost fell over!!

okay. he's fine. but more skewers were needed.

and...okay. he is complete.

behold!

gaze upon my beautiful man!

(he is not structurally sound! he wobbles unsteadily as I rotate him! there are already cracks forming in the gelatin around where his arms are! don't worry about it!)

now it's time to stab him

and...to devour him

this tastes like...a bland coleslaw? and not even that. it's just sort of a salty, cottage cheese-y cabbage. the ingredients don't combine to become something greater, they simply...sit there. like this.

and the texture is...mmm. it's not a jello kind of texture, but it is a bit squashy in a way that's mildly strange.

it's very creamy once it softens in your mouth.

...I don't like this!

and look! taking just that one chunk from him was enough to destabilize him entirely :(

RIP frosty. now I just have to see if I can eat all of you before you go bad.

(note from current!me: I could not.

I ate maybe half of him over the course of many days, often adding other stuff to him to try to add some flavor: bacon, frozen peas, cheese, etc. but even with that, I just couldn't stomach him.

after a while I stuck what was left of him in the freezer, hoping that maybe I'd find the will to consume the rest of him some other day.

do you know what a frozen-and-then-thawed mixture of cabbage, cottage cheese, mayo, and gelatin looks and tastes like?

bad. the answer is: bad.

I threw him out pretty quickly after thawing him.

do not try this recipe at home)

#food crimes #vintage recipe #vintage cooking #frosty slaw man #frosty the slaw man #hellmann's #best foods #(like the brand not the concept of the slaw man)#(he is not the best food. he will haunt me. never again)#I could improve upon him tbh. like there's definitely a form of this that could be edible #but I'd do it with cream cheese for structural integrity instead of gelatin and cottage cheese #he could be more of a cheese ball #that'd be fine #but this? no. don't try this #it's a lot of work for too much slaw and not much flavor

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shokocide · 3 months ago

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STUCK WITH YOU - GOJO SATORU

summary. Gojo Satoru—strongest, cockiest, and, according to him, the hottest man alive—bows to no one. Until you came along and suddenly, he’s on his knees.

word count. 10.6k (i..dont know)

content. mdni fem! reader, zombie apocalypse au, violence, blood, pet names, satoru is a certified tease, cute banter because we love that here, they're so down bad for each other, smut, oral (fem rec.), p in v, loss of virginity (reader), praise, breeding, creampie, overstim, soft satoru <3

author's note. i miss my man

The sky had been burning when the world ended.

You were fifteen—just a kid with scraped knees and a heart too big for the horrors it was about to witness.

Sirens wailed through the streets, helicopters thundered above, and the sharp stench of smoke and decay clung to the air like death itself. One moment, your parents were urging you to run, voices trembling with fear. The next, everything shattered. A scream. Blood. The gurgled breath of something that wasn’t quite human anymore.

You had survived. Somehow. Alone.

But the cost of survival was everything.

The woods are silent, save for the crunch of your boots over frostbitten leaves. The moon hangs high above, pale and cold, casting everything in an unforgiving glow. You keep your knife gripped tight in one hand, the other cradling your growling stomach. It’s been three days since you last found anything remotely edible.

Every snap of a branch, every whisper of wind feels like a threat. Years alone have trained you to expect the worst.

Then you pause.

Smoke. Just a wisp of it in the air. You sniff again, slower this time. It's faint, but definitely there.

You move like a shadow, quiet and cautious, weaving through trees toward the scent. And then you see it:

A flickering campfire nestled in a hollow clearing, throwing gold and orange light onto the figures beside it. Two men. Asleep—at least, you hope they are. One is lying flat on the ground, the other propped against a log, limbs long and sprawled, a blindfold covering his eyes.

There’s food by the fire. Real food. Bread. Cans. Water.

You inch closer, heart hammering. It’s been years since you’ve seen other people. You don’t know if that makes this moment safer… or far more dangerous.

You creep into the circle of warmth, fingers itching toward the supplies. Just one thing. That’s all you need.

You barely breathe as you crouch beside the campfire, the heat brushing against your frozen skin like a long-forgotten comfort. Your fingers tremble as you reach for a loaf of bread—real bread—but just as your hand closes around it, your boot nudges something metallic.

CLANG.

The tin can hits the ground, and for a moment, silence swallows everything.

Then—movement.

You whip your head toward the two figures by the fire. One shoots upright in an instant, long-limbed and alarmingly fast. The other groans awake, slower, disoriented. You don’t even have time to run.

"Don't move," the taller one says—voice low, commanding. You meet his gaze and—holy hell.

Snow-white hair, cerulean eyes. He stands like someone who’s fought the world and won. His blindfold hangs around his neck, exposing everything. It's him—the one with the voice that makes your skin prickle and a face that doesn’t belong in this nightmare world.

"Well, well," he drawls, taking a step forward. "And here I thought we were the only pretty faces left."

You swallow, frozen. His companion grabs a weapon, steps forward too, more cautious.

"Who are you?" the second man demands.

The white-haired man’s eyes never leave yours. He smirks.

"She’s hungry. Look at her. Poor thing."

You clench your fists. You’ve survived too long to be pitied.

"Touch me and I swear to god—"

The man raises his hands, mockingly innocent.

"Easy, sweetheart. No one’s touching you… unless you want us to."

You scrunch up your face, disgusted and his grin widens just a little.

You lift your knife. “I don’t want trouble. I just need food.”

“I’d say knocking over our supplies in the middle of the night is kinda trouble,” the dark-haired one says. His hair is tied back, strands falling loose around his face, his grip on his weapon steady. “Who are you?”

You swallow thickly. It’s been so long since anyone’s asked you that. Your voice is hoarse. “Just someone trying to survive.”

The white-haired one takes a lazy step forward, hands raised in mock surrender.

“Chill, Suguru. She’s not here to kill us,” he says, and then turns back to you. “You got a name, mystery girl?”

You eye him warily. “…Why do you care?”

He grins. “Because mine’s Gojo Satoru. And this grumpy one is Suguru.”

Suguru rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell her our names, dumbass.”

But Gojo—Satoru, apparently—just shrugs, looking far too amused for someone who just woke up to a stranger trying to rob him.

Your fingers tighten on your knife. But something about him… those eyes… that voice…

“You really gonna stab the guy who might be your best chance at staying alive?” he asks, cocking his head. “Come sit. Eat. Or run. Up to you.”

Your stomach growls loudly.

Satoru grins wider. “That’s what I thought.”

You slowly lower your knife, but don’t put it away—not yet. Your eyes stay locked on them as you inch closer to the fire. The warmth should be a comfort, but your muscles are still taut, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.

Satoru sprawls back onto a log like he’s done this a hundred times. He’s still smiling—lazy, smug, like he’s enjoying this little show. Suguru doesn’t relax. He stays seated, but his eyes follow your every move, knife still held tight in his hand.

You kneel beside the fire, close enough to reach the food, far enough to lunge away if you need to. There’s a dented pot with some kind of stew, still warm, and a few pieces of bread wrapped in cloth.

“Help yourself,” Satoru says, waving a hand like he’s offering a royal feast. “We even warmed it up for you.”

You shoot him a glare but reach out cautiously, taking just a little. You sniff the stew first. Watch them.

“Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned,” Suguru says dryly.

“That’s what someone who poisoned it would say,” you mutter, tearing off a bite of bread.

Satoru snorts. “She’s got a mouth on her. I like her.”

You ignore that. Instead, you eat slowly, eyes flicking between them. They don’t move. Suguru keeps watch. Satoru lounges like this is the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.

“How long have you two been out here?” you ask finally.

“Long enough,” Suguru says, tone clipped.

"Too long," Satoru says, tossing a pebble into the fire like this is just another lazy night for him. "We move around, but we've got a base. Old prison, about twenty miles from here. You?"

You don’t answer right away.

“Alone,” you say after a beat. “I’ve been alone.”

The fire crackles between you.

Suguru’s gaze softens—just for a second. But Satoru’s smile stays.

“Well,” he says, stretching out his long legs, “you’re not alone anymore.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m not staying.”

“Didn’t say you had to.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But something tells me you might not leave either.”

He’s not threatening. He’s just… certain.

You’re crouched by the fire, still tense, still not entirely trusting, when Satoru leans back on his hands, head tilted.

“You should come with us,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You’ll be safer.”

Your eyes flick to Suguru—he doesn’t hide the way his jaw clenches.

“She could be a liability,” Suguru mutters. “You don’t know her.”

“No,” Satoru agrees, grinning at you. “But I like her.”

Suguru sighs, deep and disapproving, but you see it—that soft flicker in his eyes that means he’s already given in.

Satoru turns back to you. “We’re heading out at first light. If you’re in, pack whatever you’ve got.”

You nod, hesitant. But, maybe… maybe this is the start of something.

A gentle nudge to your shoulder. Then a voice, light and annoyingly cheerful.

“Wake up, sleepyhead. Big day today.”

You blink awake to Satoru crouching beside you, white hair a wild halo against the rising sun. He grins.

“You snore, by the way.”

“I do not.”

“You do. It was cute.”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Remind me why I agreed to come with you again?”

“Because I’m charming,” he beams. “Now come on. We've got a long way to go—and Suguru’s already in a mood.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe he wouldn’t be if you stopped talking.”

“Ohhh, savage!” he clutches his chest, stumbling back like you just stabbed him. “You wound me, stranger.”

You roll your eyes and sling your bag over your shoulder. “Not a stranger anymore, remember? You practically adopted me last night.”

Satoru grins, falling into step beside you. “True. You’re my problem now.”

“Joy,” you mutter, but your lips twitch despite yourself.

Suguru’s already waiting up ahead, arms crossed, brow arched like he’s already tired of this nonsense. “You two done flirting or should I keep walking?”

You open your mouth to protest, but Satoru gets there first.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Suguru.”

“I will leave you in the woods,” Suguru replies flatly.

“You’d miss me in an hour.”

“You wish.”

You stifle a laugh and glance between the two. “Are you always like this?”

Satoru flashes you a grin. “Buckle up, sweetheart. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

The trek through the forest had been relatively quiet—birds rustled above, trees whispering overhead, and Satoru talking your ear off. But midway through the journey, something shifts.

Suguru’s head tilts first, eyes narrowing at the faint crunch in the distance. Not a squirrel. Not a rabbit.

You hear it next.

Low. Guttural.

A hiss.

Then another.

They come from the trees. Slow at first—one stumbles into view, then two, then more. Rotting limbs. Glazed-over eyes. That sickening gurgle of hunger.

“Aw, shit,” Satoru grins like it’s a party. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

Suguru already has his blade drawn, calm as ever. “Don’t play around, Satoru.”

“No promises.” He rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck with a sharp tilt. “Time to impress the new girl.”

The first zombie lunges—and Satoru moves. A blur of motion, too fast to follow. The undead’s head twists unnaturally before it even hits the ground.

Suguru moves more fluidly—clean, precise slashes. No theatrics. Just deadly efficiency. His blade slices through two more, not even a drop of blood on him.

But they just keep coming.

Your heart pounds in your ears. Adrenaline surges. You’d been careful to avoid confrontation all these years, but this is different. You're not alone anymore. And you won’t be dead weight.

You draw your blade—sharpened scrap metal turned makeshift machete—and steady your breath.

One charges. You duck, spin, and drive the blade clean through its skull. Another reaches for you. You kick it back hard, burying your weapon in its chest before pulling it free with a grunt.

Satoru whistles low. “Well damn.”

“Focus,” Suguru mutters, cutting another down.

You move together now, three separate forces of destruction.

Satoru’s grinning like a madman, whirling and laughing with every kill. “You seeing this? She’s got bite!”

Suguru flicks blood off his blade. “You could take a lesson from her.”

Zombies litter the ground within minutes. The forest falls silent again—except for your panting breaths.

Satoru walks over, brushing blood off his cheek. “Well, that was fun. You good?”

You nod, chest still heaving. “Peachy.”

“Okay, badass,” he says with a grin, then nudges your shoulder playfully. “I take it back. You’re not just some lost little stray. You’ve got some claws.”

Suguru simply gives you a once-over, silent approval in his gaze.

You sheath your blade. “Told you I could handle myself.”

Satoru grins wider. “Yeah, and it was hot.”

The journey's been long, your legs aching from the endless trek, your guard never once lowered—not even with Satoru’s ridiculous jokes or Suguru’s unnervingly sharp eyes on you.

But when the trees begin to thin and the rusted silhouette of a massive abandoned prison looms ahead—walls towering, fences lined with jagged barbed wire, and lookout towers standing tall like watchful sentinels—you feel something you haven't in years:

Hope.

Gojo stretches lazily, like the walk didn’t faze him at all. "Home sweet hellhole," he grins. "Bet you weren’t expecting this kind of palace."

Suguru doesn’t say much, just gestures for you to follow. The guards on the watchtower whistle low when they see the trio approaching, and the gates creak open. Inside, the prison yard is alive—people bustling, fires burning in steel barrels, children laughing (actual children), and survivors moving with purpose.

You're stunned. You didn’t think this kind of order still existed.

A kid runs up to Gojo. “Satoru! You’re back!”

“Obviously,” he winks, tossing his jacket at the kid. “Miss me?”

You stare, wide-eyed.

“You’re like… respected here?”

“Terrifying, isn’t it?” Gojo deadpans. “Stick with me, newbie. I’ll show you the ropes. Maybe even let you survive.”

Suguru glances back, quiet for a moment. “Don’t get too comfortable. It’s safe, but it’s not paradise.”

Gojo leans closer to you as you're led through the gates.

“Don’t worry. If anything tries to eat you—aside from me—I’ll kill it.”

Your face burns and he just smirks like he’s got you all figured out.

“Aww, don’t get all shy, now. Where’d all that bite from earlier go?” he teases, voice low and entirely too smug.

You shove him with a scowl, cheeks still flaming. “Shut up, lecher.”

He stumbles back with a dramatic gasp, hand clutching his chest. “Lecher? Ouch. You wound me, sweetheart.”

Suguru sighs ahead of you. “Ignore him. He gets like this when he’s not punched often enough.”

Gojo just throws an arm around your shoulders, unbothered and still grinning. “Admit it, you missed human interaction.”

You glare up at him. “I missed silence.”

“Too bad,” he chirps, “you’re stuck with me now.”

You follow Gojo through the looming gates of the old prison turned fortress, the creak of rusted metal echoing off cold concrete walls. The place is… intimidating, but secure. High fences, makeshift watchtowers, guards with weapons patrolling like hawks. Survivors glance your way—curious, cautious—but no one approaches just yet.

“Well,” Gojo grins, throwing his arms out dramatically, “welcome to paradise, sweetheart.”

You shoot him a glare, but before you can answer, a voice calls out.

“Don’t call new recruits that, Gojo.”

A tall woman leans against the infirmary doorway, cigarette dangling between her fingers, lab coat stained with faded blood. She looks you up and down, then flicks ash to the ground with a sigh.

“Ieiri Shoko. I’m the doctor over here,” she says. “You look like hell.”

“…Thanks?”

“She means ‘you’ll fit right in,’” Gojo says brightly, nudging your shoulder. “She’s got a warm heart under all that… nicotine.”

Before you can respond, another figure approaches—sharp, calculating, blond hair swept neatly back and a stern face that reads no nonsense allowed.

“Nanami Kento,” he introduces himself. “I hope you know how to follow rules.”

You stiffen slightly. “Depends on the rules.”

Gojo chuckles. “Play nice, Nanamin. She’s new.”

“And she’ll stay alive longer if she learns structure.”

You barely have time to absorb that before someone barrels into the conversation like a human golden retriever.

“Gojo-sensei! You’re back!”

A pink-haired young man skids to a stop beside you, eyes wide with excitement. “Whoa—new person?! Hi! I’m Itadori Yuji!”

You blink, overwhelmed by the sudden burst of energy.

“Yuji,” Gojo sighs fondly. “Tone it down a little, yeah? She’s been through it.”

Yuji’s smile softens. “Right, sorry. Still—welcome. You hungry? We’ve got canned peaches! They’re not that bad if you hold your breath.”

A scoff cuts through the chaos.

“That’s how you welcome someone? ‘Peaches if you hold your breath’?”

You turn to see a girl with sharp eyes, short auburn hair, and a confident stance stroll up like she owns the place.

“Kugisaki Nobara,” she says, hand on her hip. “Don’t let the dumb smiles fool you—Yuji’s annoying, but he’s not dangerous. Usually.”

Yuji pouts. “Rude.”

And last, from the shadows near the barracks, a low voice.

“Don’t overwhelm her.”

A tall boy steps forward, dark hair, brooding expression. Cold eyes meet yours briefly before shifting away like he’s already bored of this interaction.

“Fushiguro Megumi.”

You blink. “Nice to meet you… all.”

“You’ll get used to the chaos,” Nobara says. “Eventually.”

Gojo’s grin widens, like a proud dad watching his weird little family.

“See? Told you you’d like it here.”

You’re not sure yet. But for the first time in years, you’re not alone.

The base is a repurposed prison, all concrete walls and rusted bars, but the way Gojo walks its halls, it might as well be a palace.

“Welcome to paradise,” he grins, pushing open a barred door that creaks like it’s complaining. “Don’t let the charming décor fool you. The rats love it here.”

You roll your eyes but follow him in. He gestures with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “Your very own cell—er, suite.”

The room is small, but clean. A bed shoved into one corner, a patched-up mattress, and even a chipped mirror on the wall. You nod, impressed despite yourself.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I gave you the one with a window. You can thank me later.”

You smirk and step back out into the hallway. “Trying to impress me, Gojo?”

“Oh, absolutely. I’m a peacock in the apocalypse, baby.”

You laugh under your breath and follow him down a narrow hall. There’s a dip in the concrete, a crack in the floor you don’t notice until your boot catches—your heart jumps as you pitch forward, but Gojo’s arms are immediately around you.

Strong. Steady. Warm.

“Careful now,” he murmurs, voice all silk and smugness. “You fell for me already?”

You’re pressed against his chest, your breath caught in your throat, face heating up. He doesn’t move right away—his hands settle on your waist, casual and intimate in a way that makes your stomach flip.

You shove him off with a flustered glare. “Shut up, lecher.”

He grins, wide and infuriating. “That’s more like it.”

The rest of the tour is quieter. You pass rooms where others sleep, the mess hall, the infirmary where Shoko’s set up shop. You even glimpse Yuji hauling supplies with Nobara snapping at him in the distance.

But then Gojo stops in front of a heavy iron door—no windows, no markings. His face changes. The joking fades.

“Whatever you do,” he says, voice low, “don’t go into the commissary. Not alone. Not ever.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness.

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. His blue eyes sharpen beneath his snowy lashes.

“Because even monsters like us keep our secrets somewhere,” he says softly. “And some doors are locked for a reason.”

You stare at him, heart knocking against your ribs.

Gojo Satoru, unshakable, untouchable… looking haunted?

Your skin prickles.

But he flashes you that lazy grin again, like nothing happened. “Now come on. You haven’t seen the courtyard. Yuji likes to wrestle people out there—it’s horrible. You’ll love it.”

And just like that, the moment passes… but the warning stays.

The rooftop’s quiet late at night.

The chaos of the base fades into a hush, just the distant hum of wind brushing over cracked cement and rusted fences. You lie back against the cool surface, arms behind your head, eyes fixed on the sky above. For once, it’s clear. A spatter of stars gleam like glass shards across a velvet sky.

You let yourself breathe.

No infected. No screaming. No fear.

Just the stars.

Footsteps approach—light, familiar, cocky.

“I knew you were a stargazer,” Gojo says, easing himself down beside you with a dramatic sigh. “You’ve got that dreamy, melancholic look. So poetic.”

You don’t look at him. “You’ve got that annoying, uninvited energy. So parasitic.”

He barks out a laugh. “Ow. You wound me, sweetheart.”

A beat passes. Then another.

You can feel him watching you, but for once, he doesn’t speak.

And somehow, that’s more unsettling.

“…You alright?” you ask, finally glancing his way.

He’s leaning back on his elbows, white hair messy from the wind, blue eyes locked on the stars—but they’re distant. Quiet. A far cry from their usual teasing glint.

“I’m heading out tomorrow,” he says casually. “Scouting mission. Few days tops.”

You blink. “Oh.”

Something flickers in your chest. It shouldn’t. Not like this.

“Oh,” you repeat, softer. “Right.”

A part of you wants to ask why he’s going. Another part wants to pretend it doesn’t matter. You settle for neither, chewing your lip, trying to ignore the weight settling in your gut.

Satoru glances at you then, his smirk lazy but his voice just a touch softer.

“Try not to miss me, yeah?”

You scoff. “I’ll throw a party the second you leave.”

“That’s what they all say,” he murmurs, leaning just a little closer. “Then they realize how boring life is without me.”

His smile is all mischief—but behind it, there’s something warmer. Something real.

And for once… you don’t fire back. You just look at him.

Maybe you’ll miss him a little. Just a little.

You don’t expect his absence to linger. But it does.

You feel it in the small silences—the way the mess hall feels quieter without his dumb jokes echoing through it, how sparring sessions feel colder without him barging in with some smug, offhanded comment about your form.

At night, you find yourself back on the rooftop. The stars are still there, but they don’t sparkle like they used to. It’s stupid, you tell yourself, because what kind of person starts depending on a man like that?

He’s loud. He’s infuriating. He teases you relentlessly.

But… he saw you. When you thought no one ever would again.

Shoko notices the way you’ve been spacing out more. She doesn’t say anything until the third night.

“You okay?”

You nod. Too quickly. “Fine.”

She squints at you. “You’re not fine. You’re moping.”

“I’m not moping.”

She clicks her tongue. “Acting like someone’s girlfriend.”

You nearly knock your cup over. “I’m not—!”

But you don’t finish that sentence. Because the words feel too close to something you’ve been avoiding.

You try to bury it—tell yourself it’s just concern. You’re just… grateful. It’s not like that. You don’t miss his stupid smirk or the way he always stands too close just to fluster you. You don’t care about how his hair always looks so damn soft, or how his voice drops a little when he’s serious with you.

You don’t.

Then the whispers start.

“No signal from the scouting team.”

“They were supposed to be back by now.”

A cold chill snakes down your spine.

You start going to the gate more. Just to check. You pretend it’s coincidence.

It’s not.

You catch yourself gripping the straps of your bag harder than usual. You’ve never hated waiting so much in your life.

Until one evening—

The gates finally creak open.

Your breath catches in your throat as the guards call out a name. Several figures walk through the archway, dust and blood clinging to their clothes.

And there he is.

White hair, blue eyes. One sleeve ripped off, a gash on his collarbone, dried blood staining his neck—but he’s alive.

“Satoru,” you whisper, already walking forward.

His eyes find yours instantly. That grin pulls at his lips like it never left.

“Aww, did you miss me?”

You don’t answer. You just hit his shoulder. “Idiot.”

But then your hands linger, and before you can stop yourself, you’re pulling him into a tight hug.

He stiffens, just for a second. Then his arms slide around you, strong and warm.

“Try not to cry too hard,” he mutters, voice light—but there’s something tight beneath it.

“I hate you,” you mumble into his shirt.

“Sure you do,” he chuckles, and when you pull back, his smile softens.

You don’t know what this feeling is. Or maybe you do. You just don’t want to name it yet.

But you know this: You’re glad he came back.

And for now, that’s enough.

You wander the halls of the prison alone, the hum of fluorescent lights above your head flickering inconsistently. Satoru had taken the kids out back for training, and with nothing to do and no one to bother you, you figured you’d finally explore the rest of the base.

The place was massive—too massive. Each cell block looked like the next, corridors looping endlessly into each other until your curiosity outweighs your sense of direction. One door, rusted and slightly ajar, catches your eye.

You should’ve turned around.

You push it open.

Inside is dark, dusty. Shelves line the walls, broken crates and old rations tossed everywhere. You wander deeper, hesitant but unaware. That is…until it hits.

The smell.

Rotting flesh, stagnant air, the thick, unmistakable stench of death.

And then—movement.

Shuffling. A low groan. Shadows twitch. A hand smacks against a shelf and knocks it over with a crash.

They're here.

Your eyes snap wide and panic sets in instantly. There are so many.

You run.

You shove a metal shelf in their path, throw an old stool, anything you can get your hands on to slow them down. Your breaths are shallow, desperate. But just as you near the exit—

Your ankle gives out.

A sick snap, searing pain, and you crash to the floor with a cry. You scramble backward, pressing yourself against the wall, using your good leg to kick anything that comes close.

This is it. This is it.

You squeeze your eyes shut, heart pounding.

Gunshots.

The sound like thunder crashing right next to your ear.

You blink up, barely processing the white blur tearing through the undead like paper.

“I told you not to go in here!” he shouts, voice slicing through the chaos.

“Satoru—!”

The zombies turn just in time for Satoru to drive his fist into the nearest one’s chest, cracking bone and sending it flying back into the others like bowling pins.

“Seriously?” he growls, stepping in front of you, his broad back shielding your crumpled form. “I leave you alone for five minutes.”

One lunges from the side. Gojo ducks effortlessly, grabs it by the throat, and slams it into the ground so hard its skull splits open on impact. Another claws at his shoulder, but he just grabs its wrist, twists, and kicks out its knee in one brutal motion. It collapses, and he doesn’t even look as he drives a sharp piece of wood through its head.

And then—you're in his arms. Just like that.

Lifted effortlessly, pressed against his chest as he strides out of the hellhole.

You cling to him, trembling.

“I didn’t know it was the commissary,” you whisper between sobs. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—I just—God, I’m so sorry, Gojo, I—”

His voice is low, firm, but gentle. “Hey. Breathe. I’ve got you.”

You look up at him, lip quivering. “I—I made you worry…”

“Yeah, you did,” he says with a wry little smirk, but his eyes are too soft, too relieved to match it. “Don’t ever do that again, got it?”

You nod.

“Good,” he murmurs, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your face. “Because if I lost you... I’d have to kill the rest of the world just for pissing me off.”

Your breath hitches.

You stare up at him, heart pounding, face flushed from more than just the sprint for your life.

“W-What kind of psycho logic is that?” you mutter, trying to deflect, your voice barely steady.

Satoru smirks down at you, still holding you effortlessly in his arms like you weigh nothing. “C’mon, don’t act so surprised. I’m dramatic, haven’t you noticed?”

“You’re insane,” you whisper, trying not to combust under his gaze.

“And you’re blushing,” he points out smugly, nose nearly brushing yours. “Kinda cute, actually.”

You twist in his hold, hiding your face against his shoulder. “Shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled.

He laughs softly, the sound vibrating through your chest. “Can’t. Teasing you is the only thing keeping me sane these days.”

You can feel the tension slipping away, replaced by something heavier, warmer. He lowers you gently onto a nearby bench just outside the danger zone, kneeling before you like it’s second nature, hands skimming your calves as he examines your ankle again.

When he looks up this time, his expression is different. Less playful. More raw.

“I meant it, you know,” he says quietly. “You scared the hell out of me in there.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he cuts in, hand brushing yours. “But next time, brat, wait for me. No solo adventures.”

Your lips twitch. “You’re calling me a brat now?”

“Borrowing the title. Think I earned it after saving your ass.”

You huff a laugh, cheeks still warm. “…Thanks.”

His grin softens. “Anytime.”

And just like that, you both sit there—his fingers still wrapped gently around your hand, his thumb rubbing absent circles over your knuckles—as the adrenaline fades and something else takes its place. Something quieter. Heavier. Charged.

Satoru insists on carrying you the whole way to the infirmary, ignoring your every protest.

“This is unnecessary,” you mutter, burying your face in his shoulder to avoid every curious glance.

“You twisted your ankle and almost got mauled. Humor me,” he says, smug but gentle, like the two can coexist in him with ease.

He kicks open the infirmary door with his foot.

“Delivery for one idiot who wandered into a no-go zone,” he calls out casually.

Shoko looks up from her desk, raising a brow at the sight of you both. “Well, well. If it isn’t the base’s golden boy and his damsel in distress.”

“I wasn’t distressed,” you blurt out instantly, wiggling in Gojo’s hold.

“Oh?” she hums, amused. “You sure? Because I could’ve sworn I heard ‘Gojo! Help!’ from all the way down the hall.”

You splutter. “That’s not— I mean—”

“Loudly,” she adds with a pointed smirk.

Satoru just laughs and sets you down on one of the cots, his hand lingering a little longer than necessary on your back before stepping aside.

“She’s fine. Just the ankle,” he says. “But maybe check if she sprained anything else. She fell pretty hard.”

Shoko moves closer, completely ignoring the medical part for now, because she’s too focused on watching the both of you squirm.

“Ohhh,” she teases, eyes sparkling. “Look at the two of you. Cute. Almost like a couple.”

You and Satoru freeze at the exact same time.

“Nope!”

“Not a couple!”

“Definitely not!”

You shoot each other a panicked glance and then immediately look away, flustered messes in stereo.

Shoko snorts. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

You glare. “Can we just focus on my ankle now?”

“Fine, fine,” she drawls, clearly enjoying herself. “Just sayin’. Wouldn’t be the worst match. You get saved, he gets to play hero. Very fairytale.”

“I hate all of this,” you mutter under your breath, while Satoru just smiles to himself, unbothered but definitely pleased.

When Shoko starts wrapping your ankle, he leans against the wall with his arms crossed, watching.

And you swear you see it—that tiny, knowing glint in his eyes.

Like he wants her to say it again.

Because maybe, just maybe… he doesn’t mind the idea.

It’s later that night when there’s a knock at your door. You’ve barely had time to settle in, still awkwardly hobbling around on one foot with your bandaged ankle.

“Who is it?” you call.

“It’s your favorite,” comes the unmistakable voice from the other side.

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the tiny smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t know Nanami suddenly got chatty.”

A muffled chuckle. “Ha. Hilarious. Open up.”

You limp to the door and unlock it. Satoru is standing there, a little disheveled, hands full.

“Brought you dinner,” he says casually, holding out a tray with two mismatched bowls, steam still curling from the soup. “Figured you might be tired of Shoko’s painkillers and snark.”

You blink, caught off guard. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says dramatically, stepping in without being invited. “That’s what makes me so noble.”

You laugh despite yourself, and he grins like that was the goal all along. He sets the tray down on your little desk, then gestures toward your bed.

“Come on, sit. Can’t have you falling over again. One near-death experience per day is my limit.”

You sit, trying not to look too charmed when he settles next to you—close, but not too close—just enough for your knees to brush.

“I still feel terrible about earlier,” you say after a moment, poking at the edge of your bowl. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You didn’t worry me,” he says too quickly, too nonchalantly.

You glance up. “Liar.”

He sighs and leans back on his hands, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Fine. Maybe I panicked a little. Sue me.”

A silence lingers, not uncomfortable. Just… warm.

Then, softer: “Don’t do that again, okay?”

You look at him, really look at him—the shadows under his eyes, the slight dip in his brow, the way his voice softens when it’s just you and him.

And something in your chest stirs. Something that’s been creeping in, slow and steady, ever since he offered you food by a fire that first night.

You nod. “I won’t.”

He glances over, catches your gaze—and doesn’t look away this time.

There’s something unspoken passing between you. Familiar. Intense. Safe.

“You’re really something, y’know that?” he murmurs.

You raise a brow. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

He smirks. “Depends. You gonna fall harder for me if it is?”

You flush instantly. “Satoru—”

He laughs and nudges your bowl toward you. “Eat before it gets cold, princess.”

You grumble under your breath but dig in.

And Satoru?

He watches you with that same lopsided grin, heart doing something stupid in his chest.

Because yeah—maybe you fell.

But maybe he’s been falling, too.

It’s past midnight when you stir.

The pain in your ankle has dulled to a throb, but it isn’t what wakes you. It’s… something else. A presence. Warm. Close.

You blink against the low glow of the hallway light seeping under your door, and when your eyes adjust—

You see him.

Satoru.

Slouched in the chair by your bed, long legs awkwardly folded, head tipped to the side, snowy hair falling across his face in soft, messy tufts. His mouth is slightly parted, breathing slow and even. His arms are crossed, like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep there.

Like he was just keeping watch.

Just in case.

Your heart does a little flip.

You shift quietly, trying not to make a sound. But even with all your care, the mattress creaks—barely. His eyes snap open immediately, hand twitching toward a weapon that isn’t there. Pure instinct.

Then he sees you. And relaxes.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice gravelly with sleep. “You’re awake.”

You sit up slowly. “Were you… here all night?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Not all night. Just since… y’know. Evening.”

You squint at him. “Satoru.”

He sighs. “Fine. Yeah. All night.”

You stare at him. “Why?”

He shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “Wanted to make sure you didn’t wander off again and get yourself eaten.”

You frown. “You should’ve slept in your room.”

He smirks. “What, and miss out on babysitting you?”

You chuck a pillow at him.

He catches it easily and grins. But when he sees you holding his gaze, that grin softens.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he admits, quieter now.

Something gentle settles in your chest. You pull your blanket up and scoot slightly to the side.

“…There’s space. If you’re tired.”

He blinks at you. “Are you asking me to cuddle, orrrr…”

You glare. “I’m offering you a more comfortable sleeping arrangement.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

He slides in beside you carefully, so carefully, like you’ll break if he jostles you too much. And then you feel the warmth of him next to you, his presence steady and solid and safe.

“…This okay?” he murmurs, his voice a whisper in the dark.

You nod.

And slowly, slowly, you feel his fingers brush yours under the blanket. He doesn't hold your hand—not yet. Just touches.

Testing the waters.

You don’t pull away.

And in the silence that follows, you hear his breathing even out again.

But yours?

Yours is all over the place.

Morning sunlight filters through the barred window, casting soft stripes across your face.

You're warm. So warm.

Your cheek is pressed against something solid. Something that rises and falls gently beneath you. And there’s a hand resting at the small of your back, pulling you closer, keeping you there.

Your heart skips.

Your eyes blink open—and there he is.

Gojo Satoru. Asleep. Face relaxed and serene, messy white hair haloed in gold light. His other arm is curled under your pillow, supporting your head like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And you're lying on top of him.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You should move. You need to move.

But just as you're about to untangle yourself—

Click.

The door creaks open.

You freeze.

“Oh my god,” comes Shoko’s voice, casual, amused, and way too smug. “Well, well—what do we have here?”

You nearly leap out of bed, scrambling to sit up—only for your body to protest painfully, and you wince with a hiss.

Satoru wakes with a start, blinking up at Shoko in confusion before slowly realizing the position you're in.

“Oh,” he says blankly. “Morning, doc.”

You swat his shoulder. “Say something useful?!”

Shoko just leans against the doorway, arms crossed, grinning like she’s discovered the world’s juiciest secret. “No no, don’t let me interrupt. I was just checking on the patient, but clearly, she’s in very good hands.”

You’re burning. “It’s not what it looks like!”

Shoko raises a brow. “Oh, so you weren’t cuddled up like two lovebirds all night? Should I tell Nanami you’ve finally found someone willing to put up with your nonsense, Satoru?”

He stretches lazily and pulls the blanket back over himself with a smirk. “Actually, yeah. Tell him. Maybe then he’ll finally stop lecturing me about responsibility.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “I’m never going to live this down.”

Shoko chuckles, walking away. “Nope. I’m telling everyone.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

Silence.

You glare at Satoru through your fingers. “This is your fault.”

He grins. “You offered me a spot on the bed, your majesty.”

You shove a pillow at him. He catches it—again.

And then he smiles, soft and teasing, voice still a little raspy from sleep.

“...So. Want me to sleep over again tonight?”

“Get out.”

The first few days are rough.

You try to walk without limping. Try to reach for things on your own. Try not to feel like a burden.

But then there’s him.

You wake up to warm food at your bedside, Satoru leaning against the doorframe with a smug grin. “Brought you breakfast in bed, sweetheart. Don’t get used to it—I’m not always this nice.”

He very much is.

He offers his arm without asking when you need support. Doesn’t mention it when you wince or grit your teeth. Just lets you lean on him, like you’ve always belonged there.

You try to carry something heavy across the hall—he appears out of nowhere, snatching it from your hands. “Tsk. You trying to die or what?”

You try to help in the kitchen. He catches you wobbling and swoops in with a hand around your waist. “Whoa there, Bambi. What happened to ‘taking it easy’?”

You try to sneak off to explore the base again. He corners you in the hallway with a look that says absolutely not. “You’re still healing, brat. Unless you want me to carry you everywhere again?”

Cue your entire face combusting.

He’s annoying. Cocky. Ridiculously persistent.

But…

He adjusts your blanket when you’re asleep on the couch. Tucks a water bottle by your side without saying anything. Teaches you how to balance properly on one foot so your ankle can recover without straining the other.

And at night, when you think everyone’s asleep, you catch him checking on you—quietly, carefully. Making sure you’re okay.

You pretend not to notice.

But your heart notices. It notices everything.

You stand in the middle of your room, shifting your weight onto your healed ankle, then back again. No pain. No tightness. Just a deep breath and the quiet realization:

You’re better. Finally.

The door creaks open without warning—because Satoru never knocks—and in he strolls with his usual swagger and two mugs in hand. “Morning, sweetheart. Brought you—"

He stops in his tracks.

You’re standing. Not limping. Not clutching the edge of the bed for balance.

Just… standing.

He squints, slowly lowering one mug. “...Why aren’t you in bed?”

You raise a brow. “Because I’m not dying?”

“Oh no. Absolutely not.” He sets the mugs down and points a very offended finger at you. “You don’t just get to get better without warning me. I was emotionally invested in this arc.”

You laugh. “Sorry to ruin your Florence Nightingale fantasy.”

“Ruin? Excuse you, I was thriving. Who’s gonna let me spoon-feed you now?”

You roll your eyes, limping toward him just to mess with him. “I could pretend, if it makes you feel better.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He walks over before you can say anything else—his hands hover, cautious at first, then one slides to your waist. “You really okay?”

You nod. “I’m good. Really.”

Satoru lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Then he grins. “Alright. Guess that means I can stop being your personal nurse and go back to being your favorite nuisance.”

You’re smiling. He’s back to teasing. But there’s a softness in his eyes that lingers a little too long, a thumb that brushes your hip before falling away.

He missed taking care of you.

And maybe, just maybe, you kind of miss being taken care of.

You’re jogging laps around the edge of the prison yard, the early morning chill nipping at your cheeks. It’s peaceful—quiet enough that your footsteps and the rhythmic beat of your breath are the only sounds you hear.

Until a familiar voice breaks through the silence.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite brat, back in action.”

You slow down, a smirk tugging at your lips as you turn toward the voice—and promptly choke on air.

Satoru.

Stretching.

Shirtless.

His snowy hair tousled from whatever ungodly workout he’s been doing, sweat gleaming on the hard lines of his chest and abs like the universe conspired to craft a Renaissance painting just to spite you. His sweats hang low on his hips, revealing that infuriating V-line that should not be legal in a post-apocalyptic society.

You blink. Once. Twice.

He grins, catching the way your eyes are very not subtly stuck on him.

“Like what you see?”

You scowl, instantly turning your gaze to a very fascinating patch of dirt on the ground. “Please. I’ve seen better.”

“Mmhm.” He takes a deliberate step forward, arms crossing over his annoyingly perfect chest. “Name one.”

“...”

“That’s what I thought.”

You huff and start jogging again, forcing your eyes to stay forward. But then he jogs up beside you—shirtless and smug, of course—and easily matches your pace.

“You sure you’re fully healed? What if you, I dunno… trip and fall again?” he says, tone mockingly sweet. “Need me to catch you, princess?”

“I’d rather faceplant into a zombie.”

He laughs, low and lazy. “I dunno, that sounds painful. Better to land on something soft. Like me.”

You glare at him, cheeks burning. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he nudges you playfully with his elbow, “you’re still jogging next to me. Who’s really winning here?”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the warmth crawling up your neck. But deep down, you know.

He’s definitely winning.

After the jog, Satoru insists you “cool down” with some light sparring. You roll your eyes, but follow him to the training mats anyway. He’s already bouncing on his heels when you step in front of him, still shirtless, still smug.

“You sure you’re up for this?” he teases. “Wouldn’t want to break you again.”

“I’m more worried about bruising your ego,” you shoot back, taking your stance.

He whistles low. “Feisty. I like it.”

The sparring begins—light jabs, easy dodges. You’re nimble, focused, but he is... effortless. Every time you swipe at him, he ducks with a grin. When you go in for a kick, he sidesteps and lets out an exaggerated yawn.

“You done yet, sweetheart?” he asks, still dancing around you. “At this rate, I could do this blindfolded.”

“Shut up and hold still!” you lunge at him again—this time faster, bolder—but he grabs your wrist mid-swing and spins you around so fast the world tilts. Before you know it—

You’re pinned.

Back hits the wall. His hand holds your wrists above your head, other arm braced beside you. His body is dangerously close, breath fanning your cheek. His tone shifts, deeper. Rougher.

“You keep mouthing off like that,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming, “I might start thinking you want me to put you in your place.”

Your breath catches. “I—”

“Hmm?” he leans in, lips ghosting your jaw. “No witty comeback now?”

You try to move, but his grip tightens just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you that this isn’t a game anymore.

“I could kiss you right now,” he whispers, “and there’s nothing you could do about it.”

Your heart hammers in your chest. “You wouldn’t.”

He smiles. Slow. Dangerous.

“Wanna bet?”

Your breathing is shallow, heat rising to your cheeks. You’re acutely aware of how close he is, the way his chest brushes against yours with every breath, the sharp glint in his eye, the smirk that’s far too smug for your sanity.

And then—

His lips graze your neck. Barely there. A soft brush of heat against your skin. You flinch—not out of fear, but from the jolt that shoots down your spine. Goosebumps bloom instantly. His breath tickles your skin.

“Sensitive,” he hums, lips ghosting up toward your jaw, “...cute.”

“Satoru—” you whisper, voice barely audible.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His gaze drops to your lips, heavy and unblinking. And he leans in, slower this time, like he wants you to feel the anticipation. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat—

And then—

“AM I INTERRUPTING SOMETHING?”

You both jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.

Satoru spins around with a groan, still caging you against the wall. “Shoko. Seriously?”

She stands a few feet away, arms crossed, one brow cocked and a wicked smirk playing at her lips. “Wow. Could cut the tension with a scalpel. Should I come back later or just pass you a condom now?”

“Shoko,” you squeak, face on fire, squirming to escape Gojo’s hold.

He lets you go reluctantly, chuckling under his breath. “You wish you caught the good part.”

“I did catch the part where your face was buried in her neck like a starving vampire,” Shoko deadpans.

You bury your face in your hands.

Satoru just laughs. “You jealous?”

“Please. I'd rather not watch my coworkers dry hump in public,” she says, already turning on her heel. “Anyway. You two lovebirds done? I need one of you to help with supplies.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gojo waves her off. Then he glances back at you, still all flushed and flustered, and leans down one last time to whisper in your ear:

“To be continued, princess.”

And just like that, he strolls off like nothing happened.

You're left against the wall, heart pounding, neck tingling, completely and utterly undone.

It’s quiet for once.

Most of the clan is out on a supply run or patrolling the perimeter. You’d offered to stay behind, helping Shoko reorganize her medical supplies before wandering off with a basket of laundry—warm clothes folded under your arm as you pace the empty corridors of the prison, barefoot, relaxed.

You finally set the basket down in the communal quarters, humming under your breath while sorting through what belongs to who. It’s… peaceful. The late afternoon sun slants in through the high windows, bathing everything in warm light.

Until—

“Picking up where we left off?”

You jolt, nearly dropping the shirt in your hands.

Gojo.

Leaning against the doorframe, casual as ever, sleeves pushed up, hair a bit messy like he just woke from a nap. His eyes are glinting beneath the lazy droop of his lashes, and that smirk—that godforsaken smirk—is unmistakable.

He saunters in before you can get a word in.

“Geez, you sneak up on people like a damn ghost,” you mumble, cheeks already burning as you turn back to the laundry.

“Aw, don’t be shy now,” he teases, coming closer. “You weren’t so shy when I had you pinned against the wall.”

You stiffen. “You got interrupted. Big difference.”

“Oh? So you wanted me to kiss you?”

You glare at him over your shoulder, but he’s already behind you, arms slipping around your waist—loosely at first, giving you a chance to push him away.

You don’t.

“I was thinking about you,” he murmurs against your ear. “All damn day. Thought I’d come see how you were holding up without me.”

“I was fine,” you huff, but it’s so breathless it betrays you instantly.

He chuckles. “That right?”

His hands glide up your sides, slow and sure, fingertips teasing the hem of your shirt. “C’mon, sweetheart. Just admit it—you missed me.”

You turn in his arms, glaring—but it’s weak at best. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Maybe,” he leans in, forehead brushing yours, voice dropping, “but I still remember how fast your heart was beating last time.”

You swallow.

And this time? There’s no Shoko to walk in. No patrols due back. No reason to stop.

You hesitate for a beat.

And then you pull him in by the collar.

The kiss is feral. All teeth and tongue and breathless gasps. Weeks—months—of tension snapping all at once. His hands find your waist, gripping tight as he hoists you up like you weigh nothing.

“Fuck—” he groans against your lips. “You’ve been killing me, y’know that?”

You wrap your legs around his waist and tug him closer. “Good.”

He pulls back, grinning. “Oh, you wanna play it like that?”

You don’t get a chance to answer before he’s kissing down your jaw, your neck, dragging that maddening tongue of his down your collarbone. His hands are everywhere—palming your hips, your thighs, sliding under your shirt like he owns you.

Which, at this point, maybe he does.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, hovering over your lips again. “Tell me now, and I will.”

You look him dead in the eyes, tug his shirt over his head, and whisper:

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Your back hits the nearest wall with a muffled gasp, Satoru’s mouth already on yours, hungry and hot. His hands roam your body like he’s memorizing it with touch alone, fingers tugging at fabric with a frustrated groan.

“Off,” he growls into the kiss, already pulling your shirt over your head like it's offended him. He sets you down to pull your pants down along with your panties. And the moment you’re bare before him, he stands back, breath catching in his throat. His eyes—icy blue and blown wide with lust—roam your figure, landing on your chest like he’s just been given the meaning of life.

“…Can I motorboat your tits?”

You blink.

You laugh, startled and breathless. “Are you—are you serious right now?”

His lips curve into a wolfish grin, and he’s already surging forward to kiss you again. “Maybe next time,” he mumbles between kisses. “I don’t think I can wait to taste you now.”

You arch a brow, teasing, breath catching when he trails his mouth down your jaw. “Next time?”

He chuckles, low and dark. “You think I’m letting you off the hook after this?” His hands slide down your waist, thumbs stroking your hips. “Nah, sweetheart. I’m gonna ruin you.”

Then he sinks to his knees.

The grin fades into something hungrier, more reverent as he kisses the inside of your thigh, dragging his teeth gently across soft skin. “Spread ‘em for me,” he says, voice a whisper but firm. And when you do, he groans like he’s just tasted something forbidden.

You cry out the second his tongue touches you, hands flying to grip his hair. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t want to. It’s slow, torturous—his pace deliberate as he works you open, devouring like a man starved. His moans vibrate against your skin, and when your legs tremble, he just pins them open wider, groaning, “That’s it… let me hear you, baby.”

Your back arches as Satoru licks another slow, devastating stripe up your core, tongue curling at your entrance before he moves to suck gently on your clit. Your fingers tighten in his hair, thighs instinctively trying to close around his head—but his arms loop under your knees, spreading you wider, holding you open like he owns you.

“You're not going anywhere,” he mutters, eyes flicking up, glazed over with lust and something dangerous. “Told you. I’m gonna ruin you.”

Then he’s back at it—slower this time, tongue flattening against you, then circling, dragging soft groans out of you as the tension coils tight in your belly. He eats you out like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, savoring every movement, every moan he draws. He alternates between deep, dragging strokes and sharp, teasing flicks, lips closing around your clit to suck just hard enough to make your breath hitch.

You cry out, hips bucking up into his mouth, and he growls—low and throaty—as if turned on by how wrecked you already are.

"Fuck—so sweet," he groans, voice muffled against you. “Could stay down here all night.”

And he means it. He shifts slightly, tongue plunging into you now, slow and shallow, nose nudging your clit as he drinks in every sound you make like it fuels him. Every little tremble, every whimper—he devours it.

He doesn’t stop. Not when you start trembling, not when you whine his name in warning. He keeps going, lips slick and relentless, until—

Your vision whites out. Your body tightens, back bowing, mouth falling open on a silent scream as you fall over the edge, pleasure shattering through you like a storm.

Only then does he pull back, lips and chin glistening. He breathes hard, eyes dark and blown, grinning like he just won a war.

“That’s the sound I wanted to hear.”

He stands up again to pick you up, carrying you to the nearby table, settling you on it, completely bare under the low light, legs parted slightly, chest heaving. You’re flushed, trembling—not from fear, but anticipation. Nerves. Heat. It’s all crashing together in your head, and he sees it.

His hands move to his waistband, fingers curling beneath the fabric of his pants. He tugs them down with practiced ease, freeing himself—and your breath catches.

Your eyes drift down instinctively, and your stomach tightens at the sight of him. He’s big. Thick, flushed, already hard and aching.

Your pulse stutters, nerves flickering to the surface. “Oh…”

“Hey,” he says gently, fingers brushing your cheek. “You okay?”

You hesitate, biting your lip. “It’s just… I’ve never done this before.”

Satoru freezes for a moment. His expression doesn’t shift much—but his eyes, bright and blue, soften in an instant.

“…You haven’t?” he asks quietly, tone a stark contrast to the sinful smirk he wore earlier. You shake your head.

He exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself. Then he leans in and kisses you—slow, patient, loving.

“Well, fuck,” he murmurs against your lips. “Now I really have to behave.”

You blink up at him. “You? Behave?”

He chuckles, brushing his thumb over your lower lip. “Okay, maybe not completely. But I’ll go slow. Make it good for you. You trust me, right?”

You nod.

“Good.” His voice drops a little. “Then let me take care of you, yeah?”

He’s gentle—so gentle it almost breaks you. His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, down your neck, to your chest. He pauses there, kissing over your breasts, fingers caressing your sides as though you might disappear if he’s not careful.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes. “Gonna remember this forever.”

When he finally lines himself up, he doesn’t rush. He keeps kissing you, whispering into your skin.

“Breathe with me,” he says. “Nice and easy, baby. Just relax.”

The stretch burns, but his voice never leaves you. His hands never stop moving—stroking your sides, brushing your hair from your face, thumbing away the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs. “So tight, fuck—squeezing me like you were made for me.”

Your breath catches, eyes fluttering shut.

“Look at me,” he says softly, “I wanna see your face.”

You meet his eyes—blown wide with emotion, affection, reverence. And that’s when he starts to move. Slowly, so slowly you can feel everything. Every drag, every pull.

“Feels good?” he asks, and when you nod, he smiles like you’ve just handed him the universe.

“You’re perfect,” he groans, picking up pace just a little. “Takin’ me so well, sweetheart. My pretty girl, lettin’ me be her first.”

You moan—part embarrassment, part bliss—and he kisses the sound from your mouth.

“Can’t believe no one’s touched you like this before,” he mutters against your skin. “But I’m glad. Glad it’s me. Glad I get to show you.”

He starts rolling his hips deeper, each thrust slow and purposeful, coaxing pleasure out of you bit by bit.

“Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

You’re already gasping—your body burning, overstimulated from the build-up and the way he moves inside you. Every drag of him is a stretch, a delicious ache, and you’re trying so hard to keep up, to breathe, to hold yourself together—but it’s too much.

And then it hits.

Your climax crashes over you like a tidal wave—louder, sharper, more intense than the last—and your body tightens instinctively, your walls fluttering around him like they don’t want to let him go.

“Fuck—” Satoru’s voice breaks, a guttural groan tumbling from his throat as he stills, trembling above you. “You’re gonna ruin me, baby…”

His grip tightens on your waist, jaw clenched as he tries to hold back—but you’re squeezing him so tight, so perfect, and his restraint shatters.

“You’re killin’ me,” he grits out, starting to move again—deeper, slower, more intentional—but there’s an edge of desperation now. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “Feels so good—fuck, I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You shake your head, nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t stop,” you whimper, barely able to form the words. “Please…”

He kisses you hard—like he can’t help himself, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. “You’re doin’ so good for me, sweetheart. So, so good…”

“‘Toru-” you whimper.

That breaks him.

He groans, slamming into you harder, mouth finding your neck as he nips and kisses down to your collarbone. “Fuck. Say it again.”

You whimper again, brain hazy. “‘Toru…”

He kisses you slow then, deeper. Rough pace never faltering, but his hands gentler now—one wrapping around your waist, the other brushing the hair from your face.

“Mine,” he murmurs against your lips. “You’re mine now, yeah?”

You nod desperately, legs locking around his hips. “Yours.”

“Damn right,” he grits, driving into you harder, chasing both your highs with everything he has.

The overstimulation has tears stinging your eyes, your legs trembling, voice catching on every moan. And when that next orgasm builds too fast, too hard—it snaps through you like a live wire. Your body arches off the table, clamping down around him again—

—and Satoru snaps.

“Shit—take it, baby. Let me fill you up, yeah? Gonna make you mine, fuck, you already are—look at you...” he chokes out, thrusting deep one last time before he comes, spilling into you with a long, breathless groan. His arms wrap around you as if to anchor himself, holding you so close, like he needs to feel every inch of you, inside and out.

“Look at you,” he murmurs between pants, pressing kisses across your face. “Takin’ me so well… You’re mine now, yeah? All mine.”

You nod, dazed and boneless, wrapped in his warmth.

And he stays like that, inside you, forehead resting against yours as he murmurs soft, reverent praises—like this wasn’t just your first time.

Like it was everything.

Your body’s still trembling—nerves fried, skin flushed, heart thudding against your chest as if it’s trying to burst free. You’re barely aware of anything except the warm, strong arms pulling you into a careful embrace, the kiss he presses to your temple like it’s the most sacred thing he could ever do.

“Hey…” Satoru murmurs, voice all honey and rasp, rough around the edges but impossibly gentle. “You okay?”

You nod, chest rising and falling against his, cheeks still hot, but there’s a smile on your lips.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just… wow.”

He laughs softly, the sound low and breathy as his fingers brush along your spine in lazy, soothing strokes. “You were incredible,” he says, and he means it. Every word. “So good for me. So perfect.”

Your face scrunches with a flustered noise, burying it into his shoulder. “Stop…”

“Never,” he grins, nosing into your hair. “You don’t get to be all pretty and sweet and make those sounds and expect me to stay quiet about it.”

You groan. “Satoru—”

“Shhh.”

His palm rests on your back as he holds you close, thumb drawing lazy circles. You can still feel the dull, pleasant ache of him inside you, the heat he left behind. His breath is warm against your cheek. Safe. Comforting.

“You did so good, baby,” he murmurs again, pressing a kiss just beneath your jaw. “First time and you still managed to rock my fucking world.”

Your heart stutters. “Wasn’t just the sex,” you say quietly.

He stills for half a second—and then he smiles, soft and genuine.

“I know,” he whispers.

You’re still breathless, body flushed and boneless in his arms when Satoru gathers you close, lips pressed gently to your temple. The air between you is warm, quiet save for the distant hum of life around the base. He shifts a little, glancing down at the table beneath you both, and you catch that flicker in his eyes—guilt, soft and creeping.

“I should’ve…” he starts, voice low, almost sheepish. “Shit, I should’ve taken you somewhere better. A bed, a blanket, something that wasn’t a hardass table. It was your first time and I just—” He pauses, brows pinching like the regret’s eating at him now. “I got selfish.”

You lift your hand to his cheek, thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth. “Hey,” you whisper, leaning in until your lips ghost over his, shutting him up with a kiss so soft, so full of emotion it makes his heart stutter.

When you pull back, your smile is small but sure. “It was more than okay. Because it was with you.”

Satoru blinks, breath caught in his throat. And for once, the man with a mouth like a wildfire doesn’t have anything to say.

Until he pulls you tighter into his chest and mutters, “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

You just grin into his skin. “Guess we’ll go down together then.”

Then silence. Not awkward, not tense—just full of warmth. Full of everything. His arms around you. Your fingers laced with his.

You don’t say it. Not yet. But maybe one day soon.

For now, the way he holds you like you’re something to be cherished?

It’s more than enough.

author's note. finally have time to post consistently! last month or two were BUSY so couldn't do much </3 i'm proud of how this one turned out ^^ also, shoko is such a baddie i love her

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

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dollfacefantasy · 7 months ago

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clark kent x fem!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, car sex, mating press a/n: ummm yeah i need him so bad it makes me ill <3

for as long as you'd known clark, you'd never known him to lose his temper. he was forever-patient, your boyfriend. understanding to almost a frustrating degree. especially with you, his little love.

he was already pretty easy to get along with, but on the rare occasion you did have issues, clark seemed to have a natural instinct for deescalating you. he never raised his voice, never spoke an unkind word about you, never gave you a look harsher than what could be described as stern.

all it took to calm you down was a glimpse of his natural puppy-dog eyes and pretty plush lips. his thick arms would circle around you and hold you to his chest. he'd sway back and forth with you a little, a small smile on his face as you melted into the embrace. whatever semblance of tension or irritation that had been bubbling up easily dissolved into a puddle between the two of your bodies.

so, all that to say, you didn't really believe clark possessed any kind of rough edge or combative instinct. despite his large stature, you couldn't really picture him ever being rough.

that was until tonight.

you and clark had planned to drop by some event at the talon, but your sweet boyfriend had warned you earlier that he found out there'd probably be some trouble there later. some potentially dangerous situation that he wanted you avoiding at all costs. it was for your safety. he just wanted you to stay home where he wouldn't be worried while him and chloe investigated.

but did you listen to him? of course not. you went anyways, not in the mood to listen to his vague explanations as to how he even discovered this information in the first place. you put on a cute little dress with some new shoes you bought specifically for the night and took off.

unfortunately for you, clark had turned out to be right. not even thirty minutes after you arrived, chaos broke out. people flew through walls and glass shattered everywhere, all because of some guy who looked like his body could stretch and bend like a rubberband. it totally sucked. but none of that was even the worst part. you survived the craziness of whatever that person's problem was. the real danger came when the dust settled and you saw clark across the room staring at you.

he looked pissed.

he was at your side in an instant, but closing the distance didn't soften him any. it kind of did the opposite since up close he could see a bloody scrape stretching across your cheekbone.

you could see he was worried first and foremost, but behind that concerned top coat a fire burned. as soon as your small wound had been tended to, his long fingers clasped around your bicep. he pulled you to your feet and all but dragged you out of the coffee shop.

"clark i-" you started in an attempt to explain yourself.

"save it," he said, voice as cold as you'd ever heard it, "i asked you for one thing. that's it. stay home for your own good. don't come out here and pointlessly risk your life."

"it wasn't that bad," you defend weakly.

"but why even take the chance?" he asked with true exasperation, "i shouldn't need to convince you that your safety is more important than whatever they had going on tonight."

he didn't continue the lecture beyond that. just walked with a clenched jaw and motivated stare in the direction of his truck. like always, he opened the door for you when you got there. though this time, he practically scooped you up and dumped you into the car.

he was silent as he drove, fingers tight around the steering wheel. you could practically feel the frustration rolling off of him. the urge to lash out for once was near spilling over. he pulled the car over, and you figured you were really in for it. in a way you were right, just not how you thought.

clark didn't bother yelling, didn't try to start a fight. he glared at you for a few silent seconds before leaning across the seats and crashing his lips against yours. he kissed you like he wanted to steal the breath from your lungs.

after a blur of clothing being shifted around and positioning body parts awkwardly in the confined space, you found yourself in the meanest mating press of your life.

you were folded in half beneath all of clark's weight. the points of your new heels scraped up the truck's ceiling while your knees squished against your chest. little squeaks and whines slipped their way out of you as his tip battered against your cervix. he was so deep you swore you could feel your insides rearranging to make room for him.

"clarkkkk," you mewled before biting your lip, desperately searching for some way to ground yourself. one set of your fingers gripped strands of his dark hair while the other held a fist of his flannel.

"what, baby?" he panted. for once, clark wasn't fawning over you between thrusts. he wasn't cooing or praising you for taking him so well. instead, he had his face against your neck and his hands wrapped around your waist, bucking into your dripping heat with enough force to rock the car.

you tried to force out words to convey what you were thinking. too big. too much. so deep. harder. faster. none of those made it though. only choked moans and then a sharp squeal when he rolled his hips and struck that extra-sensitive sweet spot inside you.

"someone's gonna see if they drive by," you whimpered, squirming underneath him.

"maybe you should hold still then and let me finish, huh?" he grunted, "no one's gonna see. everyone's in town dealing with the mess from tonight. the one i told you was gonna happen."

"i didn't think-"

"i know you didn't," he interrupted, "didn't use that pretty little head at all, did you?"

words of defense eluded you right now, his nonstop thrusts keeping your mind cloudy. instead you chose to whine, your lip quivering he rolled his hips deeper yet again.

"oh yeah?" he asked, as if you'd said something coherent.

you opened your mouth again to speak, to really argue back this time, but you were cut off by your own desperate cry when his hands tugged you closer and speared you even further on his cock. you could feel him grinning against your neck at the noise.

"i know, baby. i know you're sorry. you don't have to explain. thinking's too hard for you right now, yeah?" he cooed, his tone bordering on mocking.

your pout got more severe but so did the needy sounds escaping your mouth. you felt those long fangs of his scrape against your throat. his tongue then glided across the area, making you shudder.

"clark-" you tried to say something else, but he cut you off. he raised his head up and kissed you deep again, swallowing the words right from your mouth. when he pulled back for air, he rested his sweaty forehead against yours.

"you can be such a brat," he breathed, "so much whining even though i know you love this."

the truck creaked as his movements continued to jostle it. you felt his breath fanning across your face and watched as his eyes fluttered shut. you knew he was getting close, but so were you. your cunt squeezed around him rhythmically, coaxing him too the edge along with you.

"you gonna cum, baby?" he finally muttered against your lips.

you nodded eagerly, more than ready to release. it only took a few more hard thrusts to get you there, and clark followed along no problem. in the afterglow, he laid on top of you for a minute or so, trapping you in a cage of searing body heat.

when he finally did sit up, the two of you fixed your clothes and stretched your limbs. he looked over at you with more tenderness. your boyfriend's gentle temperament had seemingly returned with the relief his peak brought.

he cupped your jaw with his fingers, looking over that cut on your face. leaning in, he gave it a small kiss before starting up the car again.

"i'm just trying to look out for you, you know? just... please listen next time. i don't know what i'd do if you got hurt. you had me worried sick."

"i will. i'm sorry i scared you," you replied softly. your eyes studied the loving look in his eyes and the way his features seemed so at peace now that all his adrenaline was out of his system.

you grabbed his hand across the seats and traced little patterns on his knuckles for the drive home. he let you play with his fingers but shot you a glance.

"i'm serious. next time you get involved with something like that i won't let you off so easy," he teased.

you smiled and nodded, wanting to put his mind at ease. though in the back of your mind, a small part of you considered trying again some time, just to see what "not so easy" looked like to him.

#clark kent x reader #clark kent smut #clark kent x you #clark kent imagine #superman x reader #dc x reader #dc imagine #dc smut #smallville x reader #ch: clark kent 💌

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xoxojisu · 9 days ago

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DISTANT!

synopsis: you don't know when it started or why, but katsuki is distant, and your relationship is growing cold.

notes: hurt and comfort im not a monster. ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP ?!?! IN A JISU FIC ?!?!?! crazy. "jisu youve written a million bajillion things that are the EXACT same." god forbid a girl has a preference?? n e wayss why is he distant? why didn't y/n communicate? "i never would've-" well that sucks it's my fic. #mywayorthehighway

it starts small.

a slower reply here, a stiff shoulder there. your arms around his waist met with silence instead of that soft, familiar sigh.

you tell yourself he's just tired. exams, training, pressure and stress. but weeks pass and it only gets worse. you start to count the number of times he’s pulled away when you reached for him. it’s higher than you want to admit.

he used to let you curl into him after a long day, used to press absent kisses to your hair, fingers tracing lazy shapes on your back. now? he shuts his door early, says “go get some rest” like you’re a guest instead of the person who used to fall asleep in his arms every night.

and he still says “love you” sometimes, at the end of a conversation. but it’s distant. flat. it feels like it's just a habit.

your heart feels like it's holding its breath.

you sit in your room one night, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, phone clutched in your lap as you stare at a half-typed message you can’t bring yourself to send. your chest aches, deep and quiet and constant. you can’t remember the last time he looked at you the way he used to. like he was so lucky to have you. like he couldn’t believe you were real. like you were precious. like he loved you.

so when you knock on his door, when you ask if he has a second, when you step inside and he doesn’t even glance up from his desk, it all hits you all at once.

you don’t even know when it started.

but it mightve been that day, when you reached for katsuki and he didn’t reach back.

little by little, the things that used to come so naturally between you like soft touches, sleepy cuddles, forehead kisses, and lingering glances started slipping away.

and you feel it.

god, you feel it in your bones.

you try not to ask too much. you try to be patient. you tell yourself it’s just a phase, that he’ll come back to you soon, that this quiet doesn’t mean anything.

but it gets harder, especially on nights like this. curled up in your own bed, shivering even though you're under the covers, trying to remember what it felt like to be wanted without question. to be held like you were something precious.

your phone lights up with a message.

kats <3: night.

that’s it. no heart. no nickname. no goodnight kiss over the phone like he used to send when you weren’t together. no "where are you?" or "come to my dorm."

you stare at it until the screen goes dark again.

he's literally just in his dorm. he's not away on a mission or an internship. you could walk to him in just a couple minutes.

so why does he feel so far?

you still sleep in his hoodie. it doesn’t smell like him anymore. you wrap your arms around your own waist and pretend it’s his. it’s not the same.

you try to joke about it, once. say something like, “hey, don’t forget you have a girlfriend, y’know,” with a soft laugh to hide the bruise in your chest.

he just blinks, shrugs, mutters, “don’t be dramatic,” without looking up from his phone.

and you wanted to say,

i’m not. i just miss you. i miss the way you used to love me.

but you swallowed it down. again.

because you’re tired of sounding needy. tired of trying to ask for something he doesn't want to give.

tired of being touch-starved and desperate and so, so lonely in a relationship that used to feel so full.

you lie awake long after midnight. staring at the ceiling. not crying, not really, but your throat’s tight, and your chest won’t loosen. you miss him more than you know how to say.

when did you start sleeping in your own dorms again? when did you stop falling asleep to the lull of his heartbeat?

you just want him to hold you.

you just want to be held.

he doesn’t mean to do it.

not really. it just sort of… happens.

your face looks tired when he opens his dorm door and sees you there. hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, your body curled in on itself like you’re bracing for something.

and something about that.. about the way you’re shrinking, holding back like he might tell you to leave, makes his chest twist hard.

so before either of you can say a word, he just pulls you in.

arms around your waist, one hand sliding up your back to curl around your neck, pressing your face into his chest like it’s instinct. like he’s been starving for it. like he missed you.

and you go soft in his arms immediately. melt. cling. fists clutching at the back of his hoodie like if you let go, he’ll disappear again.

but then your shoulders start to tremble.

and he hears it. a tiny sound, barely there, the kind of thing that splits a heart open if you're paying attention.

“are you..” he leans back to look at you, palms cupping your face, and you’re crying.

not loud. not messy. just tears spilling down your cheeks like they’ve been waiting. like they’ve had to wait.

“baby..” he breathes, stunned. “what.. why are you crying?”

you shake your head, lip trembling. “i dunno,” you whisper, voice tight, eyes darting away. “i just… it felt nice. being held. i missed it. and you.”

and katsuki’s heart breaks.

because fuck. fuck, the bar shouldn’t be this low.

you shouldn’t be crying because you’re finally being touched gently again. you shouldn’t look surprised to be wanted.

and it hits him all at once:

how cold he’s been. how much he shut you out. how many nights you went to sleep wondering if he even cared.

“…shit,” he mutters, pulling you in tighter. his voice is thick, shaky at the edges. “i’m sorry. i didn’t.. i didn’t mean to make you feel like this.”

you bury your face in his neck. “i love you so much,” you whisper, like it’s a secret. “and i think.. i dunno.. i know it's stupid, but i started thinking that maybe you didn’t love me back.”

his throat tightens. he breathes in deep, kisses the top of your head, holds you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“you’re it for me,” he murmurs into your hair. “i’m so fucking sorry i made you doubt that.”

and this time, when you cry, he holds you through all of it.

masterlist reblogs + comments super duper appreciated! <3

#jisu writes!#bakugo x reader #bakugo fluff #bakugo katsuki #katsuki fluff #katsuki x reader #mha fluff #mha x reader #bnha fluff #bnha x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou fluff #katsuki drabble #bakugo drabble #bakugo angst #bakugou angst #bakugo comfort #bakugou comfort #bakugou drabble

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skyrim-forever · 8 months ago

Text

Worst Places to Jerk Off in Skyrim

In no particular order, as they are all shit in their own ways :P

Redwater Spring

Unless you are a vampire or werewolf then you are getting all the diseases. And if you are a vampire, don't do that to the food??? Unless, you're into that 😏

2. Altar of Molag Bal

I don't even need to say why, y'all already know. If you are so inclined (I'm not kink shaming I'm kink asking why) go to the one in Castle Volkihar at least. Don't do it in Markarth my guy

3. The Dwemer Lockbox at Septimus Signus's Outpost

Okay, this might just be me but it would be impossible to have a good time inside a giant Dwemer mechanism with Hermaeus Mora lurking around. HOWEVER, I am aware I am posting this on tesblr on monsterfucker.com so if you are an enjoyer of tentacles than this may be a top spot. You do you bestie, have fun becoming a Seeker someday <3

4. The Chantry of Auri-El

Gelebor has been through enough

5. Frostfall Lighthouse

You probably don't want to anyways

6. Inside Tel Mithryn with Neloth is there

This also has the caveat as some of you (including myself to an extent) are into Neloth. That said, I feel like he would absolutely destroy you with insults that even if he didn't ban you you'd never come back

7. The Warren

Wahoooo second Markarth location! Incredibly depressing, would not be a good vibe

8. The Chill

It's fuckin cold my guy

9. Yngvild

Also cold but more importantly, Arondil has major issues. The room of dead women, the contents of his journals NOPE I am kinkshaming him

10. The Butcher's murder room in Hjerim

Let's offer the dead some peace since we cannot bring the killer to justice as the quest is always broken!!!

Feel free to add your own picks, we could also do a list of the best places ;)

#tesblr #the elder scrolls #tes #skyrim #meme #mdni #tw: suggestive #idk how to tag this #worst places to jerk of in skyrim #i talked about this at dinner ill have you all know

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midnite-c6 · 24 days ago

Note

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

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

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

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

of course you give in.

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

wow. fuck him.

⊂•✧～⁠｡⁠☆ 🔪

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

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

⁠‿⁠•⁠⊂⁠ *⁠.⁠✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#squid game #squid game 2 #nam-gyu #player 124 #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader #squid game smut #nam gyu #namgyu #nam-gyu smut #nam gyu smut #nam-gyu x reader #nam gyu x reader #nam gyu squid game #squid game 3 #squid game season 3 #squid game imagine #squid game s2

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urdreamydoodles · 4 months ago

Note

Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr

Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.

- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.

- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”

- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.

- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.

- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.

- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”

- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.

- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.

- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.

- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”

- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.

- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.

- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.

- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.

Bruce Banner

- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.

- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.

- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.

- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.

- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.

- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.

- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.

- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.

- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.

- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.

- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.

- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.

- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.

- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.

- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.

- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.

Sam Wilson

- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.

- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.

- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.

- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.

- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.

- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.

- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.

- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.

- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.

- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.

- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.

- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.

- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.

- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.

- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.

- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.

Thor Odinson

- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.

- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.

- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.

- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.

- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.

- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.

- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.

- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.

- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.

- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.

- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.

T’Challa

- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.

- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.

- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.

- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.

- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.

- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.

- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.

- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.

- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.

- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.

- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.

Steven Grant

- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.

- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.

- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.

- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.

- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.

- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.

Jake Lockley

- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.

- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.

- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”

- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.

- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.

Scott Lang

- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.

- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.

- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.

- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.

- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.

- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”

- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.

- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.

- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.

- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.

- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.

- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.

- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.

- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.

Matt Murdock

- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.

- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.

- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.

- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.

- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”

Frank Castle

- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.

- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.

- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.

- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”

- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.

- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.

- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.

- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”

- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.

- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.

- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.

Wanda Maximoff

- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.

- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.

- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.

- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.

- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.

- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.

Pietro Maximoff

- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?

- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.

- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.

- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.

- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.

- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.

- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.

- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.

- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.

- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.

- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.

2K notes · View notes

borathae · 1 month ago

Text

Killin' It Boy | JHS x f.Reader

“Jung Hoseok is many a thing in your life: Best friend. Part time lover. Eyecandy. And subject of your horniest desires. One night you stay over at his place, but fall asleep before anything can happen. You wake up the next morning needing him like you need air and he just so happens to need you too.”

Pairing: Hoseok x f.Reader (can be read without prior lore knowledge)

Genre: best friends with benefits!AU, Smut, Fluff if you squint really hard

Warnings: Hobi in a tanktop & grey sweats <3, Rougher Dom!Hoseok, needy sub!Reader, she just "casually" wears a thong around him, which obviously earns her what she deserves (a good dickening), making out & groping in his kitchen, which then continues in his bedroom, body worship for both, nipple play & licking for both, strength & muscle kink, now hear me out about the main thing!! she massages lube on his abs and then grinds on them :), yes this an ab humping fic :), multiple orgasms (f.receiving), afterwards he dicks her down HARD, clit play, breast play, choking & spanking (f.receiving), messy orgasms, creampie, cumming all over her chest, which he licks off <3, he calls her babygirl & good girl, the praisiest praise ever, this man can DIRTY TALK LORDD, i need a respirator fr, loving & soft aftercare

Wordcount: 6.9k

a/n: i don't want to talk about it. this is not how i wanted to return from my break but here we are 😶 i want to formally apologise for the damage this will do to you besties' pussies but i also want to say you're welcum. i put my entire sibussy into this story and it didn't help because hobi is still fucking haunting me omfg oh lord i need to run against a wall and forget all my memories fr 😩 have fun my whores i'm happy to be back 🖤

You are at Hoseok’s today.

Well, technically you are still at Hoseok’s after staying the night. Nothing happened. It was quite simple. The others aren’t currently at the estate and you grew tired of being alone. Taehyung and Jimin are on a best friend bonding trip to Hawaii, Jungkook is staying with Seokjin in Gordes because he really missed him and Yoongi had to spontaneously leave for Geneva to help his long term friend Fredrick with sorting out some issues.

And you? You honestly didn’t feel like going on a trip. So you stayed behind. You cleaned, did some gardening, you read, you took walks and enjoyed time alone. But then you got bored and so you took one very long walk to Hoseok’s.

That was yesterday and he welcomed you with homemade iced tea and pasta for dinner.

“Somehow I always end up eating pasta at your place”, you told him, enjoying it wholeheartedly.

“Sorry, it’s not my intention.”

“It’s totally fine. You make one hell of a pesto.”

Later you watched a movie where you fell asleep on his chest. Nothing happened.

Hoseok must have been awake for a while. His side is empty and cold. Which is a fucking shame because the second you woke up, you craved him. In more ways than one. You wanted his cuddles, desired his kisses and needed his touch. You huff air in frustration, staring at the empty bed longingly. It would have been so awesome if he was still here. He is always so warm in the morning and said warmth really brings out how amazing he smells.

You sit up and roll out of bed to leave for the bathroom so you can freshen up a little.

Hoseok is a very clean person. Quite frankly, he is the tidiest person you know. Each thing has his designated spot and things like dust or flyaway hairs were nonexistent in his bathroom. He left the door open and the scent of his shower gel still lingers in the air. You enjoy it as you wash your face and brush your teeth, eyes travelling over the tidy set up. He left his cologne outside today, which is totally shocking but also very tempting. You finish cleaning up and pick up the cologne to steal a sniff. Woody cedar meets warm grapefruit with a hint of shiso. It is masculine and sensual. If you could, you would bathe in it. It smells so good and knowing that he probably put it on after his shower makes you just a little droopy.

Now, you must be excused. Being close to Hoseok is very difficult because he is just so attractive. Yesterday, he opened the door in a tank top and some baggy grey sweats and you almost barked at him. It also doesn’t help that he is starting to get serious with you. Granted, you always knew that he wasn’t the funny perverted jokester he most of the times likes to give himself as, but seeing his more serious side become the norm around you just kind of hits different. He is so attractive when he simply exists without trying to put on a show. It’s in the little things. The way he closes a cabinet with his hip, the way he offers you something to drink and always makes sure that you are taken care of or when he tells you about his day while you rest on his chest and he traces your arm. He is so him these days. So completely and attractively mundane and normal and because of that, incredibly sexy.

Point being, you are just a little upset that last night didn’t lead to anything more and so you leave for downstairs with a plan. You are wearing nothing more than your lacy bra and a matching thong. You rarely wear thongs, because let’s be honest, they are fucking uncomfortable. You only wear them when you want to seduce someone and this is your plan. Seduce Hoseok.

Your heart races. This is something you never did before with him. You have no idea how he will react or if he will even like it. You might actually dissolve into dust of embarrassment if he ends up being weirded out. After all, you and he aren’t an official thing and stuff like surprising each other in your underwear isn’t just something that happens. But if you don’t try, you will always regret it.

Hoseok is eating his world-famous breakfast croffles (he always has to make them when you stay for breakfast) and sips on coffee when you enter the kitchen. He is engrossed in a video on his phone, judging by the sounds it is a dancing competition video.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, one second I can’t look away. My favourite’s dancing.”

Just as you had figured.

“Yeah? Are they any good?”

“She’s fucking sick. I’ve never seen such footwork before. How the hell is she even doing that?” he says and moves the phone closer to see better.

You run your eyes over him. Baggy grey sweats and a white tanktop, dark hair styled messily on purpose and fingers adorned by rings. He is so attractive without even trying.

This is killing you. Your heart might give up before anything else. Hoseok keeps murmuring and mumbling to himself while you prepare a cup of tea. You know your way around the kitchen, so it is easy to do.

“Are you hungry? I’ll make you croffles”, he offers without looking up.

“Sure, I could go for a bite.”

“Alright, I’ll make them soon.”

“Yeah, take your time.”

He hums and continues watching. The water finishes boiling in the time being. You fill your designated mug, watching the tea bag tint the water caramel slowly.

“Damn, that was sick”, Hoseok lets out behind you.

The dance must have finished because you can hear the distinct sound of a phone being set down. It is now or never.

You keep your back turned to him, acting busy and hoping that he looks.

“So sorry, I would have been so upset if I missed that, but now you have me all to-”

One second.

“What the fuck?” a very quiet whisper.

Two seconds.

“-yourself.” Loud again. “Damn, what’s going on with your clothes?”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“You didn’t wear that to sleep. Where’s your pjs gone?”

You turn and shrug your shoulders.

“Didn’t feel like it.”

His eyes are all over you, trying to undress what little clothing still covers you.

“Well fuck”, he says and drops into his chair, running his hand over his mouth. He meets your eyes. “Not gonna lie, ___, this is making the morning a lot sweeter.”

“It is?”

“You’re like a dream, Seriously, the sweetest dream. Damn, just, sorry I’m inappropriate. It’s just underwear and I’m acting like I’ve never seen a woman in a thong before. Sorry.”

“You’re alright”, you say and chuckle, “I like it.”

You turn again so you can get some milk. You like your morning tea with milk. Anyone who hates this combination doesn’t know true culinary luxury.

“Fucking hell ___, you’re… Nah, that’s too much.”

He stands up and closes the distance. His hand brushes your waist.

“Please look at me”, he says, using his sexy voice for it.

You turn. His gaze is darkened in desire, making sinful love to you as he looks you deep into the eyes.

“Tell me that I’m not reading into this too much and you’re not just wearing this for the sake of wearing it.”

“I wanna tell you something about me.”

“Tell me.”

“I actually hate wearing thongs. They’re things of evil.”

He chuckles, sliding his fingers under the very thin string which sits on your hip.

“So why are you?”

“Because…” you begin to whisper, closing the distance so he can taste the words.

Hoseok’s purrs softly, parting his lips. Your breath taste minty and like temptation. He craves to fill his lungs with you.

“...I had hoped that you would like them”, you finish your sentence, raking your fingers up his sculpted chest.

“I do. I like them.”

Closer. Your lips almost touch.

“Good.”

“Kiss me.” He cups your cheek, chasing your lips.

“You first.”

Hoseok smiles in amusement, eyes flickering darkly. He slides his hand to the back of your head and pulls you in. You moan, knees buckling and body chasing him instinctively. He tastes sweet like the maple syrup he likes on his croffles. His lips are so soft, drawing you in. He is definitely the one to decide the rhythm. You just have to take it, keep up with it and you do. You take it with a racing heart, moaning every time he runs his tongue over your lips. You keep up with it, touching his body because you need to have all of him. His arms are so defined without being too overly bulky. His waist is so tiny and firm and his chest is strong with the perkiest of nipples. You rub them over his tanktop. He moans softly, following it with a chuckle. He sways your bodies from side to side, wrapping his strong arms around you so he can press you against him. He purrs deeply, letting you taste his desire in a slow tongue kiss.

You moan into his mouth. It feels so good to be held that tight just because you played with his nipples. Hoseok is so good in communicating with his body and he just doesn’t stop talking. As you continue to rub and explore his chest, he continues to purr and allows his hands to travel over your back. He uses his entire palms for it, making sure that you can feel every touch he places.

You switch your touch to his neck, ruffling up his hair and meeting his tongue with your own. He sucks on your tongue with a moan, squeezing your ass. He does it so desperately that you kind of wobble from side to side, getting on your tiptoes because he lifts you just a little.

“Jump”, he orders and you follow.

He catches you, bouncing you in his arms so he gets a better grip of you and kissing you as he does. You moan, grinding against his stomach and twisting his hair. His hands are under your ass, his arms flex as he carries you with ease. His kiss tastes like heaven, but you take it away when he sits you down on the kitchen counter and you have to gasp.

“Cold”, you whine.

“Hm, sorry”, he purrs, making it up to you by kissing your neck and shoulders. He is breathing heavily, constantly purring and moaning because the mere existence of you seems to drive him wild.

You don’t even care about the cold stone under your butt anymore. Not when he raises the fire in your veins. You close your eyes, gripping the edge of the counter and keeping him close with your legs. He feels them up, kissing a hungry path down to your breasts.

“So sexy, you’re so sexy”, he lulls, grinding into you with a shaky moan.

Thud.

“Ouch.”

He shoots up.

“What was that?”

You are pouting, rubbing your head, “I hit my head on the cabinet.”

Hoseok laughs, “are you okay?” he asks, petting the aching spot.

“No. You made me roll my head back with your stupid grinding and I hit it.”

He chuckles, “okay Miss Clumsy, let’s remove you from danger”, he says and lifts you off the counter.

You giggle, ruffling his hair and gazing down at him.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Bedroom”, he says, “now fucking kiss me.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Kissing him is like a drug and you are its addict. You kiss him as he leaves the kitchen, you kiss him as he walks up the stairs and you kiss him as he lies you down in his soft bed. He is the one to break the kiss, but the pleasure continues. Your neck gets kissed and sucked and because it’s Hoseok and his entire deal is being sexy, he bites you as well.

You mewl, rolling your hips up in desperate search for friction. He helps you find it on his hand. He hooks his pinkie in your thongs and pulls it to the side, connecting his thumb with your pussy so you can grind down on it.

“Hobi, oh god.”

“I love how fucking wet you already are, you’re just so good for me”, he praises. He hooks his other hand in your bra, tugging the right cup to the side so he has access to your nipple. He wraps his wet, warm and soft mouth around it, sucking on it gently and flicking his tongue over it.

If he didn’t have you wrapped all around his fingers, he definitely would now.

“Stop”, you gasp, pulling his hand away, “stop, please stop.”

“What’s the matter?” he asks, retreating his hand.

“You’re too good, I’m excited.” You fluster. “I almost came.”

He chuckles, eyes sparkling mischievously.

“Don’t laugh. This is really exciting for me.”

“Why? I’m just getting you ready.”

“I wanted you the moment I woke up.”

He widens his eyes, “really?”

“Yeah.”

“Well damn. I don’t know what to say.”

You touch his chest, “I want something.”

“Tell me.”

“I want you to be rough today, okay? No more of that careful shit.”

He chuckles, “alright, I can do that. Anything else?”

“If you want to, you can choke me or spank me.”

“Hot. That’s hot.”

“So?”

“Yes, baby. Yes”, he says and kisses you again.

You moan in happiness, dragging your hands down his torso until you reach his pants. You slip your hands inside. Hoseok follows your hands just to take his pants off. The kiss has to break when he has to step out of them. A pair of tight boxers keeps his hard cock pressed to his thigh. He is soaking the grey fabric. The view is so hot but nothing beats the view of his abs as he takes off his tanktop. He throws it to the side and steps out of his boxers, wanting to reclaim his spot between your legs afterwards but you are faster.

You sit up, surprising him by pushing him down into the sheets by his chest.

“Alright, is this what we’re doing?” he laughs, dropping down willingly.

You climb his lap, sitting down right under his hard cock. He smiles in amusement, caressing your thighs.

“You’re so sweet”, he purrs, feeling up your waist.

“Mhm”, you hum absentmindedly, lowering your mouth to his neck to worship it needily. He smells like his cologne. You quite frankly lick and suck it off of him while Hoseok gasps for air and moans in pleasure.

You only leave his neck once you consumed all of his scent, having come to the conclusion that the rest of his body smells just as good.

“Oh shit”, he lets out under his breath, chest heaving up and down quickly as you lick his nipples.

But again, you don’t stay for too long. This isn’t what you crave the most. This isn’t what you have been thinking about ever since you saw him in this stupidly tight tanktop.

“Your abs are insane. Actually insane”, you say, dragging your tongue down the middle of them. Your hands follow it along his waist, thumbs running over his obliques. Hoseok chases your mouth, abs rippling under your tongue. He sighs, skin tingling.

You are so greedy. Your mind is going wild.

“I wanna grind on them”, you murmur to yourself.

“Then do.”

“Hm?”

Hoseok props himself up on his elbows. You look at him with widened eyes.

“You heard that?”

“You weren’t really quiet, were you?” He smirks. “Do it. I don’t have them for nothing you know? I bet I can make you cum on them.”

“Holy moly, Hoseok.”

His smirk grows. He cups your cheek and traces your lips.

“Deal?”

“Yeah. Deal”, you sigh and kiss him.

Hoseok drops into the sheets and grabs your ass, moaning deeply. His grip is gentle but also, for a lack of a better word, possessive. He makes sure that you can feel it – feel him – but not in a way which would hurt. This is supposed to be good for you and it is. Hoseok is so fucking good for you.

He makes you laugh, he lets you cry, he protects you, he listens to you and remembers mundane stuff like your favourite croffle toppings. And he feels like ecstasy when you touch. He is so fucking good for you.

“Hobi…” you sigh into the kiss.

“Hm?” he purrs, rubbing your buttocks.

“You’re so addictive.”

He laughs, “what are you saying?”

“Just…fucking want you.”

He moans as you kiss him, giving you a gentle push to make you finally scoot up his body. He is needy too. He can’t deny it anymore.

The kiss has to break for the thing to work. His head is supported by two pillows, laying higher this way so he has good view of his abs.

You crawl off his lap. Hoseok watches with heavy eyes as you take off your thong. Then you walk off.

“Hey, where are you going?” he asks, furrowing his brows.

“Drawer was it?” you ask, walking to his bedside table.

“For what? Come back here.”

You open the drawer. Bingo.

“Lube”, you say and show him the bottle of water based lube he keeps close by.

Hoseok tuts, smirking in amusement.

“What do you need that for, mhm?”

“You’ll see.”

You climb back on his lap and sit down. Hoseok instantly touches you, running his hands up and down your thighs and waist. He looks at you as if he wanted to devour you whole.

“So sexy. My babygirl’s so fucking sexy”, he purrs, spurring you on.

With confidence, you open the bottle of lube and squirt a sinful amount of it onto his abs. They twitch and flex as a reaction to the cold.

“Shit.” He laughs, squeezing your hips. “That’s cold, gotta warn me.”

“Where’s the fun in that? I could watch your abs twitch like that”, you say and put the bottle aside. You connect your hands with his stomach to massage the lube all over his skin.

“That’s hot…fuck, I like that”, he purrs, tensing and relaxing his abs wherever you touch him. “Yeah, just like that, babygirl…”

“How do you even get these abs? They’re insane.”

“Workouts, dancing, I’m just sexy, what can I say”, he says, following it with a rather cutesy giggle.

You agree, “you are. You’re so sexy.”

You spread the excess lube on your pussy and finally do what you need. You position yourself above his abs.

“That’s so hot. Use me, babygirl, you got it”, he encourages you, offering you his hands if you needed support. He has his arms propped on his elbows so you can really lean your weight on them.

You take them, of course you do. Those are Hoseok’s hands. You would be dumb if you didn’t take them. The lube smears between your palms, forcing him to grip you so much tighter than he normally needs to. It’s so sexy.

Your pussy touches his stomach. You exhale shakily, heart beginning to race. This is new to you and it’s already amazing.

“That’s good, babygirl. You like that?”

“Yeah, I do”, you say and begin moving. You roll your hips up and down on his abs, finding out soon enough that you can feel the definition. “Okay, woah yeah I do.”

He chuckles, rolling his lower lip between his teeth. He can’t decide whether to look at your pretty pussy on his abs or your cute face scrunched up in concentration. Maybe both because he is fucking into you. So into you.

“Take it at your pace, yeah? I’m right here, just enjoy.”

“Hoseok…”

Your pussy is mesmerising. The angle naturally hides a lot from his eyes, but what Hoseok can see is enough to drive him insane. You fit right around his abs, moving so perfectly on him. He feels you getting wetter and wetter. It’s so warm, really bringing out how fucking soft you are.

“Hobi, you feel so good”, you get out, squeezing his hands.

“I do?” He flexes his abs.

“A-ah”, you moan with your voice pitched, scrunching your nose.

“So sexy”, Hoseok whispers, doing it again just to hear you moan and feel you clench.

You didn’t think that you could feel it so well. You could fucking count them just by rubbing your pussy over them.

One, two, three.

“Hoseok, ah, Hoseok.”

Four, five.

“You’re such a pretty woman, riding my abs so well. Good girl, make yourself feel good.”

Six, seven.

“Hobi please.”

Eight. He’s got an eight pack. This sexy motherfucker actually has an eight pack and its currently getting marked by you. He is the canvas and you are the artist, creating impure art.

“Please what, babygirl? Want me to help you?”

You open your bra and take it off.

“Touch me”, you beg, guiding his lube covered hands to your tits.

His abs tense under you because of the position. He purrs deeply, watching with widened pupils as he covers your breasts in a sinful layer of lube. He rubs his palms all over your chest, drags them down your sides and up over your stomach, repaying the favour this way. Now you are both covered in lube, skin glistening in the morning light and bodies heated up.

“My sexy woman. Fuck, lube’s your best look”, he rasps, cupping your breasts to knead them in his messy fingers.

You twitch and tremble on him, leaking more of you on his hard abs. Praise paired with his touches is a difficult combination to handle. It turns you on so much to be messy and he is calling you sexy for it.

You press yourself tighter to his abs, speeding up your movements because he has you desperate. It squelches in wet sin, only adding to the pleasure. The fact that you can hear the texture of them…

“Fuck, this feels so good…”

“Yeah? Like it?”

“So much, ahm…”

“That’s it. Ride my abs, good girl. You’re such a good girl”, he praises, rewarding you with his thumbs on your nipples. It’s like he knows how a woman works. It’s insane how good his touch feels. Just one second of it and you already find yourself addicted to it.

“Hoseok, fuck please.”

“Tell me, babygirl.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Won’t.”

“Thank you”, you moan and throw your head back, arching your back. You grab his strong arms, chasing the feeling of him. His hands on you, his thumbs on your nipples and his abs under your leaking cunt. You chase it, chase it, chase it and it’s getting better and better.

By now you have his abs so messy that creamy strings of your slick stick to his skin, webbing themselves from muscle to muscle. It looks so good against his honey skin.

You don’t get to see it. Your eyes are rolled back by now.

But Hoseok sees it and he is hooked up on the view, leaking on his lowest abs and wishing for you to just take him in. But he can’t rush you. He promised you an orgasm on his abs and he isn’t one to break promises. Especially not when it comes to you. You’re fucking precious to him and the promises he makes you, sacred.

So he keeps his fantasy a little fantasy while he tenses and flexes his abs under your puffy cunt and plays with your pretty nipples. He switches between massages of your chest and attention to your nipples with little flicks and rubs. The pleasure courses through you in waves.

“I think I’m close.”

“That’s so good. You’re doing so well”, he praises, sitting up more just so his abs ripple for you.

You shake, digging your fingers into his arms.

“Oh fuck.”

“You feel me?”

“Yeah, I feel you…”

“Mhhm I feel you too. You’re so sexy on my abs. My sexy babygirl”, he rasps and takes your nipples between his fingers to tug gently and rub them. At the same time he rolls his hips up, letting you feel how his abs work when he fucks.

“Hoseok holy fuck, ah!” you croak and break. Your entire body just freezes. Hoseok moans loudly at the feeling of your throbbing pussy and takes your hips between his hands just to move them over his abs for you.

You sob, gripping his wrists as you tremble. You thought it couldn’t get any better, but he proves you wrong as he guides you.

“Ho-hobi. Hobi please. Please.”

“I know babygirl, I know. You’re cumming so good for me. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

“Hobi…”

“I’ve got you. I’m here”, he talks you through it because that’s what he does. He talks you through it, helps you ride it out and enjoys the sensations with a dizzy head.

He can feel when it stops for you. He is so fucking greedy for more but knows not to be. You always get a little vulnerable after your first orgasm. It’s as if your mind finally catches up with the fact that you were horny and it is figuring out whether to be embarrassed or want more.

You sit on him with your entire weight, eyes widened and glassy.

“I…”

“Hush, you’re okay”, Hoseok assures you, lifting you just to sit up and put you down on his lap instead. The creamy mess you left on his abs smears all over your stomach now that are you so close. He has his hands on your back, holding you safely as he kisses your neck.

“What are you doing to me?” you choke out, dropping into him.

He moves his head so it wouldn’t get squished. His chin now rests against your shoulder while you have your face pressed into the crook of his neck. Your arms are hooked behind his head and your hands are in his hair.

“I promised you an orgasm on my abs, didn’t I?” he speaks in a soft voice, scratching your back soothingly.

“Yeah, but.”

“But what?”

“It felt so good.”

He chuckles, squeezing your buttocks.

“So? Where’s the problem?”

You lift your head, meeting his eyes. You cup his face.

“I want more.”

“What was that?”

“I want more”, you say and slide your hand to his cock.

Hoseok tenses his stomach, showing you with a slight squint of his eyes that he feels your touch and he likes it.

“Tell me”, he rasps.

“I want more, please.”

“No. Tell me that you can’t get enough.”

“I can’t get enough.”

He smiles darkly, lowering his eyes seductively. He moves his head closer, letting you taste his words.

“Beg for it.”

“I can’t get enough, please Hobi.”

“You can do better than that”, he rasps, looking at your lips.

“Fuck. Please fuck me, I want more of you, please”, you beg, heart racing like crazy and head dizzy. It’s so hot to have to beg. Especially when he makes you work for it. And you work for it. You grind your hips down on his thigh, twisting your hand around his cock in hopes of convincing him.

“I like that, babygirl. Say it again. One more time”, he whispers, craving to kiss you. Your hand on his cock is making it so difficult to hold back.

“You’re a tease”, you whine.

“Fucking say it again, babygirl”, he orders, giving your ass a warning squeeze.

“Please fuck me, please don’t tease me anymore please”, you whimper and try to warm his heart by dancing your tongue over his lips.

Hoseok growls and moves quickly. He picks you up only to pin you into the sheets and give you what you ask for.

You squeak, tensing up in surprise.

He knows how to do it so it fills you with electrical shocks of pleasure. He soaks up the view of your surprised eyes widening only to go out of focus and roll back all within a second.

“Go on say it. Say what you’re thinking”, he challenges you, pumping his aching cock into you in a desperate rhythm.

“Feels so good. Hobi, you feel so good.”

“Yeah? And what do well mannered women do, mhm?”

“Moan for you,” you moan, arching your back.

He chuckles, sliding his hand under your back and rewarding you with his entire length.

“Good guess, but no.”

You squeeze down on him so hard that he knows it was intentional. He growls, twisting the sheets beside your head.

“No, that’s not either. Go on, use your brain. What do we say after getting something?”

“Thank you”, you moan, twisting the sheets as well. There are no words on this earth to describe how good his cock makes you feel. First his abs get you sensitive and now you have his girthy cock splitting you open. This is actual heaven.

“Good girl. That’s it. Thank me. Go on.”

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you”, you chant, getting louder and needier because your moans earn you more and more of what he has to offer.

He moves his hips as if he was on stage, performing and dancing just for your pleasure. Your second thank you earns you his skilled fingers on your clit and your third thank you earns you his other hand around your throat.

“Hoseok!” you wail, grasping his lower arm just to squeeze him closer to your throat.

He purrs deeply, tightening his fingers. Your pulse races like crazy, fluttering and faltering as he slowly and gently cuts off the blood flow to your brain. He towers over you, kneeling on the sheets as he makes dirty love to you. But you don’t get to see how sexy he looks. Your eyes are squeezed shut, your mind is completely lost in the pleasure.

“I’m going insane, you feel so fucking good. Fucking wanted you like crazy”, he says and moans loudly.

You match his freak with an even louder moan, clenching down on his cock because vocal men are such a turn on. Especially when it’s Hoseok. His voice is fucking made to make sex noises.

“Shit, woah…that feels good. Do it again”, he moans.

You clench, toes curling because it makes it a lot better for you as well. You can feel every vein on his cock this way, can feel his tip fuck against your g-spot and feel his base stretch you out. So you clench and clench and clench, whimpering and mewling for him.

“Yes”, he growls, chasing the tight heaven you offer him, “yes, yes, fucking yes. Babygirl, yes.”

He fucks you right where it feels the best. Over and over again he hits The Spot while his fingers flick your clit quickly and his hand reminds your throat that you are his’.

“Yes, babgirl, yes. You-”

“Hoseok”, you interrupt him.

“Yes?”

“You’re making me- oh god, Hoseok please. I have to- ah!”

“It’s okay, you can cum. Don’t hold back”, he encourages you, helping you with a soft rub on your clit and by letting go of your neck.

“Thank you!” You climax on his cock with a sob, writhing in ecstasy because this is so much more intense than the first one. Your head pounds from the blood rushing back. You feel your orgasm everywhere between your legs, thanking him over and over again.

“That’s it, don’t hold back. Good girl, I can’t get enough of you”, he talks you through it just as he fucks you through it. He doesn’t slow down. Why should he? When it makes you feel so good.

“More. More please. Please, oh. Please.”

“Wasn’t gonna stop anyway”, he says and easily fixes you to how he wants you. He rolls you to your side and bends your leg around his hips. He faces your pussy and just like this, he enters you. He gives you all of him, watching in delight how you tense up and writhe in pleasure because the position allows him to hit your g-spot more precisely.

“Thank you. Hobi please. Thank you.”

“I fucking love when you beg like this. Makes me wanna fuck you so much harder”, he purrs, using his abs and back muscles to give you the fuck of your lifetime.

Hoseok is many a thing. Best friend. Occasional lover. Artist. Pornstar, dancer and man obsessed. One thing is for sure however, he will use his mesmerising ability to move his hips to give you cock in ways you haven’t experienced yet. This is a passion project for him and he treats his passion projects with utmost and precise care. Because he likes them to be perfect.

If that means that he has to rearrange your guts and permanently carve himself into your walls, then so be it. Hoseok is down for the ride.

“Please, Hobi. It’s too much”, you sob and bury your face in the mattress. He watches how you bite into the sheets, how you grasp them with shaky fingers and how your toes curl.

“Just say it if you want me to stop. Hm?” He stops his hips. “Wanna say it?”

“No!” you practically yell at him. “Don’t stop please!”

Hoseok chuckles and picks his rhythm back up. He spanks your ass.

“Bad girl. Yelling is rude.”

You whimper, spilling tears. This is all part of his plan isn’t it? He listened to your wishes, memorised them and then planned the sexiest way of including them. First the hand around your throat and then he works you up to be yelling just so he can spank you. Holy fuck, this is all just part of his plan.

“Again please”, you beg desperately, leaking on his cock just as you leak tears into the sheets.

Spank! In sync with a rough thrust of his skilled hips.

“Thank you!”

“You’re so polite. Keep it up, babygirl. So good”, he rasps, rewarding you with two consecutive spanks and rough thrusts.

“Thank you”, you sob, clenching down on is cock every time he lands his bejeweled hand on your ass.

“So good.”

Spank!

“Hobi”, you sob and go back to biting the sheets.

Hoseok continues. He is panting by now, growling each time he exhales. He spanks you not because you need to be punished, but as an act of infatuation. He does it because it gives you pleasure, because it makes your cunt so tight on his cock and because it makes such a pretty sound.

“Good girl, you’re taking me so well. My good fucking woman. So good”, he praises, rubbing your clit with his other hand because you deserve only the best.

“O-i im uing”, you murmur into the sheets.

“What was that?”

You show him. Hoseok yelps, tensing up.

“___ baby…holy fuck, so tight”, he moans, throwing his head back and burying his cock in you to the very base just so he can feel every second of your orgasm. He didn’t plan on making you cum already so this one comes as a surprise.

You sob and wail, convulsing in paradisal pleasure before it gets too much and you squirt all over him.

“Fucking hell, you gonna make me cum. This is so hot”, Hoseok growls, suddenly moving like a messy, clumsy teenage boy. Coordinating spanks and clit rubs is impossible and his hips stutter whenever he pushes back in. So he holds onto a good chunk of your ass, bruising it between his strong fingers as he claims your weeping cunt. You are so tight and now so fucking wet. Your orgasm sticks to his abs as well, soaking his cock and balls. The view is so sexy to him, making it hard to keep moving. “Fuck, I’m close.”

You fight yourself to your elbow and reach for him.

“Please Hobi.” you beg, dragging your nails down his abs so hard that it leaves marks.

Hoseok looks into your puppy eyes and knows that he is done for.

“___ baby”, he moans, eyes going cross before rolling back and closing. His hips stop when his cock is deepest. He grunts, scrunches his face and you can finally feel it. His hot, creamy orgasm. It fills you up, sticks to you, makes you his’.

“Thank you, ah Hoseok, thank you”, you whimper, feeling up his abs as they ripple and tense rhythmically.

“Baby, this feels so good. Holy fuck, can I cum on your chest?”

“Yeah. Please.”

“Urgh fuck”, he growls through gritted teeth and pulls out of you. He flips you to your back and spanks your clit with his cock just once to get the message across before he angles it differently and jerks off over your chest to get that last wave of pleasure all over it.

“Hobi”, you whimper, watching the sinful show with hungry eyes. Look at his abs tense…

“That’s my woman. Fucking wear me around your neck, that’s my woman. So fucking good, urgh.”

You cry for him, gazing up at him with devoted, droopy eyes. You can’t decide whether to look at his heavy cock spurting white cum all over you and his long fingers or his glistening abs or his scrunched face. Maybe you look at all of it while you touch and scratch his abs and arch your tits closer to him.

Hoseok finishes in five sloppy strokes.

“Fuck ___”, he drops his cock into the mess he just made, playing with it by swirling his hips.

“Did you like that?” you ask him in a sweet voice.

He nods his head with closed eyes, catching his breath.

“You’re so sexy, babygirl. Can’t believe you let me do that”, he says and opens his eyes.

He drags his heavy cock down to your pussy, rubbing it through your well-loved folds and over your sensitive clit.

You squeak, closing your legs.

“Sensitive.”

He chuckles, kissing your knee.

“Sorry”, he says, pushing your legs open, “let me kiss it better.”

“Hoseok, god”, you gasp and sigh, melting into the sheets as he runs his mouth over your ruined body. This is so sinful and sensual but also soothing and relaxing.

He licks the cum from your chest, kisses the sore spots on your thighs and loves your neck with his lips. The mess between your legs he leaves. Personal preference maybe. You won’t complain. It’s so nice to leak him. You feel so fulfilled.

“How are you doing?” he whispers against your ear.

“I’m in shock.”

He chuckles, “is that a good thing?”

You nod your head vigorously, giggling.

He smiles, kissing your ear before he lifts his head. He is propped up on his elbow, resting against your side which makes it easy to caress your torso. His eyes are filled with soft adoration. He is glowing when he smiles.

“So how did I do? You liked what I did?”

“I get it now”, you whisper.

“Get what now?”

“Why you’re so cocky about your skills.”

He lowers his eyes shyly.

“Don’t say that.”

“You’re so good.”

“Ah, you”, he lets out and smooches you with a giggle. “Thanks. Wah, now I’m embarrassed.”

You snicker, “don’t be. I liked it so much. Oh god, I need a minute.”

“Mhm, take your time. I’ll be here to take care of you”, he says and uses the moments of relaxation to kiss you all over your body. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No”, you sigh, writhing in relaxing pleasure. You don’t mind at all. You could never mind him. He is permanently settled in your brain, permanently living into your heart and permanently carved into your walls.

“You’re so fucking beautiful”, he whispers, kissing your inner thighs. They smell like sex. Hoseok soaks up the scent like an addict, leaving marks of devotion next to the spots his rough handling left. He leaves out your pussy again.

“Why do you do that?” you ask, playing with his hair.

“Do what?” he asks, looking up from your lower stomach.

“Leave it out”, you say, rolling your hips up.

“Because I can and I want to”, he purrs, kissing a quick path up to your face. He lies down next to you, cradling your face. “And because you should feel me a little longer.”

“But how will I get up and eat my croffles?”

He smiles against your lips and kisses you.

“Breakfast in bed, duh.”

“Really?” you ask, eyes widened in surprise. Such romance is new from him. He makes your heart race.

“Mhm, really. You should relax, let me treat my woman.”

His woman. He kept saying it as he fucked you. You don’t correct him. You smile and nod your head.

“Yeah, okay. But I can’t guarantee that I can keep my hands to myself when you do.”

“Do you have to be somewhere today?”

“No. But I don’t see how-”

“Then I don’t see the problem”, he flirts and pecks your lips.

You get it now. And it makes you giggle. He smiles, pecking your cheek.

“Relax. I’ll be back with breakfast”, he says and before he rolls out of bed, you stop him.

You steal a kiss, ending it by biting his lower lip. He smiles at you, eyes sparkly and infatuated by you.

“Don’t take too long, please.”

“Promise”, he seals it with a peck then finally gets out of bed to leave the bedroom naked.

“Aren’t you forgetting your clothes?”

“I cook best naked.” He gives you a cocky grin and a wink then closes the door.

“Fuck”, you drop into the sheets and blow raspberries. It is official, you won’t ever get him out of your head.

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lolab4t · 2 months ago

Text

safe together - fluff, angst

pairing: bob reynolds x thunderbolt!gn!reader summary: you’re benched with a broken ankle, stuck in the tower while the rest of the team is out on a mission. the only one left behind with you is bob. what starts as awkward company and bob acting like your nurse slowly turns into something deeper, safe, and comforting. word count: 5.8k warning(s): light thunderbolts* spoilers, angst, fluff, brief nightmare , implied trauma, mentions of the void and past trauma related to him, injury (broken ankle), mutual pining, emotional vulnerability, awkwardness, reader likes to read (lol) a/n: finally wrote for my sweet boy! yelena fic is prob coming next... i really hope you enjoy :) and if you do, please feel free to like, comment, or reblog! <3 also, requests are open!

chihiro - billie eilish

you hated it. sitting on the sofa, wrapped up in a blanket, leg propped up on a pillow. you felt guilty for feeling so comfy. you felt lazy. like you were wasting time.

you had broken your ankle, and found yourself in a boot, unable to walk. so of course, you were forced to sit out of a mission.

bob, who was used to staying back, was clearly excited to have some company for once. he didn't admit to it, but it was obvious. the tower always felt so cold and lonely to him when the team was gone. he always tried to distract himself with books and chores, but none of it compared to having you there with him.

now, he seemed to be glued to your side, staying near you on the couch. still shy, still quiet, still careful not to hover too obviously. he didn’t say much, only asked how your pain was doing or what you needed. every now and then he'd glance over at you, like he was checking to make sure you were still okay. he was acting a little like your nurse. it was sweet.

"do you, uh… need some water or anything?" he looked at you for only a second, before directing his gaze back to the tv. his voice was quiet and hesitant.

you looked up for your book and smiled. "no, i'm fine. thank you though, bobby."

bobby.

he originally hated the nickname when walker called him that. but when you started using it… he grew to love it. maybe he just didn't like walker.

he didn’t respond, and just gave a tiny nod, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile.

you adjusted your blanket again and looked back down at the book in your lap. it was your favorite, one you'd read a million times. but this time, you found yourself rereading the same lines over in your head… your thoughts kept wandering. to your ankle. to the mission the others were on. and to him. quiet, careful, sweet bob, sitting beside you like your own personal shadow.

he watched you like you were something fragile. something important. it made you feel… safe. which was ironic, considering the darkness that everyone knew was hidden inside him.

the void.

he sat there, still as ever, arms folded loosely in his lap. he glanced over at the book that seemed to be stealing all of your attention.

his voice was quiet again, cracking a little at the end. “what book, uhm— what book are you reading?”

you looked up and closed it gently, turning it to show him the cover. “it’s my favorite.”

he blinked, leaning in a little. “really?”

you nodded, watching the way he scanned the cover. he seemed interested in it. he was interested in it because you liked it.

"do you wanna borrow it?" you asked, not sure if he would want to.

his eyes lifted from the cover to your face, surprised.

"are you sure? i don't want to take it if you're reading it…" he rubbed the back of his neck shyly.

"i've read it a dozen times. take it. i think you'd like it." you smiled as he finally accepted it, holding it in his lap like it was something precious.

you don’t remember much after that. you must’ve dozed off, giving into the sense of comfort and safety you were feeling.

what you do remember is the nightmare you had. it was painful, full of the memories and wounds that had been reopened when you went into the void about a year before.

when you blinked awake, you were sitting up, sweating and panicked. the room was dimmer now. it had likely only been a few hours.

and bob was still there. he was already leaning forward, not crowding you, just close enough that you could see the worry in his face.

"you okay?" he asked gently, scanning your face for any answers.

you swallowed hard, finally catching your breath. you wanted to say yes. you wanted to pretend it was nothing.

“nightmare?” he asked before you could speak, "i get those too."

you nodded slowly. “yeah. probably the painkillers.” you let out a half-hearted chuckle.

he hesitated for a second, then reached out, lightly brushing your hand where it lay on your lap.

“can i…?”

you didn’t know what exactly he was offering but you nodded anyway. he carefully took your hand in both of his. his palms were warm. steady.

"sometimes just knowing you're not alone can help." he smiled softly.

for a moment, comfortable silence stretched between you. then he gave a small, awkward laugh, pulling away slightly.

“sorry. i’m... probably making this worse, huh?”

you shook your head, managing a tired smile. “no, it’s… nice. thanks, bobby.”

he looked down at your hands, squeezing gently. “nightmares suck.”

“yeah,” you whispered, “but having you here is making it a little less… bad.” you giggled quietly.

he glanced up, eyes soft. “i’m glad i could help.”

you took a deep breath, letting the tension ease out of your shoulders. your eye caught sight of the book, sitting behind him on the couch.

“so,” you gestured to it, trying to lighten the mood, “have you started reading it?"

he looked surprised, then grinned sheepishly, letting go of your hands to grab it. “i, uh, already finished it." he held it out to you.

you blinked in shock, taking it, "finished it?" you opened the book, flipping through the pages.

bob had left pieces of post-its on almost every page, full of handwritten notes. you stared at them in a stunned silence for a second, then let out a soft laugh. “you annotated it?” you asked, shocked... but touched.

he looked flustered, cheeks turning just a little pink. “i—yeah. sorry, i should’ve asked first. i just… i kept thinking about how you loved it so much, and i wanted to understand why… i wanted to remember what stood out. i’ll take them out if—”

“no,” you interrupted, clutching the book a little closer. “don’t. i think i love it even more now.”

he blinked, clearly surprised by your reaction. then smiled, just barely.

for the first time in a while, you both felt comfortable and safe. with each other.

thanks so much for reading <3 as always, requests are open

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ama3003 · 3 months ago

Text

You Caught Me

Character: Bucky Barnes

Requested: No

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: You're Valentina's assistant, and somehow, you manage to fall in love with a certain Congressman.

A.N: DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT THUNDERBOLTS TO BE SEMI SPOILED!!!!!!!!! I have seen Thunderbolts* on Thursday (amazing btw) and have been craving Thunderbolts!Bucky. Also reader is like 25.

Again THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS ARE IN THIS FIC

3...2..1...

You worked your whole life to get here. Straight A’s, a top-tier college, a string of impressive jobs that made your parents brag to their friends.

But that wasn’t the point. You didn’t do all of that just to climb a ladder. You wanted to help people. To actually do good. To give the voiceless a voice, to step in where others wouldn’t. You wanted to make the world better, even if it was just piece by piece.

That’s what led you to OXE. And eventually, to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Or, more accurately, to being her assistant. Though calling it that feels like selling it short.

You’ve been working with her for a few years now. From the very beginning, she seemed to like you. Said you reminded her of herself. You’re still not sure if that was a compliment or a warning.

Valentina can be cold. She’s sharp, calculated, sarcastic to the point of painful. Some of her decisions don’t exactly land on the moral high ground. But she took you in, brought you closer, taught you how to survive in a world most people don't even know exists. And you’ve done things others your age only dream about. You were actually making a difference.

But now everything’s falling apart.

She’s under investigation. Impeachment is on the table. And you’re left trying to put out fires.

You’d been tense the entire hearing. And not the kind of tension that goes away with a few deep breaths. This was chest-tightening, eye-twitching, every-decision-matters tension.

Your job was on the line. Everything you’d worked for — or convinced yourself was worth it — was balancing on Valentina’s ability to lie with a smile.

She was performing. You were managing the fallout.

Your eyes kept drifting — trying to find some kind of anchor. And that’s when you caught a pair of them.

Blue. Cold but curious. Watching.

Congressman Bucky Barnes.

You met his stare, held it a second longer than you should’ve, then forced yourself to look away. Whatever that was — whatever he was trying to read — you didn’t have time to entertain it.

Then Valentina dropped the line you’d been dreading: “By all means, dig as deep as you like. I promise—there’s nothing to find.”

You knew that tone. It meant you had twenty minutes to erase every breadcrumb.

By the time the hearing adjourned, you were already outside, typing fast, juggling secure files and decoy trails on your tablet. You barely noticed the footsteps until—

“Y/N?”

You looked up, and there he was. Again.

That same cool stare, now paired with a too-casual smile.

“Congressman Barnes,” you said smoothly, tucking the tablet under your arm. “Nice to officially meet you. I’ve heard...great things.”

“I doubt it. Also, please just Bucky,” he said, offering a hand. “Unless you want to start talking tax policy — then I’ll put the tie back on.”

You cracked a smile and shook his hand. Firm. Warm. Too steady.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing back toward the hearing room. “I mean, what happened in there was... honestly? Kind of worrying. Extremely worrying. Kind of concerning if you ask me...in like a worrying way.”

You tilted your head. “You mean ‘concerning,’ or ‘I’m building a case against your boss’ worrying?”

He blinked. Didn’t expect you to hit back that fast.

You smiled politely. “No need to dance around it. I’m sure you’ve got a folder somewhere with Valentina's name on it.”

His grin crooked slightly. “Maybe. It’s a very organized folder. Color-coded tabs.”

“She always did love being underestimated,” you said with a shrug. “O.X.E. has nothing to hide, of course.”

He didn’t argue, but the look he gave you said he wasn’t buying it.

There was a beat of silence, and then he glanced over your shoulder — where Valentina was watching the two of you, pretending she wasn’t.

“She always stare like that?” he asked casually.

“Only when she thinks someone’s wasting my time.”

“And am I?”

“Depends on why you’re really here.”

He smiled. “Okay, fine. I’m new to D.C. First term, still finding my way. Thought maybe... you could give me a tour. Show me the non-corrupt parts.”

You laughed softly. “That’s a short list.”

“Still. Monuments, museums, a little fresh air — maybe a conversation?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Right. A conversation. Just two people talking. No ulterior motives, no recording devices, no traps.”

He held up his hands. “I left the wire at home.”

You smirked, but you didn’t let it reach your eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying,” he said. “Just... improvising.”

You leaned in just enough for him to know you were done playing. “You’re fishing, Congressman. I’m just not the one you’ll catch.”

He opened his mouth — maybe to protest, maybe to flirt again — but you stepped back as Valentina waved you over.

“You're a very good-looking man,” you added, softer now. “And I appreciate the effort. But whatever you’re hoping to dig up from me? You won’t get it over coffee and small talk.”

A beat passed between you.

Then you gave him one last smirk, turned, and walked back toward Valentina — leaving him standing there, watching.

And even though you didn’t look back, you knew those blue eyes hadn’t moved.

*******

You had three things on your mind.

Shut down headquarters.

Erase every trace of Project Sentry.

Clean up Valentina’s reputation before the whole thing implodes.

And somehow, you're doing all of that in a dress and heels at a fundraiser.

“Honestly, Y/N, you have such an amazing brain,” Valentina says, her smile more calculated than warm. “Putting this fundraiser together? Brilliant move. This has to sway at least some of the votes.”

“Thanks,” you reply, quickly scrolling through your tablet. “I’ve categorized the guest list: influencers, allies, and the undecideds. Left off the hard no’s. No point wasting time. I just sent the files to you.”

“Perfect. Do I need you for anything else?”

“No, you should be good. I’ll stay close though. Just in case.”

“Smart. Stay where I can see you. And hear you. Actually, just don’t go far,” she says, already turning to work the room. “Time to network.”

As soon as she walks away, you exhale, realizing you hadn’t even noticed you were holding your breath.

This job is not for the weak. Especially not under someone like her.

You glance around the room, taking in the glittering lights, expensive suits, and fake smiles. Your eyes find Valentina again, instinctively keeping track of her. Then they drift to the large Avengers logo on display at the front of the gala.

You were still a kid the first time you saw the Avengers on screen. They were larger than life. Heroes. They saved people. They made things right.

Now? You’ve seen the world fall apart more times than you can count. And more often than not, no one shows up to fix it.

That’s why you’ve stuck by Valentina. Why you’ve been willing to blur the lines. The world still needs saving. People still need heroes.

They just don’t always look the way you imagined.

“You know,” a voice says beside you, calm but unmistakably familiar, “this whole gala is impressive. The Avengers memorabilia is a nice touch.”

You turn and see him. Congressman Bucky Barnes, standing just a few feet away, his gaze locked on the towering Avengers "A" on display like it still meant something.

“Valentina thought it would help raise awareness,” you reply, keeping your tone neutral, polite. “Tie the past to the present. Nostalgia works.”

You’re careful with your words. You know why he’s here, what game he’s playing. And more importantly, you know where your loyalty lies.

He glances at you now, the full weight of those ice-blue eyes meeting yours. “Awareness for what, exactly?”

You offer a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “The mission has always been simple. Help the people. The world’s been falling apart, and heroes… they’ve disappeared. People need someone to believe in again.”

He nods slowly, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. “Again, call me Bucky. Also, that was good. Very rehearsed. Very polished. Bet Valentina was proud of that one.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m just here for the hors d'oeuvres,” he says, voice smooth, but you catch the edge underneath it.

You take a step closer. “Look, Congressman Barnes. I know your history. And we both know what happens when evil comes and no one is there to stop it. OXE is trying to prevent that. Everything we do is for the people. Valentina’s impeachment? It won’t go anywhere.”

Even as you say it, there's a flicker of doubt. Small, but there.

He studies you for a moment before pulling a card from inside his jacket and holding it out.

“What’s this?” you ask, accepting it cautiously.

“My direct line. In case you remember something useful.”

You blink at him, caught slightly off guard by how calm he is. How sure.

You move closer, slow and deliberate, then reach up and tuck the card neatly into his chest pocket. “I don’t know what you think you’re implying, but I don’t appreciate it."

The two of you lock eyes, silence stretching between you. Not hostile, exactly. But charged. Neither of you blinks.

Then your phone buzzes.

You glance at your phone. Valentina. Of course.

You slip it back into your pocket and look up at him one more time.

“I have to go,” you say, steady. “Enjoy the rest of the gala, Bucky.”

Your smile is polite, but your eyes stay sharp. You turn and walk off without waiting for a response, the sound of your heels swallowed by the noise of the event.

Behind you, he watches you disappear into the crowd, quiet and thoughtful. Then, without a word, he finds himself slipping the card into your bag later in the night. Not for pressure. Not even for leverage.

Just in case.

And whether you used the card or not—that was your choice. Bucky just hoped he’d planted the seed.

Later that night, you sat beside Valentina in the back of a sleek black car, the city lights flickering across her face as she debriefed the night with a grin.

“I think that went incredibly well,” she said, proud and pleased with herself. “Honestly, I’m so proud of us. Oh—hand me my tablet. I gave it to you earlier when Gary started sniffing around asking too many questions.”

Your fingers found something thin. Smooth edges. Not the tablet.

The card.

Bucky’s card.

Your stomach tightened, just for a second.

He’d slipped it in without you noticing. Of course he had.

You stared at it between your fingers. You should’ve tossed it the second you felt it. Should’ve never looked at it again. But something kept your hand still.

“Y/N?” Valentina’s voice cuts in, sharp and expectant. “Tablet. Me. Now.”

You snap out of it, quickly pushing the card deeper into your bag before pulling out the tablet and handing it over.

She doesn’t notice. She’s already scrolling.

You tried to focus on the night’s success, the way people clapped when Valentina spoke, the headlines you knew would be glowing by morning. But that card was still in your bag. And the worst part? You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About the look in his eyes.

About the weight of what he said.

Maybe—just maybe—he really did get in your head. And maybe that seed he planted was already starting to grow.

*********

You’d made a mistake. A big one.

And you knew it.

Your heart raced as you paced the cramped hallway, mind spiraling. You'd believed you were making a difference—helping Valentina clean up her reputation felt like part of that. She said she needed you. That this was how things got done. So you listened.

Then she told you to burn the loose ends. Literally burn them.

Human beings.

And still, you followed orders. You rationalized. You looked the other way.

But the plan didn’t go as expected. They didn’t go quietly.

They were fighting back.

And Valentina didn’t like that.

Now a SWAT team is going to finish the job.

You couldn't let them die. You knew their names. Their stories. You didn’t believe they deserved this—not like this. Maybe it was too late to save them all, but maybe you could help save others.

Maybe there was still a chance.

So you did the only thing you could think of.

You dug into your bag, searching through the chaos until your fingers found it. That damn card.

You stared at it for a beat. Then you called.

It rang once. Then again. And then he picked up.

“This is Y/N,” you said before he could get a word in, your voice low, rushed, almost breathless. “I’ve, uh... been thinking. Remember that tour you wanted? You were right. Since you’re new to D.C., I figured—why not? Let’s hit the monuments. Maybe a museum. Or... I don’t know. Just talk. Just you and me.”

There was a beat of silence.

“A chat?” Bucky’s voice came through, teasingly. You started biting your nails, heart pounding. “Yeah. I’m down for a chat. When and where?”

Before you could answer, Valentina’s voice sliced through the hallway outside.

“I swear to god, Y/N, do I have to spell it out for you? You're coming with us. Get your ass in the car. Who else is going to make my coffee right? I swear, you Gen Zers make me want to throw myself off this damn building.”

You went silent, your jaw clenched. Bucky didn’t say anything either, but you knew he heard it.

Everything inside you was pulling in different directions. Guilt. Fear. Fury. Shame.

You swallowed hard.

“Look…” you whispered, voice shaking a little. “I’m sorry about the last few times. You were right. You were always right. I was so stupid. She doesn’t care about the world. She just wants the glory.”

You were rambling now. You always did when your anxiety started creeping up your throat.

“Whoa, hey—slow down, sweetheart,” he said gently. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just tell me what I need to know.”

But before you could speak again, Valentina shouted your name, louder this time.

You turned slightly, lowered your voice again.

“Do you have an iPhone?”

“No. Samsung.”

You rolled your eyes. Of course. “Do you know how to track a phone?”

“I mean, yeah. But I don’t really do that anymore.”

“Well... start doing it again.”

You paused, then added quietly, “I have to go. Track my location. You'll get your answer.”

Then you hung up.

You let out a long breath, pushed the card deep back into your bag, and ran toward Valentina’s voice.

Hoping Bucky understood.

**********

You were pacing again. Nerves buzzing. Mind racing. You were worried about the others. They escaped when Bob distracted them. Then they couldn't find them. But something told you Bucky had gotten to them first. You could feel it in your gut.

He pulled through. Of course he did.

But now… there was a new problem.

Bob.

The new guy. The unstable one.

He wasn’t like the others. Something about him was off from the start. Too volatile. Too quick to react. And now he had powers — real powers — thanks to Valentina.

She said he was the future. Said he was the key.

But all you saw was a ticking bomb with a name tag.

He didn’t need power or exposure. He needed help. And if no one stepped in soon, he was going to destroy everything — maybe even himself.

You ducked into a quiet hallway, slipped into an empty supply closet, and dialed Bucky’s number with shaking hands.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Y/N,” he said, breathless like he’d been mid-action. “We’re good. I got them. Everyone’s safe. I’m keeping them under wraps as witnesses, so we’re covered. You did the right thing calling me. Thank you.”

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the wall.

“No,” you said softly. “Bucky, there’s more. A lot more.”

There was a pause.

“Talk to me.”

“She did it,” you whispered. “She actually made one. A super soldier. His name’s Bob.”

“Bob?” he repeated, half in disbelief, half already bracing for what was coming next.

You could hear background chatter on his end — voices muttering “Yeah, Bob,”

“Yes. Bob the super soldier. He’s... not stable, Bucky. He’s got powers, strength, speed — but his head isn’t right. He’s spiraling, and Valentina’s using him like he’s a tool.

You were rambling now, the anxiety bubbling up in your chest.

“She’s restarting the entire program, and this guy — he’s the prototype. And if she gets away with this, there will be more. Stronger. You have to stop it before it turns into something we can’t come back from.”

There was silence on the line. Then you heard him moving, footsteps pacing across concrete.

“Alright,” he said. “I’m coming. I’ll handle it.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

“Hey,” his voice softened, “are you okay?”

“I... I don’t know,” you admitted, voice cracking just slightly. “Everything I worked for is going to be for nothing. I'm freaking out.”

“You don’t have to carry this alone, you know.”

“I can't tell my friends or family.” you said, quieter now. “I already feel guilty and shameful enough. They would just make me feel worse.”

Another pause. Then softer, “Y/N... I meant what I said. You did the right thing. And I’m proud of you. Really.”

You smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “Thanks. That means more than you probably realize.”

“I realize it,” he said. And it was quiet, but it hit you harder than it should’ve.

You hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve. “Are they okay? The others?”

“They’re safe. A little roughed up, but they’re going to be fine.”

“Good. That’s good,” you said, exhaling. “I should go. I’ll keep feeding you updates when I can. Just… get here fast, alright?”

“Okay,” He finally whispered. “I’ll see you soon.”

You hung up and slipped the phone back into your pocket before walking out the door. You immediately froze when your boss stared at you with raised eyebrows.

“Well,” she said coolly, “out of everyone, I never thought you would be the one second-guessing your work.”

You didn’t flinch. Not this time. “Giving Bob those powers? It’s reckless. And you know it.”

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head like you were some disappointing intern instead of her right hand. “I’m not going to argue with you, kid. I like you. I really do. You’ve done exceptional work—with me. For us. That’s why I’m giving you a little time to get your head on straight.”

Your jaw clenched. You said nothing.

“But,” she added, stepping a little closer, lowering her voice, “don’t let Barnes cloud that beautiful brain of yours. He’s a distraction. A loud, inconvenient one. And he’s getting in the way.”

You met her gaze evenly, letting the silence stretch.

Then, without a word, you grabbed your purse and walked past her—heels clicking, spine straight.

You needed to find Bucky.

*********

"Ladies and gentlemen, meet the New Avengers."

After countless photos and a barrage of questions, you kept your smile steady, doing your job one last time.

“Thank you all for coming,” you said with calm finality. “Photos and questions will stop here. I’ll be in touch about the next press briefing soon. Seriously—thank you again.”

You gave a polite nod as Valentina waved beside you, her signature smirk in place.

As the crowd began to disperse, you turned your attention to the Thunderbolts. With a gentle but firm push, you guided them out of view, away from the cameras. And then—without thinking—you grabbed Bucky and pulled him into a hug.

You couldn’t stop yourself.

You’d been searching for him. Panicking. Lost. The last image you had was of him stepping into the Void. The moment his silhouette became just that—a shadow—you screamed his name. And then… nothing.

You thought you’d lost him.

But now, here he was. Alive. Solid. Real. And all the emotions you’d buried came rushing back.

You knew there was something between you—something electric, something raw and waiting. It had barely started, but it already meant something. And for a bit, you'd been mourning the future that never got a chance to begin.

Now, you didn’t have to mourn anymore.

The moment stretched. Everyone around you went quiet. You barely registered your boss muttering an uneasy, “Oh dear.”

Bucky froze, stiff in your arms. He glanced around, uncertain. John gave him a look before mimicking hugging someone. Alexei flashed a thumbs-up. The girls? They just smirked.

“I saw you,” you whispered, pulling back just slightly. “I saw you walk into the Void. You became a shadow. I—I was trying to find you, and then you pulled that crap. What the hell, Barnes?”

He opened his mouth, but you beat him to it—stepping back before he could even return the embrace.

“I’m okay,” he said gently. “I swear, I’m fine.” He just wanted you back into his arms.

“You still scared the hell out of me,” you said, your voice breaking just a little. “I thought you were gone for good.”

Bucky's expression softened. “I’m not going anywhere. You still owe me that tour, remember?”

You laughed—half out of relief, half because it suddenly felt so easy to breathe again. You stepped closer, pulled him into a kiss, and he kissed you back without hesitation. Sparks. Heat. Home.

When you finally pulled away, smiling, you whispered, “Looks like you caught me.”

He grinned. “Looks like I have.”

Then you kissed again.

A loud groan broke the moment. “I feel like I’m gonna barf,” Val muttered.

“Shut up, Val,” the entire team replied in unison.

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