#and having to go through the fear and pain and crying and screaming

[elryuse]

Fate Or Force

MEOVV Anna & LE SSERAFIM Chaewon X Male Reader

Tags : Female Bullies, Yandere, Obsessed, Kissing, Stripping, Kissing, Kinky, FFM Threesome, Cowgirl, Creampies, A Lot of obsession and Dirty Words, Seduction

Words : 5,064 Words

A Lovely Commision Work For My Friend @KariNeko From Ko-Fi. I Hope You Guys Liked It. Enjoyyy.

College life was supposed to be fun, a Fresh start, a New Beginning. But instead, you found yourself crushed under the weight of something far worse than high school. Them. Anna and Chaewon. Beautiful. Popular. Feared. They had everything—grades, influence, and a poisonous kind of charisma that made others orbit them like moons around dying stars. And for some reason, they chose you as their favorite target.

At first, it was subtle. A snide comment during roll call. A giggle when you presented your paper. A “harmless” shove in the hallway. But it got worse. They’d trip you in front of crowds. Swap your lunch with trash. One time, Anna spilled her drink all over your assignment and just laughed. "Oops," she said sweetly. "Guess you’ll have to start over."

And Chaewon? She was quieter, more calculated. She’d whisper to girls not to talk to you. You once caught her deleting your group project file from the shared drive. No one stood up for you. You became invisible. To the professors. To classmates. Even to yourself. You’d sit alone in the library, headphones in, pretending to study while your thoughts turned dark. Why me?

What did I ever do to deserve this?

But then. It all changed.

It was raining. You had just finished your last class when you heard it—a scream. Sharp. Desperate. It echoed from the parking lot construction zone, where a temporary barrier had fallen. You ran. And what you saw made your blood freeze. Anna was trapped under a twisted scaffold, blood dripping down her forehead. Chaewon was trying to lift it, her hands scraped and shaking. “Help—! Someone please—!”

She didn’t even recognize it was you at first. But you ran forward, no hesitation. You didn’t think about the pain. The weight. The fact that no one ever helped you. You just knew someone was going to die if you didn’t act. You wedged your body under the scaffold, pushed with everything you had, freeing Anna just enough so Chaewon could pull her out. And then it gave in. Metal slammed against your back, and everything went black. Your breath slowly fades away as you could hear a fading scream saying "Nooo.. noo.. Y/nnn".

You drifted in and out of consciousness, barely remembering the blinding lights, the chaos, the pain in your ribs. But one thing you remembered clearly: The sound of crying. Anna, sobbing uncontrollably, her hand clutching yours as if it were the last thing anchoring her to the world. Chaewon, eyes red and hollow, whispering, "Please wake up… please, we were wrong…" They stayed with you through the night.

Nurses tried to move them, but they refused to leave. Anna curled up in the corner of your hospital room, her makeup smeared with tears. Chaewon sat beside your bed, still holding your hand even when you slipped into sleep again.

Two weeks later, You returned to campus, limping slightly, your bag slung awkwardly over your shoulder. And that’s when everything… changed. Anna and Chaewon were there. Waiting. They rushed to you, eyes wide, arms full of food containers and handwritten letters. They hovered around you like bodyguards—pulling your chair, zipping your bag, wiping your desk. They didn’t leave you alone. Not for a second.

At first, you thought it was guilt. Maybe even pity. But then you noticed the way Anna looked at you when you smiled—like it hurt her. You noticed how Chaewon glared at any girl who sat too close. You saw the tremble in Anna’s hand when she touched your arm, and how tightly she held onto it. They weren’t just grateful. They were possessed. They felt like they have to protect you from anything that they saw unfit.

And before you know it, you are now stuck in the grasp of your so called bully. But it got even worse, as now, They are into you, and they would do anything in their power to make sure you are theirs. Forever.

The next day arrived. The air in the classroom feels heavier than usual, the kind of weight that settles on your chest and makes it hard to breathe. You’re scribbling notes, trying to focus, but you can feel their eyes on you. Anna and Chaewon. Your two former tormentors, now… something else entirely. They haven’t left your side since the accident—since you saved them. Their constant presence is both comforting and suffocating, but today, something feels different. The way they’re staring at you—it’s not the usual protective gaze. It’s sharper, hungrier.

You glance up cautiously, and there they are, sitting a few rows ahead. Anna’s long dark hair cascades over her shoulder as she twists in her seat, her piercing gaze locking onto yours. Chaewon, with her sharp features and mischievous smile, leans forward, her lips curling into something that’s not quite a grin. Your stomach tightens. They lean closer together, whispering, their eyes never leaving you. You try to look away, but it’s impossible. They’ve always had this effect on you, even when they were bullying you. Now? It’s amplified tenfold.

The bell rings, snapping you out of your thoughts. You quickly stuff your notebook into your bag and stand up, eager to escape the tension. But as you turn to leave, you feel a hand on your arm. It’s gentle, yet firm. Chaewon.

“Hey,” she says, her voice low and smooth, like she’s savoring the word. “Where are you rushing off to?”

You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. “Just… heading to the library,” you stammer, avoiding her eyes.

Anna appears beside her, her smirk unmistakable. “The library? Really? Why don’t you hang out with us instead?” Her tone is light, almost teasing, but there’s an edge to it that makes your skin prickle.

“I, uh…” You trail off, unsure of how to respond. Before you can think of an excuse, Anna loops her arm through yours, pulling you closer. Her body presses against yours, and you can feel the warmth radiating from her. Chaewon steps in on your other side, her fingers brushing against your hand.

“Come on,” Chaewon purrs. “We’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

The words send a shiver down your spine. Talk? About what? You try to protest, but they’re already leading you away from the classroom, down a quiet hallway. Their grip tightens slightly, as if they’re afraid you’ll bolt. And maybe you should. But there’s something in their demeanor that keeps you rooted in place—a mix of curiosity and something darker, something you can’t quite put your finger on.

They stop at a secluded corner of the college backroom, a place rarely used except for storage. The air feels colder here, the fluorescent lights flickering ominously. Anna releases your arm and steps in front of you, her eyes scanning your face. Chaewon lingers behind you, her presence unnervingly close.

“So,” Anna begins, her voice barely above a whisper. “We saw you earlier. Smiling at that girl. What was that about?”

Your breath hitches. You hadn’t thought they’d noticed. It was just a brief moment—a friendly exchange with a classmate. But now, in their eyes, it seems like a crime.

“It was nothing,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “She just asked me about the assignment.”

“Mmm,” Chaewon hums from behind you, her fingers trailing lightly up your arm. “Are you sure? Because it looked… intimate.”

You shake your head, panic rising in your chest. “No, it wasn’t like that. I swear.”

Anna steps closer, her chest brushing against yours. She tilts her head, studying you like you’re a puzzle she’s trying to solve. “You know,” she says softly, “you belong to us. Ever since that day… when you saved us. We owe you everything.”

Her words catch you off guard. That day. The accident. You hadn’t expected them to bring it up—especially not like this. You remember the fear in their eyes as they huddled together, the sound of screeching tires, and the rush of adrenaline as you pushed them out of harm’s way. You’d thought about it a million times since then, but hearing them say it now—something about the way Anna says it makes your stomach twist.

“I didn’t—” you start, but Chaewon cuts you off.

“Yes, you did,” she says firmly, her hands resting on your shoulders. “You saved us. And that means you’re ours. No one else gets to have you.”

Her words send a jolt through you. Ours. The possessiveness in her voice is unmistakable, and it triggers a mix of emotions—fear, confusion, and something else you’re too afraid to name. You try to step back, but Chaewon’s grip tightens, holding you in place.

Anna’s hand cups your cheek, her touch surprisingly gentle. “Don’t be scared,” she murmurs. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just need you to understand.”

Your pulse quickens as she leans in, her breath warm against your skin. Your mind races, trying to make sense of what’s happening, but then her lips are on yours, soft and insistent. The kiss is unexpected, yet achingly familiar, as if she’s done it a thousand times before. You freeze, unsure of how to respond, but then Chaewon’s hands slide down your arms, her touch igniting a spark of heat that spreads through your body.

Anna pulls back slightly, her eyes searching yours. “Do you understand now?” she whispers.

Before you can answer, Chaewon moves in front of you, her lips brushing against your ear. “Let us show you,” she says, her voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine.

Your breath catches as Anna’s hands drift to the hem of your shirt, her fingers slipping underneath and grazing your skin. Her touch is electric, and you feel your body respond instinctively, even as your mind screams for clarity. You’re torn between wanting to pull away and wanting to see where this is going.

Chaewon’s lips find yours again, this time more insistent, her kiss demanding your full attention. Her hands roam over your chest, pushing your shirt up as Anna works to pull it over your head. The cool air hits your skin, and you gasp against Chaewon’s mouth, your heart racing.

“Relax,” Anna murmurs, her voice a soothing balm against the storm of emotions raging inside you. Her fingers trace patterns on your bare chest, sending waves of warmth through your body. “We’ve got you.”

You feel like you’re teetering on the edge of something—something intense and overwhelming. But before you can fully process what’s happening, Chaewon pulls away, her eyes locking onto yours with a fierce intensity.

“Say it,” she demands, her voice low and steady. “Say you’re ours.”

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out. Your mind is a whirlwind, torn between the pull of their touch and the voice of reason screaming in the back of your head. Anna’s lips brush against your neck, her breath hot against your skin, while Chaewon’s hands grip your waist possessively.

“Say it,” Chaewon repeats, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.

Chaewon’s lips moved down your neck, leaving a trail of heat that made your skin tremble. Her hands tightened around your wrists, pinning them above your head as her tongue flicked against your pulse point. Anna’s fingers were already inside you, her movements deliberate and teasing, her thumb circling your clit with maddening precision. You arched into her touch, a moan escaping your lips despite the shock of the situation. Their bodies pressed against you from both sides, overwhelming your senses with their warmth and the scent of their arousal.

“You’re ours,” Anna whispered, her voice low and possessive, her breath hot against your ear. “Only ours.” She tugged at your shirt, ripping it open with a single, forceful motion. The sound of fabric tearing sent a jolt of electricity through you, and before you could react, she was guiding your hands to her bra. “Undo it,” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.

Your fingers fumbled with the clasp, trembling as you struggled to comply. When it finally came undone, Anna shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor. Her breasts were bare now, perfect and inviting, her nipples already hard as they brushed against your chest. “Touch me,” she demanded, her eyes locking onto yours with a fiery intensity.

You hesitated for just a moment, but Anna’s sharp intake of breath and the way she leaned into your touch spurred you on. Your hands cupped her breasts, your thumbs brushing over her nipples, earning a soft moan from her lips. She was warm, soft, and so responsive, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Behind you, Chaewon’s hands were busy, sliding your boxers down your legs and letting them pool at your feet. Her lips pressed against the tip of your cock, her tongue flicking out to taste you before she took you deeper into her mouth.

The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. Her mouth was hot and wet, her tongue swirling around you as she worked her way down your length. You gasped, your hands instinctively tightening on Anna’s breasts as Chaewon’s lips slid up and down, her pace slow and teasing at first, then faster, more insistent. Every movement sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, making it impossible to think, to focus on anything but the way she was sucking you with such skill and determination.

Anna’s hands were on you too, one still between your legs, her fingers curling inside you, while the other cupped your chin, forcing you to look at her. “You belong to us,” she repeated, her voice husky with desire. “Say it.”

You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat as Chaewon took you deeper, her throat muscles tightening around you. Your hips bucked involuntarily, and she moaned around you, the vibration sending another shockwave of pleasure through your body. Anna’s fingers pressed harder against your clit, her touch demanding and relentless. “Say it,” she insisted, her sharp nails digging into your skin just enough to make you whimper.

“I—I’m yours,” you finally managed to choke out, the words barely audible over the sound of Chaewon’s mouth working on you. Anna smiled, a predatory gleam in her eyes as she leaned in to kiss you, her lips claiming yours with a fierce, almost bruising intensity. Her tongue pushed past your lips, tangling with yours as she deepened the kiss, swallowing your moans.

Chaewon pulled back slightly, her lips still wrapped around you as she looked up at you with those mischievous, half-lidded eyes. “Good,” she purred, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “Now let’s make sure you never forget it.”

Without warning, she sank down on you again, taking you all the way to the back of her throat. Your fingers tangled in her hair, holding her there as she gagged slightly, her throat constricting around you in a way that sent sparks shooting up your spine. Anna’s hand moved from your chin to your hip, gripping you tightly as she knelt in front of you, her lips trailing kisses down your abdomen until they reached where Chaewon’s mouth was wrapped around you.

Anna’s tongue joined Chaewon’s, licking and teasing the base of your cock as Chaewon continued to bob her head up and down. The combination of their mouths on you was almost too much to bear, the pleasure building rapidly, threatening to overwhelm you. You could feel yourself getting closer, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your lower abdomen.

“Not yet,” Anna murmured, pulling back slightly and leaving you throbbing and desperate. Chaewon followed suit, releasing you with a wet pop and sitting back on her heels, her lips glistening with saliva. Both of them looked up at you with matching expressions of hunger and possessiveness, their gazes burning into you.

Anna straightened up, her fingers slipping out of you as she leaned in close, her breath hot against your ear. “We decide when you come,” she whispered, her voice sending a shiver down your spine. “Understand?”

You nodded shakily, unable to form words as Chaewon stood up behind you, her hands sliding around your waist to pull you against her. Her body was warm and soft against your back, her lips brushing against your neck as she whispered, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.”

Anna stepped back, her eyes raking over you as she began to slip out of the rest of her clothes, revealing every inch of her flawless body. Chaewon’s hands moved lower, her fingers teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs before she slid one hand between your legs, her fingers slick with your arousal as she began to stroke you again.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Chaewon murmured, her lips trailing kisses along your shoulder as her fingers worked their magic. Anna stepped closer once more, her hand reaching out to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing over your bottom lip as she leaned in for another kiss. This time, it was softer, more tender, but no less possessive, her tongue exploring your mouth as if savoring the taste of you.

When she finally pulled away, her eyes were dark with desire, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she whispered, “Now, let’s really make you ours.”

Anna’s lips parted from yours with a soft, wet sound, her breath hot against your skin as she whispered, “Now, let’s make you ours.” Her voice was low, sultry, and dripping with intent—enough to send shivers down your spine. Chaewon’s hands were already moving, her fingers sliding up your thighs while her nails grazed the sensitive skin, eliciting a sharp inhale from you. Their bodies pressed closer, their warmth enveloping you as they guided you to the floor, their movements deliberate and possessive.

Your back hit the cool surface of the hardwood floor, but you barely registered it as Chaewon straddled your torso, her hips grinding against you teasingly. Her sharp, mischievous smile was back, and she leaned down, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders as she caught your lips in a searing kiss. Her tongue pushed into your mouth, dominating you, claiming you, while her hands roamed freely over your chest, fingers pinching and teasing your nipples until they hardened under her touch.

Anna was quick to join, her long legs sliding beside yours as she lowered herself to hover over your lower half. Her piercing eyes locked with yours as she smirked, her fingers trailing down your abdomen, dancing dangerously close to where you throbbed with need. “You’re so eager,” she teased, her voice dripping with mockery and desire all at once. Her hand wrapped around your length, her touch firm but slow, drawing a low groan from your lips.

Chaewon broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to whisper, “Anna’s going to play with you first, but don’t worry—I’ll be watching.” Her breath was hot against your ear, her teeth nipping at your lobe before she shifted her weight, moving to kneel beside you. Her fingers traced patterns over your chest, her touch light and maddening, while Anna’s grip tightened slightly, her thumb brushing lazily over the sensitive tip of your cock.

Anna leaned down, her dark hair falling like a curtain around her face as she kissed the underside of your length, her lips soft and lingering. Her tongue darted out, lapping at the precum beading at the tip, and she hummed appreciatively, the vibration sending shocks of pleasure through you. “So sweet,” she murmured, her voice muffled as she took you deeper into her mouth, her tongue swirling around your shaft as she began to bob her head rhythmically.

Your hips bucked involuntarily, and Anna chuckled, the sound vibrating against your sensitive skin. She pulled back slightly, her lips still wrapped around you as she looked up at you through her lashes. “Naughty,” she chided, her tone playful but firm. “You’re going to let me take control, remember?” Her hand slid up to grip the base of your cock, keeping you still as she swallowed you down again, her pace deliberate and intoxicating.

Chaewon’s hands moved lower, her fingertips brushing over your inner thighs before she shifted closer, her lips pressing against your neck. “You belong to us,” she whispered, her voice dripping with possessiveness. Her teeth nipped at your skin, leaving a faint mark, while her hand slid between your legs, her fingers teasing the sensitive skin behind your balls.

Anna’s mouth was relentless, her tongue working magic as she hollowed her cheeks, taking you deeper with each pass. Your hands fisted at your sides, your body trembling under their combined attention. Chaewon’s fingers pressed against your entrance, slick and teasing, and you gasped, arching into her touch. “Relax,” she cooed, her lips brushing against your ear. “We’re just getting started.”

Her fingers pushed inside you, curling slightly to find that spot that made your vision blur. You moaned loudly, your hips lifting off the floor as Anna’s tongue swirled around your tip, her hand stroking you in time with Chaewon’s fingers. The sensations were overwhelming—Anna’s mouth, hot and wet, Chaewon’s fingers, skillful and relentless—and you couldn’t help but writhe beneath them, your body desperate for release.

“Not yet,” Anna purred, pulling away with a lewd pop. She adjusted her position, her knees sliding between your thighs as she leaned down, her lips brushing against yours in a heated kiss. “You’re not allowed to come until we say so.” Her hand returned to your cock, her strokes slow and teasing, while Chaewon withdrew her fingers, smirking as she brought them to her lips and licked them clean.

Chaewon rose to her knees, her hands moving to strip off her clothes with practiced ease. Her sharp features were flushed with desire, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she positioned herself over your face. “You’re going to taste me now,” she commanded, her voice thick with need. She lowered herself onto you, her thighs framing your face as she pressed her dripping core against your mouth.

You didn’t hesitate, your tongue darting out to lap at her folds, tasting the sweetness of her arousal. Chaewon gasped, her hands tangling in your hair as she ground against your face, her moans filling the room. “That’s it,” she encouraged, her voice breathless. “Make me come.”

Anna watched with dark, hungry eyes, her hand still stroking you lazily as she leaned down to capture your lips in another kiss. Her tongue mirrored the movements of yours, urging you to pleasure Chaewon with the same intensity she was showing you.

Chaewon’s hips bucked as your tongue found her clit, circling it with precision. Her moans grew louder, her thighs tightening around your head as she rode your face, chasing her release. “Yes, yes, just like that,” she gasped, her nails scraping against your scalp as she came undone, her body trembling with pleasure.

Anna pulled back, her lips swollen and glistening as she smirked down at you. “Good job,” she praised, her voice dripping with satisfaction. She shifted her position, her knees straddling your hips as she reached down to guide your cock to her entrance. “Now it’s my turn.”

She sank down onto you slowly, her tight heat enveloping you inch by inch until she was fully seated. Her head fell back, a low moan escaping her lips as she began to rock her hips, her movements slow and deliberate. “You feel so good inside me,” she murmured, her hands gripping your shoulders for balance as she increased her pace.

Chaewon recovered quickly, her hands roaming over Anna’s back as she leaned down to nip at her shoulder. “Let me help,” she whispered, her fingers sliding between Anna’s thighs to rub circles around her clit. Anna gasped, her movements becoming more erratic as she chased her own pleasure while riding you.

The room was filled with the sounds of their moans and the slickness of their bodies moving together. Anna’s grip on your shoulders tightened, her nails digging into your skin as she moaned, “I’m close… so close…” Her pace quickened, her walls clenching around you as she rode you with abandon.

Chaewon’s fingers worked faster, her mouth capturing Anna’s in a heated kiss as she felt Anna’s climax building. “Come for us,” she coaxed, her voice husky with desire. Anna obeyed, her body stiffening as she came with a loud cry, her walls milking you for every drop of pleasure.

Anna collapsed onto your chest, her breathing ragged as she whispered, “Now it’s Chaewon’s turn.” She slid off you languidly, her limbs heavy with satisfaction, while Chaewon eagerly took her place.

Chaewon’s sharp eyes locked with yours as she lowered herself onto you, her body fitting perfectly against yours. “You’re never going to forget this,” she promised, her voice soft but firm. She began to move, her hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles, her hands gripping your chest for leverage.

Anna watched with predatory eyes, her hands moving to caress Chaewon’s back as she leaned down to whisper something in her ear. Chaewon’s movements became more urgent, her breath hitching as she chased her pleasure with reckless abandon.

The room was filled with the sounds of their moans and the slickness of their bodies moving together. Anna’s grip on your shoulders tightened, her nails digging into your skin as she hissed, “You’re ours. Always.”

Anna’s grip on your wrist was firm, almost possessive, as she dragged you through the hallway of her apartment, Chaewon close behind, her laughter echoing ominously. The door clicked shut behind you, and suddenly, you were surrounded by the faint scent of vanilla and something darker, more intoxicating.

“Welcome home, baby,” Anna purred, her voice low and velvety as she stepped closer, her piercing eyes locking onto yours. Your pictures adorned the walls—photos of you smiling, unaware, stolen moments they’d captured without your knowledge. Your heart skipped a beat as you realized the extent of their obsession.

Chaewon circled you like a predator, her sharp features illuminated by the soft glow of the room. “Isn’t it perfect?” she whispered, her tone dripping with satisfaction. “We’ve been planning this for so long.” She traced a finger along your shoulder, sending a shiver down your spine. “Everything you love is here. Everything you need.”

Anna stepped closer, her chest brushing against yours as she cupped your cheeks with both hands. Her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing her face like a dark halo. “You’re ours now,” she murmured, her breath warm against your skin. “And we’re never letting you go.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Chaewon’s lips were suddenly on yours, silencing any objections. Her kiss was hungry, demanding, her hands tangling in your hair as she pulled you closer. Anna’s hands slid down your chest, her fingers trailing over your shirt before gripping the hem and pulling it off in one swift motion.

“See?” Anna whispered, her lips brushing against your ear as she dropped your shirt to the floor. “You’re perfect. You’ve always been perfect for us.” Her hands explored your torso, her touch electrifying, possessive.

Chaewon broke the kiss, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she stepped back slightly, her fingers trailing down your chest. “We’ve been waiting for this moment,” she said, her voice husky. “Every day, every night, we’ve thought about you. About us. About what we’ll do to you.”

Anna pressed herself against you, her hands sliding around your waist as she kissed your neck, her teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp. “You saved us,” she murmured, her voice trembling with something deeper than gratitude. “And now we’ll never let you go. Never.”

Chaewon’s fingers brushed against your belt, her gaze never leaving yours as she unbuckled it with practiced ease. “You’re ours,” she said firmly, her voice a command, not a request. “Every part of you. Every thought. Every breath. You belong to us.”

Anna’s lips found yours again, her kiss softer this time, more tender—but no less possessive. Her hands slid under the waistband of your pants, her fingers warm against your skin. “We’ll take care of you,” she promised, her voice breathless. “We’ll love you. Forever.”

Chaewon’s hands joined Anna’s, and together, they pushed your pants down, leaving you standing there vulnerable, exposed, theirs. Anna’s lips trailed down your chest, her tongue flicking against your skin as she kissed her way lower. Chaewon stepped closer, her sharp eyes studying you with an intensity that made your heart race.

“You’re ours,” Chaewon repeated, her voice low and commanding. She knelt in front of you, her hands resting on your hips as she looked up at you with a mix of adoration and hunger. “Every part of you. Every inch.”

Anna’s hands gripped your hips, her lips brushing against your stomach as she whispered, “We’ll make this our home. Our family. Our forever.”

Chaewon’s breath was hot against your skin as she leaned in, her lips just barely grazing yours. “Say it,” she commanded, her voice trembling with emotion. “Say you’re ours.”

You hesitated, your mind racing, but Anna’s lips found yours again, her kiss silencing any resistance. “You’re ours,” she murmured against your lips, her voice firm. “You always have been.”

Chaewon’s hands slid up your chest, her fingers tangling in your hair as she pulled you closer. “Forever,” she whispered, her voice a promise—a threat. “Forever and ever and ever.”

The room was filled with the sound of their breathing, the heat of their bodies pressing against yours. Anna’s hands explored your chest, her touch possessive, claiming. Chaewon’s lips brushed against your neck, her teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver.

“Say it,” Anna whispered, her voice trembling with need. “Say you’re ours.”

You opened your mouth, but Chaewon’s lips were on yours again, silencing any words. Her kiss was desperate, hungry, her hands gripping your shoulders as she pulled you closer. Anna’s hands slid lower, her touch electrifying, claiming every inch of you.

“Say it,” Chaewon murmured against your lips, her voice breaking with emotion. “Please.”

The word slipped out before you could stop it, barely a whisper, but enough. “Yours.”

Anna’s breath hitched, her eyes gleaming with triumph as she pressed herself against you, her lips brushing against your ear. “Forever,” she whispered, her voice trembling with something deeper than desire. “Forever and ever.”

[woso-story]

Through Thick And Thin - Part Eleven

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Other Parts

It was early December.

The city was cold, but your soul felt colder.

Six months. Half a year since the accident. Four months since your last surgery. And finally, the crutches were gone.

You should have felt free. Lighter.

But you didn’t.

You were still dragging an invisible weight behind you, one that medicine couldn’t fix. The pain in your leg still pulsed after hard sessions, and some mornings you woke up feeling like you’d made no progress at all.

Rehab was your new routine, but it wasn’t life. Not really. Life was the game, the team, the pitch, the adrenaline. And you were nowhere near that.

Everyone around you moved on and you stayed still.

Your teammates fought for trophies in the league, the cup, the Champions League. You cheered from the sidelines, plastered on a smile that didn’t feel real anymore.

You tried to be happy for them. For Alexia.

Barcelona had once felt like home. A fresh start, a dream.

But the truth was: you felt disconnected.

From the team. From your girlfriend. From everything.

Now it felt like a reminder of everything you were missing.

You hated the way you lashed out. The way your voice rose when Alexia tried to help. The way guilt clung to you afterward. But you couldn’t stop it.

She hovered. Always hovered.

You knew she meant well—her love came from a place of fear, of wanting to protect you from breaking again.

But she didn’t understand that sometimes, her love suffocated you.

She wasn’t your mother. You didn’t want to be wrapped in cotton.

You wanted to fight again. To move, to struggle, to bleed for this.

You wanted to be you again.

But every step felt like walking through fog.

This morning had been rough.

Your leg flared up after the first exercise at the facility. The physio told you to stop. To go home and rest.

So you did.

But “resting” never sat well with you.

Now you sat on the floor of your living room, stretching, ignoring the ache in your muscles, forcing your body to do something. The silence around you was maddening.

When Alexia walked through the door and saw you, her face darkened immediately.

“You’re supposed to rest.”

“I am resting. This is nothing.”

“You’re not listening to anyone—again. You’re going to make it worse.”

You didn’t even try to hold back the frustration this time. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“I’m just trying to help—”

“You don’t know how this feels! You’re out there living your life—training, playing, winning. You don’t know what it’s like to sit here and watch.”

She stepped back like you’d slapped her.

“I’m trying to be here for you.”

“You’re too much, Alexia! I can’t breathe. Every day it’s questions, reminders, rules. You don’t listen! I’m not made of glass—stop treating me like I’ll break!”

And then she broke too.

“You’re being ungrateful,” she snapped. “You push everyone away. I give you everything—my time, my care, my love—and you just throw it back in my face.”

Your eyes filled with tears, anger blurring into heartbreak.

“I didn’t ask for any of this!” you shouted. “I didn’t ask to be stuck in this nightmare, I didn’t ask to be your project. I just want to be left alone!”

The silence that followed was louder than any scream.

Both of you stood there, breathing heavy, shaking. And then you turned.

You walked out the door.

You didn’t know how long you wandered the streets of Barcelona. You didn’t care. The cold air bit your skin, and the ache in your leg worsened with every step, but it was still better than going back.

Alexia called once. Then again. Then three more times.

You couldn���t answer.

You were too raw, too tired, too… done.

When your phone finally rang with Ingrid’s name flashing across the screen, you hesitated.

But you answered.

“Where are you?” she asked softly. “Alexia’s worried. She said you two had a fight. A bad one.”

You tried to respond but choked on a sob instead.

“Hey,” she murmured, “I’m here. Just breathe.”

You couldn’t stop crying. The pain, the guilt, the exhaustion—all of it crashed over you in waves.

Ingrid didn’t rush you. She just stayed on the phone, her calm voice anchoring you until the storm passed.

“I’m at the beach,” you whispered finally.

“I’m coming.”

Ten minutes later, you felt her presence beside you. She didn’t speak—she just opened her arms.

You fell into them.

You didn’t need words. Just this. Warmth. Steadiness.

You cried until your body was empty.

And only then did she ask, gently, “What happened?”

Everything spilled out. The loneliness. The pressure. The guilt. The hovering. The helplessness. The feeling of being stuck while the world spun on without you.

And how maybe you’d made a mistake coming to Barcelona. How maybe, you didn’t belong anymore.

Ingrid listened. Just listened.

When you finished, she took a deep breath and said, “You need a break.”

You frowned. “From what?”

“From all of it,” she said. “From the team, the noise, the pressure. When Mapi hurt her knee, she packed a bag one day and left. Went home. Spent two weeks with her family. No training, no football talk. Just time to breathe.”

You looked out over the dark water.

Maybe you needed that too.

Maybe you needed to go home.

Not forever. Just… to reset. To remember who you are away from the injuries and expectations. To be around people who knew you before all this.

To heal.

To find yourself again.

Not just your leg.

But you.

[theriddlersunderwear]

New Life

TW: Childbirth

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen was a formidable opponent. He’d faced down death, defeated thousands in the arena, and was now the overseer of Arrakis. But this… this was above his pay grade.

His wife’s pregnancy was already nerve-wracking. Her gestation period was shorter than a Harkonnen, meaning the baby would have to be kept inside for a few years, away from the black sun. Then, she went into labor.

She was standing in the doorway, watching him remove his armor after an arena battle. After Feyd turned his back, he heard a sharp cry. He slammed his blade down and went to her side, taking her arm. His face remained impassive, but there was a certain anxiety in his dark eyes. There was a clear puddle on the ground, running down her thighs.

“It’s time, go get the nurse,” she groaned, holding her belly. The Harpies darted from the room to call the doctors. Her groans turned into harsh screams, causing Feyd to flinch back.

This isn’t normal. Why is she in pain?

Feyd scooped her up, earning a pained grunt, and ran down the hallway. He brought her to the birthing room and laid her down in bed. His fingers combed through her hair, a feature he’d always been fascinated by.

The Bene Gesserit doctor entered, her white cloak swaying behind her. She didn’t even acknowledge Feyd, something that really pissed the na-Baron off. He growled,

“What is wrong with her?”

The Bene Gesserit sighed, “She is fine, her contractions have started. I’m giving her a morphine shot no–”

“NONSENSE,” Feyd interrupted, squeezing his wife’s hand. “No birth should be this painful. What is wrong? Is she dying? I swear if anything happens…” He paused when his wife screamed again.

The Bene Gesserit woman ducked her head, frantically working on the na-Baroness. All the power in the world couldn’t quell her fear of Feyd-Rautha. Her voice trembled, “na-Baron, if I may remind you.. She is not a Harkonnen. Her body is not built like the women here.”

If she wasn’t actively helping his wife give birth, Feyd-Rautha would’ve cut her throat. Harkonnen women had tough skin, it was a necessity on their planet. And a perk of having such tough skin was painless labor. But clearly, his wife had a different experience.

“Feyd,” she panted, sweaty hair sticking to her forehead. “It’s alright–we’re alright..”

If you told an outsider that Feyd-Rautha visibly softened at her words, they’d call you a liar.

The labor lasted hours, and each hour felt like a day. But finally, a shrill cry pierced the air. The Bene Gesserit held up a squalling baby boy, still covered in his mother’s fluids. As the babe was being wiped, the na-Baroness started groaning in pain.

“Why? Why does it still–” she was cut off by a wave of pain in her belly.

The Bene Gesserit quickly passed the baby into Feyd’s arms. “There is another. Twins, m’lady.”

“FUCKING HELL,” she snapped, overwhelmed by exhaustion and pain. “Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen I am NEVER having sex with you again!”

Feyd didn’t take her words to heart. He knew he could change her mind on that one. His attention was torn between his suffering wife and the wailing creature in his arms. His son was the perfect blend of a Harkonnen and a human. Hairless like Feyd, but with more natural, freckled skin. His heir.

The second babe came quicker, a daughter. Feyd was pleased to see wisps of hair similar to her mother’s.

Somerset and Ivan. There was new life in House Harkonnen.

[pyrus-salicifolia]

“Normal” test results are not the relief people think they are. When you wake up in pain and continue to be in pain for hours every day and your tests come back normal you don’t stop being in pain.

[daddyjackfrost]

Lost in The Wild ; B. Barnes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avengers!F!Reader

Synopsis: It was supposed to be an easy mission. In and out. But then communication went out. The intel became useless. The weather turned horrific. Bucky lost his gun. And then, you.

Warnings: Fluff, slow-burn, friends to lovers, horrible weather, blood, injuries, yearning, cursing, Ft. Sam, Steve, and Natasha, SMUT, p in v, oral (f rec.), kissing, praise, MDNI, unprotected sex, brief crying, they’re so in love your honor, down!bad bucky, lmk if I missed any! WC: 12.9k

A/N: First ever Bucky post! It’s been years since I’ve written on this account so have mercy on me. Thank you to all the wonderful writers on here that are so talented and inspiring. As for timeline… I don’t know. Canon? What canon? Comments & Reblogs are appreciated!

The rain had been coming down in sheets for hours. Not the kind that offered relief or clarity—no, this was brutal, heavy rain, the kind that blurred the edges of the world and made the earth itself hostile. It was the kind that soaked you to the bone, made every step a battle, and turned even the most solid ground into something slippery, a trap waiting to swallow you whole. 

The terrain had started off rocky, already a pain in the ass. Sharp crags jutted out from the hillsides like broken bones. Narrow passes that barely fit a single person had suddenly become rivers of slick mud and falling debris. Visibility was horrible and comms were patchy at best, and then they were gone entirely—just static and silence, the kind that settled into your chest and made it difficult to think straight. 

Bucky’s boots sank with every step, the mud sucking greedily at the soles, threatening to pull him under. His jaw was clenched tight, his vibranium arm flexing and twitching as adrenaline surged through him. He was briefly glad that he had cut his hair and didn’t have to worry about strands on his face. A small feat, but a significant one. The cold bit through his tactical gear, but he barely felt it. All he could focus on was the silence in his ear. 

Your voice, gone. 

One second, you were right behind him—mud on your face, grinning like an idiot, breathless and half-laughing about the total bullshit of intel you both had been fed. He had grunted and told you to stay close. 

Then, the world cracked open. 

A landslide tore through the ridge, and before he could grab you, before he could warn you—before he could even think–you were gone in a roar of earth and stone and rain.

He screamed your name. Loud, desperate. Absolutely no care as to who may have heard. He screamed once more, the rain slapping harshly against his skin. 

There had been nothing. No response. Just the sound of the storm ripping the world apart. 

Now, he was moving blind and completely alone. Mud covered his hands, smeared across his cheek, soaked into his skin and clothes. His rifle had been torn from him earlier and his sidearm was somewhere in a ravine miles back, lost in the chaos. All he had now was a combat knife and fear—chewing through his chest at an incomprehensible rate. 

In the distance, he could hear the screams of the Hydra agents. Some had been swept away when you had been and the others were trying to hold on, trying to find him and survive. He silently prayed that another landslide, something horrific, would wipe them out. 

He knew that the bunker had been emptied. He stumbled upon it when he began looking for you and had been tempted to go in, try and get some help. But he needed to find you, first. He had turned around and hadn’t looked back. 

He tripped over a root, hit the ground hard, and didn’t even flinch. Just pushed himself back up, spit blood, and kept moving. He had to find you. 

He had to find you. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough and low, throat raw.

“Focus. Come on.” 

Every snapped twig, every distant sound—he turned to it like a live wire. He felt like an animal, something manic, as he listened for any sound of you. Hope and terror felt the same now as his heart beat too fast. He was distantly aware that his hands were shaking, and not from the cold. 

You were out there somewhere. For a split second, he let his mind wander. You could have been crushed—dead. 

No. No, he couldn’t think like that. He blinked once, harshly, before shoving all those horrible thoughts to the back of his mind, where he kept all the bad. 

You were smart. Deadly. He knew that. He knew you were better than most people–most soldiers–he’d ever worked with. But even the best had limits and you were human. Flesh, bleeding, breakable. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. You had looked so small as you disappeared into the landslide. He couldn’t get the picture out of his mind, of the way your eyes had briefly widened and your lips had parted. His tortuous mind wondered if you would have called out for him.

It didn’t matter, he decided. He hadn’t acted fast enough, hadn’t caught you. He didn’t even realize he was whispering your name again until it broke in his throat. 

“Where the fuck are you?” 

Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the twisted trees and gnarled terrain. He whipped his head around, trying to look for anything, then, he caught the shimmer of something. He wasn’t sure if it was metal or blood but he moved fast. Slipped once, hard, landed on his knees again but didn’t stop. His hands clawed through the mud, his breathing loud and ragged. 

Then—there. In the shadow of a fallen tree, half-covered in mud and leaves and blood, was you.

Your body was twisted awkwardly, like you’d been thrown by the force of the slide. One arm cradled to your chest. Cuts littered your face, lips split, blood soaking into your torn-up gear. There was a deep gash along your side—too deep—and your eyes were half-lidded, fluttering like you were waiting to let go. 

Bucky tore through the mud, pulled and stretched his torn muscles and dropped beside you with a choked breath. His hands hovered over your body, not touching yet. Not sure where it was safe. Not sure if he could bear to feel how cold you were. 

His fingers twitched, and he bit down roughly on his bottom lip to prevent the wounded sound that almost left his throat at the sight of you. Your eyes fluttered once more before gently shutting. “Hey—hey, no,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Don’t you fucking dare. Open your eyes, doll.” 

His warm breath brushed against your cheek and your lips twitched, a shallow breath escaping. You willed your eyes to open, even if it was just for a moment.

“Barnes…”

He nearly collapsed from the sound of your voice. It was quiet, weaker than he’d ever heard it or wanted too, but it was there. 

Relief hit him like a truck and he moved closer to you, but it didn’t fix anything. You were still bleeding, still barely breathing. He could feel the tremble in your body as your fingers brushed against his sleeve like you were checking if he was real. He pressed his arm closer to you, finding brief comfort in the way you squeezed his skin. 

It was the first time he had felt warmth in the last three hours. 

“Alright, I got you,” he whispered, lips trembling from the cold. “I’ve got you now, okay?” His voice was low, rough, tight with something he couldn’t name. “You’re gonna be fine, Y/n. Just—just stay with me, yeah?’ 

You tried your best to nod but everything felt too heavy and you were too weak so you simply hummed and he almost choked at the sound. He pushed the tree off of you, murmuring softly when you groaned in pain.

“I know, I know, just a second, doll.” 

He breathed in deeply before he crouched down and scooped you up, carefully, like you’d shatter if he breathed wrong. His arms and body were solid beneath you like he hadn’t suffered similarly, like he wasn’t injured. You hissed in pain but your arms naturally curled weakly around his neck. At the moment, you trusted him more than anything. More than the pain, than your own body. 

Bucky held his breath and kept his eyes ahead, knowing that if he made eye contact with you like this, all broken and bleeding in his arms, he’d crumble. He tightened his grip on your body when your eyes shut and pressed his chin into your hair. 

“Open ‘em, doll,” he muttered. “Come on. Please.” 

You tried, but your head felt heavy so you dug your fingernails into his neck instead. His hold on you tightened even further as he ran, rain striking down, harshly and unforgiving. The temperature was dropping rapidly and he knew he had to get you somewhere dry, somewhere he could take a look at all your injuries. 

By some miracle, and he would later pray about it, he found shelter not far from the ridge–a cave. He remembered seeing it during the initial scope of the terrain, during the mission brief. You had joked about it, something stupid about him retreating into the cave for a nap. He laughed—or, he thinks he did. He wished he had. 

He’d kill a man to hear your laugh right now. 

The cave was barely more than a dent in the mountain—narrow and damp, carved into the rock like the earth itself had given up trying to stay solid. The wind howled outside, slicing through the trees and screaming through the cracks in the stone. Rain still battered the world, relentless in its fall. 

He had to crawl to get inside with you in his arms. 

The stone scraped his knees, his elbows. His back ached from how he curled around your body to shield you from the worst of it. He didn’t stop, barely felt it. All he saw was the blood soaking through your clothes. You were shivering, lips blue, breathing unevenly. A faint wheeze escaped with each breath, and even in sleep, your brows were pinched in pain.

Once he was deep enough, he laid you gently on the stone floor. Bucky knelt beside you, soaked through, hands shaking. His face was drawn tight, teeth clenched so hard his jaw clicked. Rain still dripped from the ends of his hair, trailing down his neck, his face, soaking into his torn shirt. His fingers were red and brown, a deep maroon that he had painted with before. 

He blinked down at your unmoving body and clenched his fists. He could barely think straight with his heart beating out of his chest so he breathed in deeply and flipped the switch, the one he hadn’t used in years. The one that turned him into a machine. That buried softness and kindness and everything he didn’t deserve to feel beneath layers of instinct and orders and purpose. 

He was a soldier. You needed a soldier. You needed him to be smart, tactful. 

He peeled his jacket off and wrung the water out, laying it beside you. He scooped your unconscious body gently and laid you down on his jacket. He cut away the arms with shaking fingers and wrapped them around your side, trying to stop the bleeding. 

He looked through his field kit, whatever was left of it, to find something, anything, that he could use to put some part of you back together. He used the wipes to clean the blood and dirt off your face, sanitized your cuts as best as he could before he plastered on the bandaids. His fingers pressed against your skin, once, twice, and then he pulled away like you had burned him. 

He pulled his belt free and used it to tighten the splint he’d carved for your arm out of his remaining gear. He moved with precision, detachment—like you were just another asset, but his hands trembled when they brushed your cheek and he hated it. Hated how you made him feel even when you were barely conscious, when he was trying inexplicably hard not too. 

“Come on, Y/n,” he breathed out. “Open your eyes.” He curled his hands into your body, trying to stop the tremors. He’s not sure he’d be reacting like this if it were anyone else. He doesn’t even want to entertain the thought, because the conclusion is one he can’t face. You’re his partner, his teammate. You laughed at his terrible jokes sometimes. Shared your food with him when he forgot to eat. You always waited until he got on the jet before calling it in, like you had to make sure he wouldn’t get left behind. 

You weren’t his, weren’t anything. He shouldn’t be shaking like this, blinking rapidly like if he focused real hard, this battered version of you would be replaced by the you he knew. But he knew your laugh. The sound of your footsteps. The way your eyes sometimes lingered on him when you thought he wasn’t looking. You mattered to him, which was so much worse.

And now you were bleeding out in a cave that stank of moss and wet rot, and he couldn’t even fucking stop shaking. He didn’t have the right materials or any way to contact Steve or Sam. He felt useless, which is just another thing he hated about himself at the moment. 

He stood up slowly, recognizing the familiar aches in his body, already mapping the bruises and new scars he knew littered his body. He had to get a fire started, had to get you and himself warm, so he scanned the area for a completely dry place before he dropped to his knees, fumbling through his kit. The cotton lining of his gloves—dry enough. He tore it out with his teeth, rolling it into a crude nest with shaking hands. He shoved it beneath a wedge of dry bark he’d peeled from the heartwood of a split branch, praying the core was dry enough to catch.

The first strike of flint against steel sparked nothing. The second—nothing. He swore, then coughed, the sound raw. His hands were still trembling.

Third strike. A spark jumped.

It kissed the cotton and died.

He closed his eyes. Again.

Fourth strike. Fifth.

A breath. A tremble. A single ember caught—barely a glow, a flicker like a dying star. He hunkered over it, shielding it from the damp air with his body, and blew—gently, desperately, his breath ragged. The ember pulsed. It grew.

It flared.

Tiny flames licked the shredded cotton, then the bark.

Heat.

He nearly sagged with relief as the fire cracked to life, light dancing against the slick cave walls. His hands hovered over it, aching, blistered with cold. He gave himself a moment, a single moment to enjoy the heat before he crawled to you and gently pulled you closer to the fire, close, but not too close. He didn’t want to risk it. 

His fingers moved over your temple, gently checking the wound there. You flinched and Bucky almost sighed in pained relief. At least you weren’t unconscious. Just sleeping. He could deal with that. His fingers scraped gently against ripped skin and you flinched again, a broken sound leaving your throat. 

He froze before his thumb brushed your eyebrow. He blinked once at the action before he snapped at himself, standing up so fast he smacked his shoulder against the cave ceiling. Pain rippled through his back and he lurched forward, clutching his left arm. 

He fell to his knees, coughing. The sound echoed and for a moment, it truly felt like his own personal hell. He looked down and grimaced at the blood. He had yet to take a moment and analyze his own injuries, but he knew there was no point. Whatever it was, he’d survive, and you…you may not. He had to focus on you. 

He wiped his mouth and stripped off what was left of his shirt, wet and freezing, and crouched beside you again, lifting your body into his lap to wrap his arms around you. Your temperature was dropping and there had been pregnant pauses where you had stopped shivering. 

He didn’t like what that may mean. 

You were limp against him, your face tucked under his chin, breath fanning across his throat. He could feel every line of you—every bruise, every tremble. He murmured a soft apology when his arm accidentally grazed the gash in your side. The fire’s orange hues danced across your skin and he watched carefully, momentarily awed. 

You were alive, he had to remember that. He was rocking back and forth like he had forgotten. 

“I didn’t mean to lose you,” he whispered, barely audible over the raging storm outside. “I should have kept you in front of me. Watched your back, instead of you watching mine.” 

His hold on you tightened and he released a small breath when you pressed your nose into his throat. “I could have grabbed you, kept you from falling…” 

His voice cracked and he pressed his mouth to the top of your head, breathing you in like a man starved. All he could do now was wait, wait for your body temperature to rise, wait for you to wake up. 

He hated waiting. 

The cave was wet, and water dripped steadily from the ceiling into the puddles forming near the entrance. The air smelled like steel and earth and his knees ached from the cold rock floor, his back stiff from how tightly he held you.

All he could do was ignore all the feelings that threatened to crawl through his chest by thinking about next steps. When you were awake, able to move, he knew that getting in contact with Steve or Sam was going to be difficult, but it needed to be done. 

Briefly, his mind flashed to the bunker. Hydra had kept it a secret but SHIELD had found out, as it sometimes did. It should have been an easy mission, in-and-out, but as reachable as everything sometimes seemed, the weather had always been untameable, with a mind of its own. 

Still, while they had prepared for it, no one had expected it to get this bad. Even now, the storm raged wildly outside. The sound of it was both anxiety-inducing and welcomed, background noise he hadn’t asked for but didn’t mind. 

While your breathing slowly evened out, he pressed you closer to his body and angled you closer to the fire and shut his eyes.

You woke to the sound of breathing.

Not yours—his. Measured. Steady. Like he was forcing every inhale calmly, despite its aggression. 

Your head was on his shoulder. His hand was on your thigh, warm and still. The cave was still cold and dark but the fire offered welcome heat and glow. Everything inside you ached—bones and skin all stiff and frozen, some cracked and some bruised.

You stirred slightly, a soft movement of your chin. Bucky felt it, he had listened closely as your breathing changed and your muscles shifted. 

“Bucky…” Your throat was hoarse, lips dry. You were still pressed against him, his hands warm and solid, holding you together. 

He didn’t answer at first. Just a small movement of his shoulder. 

Then he exhaled hard. “We’re moving.” 

The softness from before—his trembling hands, the whisper of your name, that broken honesty in his words and body—was gone. Replaced by that rigid, sharp-jawed version of him you’d only seen in combat or when he was forced to engage with strangers. He wasn’t looking at you, just staring toward the mouth of the cave like the storm may break in at any second. 

You slowly nodded, your nose brushing against the skin of his throat. His throat bobbed before his hold on you loosened just a fraction. 

“I can walk,” you rasped, words muffled as you tried to sit up. 

Instantly, Bucky’s arms around you tightened. “No, you can’t.” 

You tried again, “I can—”

“You can’t.” His voice cut like a blade, a little throaty and gruff. “Your ribs are unstable. Your shoulder’s fucked, and the gash on your side will rip open any second. You’re not getting back up.” He exhaled. “I’m not risking it.” 

Instead of answering right away, you slowly wiggled your fingers and toes, trying to get feeling back in them. After a moment, you lifted your head off his shoulder and groaned in pain, wincing when your unused muscles moaned in pain. 

“Hey, fuck,” Bucky’s exterior slipped for a second and he looked panicked, one hand on your good shoulder and the other on your arm, trying to offer some support. “Be careful.” He helped you slip off his lap, hand on your back—warm, solid, pulsing. 

Once you were sitting up straight, Bucky leaned back on his heels, one hand subtly reached out towards you in case you needed him. 

You swallowed hard and blinked away the exhaustion in your eyes. “Where are we going?” 

“I’ve got a plan.” His tone was clipped, controlled. Every word chosen to shut you down before you could argue. You could tell by his stiff shoulders and the way he refused to look at you that he wasn't to be reasoned with right now. 

Still, you had to try. “Bucky, look at me.” 

He froze, kept his eyes on the floor. For a second, you thought he’d listen. You just needed to see him. Needed to hear everything his eyes had to say. Instead, he shook his head. 

Bucky stood, already pulling his remaining gear together—knives, makeshift medkit, the remnants of his utility belt. He moved like a machine, like he’d mapped the next twenty steps and was already living in them. 

You watched him carefully, watched his body and the stretch of his muscles. By his movements alone, you knew he had injured his leg a bit, perhaps a sprain. His ribs hurt, probably bruised. He hadn’t cleaned himself up, not like he had you. There was still mud and blood on his face but it did little to hide his exhaustion, the frustration that had etched into his skin. 

Remnants of his soft whispers, his delicate touch still danced across your skin and you locked them away, kept them close to your heart as you came to terms with this version of him. You wanted him to look at you. 

He rolled his shoulders once, picked up his jacket, now warm, and slipped it on before he knelt in front of you. 

“This is gonna hurt.” His arms slid under your knees and shoulders, lifting you like it was nothing. But you could see the strain on his muscles. “Try not to pass out.” He slowly maneuvered you until you were draped across his back, legs and arms locked around him to the best of your ability.

You gritted your teeth, breath catching as pain stabbed down your side and back. You didn’t fight him—couldn’t, because his body was warm and solid against yours, still slightly soaked through, even trembling slightly beneath the weight of everything he wasn’t saying. 

You wanted to thank him, wanted to tell him to take a moment for himself, knowing he must have spent hours just taking care of you, but you also knew better. Knew that you both had to get out of this storm. 

You pressed your face into his neck as he bent to crawl out the cave. His knees and hands scraped against the rough, cold floor and you winced for him. He said nothing as his hold on your waist tightened and he stepped out into the storm. 

The cold slapped you both in the face. The wind cut sideways through the trees. The rain had turned the world into a mess of slick rock and rotting leaves and ankle-deep mud. Bucky moved like he had done this a hundred times, like he had spent hours analyzing the terrain and perfected where to step. 

You didn’t speak as he carried you down the ridge, every muscle in his body tense with focus. He didn’t look at you once, even when you had hissed in pain. His jaw was locked, veins tight in his neck, eyes scanning every inch of his surroundings. The rain  and mixture of leaves slapped against his face. Instinctively, you wiped his cheek clean. 

You didn’t recognize the path he was taking. It wasn’t toward the evac point—not unless he’d circled back, which didn’t make sense in this terrain or weather. You stretched your neck, trying not to pay attention to the coldness that seeped into your bones. His fingers tightened under your thighs. 

“Where are we going?” You asked, lips brushing against his ear. 

He hesitated for just a second. “The bunker.” 

You lifted your head weakly, eyes wide. “The Hydra bunker?” 

“There’s a comms room. Secure line. I can tap into SHIELD frequencies. Get a ping out.” 

He really had thought about this. You frowned, the thought of Bucky holding you in that cave, his mind running rampant as he kept you alive, circled in your mind. 

“But it’s full of—” 

“It’s empty,” he said, with certainty that chilled you. “I already scoped it. Before I found you.” 

“You—” You blinked, once, twice, and then leaned your head over his shoulder, trying to understand him. “What?” 

“I saw it when I was looking for you. It was empty. I was going to go call and wait for help, but I turned around.”

You stared at him. Logically, you knew that made sense. If he had called for help, maybe neither of you would be in this situation. But, a small, twisted part of you frowned.

“You were going to leave me,” you whispered, even though you knew it wasn’t true. He had just said that he turned around and he did find you. But he could have taken longer, or not come to find you at all if he had been ordered not to. 

Bucky finally turned his head and met your eye. And, there it was—something breaking loose in his face, just for a second, like the very thought you just had, had been eating away at him. “I was going to get help. But I knew I had to find you. So, I did.” 

You looked away, chest tight, heart fluttering with something unexplainable.

He didn’t speak again. 

It took an hour to reach the edge of the treeline. An hour of silence, mud, and Bucky’s unyielding grip around your trembling body. Every step he took was a choice, to not panic, not spiral, not let himself fall into the noise that threatened to tear his mind and heart apart. 

He needed to stay sharp and diligent. You were depending on him. 

So, when he saw the crumbling silhouette of the Hydra compound through the trees—half-collapsed, rotting into the ground—he didn’t hesitate, just kept walking. 

“We’re close,” he muttered, and set you down gently behind a fallen log, hidden beneath wet pine boughs. His hand gripped your thigh and his finger curled under your chin, tilting your head so you could meet his eyes.

“Stay here. No matter what.” 

“Bucky—”

He dropped his hand and pulled his knife from his side holster, checking the edge. “One of them might still be in there. I’ll handle it.” He pointed the knife at the ground. “Do not try and help me.”

You sighed. “You don’t have to—” 

“I do.” His voice was rough now. Not angry, but final. An edge to it that resembled the very sharpness of the blade in his hand. “I’ll come back for you.” 

He looked at you one more time. Let his eyes meet yours for a moment before they travel the length of your body, pausing at your side. 

Then he was gone. 

The forest swallowed him whole. 

You waited, every breath sharp in your chest. You were drenched, hair sticking to skin. Rain pattered softly on the leaves above you. Your hands trembled in your lap. You hated the way your body felt like a prison—useless, aching, broken. Hated that you couldn’t follow him. 

You had been through worse, had survived so much worse. You could have helped him, could have stood on your own if you really had to. 

Bucky made it so you didn’t have to. You didn’t know how you felt about that, about him. 

Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. Or, so you guessed. 

Then, you heard it. A single, muffled thud. A body. There had been someone in there. 

But then came nothing else. Just silence. 

The underbrush shifted and he reappeared, soaked and stone-faced, blood drying on his knife and on his neck. You didn’t ask, didn’t have to. He was breathing more heavily, slowly, and you knew his injuries had worsened. 

He was a super soldier, but he wasn’t immortal. 

Bucky knelt beside you, eyes meeting yours briefly before scanning the sky through the trees. “I got through. Signal’s weak, but I managed to reach Steve. They’re getting the jet in the air.” 

You reached out, fingers grazing his wrist. He didn’t look at you and didn’t pull away either. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife and you slowly pried it from his hands, tossing it beside you. 

“You’re going to be okay,” he said softly. It was so quiet, like you weren’t meant to hear it. 

He barely acknowledged what he said and you decided that he didn’t know he had said it, pretended like the words didn’t make you freeze, remind you of him in the cave, feeling and talking to you like he had already lost you. 

You sat shoulder-to-shoulder as you both waited for the quinjet. 

The warmth of your bodies pressed together reminded you strangely of home.

The extraction was supposed to feel like relief. 

But to Bucky, it felt like exposure—too loud, too bright, too late. 

The quinjet split the sky open with its roar, cutting through the clouds like a blade. Trees bent under the force of the rotors. Wind tore through the clearing. And all Bucky could do was hold onto you tighter, shielding your body from the chaos and branches like his own didn’t matter. 

Sam was the first down the ramp. Steve right behind him. Both armed, both scanning for threats. 

Bucky didn’t speak at first, just waited until Sam looked over at him, then stood up, his leg pressed against your back for stability. 

“She’s critical,” he yelled, voice flat. “Bruised ribs, busted shoulder, hypothermic, and infection risk.” You looked at him, eyes wide. “She’s lost too much blood.” 

Steve’s eyes flicked over both of you—your limp body, Bucky’s slashed and bloodied arm, the bruises blooming across both of your cheeks. He didn’t ask questions, just nodded. “Let’s move.” 

A medic stepped forward with a stretcher. Bucky stepped in front of them like a wall. “Be careful.” You almost smiled. The medic—young, wide-eyed—nodded quickly. You slipped your hand into his and fingers curled around your hand.

Bucky helped you onto the stretcher, murmured something soft when you winced in pain. He didn’t let go of your hand until they forced him to.

Sam and Steve watched closely as Bucky followed right beside the stretcher, matching their steps, never more than an inch away. His jaw was locked, eyes burning. You reached out for him again and he took your hand in his. 

You turned to the medic and pulled Bucky closer. “He’s injured,” you rushed out. “Badly. His leg, ribs, and arms.” Bucky tried cutting you off but you squeezed his hand. “Shut up, Barnes.” 

The medic stared at you both and you blinked slowly. “Treat him, okay? Don’t listen to him. Listen to me.” You smiled softly, trying to ease the tension between the poor, young medic’s shoulders. “Talk to Steve if he complains.” 

“Y/n,” Bucky muttered, “I’m fine.” 

The quinjet lifted, slicing up through the trees. 

You passed out again before they hit altitude. 

The world returned slowly. 

A dull ache in your side, your chest. The sterile scent of disinfectant. The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor. 

And then, warmth.

A heavy hand around yours. Thumb brushing back and forth in a pattern you could feel in your bones, something soft and ingrained. 

You recognized the weight, the press of skin. You blinked, the ceiling fuzzy above you, mouth dry.

“Buck?”

His head snapped up from where it had been resting on his forearm. His eyes were bloodshot. His stubble had grown into something darker, rougher. His hair was a mess, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in centuries. 

You tried to smile, muscles groaning after minimal use.

“You look like shit.” 

For half a second, something cracked—his face shifted like he was going to laugh, maybe even cry. His eyes widened and his lips wobbled. But then he shut it down, wiped the emotion clear. 

Slid the mask back into place. 

He sat upright, hand still enclosed around yours. “You’re awake. Good.” He kept his voice smooth, monotone. It was killing him, pretending to be indifferent, but he couldn’t express the relief he was feeling. He hadn’t heard your voice in so long, hadn’t seen that smile. 

You frowned, eyebrows furrowing. It hurt a bit and you faintly recalled soft fingers brushing against your forehead. “Don’t do that,” you whispered, clearing your throat. 

Bucky blinked before he brought a paper cup filled with water to your lips. “I’m fine.”

Eagerly, you pulled the straw into your mouth and sucked, letting the water wash away the dryness. You finished all the water and wiped your chin. “I didn’t ask if you were fine.”

His jaw flexed. He looked away. Hand still around yours, thumb still tracing patterns into your skin. 

You tightened your grip on his hand and his eyes met yours briefly before he looked at the monitors as if he couldn’t describe your charts with his eyes closed. 

“Thank you,” you said, quietly, a small smile on your lips.

It was silent for a moment, something that could have stretched into something uncomfortable, but then he bowed his head and broke—his shoulders shaking just slightly, his hand gripping yours like he was trying to ground himself. 

He didn’t cry, not really. But you could feel it—the sheer weight of everything he hadn’t let himself feel, the weight of your life on him, the heaviness of his guilt. 

You stayed silent, held his hand tightly as your thumb drew circles on his skin. You had your own guilt; the weight of what you could have done, how you should have been more diligent, reached out for him, fought for yourself harder and made it to him, been less of a burden. 

But this wasn’t about you. This was about him, and how he tried his best, his very hardest to keep you alive. How you made him confront his feelings for the first time, with the threat of loss looming behind him. 

“I thought I lost you,” he admitted, hoarsely. “I—fuck. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I’ve never been that scared in my life. Not during Hydra, not even when I came back.” 

You stared at him, heart tight and eyes shiny. You weren’t usually an emotional person, but these were unusual circumstances. When you had been swept away, as you were thrown around and bruised, all you could think about was him; how he’s your best friend and you never told him, how all you wanted was for him to be more, someone you could love and hold. 

“I would never have made it,” he said, eyes bright, “If anything happened to you.” 

Your eyes stung and your heart beat faster, the monitor beeped in warning. Neither of you noticed. 

You breathed his name and he leaned closer, the heat of his body caressing yours. You brought your joined hands to your lips and kissed the back of his hand, slow and soft, eyes on him. 

His breath caught like you’d hit him with a bullet, his entire body stilling. His lips parted in wonder and his eyes widened slowly. 

“I’m okay,” you smiled. “Nothing happened. You made sure of that. I’m okay.” You needed him to know, needed him to understand that you wouldn’t have made it if anything happened to him, that you were grateful to him. 

Before he could answer, the door slid open and Dr. Bates stepped in, tablet in hand, coat wrinkled like she hadn’t taken it off for weeks. 

Her eyes fell on you, Bucky, then your joined hands. She smiled, just a little. “Sorry to interrupt.” Bucky straightened up but didn’t let go of your hand. You turned towards her. “I’m glad you’re awake, Y/n. It’s good to have you back.”

You smiled at her, glancing at the tablet in her hand.

“Thanks, Doc.” 

“You’ve been under for two weeks,” she started gently, coming to the edge of your bed. Your eyes widened in surprise and you glanced at Bucky, who stared at you, unblinking.

 “We had to keep you sedated—” she explained, “your body was in rough shape when you came in. Ribs deeply bruised, bordering on contusions. Your right shoulder was nearly dislocated, and you had early-stage sepsis. If you hadn’t been found when you were—” she paused, glancing at Bucky—“you wouldn’t have made it.” 

You turned your head slowly towards him, lips pulling into a frown. 

He looked away. 

“You’re lucky,” the doctor continued. “He kept you alive long enough for us to stabilize you. Field-treated half of your injuries himself. Not exactly regulation, but…” she smiled, gently, “it worked.” 

You gave Bucky’s hand the faintest squeeze. “So…Am I cleared to go?” 

Dr. Bates hesitated, then nodded. “As long as you don’t overdo it. No combat. No gym. No carrying anything heavier than a coffee cup. You’ll need regular check ups—especially to monitor your lungs and immune response. And, you shouldn’t be alone.”

Before you could speak, Bucky’s voice—clear, rough—cut in. 

“I’ll be with her.” 

The words were simple, but the way he said them—calm, final, almost soft—settled something in your chest and made warmth swim through your body. 

Dr. Bates blinked, almost like she’d expected a fight. Then she nodded again. “Good. Then I’ll start the discharge paperwork.” 

She turned and left, and the door hissed closed behind her. 

Silence fell again, heavy, but not uncomfortable. 

You stayed quiet for a beat, still absorbing it all. The ache in your ribs had settled into something manageable, but another kind of ache twisted low in your chest, one you couldn’t ignore. 

You turned your head slightly on the pillow, eyes slowly growing heavier. “What about you?” 

Bucky looked up from where he was still gripping your hand, a blanket of something softer, something resembling relief had been draped over his shoulders.

“What?” 

“Are you okay?” you asked, voice soft. “Your leg…and your arm. Your ribs. You were limping when—when you carried me.” 

His brows pinched together like you’d just reminded him of something he’d forgotten and you briefly panicked. Bucky would refuse to get medical attention if it meant he had to leave you, you knew he would. It was just who he was. You loved him so much. 

Abruptly, you blinked—eyes wide for a second before you schooled them. You had never let yourself think it, much less admit it so openly. 

“I’m fine,” he replied, quickly, trying to brush it under the rug. 

You narrowed your eyes and swallowed the lump in your throat. “Don’t give me the bullshit brush-off, Bucky. What did they say?” 

Before he could dodge the question again, the door slid open and Dr. Bates reappeared, a different tablet in her hands. 

“Something wrong?” She asked, glancing between you. 

You nodded gently towards Bucky. “Can you tell me the truth? About him. Did he let you take a look?” 

Bucky gave a little sigh, leaning back in the chair. And yet, even then, he didn’t let go of your hand. You briefly wondered if he knew he was still holding it, but the weight of it, the way it felt like his lifeline, made you aware that he did. 

Dr. Bates didn’t even hesitate, like she had expected this sooner. “He came in with three fractured ribs, a torn ligament in his left leg, and deep lacerations on his arm. Didn’t want to be checked and told us to prioritize you.” She sounded almost fond. 

You blinked at him slowly and he looked away, mouth twisting into a hard line. He didn’t want you to know these things, didn’t think they were relevant. He had half a mind to remind the doctor of patient confidentiality, but then he lifted his eyes and the genuine concern on your face, in the tremble of your fingers, kept him quiet. 

She continued, tapping her screen. “The serum accelerated his healing, of course. Most of it was resolved within days. He’s been medically cleared since the first week.” She paused, then added, almost like an afterthought, “He also requested a bed next to yours. Just in case.” 

Your heart flipped and your ears felt warm. He was so obvious in his care, it dripped and leaked out of him no matter how hard he tried to keep it locked up and it was so beyond endearing, you almost burst into tears. 

Bucky still wouldn’t meet your eyes. 

“He said—” she glanced at him, a small curve in her lips “—and I quote, ‘I’ll only sleep if I can hear her breathing.” 

Heat bloomed in your cheeks and you blinked hard, trying not to let it show too much but your heart rate had picked up and it was obvious on the monitor. “Oh.” 

Dr. Bates softened, just a little. She leaned in, like she was about to tell you a secret. “He hasn’t left your side since the quinjet. If that tells you anything.” 

With that, she set the tablet down on the edge of your bed. “Just sign whenever you’re ready and press the red button. It’ll only take an hour or so to get you discharged.” She smiled at you and then turned and left again, door shutting gently behind her. 

Silence, familiar, settled between you, thick and humming. 

You finally looked at him, a smile on your lips. “You’re an idiot.” It’s all you could stay, your heart on fire and chest bubbling with affection and love. 

His mouth twitched and for a second, he looked younger. “Takes one to know one.” It was stupid, something he would have said to Sam, but your eyes were bright and his attention was divided. 

You reached up slowly, hand trembling, and brushed your fingers across his knuckles. He didn’t usually let you touch him this easily. It was riveting, freeing. “You should’ve told me.” 

“I didn’t want you worrying about me,” he muttered. “Not when you were fighting for your life.” 

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, softly, replied. “I’m not fighting anymore.”

He stared at you, deep blue eyes reminding you of the ocean, of the storm you both had survived. 

“I’m not fighting anymore so you can stop worrying.” You smiled at him, sweet and soft. “I know you think that it’s your fault but it isn’t. You found me, saved me.” 

Bucky cleared his throat and clenched his jaw. He didn’t need you telling him not to worry because it wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t change the fact that he stayed awake at night and hovered in the hallways, slipping into your room to make sure you were breathing, keeping an eye on your vitals. 

“Bucky,” you said, voice thicker and full of steel. He sighed and slowly nodded. He was many things, filled with guilt, but he wasn’t immune to you, to your wants and needs. And what you needed was him to be honest, to listen. 

“I hear you, doll,” he sighed, quietly. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He squeezed your hand once and almost pulled away but your grip tightened and you smiled. 

As if you knew what he meant, could see the depth of his care. Like he hadn’t folded and crushed the love he had for you and shoved it in the deepest parts of him, trying to keep it hidden. It was unravelling, fast and without permission. 

The door slid open quietly. 

Natasha stepped in first, concern in her eyes but a small grin tugging at her lips at the sight before her. 

Steve followed behind her. Sam too. They all looked tired, but relieved. The doctor had alerted them when you had woken up an hour ago, wanting to give you time to adjust. 

They looked at you and Bucky—still close, your hand in his, his chair pulled right up against your bed—sleeping. Your head rested on the pillow and Bucky’s on his arm.

They didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, really. While they had been in and out of your room, sending flowers and asking for updates, Bucky hadn’t moved. He had only complied with getting medical help because it had been your last demand before passing out. He had stayed by your side for two weeks, unwavering. 

Steve hadn’t seen him sleep. Bucky had refused any drugs that may have knocked him out and every time Steve came to check on him, he was up. Usually watching you. This was the first time either of them had seen him at peace, and it was with his hand around yours. 

“They’re sweet,” Natasha whispered, her smile growing. She had known, of course she did. She saw the way you both looked at each other when the other wasn’t looking. 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “About time, too. I almost owed Clint $50.” 

Steve frowned, eyes drifting to Sam. “You bet on them?”

Sam shrugged and quietly laid down the flowers he had gotten you on the already full table. “It was Tony’s idea.” 

Dr. Bates entered last, holding a juice box. “Oh, visitors.”

“Sorry, Doc,” Steve apologized, moving to the side. 

“No worries, Mr. Rogers.” She set the juice box down on the table beside you. You needed the sugar before getting on your feet. 

Before Steve or anyone could respond, Bucky shifted and his eyes flew open. His spine snapped up and he blinked at the people in the room, a frown on his lips. He glanced at your sleeping face and momentarily, his eyes softened. 

“Shut up,” he grumbled. “She’s sleeping.” 

“Hey, you,” Sam cooed, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Before Bucky could growl in annoyance, you stretched your arms and yawned, your hand slipping out of his.

“I’m awake.” Then, “Don’t provoke him, Sam.” 

Natasha snorted and you opened your eyes, smiling at the people standing in front of you. Sam rolled his eyes before he moved closer and ruffled your hair, his eyes softening. 

“Hey, Y/n.” He picked up the juice box and poked the straw through it, handing it to you. “Glad you’re not dead. Don’t do that again.” 

You smiled in thanks and squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Sam. Don’t plan on it.” 

Steve and Natasha moved closer too, soft smiles and softer words. They asked you how you were feeling, if you needed anything. Bucky stayed beside you, his fingers twitching, now that your hand wasn’t in his. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and leaned back in his chair, head falling back. 

He hadn’t slept properly in days. Figures that he’d find a moment of peace beside you. 

As you spoke to Natasha, your hand searched for his. You were okay, the pain was dull and the trauma wasn’t at the forefront. But, you still needed his comfort—no, wanted it. 

Bucky felt your fingers brush against his and, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he captured your hand in his. His heart fluttered when you squeezed and he looked away. He was in deep. 

Dr. Bates cleared her throat and smiled sheepishly when the conversations died out. “Sorry to interrupt, but you’re cleared to go.”

You sat up, eyes wide. “Really?” Steve’s lips quirked upwards at the excitement in your voice. Bucky felt his heart settle at the sound, at the way you had managed to light the room in a soft glow.

The doctor nodded. “All the paperwork is done. I’ve prescribed you some painkillers you can take, as well.”

You sighed in relief and turned to Bucky, eyes bright. You were glowing and he felt like a moth with the way he leaned in.

“Thank you, Dr. Bates. Truly.” 

She smiled at you before glancing at Bucky. “Of course, Agent. Take care. I hope I don’t see any of you soon.” With that, she turned and left. 

Natasha grinned at you and Bucky before she stepped back. “I’ll get your clothes, Y/n.” 

You smiled at her gratefully as she slipped out of the room. Steve and Sam stood by your bed and you looked up at them. “So, what’d I miss?” 

Sam clapped his hands together, instantly filling you in on all of the drama you had missed. Steve laughed quietly at his antics and Bucky snorted, the tension in his shoulders slowly fading and a real, genuine ghost of a smile on his lips. 

The elevator ride to your floor was quiet. 

Not in a cold, distant kind of way—but in the way people are quiet when there’s too much to say and not enough breath to say it. You moved slowly, one foot in front of the other, careful of your ribs and side. Bucky walked beside you, close enough to feel the heat of him, one hand a steady weight at your lower back. 

The metal was cold against your thin sweater, but there was still something soft about it. The way he stayed beside you, rubbed his thumb up and down your skin, absentmindedly. 

You could feel him watching you. 

Not like before. Not scanning like a soldier. Just…watching. Like a man trying to memorize every detail before it’s gone. He was desperate, soaking in all your warmth and all the time he got with you. You could feel it, his earnesty. 

Your floor was dim when you entered—peaceful, untouched since the mission. But, not entirely untouched. A folded hoodie on the couch. Your plants watered. A fresh pair of pajamas neatly laid across your bed, one you couldn’t see but knew was there. 

You turned to look at him, brows raised and a hint of a knowing smile dancing on your lips. 

Bucky’s jaw ticked. For a second, he looked embarrassed, like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I, uh, came by a few times. Brought you fresh stuff. Didn’t want your plants dying while you were—” He cleared his throat. “—while you were healing.”

Your insides felt all warm and gooey. He was making it so difficult to stay indifferent, to keep all your feelings and wants and needs hidden, like they weren’t about to bleed out of you.

You took a step closer to him. 

“Thank you.” 

His eyes flicked to yours, then away, like he couldn’t quite take the weight of your gratitude. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, a rare and endearing nervous habit, eyes scanning your space like it was unfamiliar now. Like he didn’t belong, even though he fit here so perfectly. 

You saw it clearly, the way he moved. The way his boots thudded soft against your rug. The way his broad body filled your kitchen doorway. He belonged here, in your space. With you. Not just for now, not suddenly. But always. 

You ached for it, for him.

Bucky hesitated near the door, shoulders stiff. 

“I’ll head out, let you settle in. Just…yell if you need anything. I’ll be around.”

You knew what that meant. It meant he would wander, hover. He’d be in the shadows, waiting and anxious. He had this habit, when he was worried. You first learned about it when Steve was injured on a mission they both went on. He never said it, but Bucky wanted to be there for Steven in case he wanted anything. 

You had run into Bucky late in the night. Steve had missed dinner so you were checking on him, making sure he was pushing fluids, when Bucky’s large frame obscured your path. 

Sometimes, and he’d never admit it, but when Bucky had nightmares about you, or anyone else on the team, he’d often seek them out at night. Just a moment, outside the door. All he needed was to hear you breathing, make sure you were okay. 

That the Winter Soldier had not gotten to you. 

“Stay,” you said softly. “Have a cup of coffee with me.” 

He blinked, his hands dropping. “I—yeah. Sure.”

You padded into the kitchen slowly, feeling him trail behind. He sat on the stool at the island while you made two cups. His eyes were heavy on you the whole time, tracing every moment. He watched you carefully as you brewed fresh coffee, getting both of your favourite cups from the cupboard. As you waited, you glanced back at him and to your surprise, he smiled at you; soft, crooked, and quick, but attractive and warm all the same. 

He loved you like this. In your space, as you carried yourself with no expectations. When he was new to the tower, years ago, he often found peace in just watching you to the most mundane tasks. It brought him a sense of calm, normalcy. How you moved with grace, carried yourself like you didn’t have skeletons in your closet. 

It made him have hope. Like he could one day be okay, or a semblance of it. 

When you turned to hand him the mug, his fingers brushed yours, a quiet jolt of warmth passing between you. 

“You okay?” 

He was quiet, eyes drifting across your face before he nodded. “Yeah. I am now.” 

You sat beside him on the stool, legs barely touching, cups between you on the counter. The coffee was simple—black for him, creamy for you—but it felt like a ritual. Something sacred. You couldn’t remember the last time you had shared a mug with anyone else. 

“Are you going on your run tomorrow?” Your voice was quiet, like you couldn’t dare to disturb the peace. 

Bucky hummed, drinking slowly. “Maybe. Why?” He raised an eyebrow at you, concern creeping in. “Do you need something? Tell me, I’ll get it.” 

You laughed, soft and breathy. “No, no. I was just wondering.”

His shoulders sagged and the edge of his lip curled up. “I’ll tell you if I go.” He paused. “I’ll run past that bookstore you like. Get you something so you won’t be bored.”

Your grip on your mug tightened and you lifted your gaze to meet his, warm and heavy. “You don’t have to.” He didn’t like small spaces and you weren’t even sure if he liked the bookstore, even though he always came with you, even when you didn’t ask. 

“I know,” he replied, meaning something else. He set the mug down. “That was good. Thanks.” 

You thought he might stay. That maybe, just maybe, he’d slide a little closer. 

Instead, he stood. 

“I should let you rest—”

“Bucky.” 

He stopped. In his tracks, and breathing. 

You stood too, slow and careful. You stepped towards him, giving him the chance to step back. He didn’t. Just stood still, frozen, like if he didn’t move, this dream might never turn to a nightmare. 

You said his name again, like a prayer. He was almost undone. He should have stepped back, should have done something, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He needed this, needed you. 

Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him towards you. He stumbled slightly, caught off guard—but his hands went to your waist without hesitation. 

You kissed him. 

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was desperate, full of years of tension—your lips crashed onto his, hands fisting his Henley. He kissed you back just as hard, like he’d been starving. He swallowed your gasp of surprise and kissed you ferociously, pressing his chest against yours, hand cupping your cheek. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him messily, teeth against teeth. He pulled you unbelievably close, flush against him. He was wrapped around you, or you around him. He slipped his tongue into your mouth and you moaned, your hands sliding up his solid chest and into his hair. 

When you pulled back, your chest was heaving, lips plump and bruised, face flushed. Your eyes fluttered open and you almost whimpered at the sight of him, hair tousled, lips plump. He looked completely undone, absolutely perfect. 

“Stay,” you whispered, borderline begging. “Please, Buck. I want you. You belong here—with me.”

He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer before the deep blue swept you away. His forehead dropped to yours, nose brushing against your cheek. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he rasped, breathless. 

“I do.” You pressed your forehead harder against his, kissed the edge of his mouth. “I do.” 

You kissed him again. This time, it was slower, sweeter. Your hands moved to cup his jaw, your lips soft against his. He melted into it, groaning low in his throat. HIs hands trembled against your waist. He pressed a sure, hard kiss to your jaw before he pulled away, breathing heavily, gasping. 

“Fuck, doll—fuck.” His arms pushed you into him further, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing the skin under your eye. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He glanced down at your side before lifting his eyes. “Are you breathing alright?” 

You exhaled through your nose, a quiet laugh. So caring, so obvious in his love. You don’t know how you never saw it before. How it wasn’t painfully obvious to you. He was filled with love, all you had to do was let him feel it. 

Gingerly, you moved the hand on your waist to your side, slid it up to your abdomen. Then, up to your heart. It was beating incredibly fast, you wondered if he could hear it. His breath hitched and his eyes flickered to yours. 

“I’ve never been better.” 

He looked like he was a second from losing his mind. His throat bobbed and he tilted his chin. 

“You sure?” 

You sighed and fisted his shirt again. Nothing but pure honesty and desire and love in your eyes. 

“Just kiss me, Bucky.” 

He pressed his thumb into your skin, his pulse in his fingertips. He looked at you again, really looked, trying to search for the answers. You couldn’t tell what he was looking for so you stood still, smiled at him widely. 

Whatever it was, he found it. 

Bucky surged forward and captured your lips again, his heart beating rapidly against your chest as his arms circled your waist. In a rush of confidence, Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth, trached the crevices of your teeth and gums before sucking your tongue, guiding your hips into his. You clawed at his back, guiding him blindly through your apartment. His hands never stopped touching—your sides, your arms, your face, reverent and shaking. 

You barely made it to your bedroom. 

He laid you gently on the bed, like you were something fragile and breakable—but his body trembled with restraint. He hovered over you, breathing hard, his eyes almost black. 

“We don’t have to,” he whispered. “We don’t have to do anything. You’re still hurt.” 

“I want to,” you whispered back. “I need to feel you. All of you. You’ll take care of me, I know you will.” 

He kissed you again, tender and slow. Took his time exploring your mouth. Then, he kissed the edge of your lips, licked and kissed down your throat, nibbling and sucking. His hands brushed against your warm skin, your cheeks and neck and then slipped beneath your sweater. You lifted your arms carefully, letting him peel it off, revealing faintly bruised skin and healing ribs. 

He stared for a beat, his expression softening, endearing, filled with affection. You had never really cared about your appearance, but his attention, the heat of his eyes, made you feel wanted. 

“Fuck,” he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your scars. “You’re beautiful.” 

His lips immediately reattached to your neck, kissing down to your collarbone and your head fell back, trying to pry yourself open for him. “Beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, “So fucking pretty.”

You smiled, pulling his shirt up. He let you strip him bare. His chest was covered in scars, blemishes, burns, healing wounds. 

You traced them with your fingers, touch as light as a feather. The lamp beside your bedside cast a low amber glow across the room and painted his skin in warm gold. He looked godly, absolutely stunning above you. 

He had one forearm braced by your head, the other cradled your cheek. He watched you as you watched him, anxiety swimming in his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him this gently. 

“Y/n,” he whispered, begging. You smiled at him and tilted your chin up, kissing a scar on his shoulder. He kissed you softly and your hands found home in his hair, fingers sliding through the thick, soft strands, tugging gently just to feel him melt. He made a sound in his chest, low and aching, and deepened the kiss, tongue flicking gently against yours. 

His body—muscles, scars, and heat—pressed closely against yours. You could feel it, though, he was holding back. Whether it was because you were injured or he was afraid, you didn’t know. You wanted all of him, his strength and roughness. 

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before he pulled back, eyes glassy and softer than you’d ever seen them. “This what you want?” His voice cracked a little. “Am I what you want?” 

You touched his cheek, feeling the rough edge of stubble and the quiet vulnerability just under his skin. “I want you, Bucky.” He held his breath. “I want the man who waters my plants and dusts my shelves. The man who carried me through a forest and saved my life. The man who learned how to play different card games for me, the one who learned how to make tea the way my mother used to.” 

He blinked, lips parting slightly. “Y/n…”

“I notice everything,” you said, voice trembling. “How you always walk on the outside of the sidewalk. How you breathe deeper when you’re trying to stay calm. How you always make sure you’re between me and danger. Regardless of what it is.” 

He let out a soft, stunned breath. His hand slid from your cheek, down to your shoulder, then your waist, clutching like he needed to anchor himself. 

“I didn’t realize…” His voice cracked and he bit his bottom lip. “Didn’t realize you watched me so closely.” He watched you closely, knew all of your habits and quirks. He hadn’t realized you were watching him just as closely. 

“I always have,” you murmured, as if you hadn’t just turned his world upside down. 

Something cracked open in him then. 

He kissed you hard—like the dam had broken, like every piece of love he’d locked away had finally burst free. His mouth moved with aching reverence across your lips, your jaw, your throat. He kissed down your collarbone, your shoulder. 

He pulled back only to help you undress completely. His hands were so gently—touching, peeling away fabric like it was sacred. He unhooked your bra and dropped it somewhere behind him, pausing when you were completely bare beneath him, worshipping. 

“You really are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, doll.”

You reached for him in return, pulled at the waistbands of his jeans. He let you, watched with a gaze so soft it made your chest ache. When he was finally bare, you ran your hands over his ribs, his thighs. He shivered under your touch, leaning into it. 

He kissed down your body, pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to the skin between your breasts, licking and sucking, swallowing the taste of your sweet sweat, memorizing it. You were a mess above him, head thrown back and eyes sewn shut, incoherent mumbles and whimpers leaving your lips as you pulled and scraped his hair and the nape of his neck. Your entire body felt like it was on fire. 

Under a trance, Bucky pressed a soft kiss on one of your breasts, his fingers brushed the nipple of the other. He kitten-licked your swollen, aching bud before he latched on, circling his tongue as if he could have convinced your body to submit to him completely. 

His other hand pinched and squeezed your other nipple, before he released your swollen and wet nipple with a pop, not even breathing as he latched onto the other one. All of your senses were going crazy, overwhelmed to the point of hysteria and tears. 

He pushed himself up, rested his forehead against yours as both of your chests heaved. You leaned forward and pressed a swift kiss to his swollen lips, licking his bottom lip. You both breathed in the other, bodies sweaty. 

“I’d kill for you,” Bucky admitted in a rush, hoarse. You blinked at him, trying to catch your breath. 

“What?” 

“I would,” he said. “For you. I think I have, already. But you have to know. I’d kill anyone for hurting you.” 

You heard what he was saying—really saying. It was a clear day. His devotion. He was panting, sweat collecting on his forehead. He pressed a soft kiss to your nose. 

“I know,” you answered. “I love you, Bucky.” 

His arm trembled but he caught himself. He stared down at you for a second before his entire face softened. He brushed his cheek against yours, lips and breath warm, tickling. “I love you, Y/n.” It was soft, like it was still a secret, but it took your breath away all the same. 

He went back to kissing you. 

Everywhere. 

He took his time, dragging his mouth across your stomach, your hips, your thighs, murmuring soft praises into your skin. He kissed along the edges of your scars like they were maps that led him home. 

When he finally kissed between your legs, it was with awe. 

“Let me taste you,” he begged, voice gravelly. 

You nodded, breath catching as he settled between your thighs. He shifted downwards and pressed his nose against your cunt, holding down your hips as your legs twitched. You cried out and pulled at his hair but he was adamant, ignoring the pain and pushed your legs further apart. 

You squirmed under him as he stared at your cunt before blowing warm air on it, finding your agony adorable. You knew though, that he’d notice if you were in pain before you did. 

He spread your legs even further before he kissed your pussy softly. “Fucking pretty pussy,” he praised. His tongue was slow, teasing, reverent—licking up through your folds, curling just right against your clit. His hands held your hips, thumbs stroking circles into your skin as he worshipped you like you were holy.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “Please.” 

“I know, doll,” he nodded, his nose brushed against your slick folds. You grinded your hips against him, trying to get some sort of relief. “You taste like heaven,” he groaned. He licked a harsh stripe of your core. Pressed his face closer to your cunt as his tongue pushed in and out of your sopping hole, licking and sucking as if you were his last meal.

He traced his name, his devotion, into your gummy walls, his nose pressed against your clit. You moaned out a broken, gagged version of his name and arched your back as his nose dug further into your clit, rubbed it until he’s sure you’re all he’ll smell for weeks. 

His hand pressed against your cheek and you clutched his hand, brought his metal fingers to your lips and sucked. He groaned into your cunt and the vibrations had you seeing stars. 

He curled the tip of his tongue upwards and you almost screamed, tears fell down your cheeks at the pleasure.

“Yes, yes,” you chanted, words muffled by his fingers. 

Lifting his eyes, Bucky hummed at the sight of your pleasure, the way tears prettily fell down your cheeks, and lifted his fingers from your tongue. Before he could bring his hand back towards him, you grabbed it and settled it on your chest. His wet, dripping fingers pinched your nipples, teasing the sensitive skin.

“Bucky,” you panted, hips arching. “I’m close, please, baby.” 

Despite everything inside him telling him to keep going, he pulled up, releasing your clit with a messy pop. He kissed your folds and cooed as you cried out, licking you clean. “I know, Y/n, I know.” He kissed your inner thigh. “But if you’re gonna cum, I want it to be around my cock, pretty girl.” 

You stopped breathing. “Bucky…Oh my gosh.” He kissed up your body, licking the wetness from his lips, grinned like he’d never truly lived before. He hovered above you again and you cupped his face. 

“You’re insane,” you laughed, giddy. 

“I really like you, doll.” Bucky was grinning, and although his eyes burned into yours, you couldn’t tell if he was speaking to you or your pussy. 

You laughed and curled your fingers around his dog tags, pulling him close. “I need you,” you whispered. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged. He kissed you softly before pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. 

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised. “I’ll go slow.” He pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifted your head. He looked between your eyes, trying to find any hesitation before he glanced down at your lips. 

Pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Bucky lifted your head, his gaze almost scoldering. He looked between your eyes, trying to find any hesitation, before he glanced down at your lips.

“You’ll tell me if it hurts, right?” Bucky needed you to know that you were safe with him. “I’m serious, Y/n.” 

“I know, Bucky.” You traced one of his dog tags. “It won’t. I trust you.” 

He wrapped one of his hands around his hard, leaking cock and slid up and down once. “I’ll make it feel good, doll.” Your pussy fluttered at his words and he could feel it against his legs. He almost, almost, lost it right there and then, instead, he brushed the back of his hand against your cheek, looking as sinful as ever. 

Slowly, he pushed himself in. 

The satisfying tightening and burn of his veins against your gummy walls made you both moan in unison, your body lit up as he sunk in completely, the base of his cock hit your core. The stretch felt amazing, so good, and all you could do was tuck your face into the crook of his neck, biting back a sob. 

“Fuck,” he groaned out, knuckles white with how hard he gripped your skin. “Fuck, so fucking tight and warm.” You pressed a soft kiss to his neck and he jerked his hips upwards, filled you to the brim, his tip reached parts of you no one ever had. 

When you licked a long stripe of his neck, sucked his adam’s apple until it was red, he collapsed on top of you, his cock leaking in your pussy, veins pulsing. 

You welcomed the weight of his body. He felt so warm; so real, so yours, you could feel the weight of his muscles against yours, the weight crushed the lingering loneliness that had crept into your bones over the years. 

You wrapped your arms around his body, scratched his back and pulled at his hair as you littered his throat and jaw with kisses.

Desperation clawed at Bucky and his thrusts became erratic as he pushed your body flush against him, forcing your hips to match his bruising pace as more slick poured from your legs and onto the sheets, your needy moans mixed with his broken ones. 

“Close–I’m, oh,” you stuttered out, eyes closing when Bucky’s fingers grazed your clit, his own eyes shut for a second when your walls squeezed him impossibly tight as he pressed his fingers against your clit. He could feel it, the dizzying feeling of euphoria building in his chest, the way it was running through his veins. He could tell you felt it too by your breathing, the way your pussy wept for him. 

Stars danced around in your vision and he knew his own vision mirrored yours, the tightness in his core was almost unbearable and he tipped his head forward and pressed his lips against yours, smiling briefly when your hold on him tightened. “Go ahead, doll. Cum for me. Cum all over my cock,” his voice was sweet, borderline crazed. 

You fell limp in his arms when he thrusted into you once, twice, right against your cervix, and you had come undone for him, release washed over you, body weak as your legs shook under his. His hands were all over your body, caressed your skin to comfort you as your body convulsed for him. 

His lips littered soft kisses to any skin he could reach, and when your walls tightened completely, coating his cock in your cum, he softly cried out your name as warm ropes of his cum filled you to the brim. 

You could barely blink, senses still overwhelmed as he kept kissing you, kept cumming, filling you up so well, until you could almost taste him. Quiet praises filled with love and encouragement were whispered against your skin as he remained buried up to the hilt in you, his hips still pushing his cum into you, almost as if he had no control over himself. 

Your entire body was shaking and he wrapped his arms tightly around you, rubbed your back gently until your whimpers turned into heavy breathing, until all you could mumble was some variation of his name. He forced his hips to still, forced himself to breathe deeply. 

“I love you, Y/n,” he said, devout. “You mean so much to me. I’ll protect you, always.”

Bodies sticky and sweaty, he ran his hands up and down your back, nails grazed your skin to ground you. He was sure he was still cumming but if he could distract you, keep your attention on anything other than your overly stimulated, stuffed pussy, he’d do so. 

“That’s it, doll,” he cooed lovingly, kissed the shell of your ear. “I got you.” He smiled when he felt you nod in the crook of his neck. “Did so well for me, pretty girl.” You simply hummed in response, unable to form any sentences at the moment. Bucky rested his cheek against your head, fought the urge to grind his hips against yours. 

You breathed in Bucky’s scent slowly, head safely tucked in the crook of his neck. The way he held you now, so soft, so lovingly, had your heart settling. You could barely feel your legs, moaning lightly when his cock twitched inside you. Wrapped around his body, you pressed an open mouthed kiss to his neck, sucked softly when he tilted his head to give you more access. 

Your fingers tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck and he shuddered. You could have fallen asleep right there and then, with his cock stuffed safely in your pussy, sticky wetness fusing your both together.

Slowly, Buckley lifted himself off your body and you both hissed. He brushed your hair out of your face. You stared at him and his legs wobbled at the look in your eyes. You brought a hand up to his face and traced the length of his eyebrow, brushed your fingers down his nose, and along his cheek. 

“Pretty,” you mumbled, and he leaned forward and kissed you softly. 

It was different, slower, more intimate as he cupped your cheek and tilted his head, lips plush against yours. You moaned into his mouth at the intimacy of it; the way his cock was still buried inside you, the way your mixed juices still leaked out of you, the gentle caress of his hand as he whispered loving praises into your mouth. 

Gently, Bucky pulled out of your sopping cunt, biting back a groan. He shifted his weight and maneuvered your body until you were laying in his arms, your back pressed against his chest. He knew he had much to clean up, but your eyes fluttered shut occasionally so he put it off, knowing you needed him more. 

He ran his hands along your arms and then your shoulders, pressing into your skin occasionally to remind you that he was right behind you. You snuggled into him, back pressed flush against his chest and he wrapped an arm around your waist. 

“Let me run you a bath,” he whispered, pressed a kiss to your head. 

You shook your head and waved him off. “Maybe later. I can’t feel any part of my body.” 

Bucky laughed, but he lifted himself a bit, looked down at you. “Do you need anything? Medicine? Water? Does anything hurt?” 

You snorted and slowly shifted, chest pressed to his. You wedged your leg between his, ignored the stickiness that coated you. “Only you could fuck me like this and be this worried after. Just hold me, Buck.” 

He smiled at the fucked-out look on your face, pride bubbling in his chest before his eyes skirted to the scars on your skin. He kissed your cheek and slowly pulled himself away from you and out of bed. 

“I’m going to grab you a glass of water and clean you up. I’ll be right back, doll.” 

You hummed and squeezed his bicep. “Okay, baby.” 

By the time he came back, you had fallen asleep. He placed the glass of water on your side and sat beside your sleeping body. His hand hovered before he cupped your cheek. “I don’t think I could survive ever losing you, Y/n.” 

"I love you," he whispered, the words flowing out easily.

Maybe it had always been easy, with you.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

HOW TO WRITE A CHARACTER WHO IS IN PAIN

first thing you might want to consider: is the pain mental or physical?

if it’s physical, what type of pain is it causing? — sharp pain, white-hot pain, acute pain, dull ache, throbbing pain, chronic pain, neuropathic pain (typically caused by nerve damage), etc

if it’s mental, what is the reason your character is in pain? — grief, heartbreak, betrayal, anger, hopelessness, fear and anxiety, etc

because your character will react differently to different types of pain

PHYSICAL PAIN

sharp and white-hot pain may cause a character to grit their teeth, scream, moan, twist their body. their skin may appear pale, eyes red-rimmed and sunken with layers of sweat covering their forehead. they may have tears in their eyes (and the tears may feel hot), but they don’t necessarily have to always be crying.

acute pain may be similar to sharp and white-hot pain; acute pain is sudden and urgent and often comes without a warning, so your character may experience a hitched breathing where they suddenly stop what they’re doing and clench their hand at the spot where it hurts with widened eyes and open mouth (like they’re gasping for air).

dull ache and throbbing pain can result in your character wanting to lay down and close their eyes. if it’s a headache, they may ask for the lights to be turned off and they may be less responsive, in the sense that they’d rather not engage in any activity or conversation and they’d rather be left alone. they may make a soft whimper from their throat from time to time, depends on their personality (if they don’t mind others seeing their discomfort, they may whimper. but if your character doesn’t like anyone seeing them in a not-so-strong state, chances are they won’t make any sound, they might even pretend like they’re fine by continuing with their normal routine, and they may or may not end up throwing up or fainting).

if your character experience chronic pain, their pain will not go away (unlike any other illnesses or injuries where the pain stops after the person is healed) so they can feel all these types of sharp pain shooting through their body. there can also be soreness and stiffness around some specific spots, and it will affect their life. so your character will be lucky if they have caretakers in their life. but are they stubborn? do they accept help from others or do they like to pretend like they’re fine in front of everybody until their body can’t take it anymore and so they can no longer pretend?

neuropathic pain or nerve pain will have your character feeling these senses of burning, shooting and stabbing sensation, and the pain can come very suddenly and without any warning — think of it as an electric shock that causes through your character’s body all of a sudden. your character may yelp or gasp in shock, how they react may vary depends on the severity of the pain and how long it lasts.

EMOTIONAL PAIN

grief can make your character shut themself off from their friends and the world in general. or they can also lash out at anyone who tries to comfort them. (five states of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and eventual acceptance.)

heartbreak — your character might want to lock themself in a room, anywhere where they are unseen. or they may want to pretend that everything’s fine, that they’re not hurt. until they break down.

betrayal can leave a character with confusion, the feelings of ‘what went wrong?’, so it’s understandable if your character blames themself at first, that maybe it’s their fault because they’ve somehow done something wrong somewhere that caused the other character to betray them. what comes after confusion may be anger. your character can be angry at the person who betrayed them and at themself, after they think they’ve done something wrong that resulted in them being betrayed, they may also be angry at themself next for ‘falling’ for the lies and for ‘being fooled’. so yes, betrayal can leave your character with the hatred that’s directed towards the character who betrayed them and themself. whether or not your character can ‘move on and forgive’ is up to you.

there are several ways a character can react to anger; they can simply lash out, break things, scream and yell, or they can also go complete silent. no shouting, no thrashing the place. they can sit alone in silence and they may cry. anger does make people cry. it mostly won’t be anything like ‘ugly sobbing’ but your character’s eyes can be bloodshot, red-rimmed and there will be tears, only that there won’t be any sobbing in most cases.

hopelessness can be a very valid reason for it, if you want your character to do something reckless or stupid. most people will do anything if they’re desperate enough. so if you want your character to run into a burning building, jump in front of a bullet, or confess their love to their archenemy in front of all their friends, hopelessness is always a valid reason. there’s no ‘out of character’ if they are hopeless and are desperate enough.

fear and anxiety. your character may be trembling, their hands may be shaky. they may lose their appetite. they may be sweaty and/or bouncing their feet. they may have a panic attack if it’s severe enough.

and I think that’s it for now! feel free to add anything I may have forgotten to mention here!

[savanir]

You shouldn't summon a Ghost King

Danny had felt the weird tug to the entirety of himself and instantly knew he was finally actually getting summoned for the first time. 

He'd winced through the whole process, knowing he should have listened to Clockwork and changed the requirements now that he was Ghost King... but even though Clockwork had seemed pretty serious about it, it just... kept slipping Danny's mind.  Listen, it's not that he didn't want to! executive dysfunction is a bitch alright, and it sounded like boring ghost paper work.

And it's been like... months now, maybe even a full year, maybe even longer. People don't really summon the Ghost King apparently, and Danny has been busy! He has school, he's trying really hard to get his grades back up. At some point he just completely forgot about it. 

He's really regretting not taking it as seriously as he probably should have now that he's randomly on top of a skyscraper in some massive city he doesn't recognise. And the city is... for a lack of better words, on fire. 

He can feel the suffering he can hear the screams, there is pain, chaos and fear all around him. Like a physical force pressing down on him.

The sickening part of it all is that he feels stronger than ever like someone injected him with 50 energy drinks directly into his veins but at the same time his stomach is recoiling violently, extreme jitters but not in a good way, absolutely nauseous. 

He's not really listening to whatever is going on directly around him on that roof, that's all far in the distance somehow, maybe he's disociating, maybe something else other ghost thing is going on, but Danny is just floating there in full king regalia. 

All he cares about it is snatching the weird creepy looking grimoire and getting some answers. 

And answers he gets because its very clearly stated in there that the Ghost King (Pariah Dark) wants a tribute to himself. Whomever deigns to summon him must prove willingness to his cause. Aka the whole conquering and genocide and tyranny thing. 

Over five hundred deaths would probably do but over a thousand was preferred, even more was obviously even better. That would show dedication and earn favour and- blah blah blah. 

Danny thinks he's going to throw up. 

It doesn't help that that's when the heroes show up and Danny is very clearly the big bad in this scenario even if it was completely unintentional.

Maybe they'll let him explain? Oh shit, that one looks so upset they're crying- maybe he can just go invisible instead...

This might be the worst night of his life. 

[pythonmoth]

cw: post torture trauma. depersonalization. denial. sick jokes as a coping mechanism.

× framed traitor f!reader x lt ghost. poly tf141.

Part 3

Numb. And cold.

The light in the room is cold and white, devoid of any type of warmth.

Laying flat on the bed, you're barely blinking, your expression is detached, and unreadable.

Your body got so used to the torture that every time a medic moves too fast, you mentally brace yourself for a hit or for another toenail to be ripped off, not moving a muscle.

You've three toenails left, after all. Another three chances of pain.

Perhaps they could cut your fingers off, instead. Or your ears.

That'd be new.

Your eyes are fixed on the light bulb above your head, dimly aware of the medics moving around you as if you were in a simulation game. You hear them curse under their breath, sharing looks, and throwing worried glances at you.

At times, it feels like you're watching yourself on that table. You're the light bulb.

It needs fixing.

The medics have already tended to your feet and toes, your fingers, and deep down you can't help but find it hilarious that, despite the drugs they gave you for the pain, your raw fingers throb bad enough for you to remember it perfectly.

You will never forget the pain.

Or perhaps you've already forgotten.

Images of Si Ghost, a hidden smirk behind the mask, ripping your nails off and showing them to you before throwing them to the side, laughing at you with Soap, and Price, fill your mind. Your past screams break through the image, your fingers twitching briefly.

Is it a memory?

You grimace inwardly.

You're not sure.

Perhaps it is. Or not.

As you're held up by two medics and put to sleep on another bed, drugged out of your mind, you stop worrying about it.

You're mistaken. Surely. Must be.

There's no way it was actually Simon; you're just going crazy. He will come and tuck you to bed as he always does. He'll bring Johnny tomorrow and the three of you will have some of the cookies Johnny keeps hidden in his room, safe from the Captain and the rest, the hungry lot. And they'll have the beer Simon bought the other day. And then Simon will give you a goodnight kiss.

There's no way.

Must be a mistake. Your mind is playing tricks.

Disdain. Laughter. Curses.

"Traitor".

No matter how hard you fight it, your eyes fall shut. With a soft sigh, you smile, amused at yourself. The blanket is soft against your cheeks, your mind spinning happily as exhaustion takes over.

You're mistaken.

"The pinky is next. You're still not giving me names".

You will just sleep it off.

"Please, give me their names. Please".

Nightmares.

As you wake up in cold sweat, hastily standing up from the bed, you put pressure on your cut feet with no care, and it makes you let out a sharp cry. Shocked to your core, you fall down on your knees, screaming in pain again when your hands brace your fall, making the raw skin of your fingertips stretch and burn.

You're suddenly aware of your injuries.

Memories rush to your mind. And they're real.

They're very real.

When the door springs open and you see Si Ghost rushing over to you, his eyes tormented behind the mask, you ignore the pain in your body and quickly crawl back, dragging yourself away from him, not hiding the fear in your expression.

You can't hide it, even if you wanted to.

"No, wait. Please. Please. You're okay" he says, lowering himself to the ground in a heartbeat, his knees touching the cold floor, keeping as much distance between the two of you as possible.

You don't realize you're crying until you taste it in your lips and, even then, you don't even dare breathing. You're not blinking, staring at Ghost in complete silence.

Funny. Crying will forever remind you of it.

"Please, you're safe. You're okay" he assures you, his voice rough and shaky. Ghost shifts forward slowly, but the tension in your shoulders makes him pause.

"I won't touch you. I promise" Ghost murmurs, keeping his hands on his thighs, in full display. "W-we were tricked. A mole planted evidence against you, but we found him a few days ago when we brought you here. I'm so—"

You burst out laughing.

"You're sorry" you crackle. "You're sorry".

"I won't give you any excuses. Price told me he was certain, and I— I had to do my job. Please—"

"Stay away from me".

"Please. I didn't want to do it. I'm so sorry" he pleads, his hands flat against the ground. "I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Johnny and I. You won't forgive us and we know this. Lovie, please".

Your laughter turns into sobs the longer he speaks. Lovie. It sounds so ridiculous right now that even if you're terrified of him you wish you had the strength to strangle him.

Alas, the lack of fingernails makes it difficult.

You press yourself against the bed, unable to stand up, unable to look at Ghost as he stares at you. You can just shake your head, your shoulders never relaxing, your entire body coiled with pain and grief.

Ghost moves slowly as he takes his mask off, leaving it on the floor in front of him. His eyes are downcast, his blonde hair messy and you can see he's been barely eating, however long you've been here.

He looks like shit.

Perhaps, if this was a few days ago, you'd be making a silly joke so he doesn't feel so vulnerable. You would've kissed him and played with his blonde eyelashes until he rolled his eyes, and playfully smacked your hand away.

Now, mask or no mask, you don't know this man.

taglist: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic

-ˋˏ✄——————————————————

Masterlist | Part 4

buy me a coffee

styling decisions bc this reader is traumatized as hell. and no, no forgiving.

it'll stay for a bit. you'll be noticing the change in reader's emotions through it!

[weebsinstash]

Now that we've witnessed the Invincible War, I can't help but think of a scenario of "it turns out you're Mark's partner/unwilling darling in every single other universe and when the alternate Marks show up for the big battle, they all freak out at the sight of you because all of them have lost you in their own universes"

Like it's almost a Spiderverse scenario where you arrive on the scene and you find out you're dead in every other universe. Maybe you're the only version of yourself that has powers. Maybe you're the only version of yourself that DOESN'T have powers. Maybe you're the only version of yourself that has Mark as a good platonic friend and every other version of him became Nice Guy Incel From Hell that felt like you belonged with them and either drove you to suicide, lost you in an accident, or accidentally killed you themselves, or maybe you were even totally cool with him and someone else killed you or even something tragic like dying in childbirth

Oh, so there's an evil version of Mark that missed his mom so badly he was going to kidnap an alternate universe version of her to take home?? So you're telling me these guys would absolutely have enough screws loose to immediately call up Angstrom and say that taking you is now part of the deal then?

The versions of Mark who were raised on Viltrum or joined his father, the ones who pride themselves in their superiority and violence, being so impressed by this powerful majestic, strong, superpowered version of you, oh so ready and willing to straight up kill them to defend Earth. But on the flip side, these vicious versions of Mark who knew you as that stoic hero now seeing you powerless and vulnerable and scared and so, so easily hurt.

Some of them can't help but immediately freeze up at the sight of you and stare, unable to look away as they process that, yeah, that's really who they think it is. Some of them start crying and beeline for you immediately. Some of them just start freaking out and all but hyperventilating, "holy shit is this for real?! Am I dreaming right now?! Is that really you?!"

Can you imagine one of them grabbing you and saying some WILD shit like, "oh my god, I'm so so sorry, I didn't mean to kill you, you just kept screaming and crying and i-i freaked out and I didn't realize I was squeezing so hard, I didn't mean to snap your neck, I promise it'll NEVER happen again" like genuinely that shit would make me u-turn right the fuck out of that battle and have Mark and Cecil or whomever the fuck get to fight this crazed psycho who looks and sounds exactly like your good friend, but let's be real, the second you try to run you would have EVERY version of Mark immediately after your ass

Picture this: one of the evil Marks is so genuinely euphoric to see you again that he rushes up to you and hugs you so tightly it cracks one of your ribs and makes you cry out in pain. Suddenly he's jerking back, his face cycling through several emotions. He's still holding on to a wrist or your shoulders and he and any other Marks present suddenly realize, oh fuck you don't have any powers? Like imagine trying to pull yourself away with all of your strength and they can all tell it's doing absolutely nothing as the one holding you just murmurs, "wait, why are you so weak...?" with obvious fear and concern trickling into his voice

All of them instantly detouring their plans to start fighting over you. Another Mark knocks out the teeth of the one who just cracked your ribs. A Mark whose entire goal was to use Angstrom to find another you completely unable to stop himself from scooping you up off your feet, promising he's going to tell you somewhere safe and about to fly away with you before getting suckerpunched by another Mark with the exact same idea. One Mark flying up. "Oh sorry, this was your little date-night buddy? They were my SPOUSE"

On the flip side, you being a viltrumite hybrid yourself or some other mutant or superpowered individual that they're completely unused to and the ones who lust for battle getting the biggest adrenaline/endorphin rush of their lives as you're actually strong enough to knock them around. More masochistic Marks all but having their eyes roll back into their heads as you punch or kick or throw them. You being so strong that it takes at least 2 or 3 of them to completely pin you down

Something something "evil Marks having to team up to take you down and once you're finally subdued and are pinned down and helpless they basically run a train on you in the middle of the rubble of a burning city" something something

The good guys and you and your friends managing to win and drive the variants away and kill Angstrom and you ultimately find out "your" Mark is just as equally obsessive and mentally unstable as all the rest and he was just the best one at hiding it. He was happy juat pretending to be your "platonic friend" and looking after you but he was intending to play 4d chess and work his way into your heart. Now that your life and safety were threatened, it finally triggers him to drop off the deep end and start making more drastic moves. Ok, so Cecil wants him to work for the government again and lead the Guardians huh? Maybe he'll consider accepting IF the GDA helps him contain you and keep you safe and healthy. Maybe he'll consider IF Cecil basically signs off on you being a captive of Mark's that the government turns a blind eye to as long as he protects the planet. Maybe you try and fly away and find out YOU have a thingy in YOUR head and Cecil basically knocks you out of the sky because damn it, he's not going to let another however many millions of people die just so you can stay single, let alone risk finding out what Mark is going to do now that he's starting to lose it

Whether you're a human or a hero, you'll be fucked either way

[aloevera-o]

Hi dearest tumblr writers here is some tips you have no choice in using now.

Please stop over using: said, say, yell, whispered, in your stories. Its atrocious,

(Edit)

I know I phrased it that you were "over using" said. (I was making a joke) I'm not going to bully you for using it. I provided this list for those who *want* it. Personally *I* do not frequently use "said" BECAUSE *I* like to show more emotion in my dialog. Again I am not going to say your writing is good or bad based on the tag on your dialog. This list is for those who WANT to use it.

Use these instead

Neutral 

Announced 

Commented

Divulged(Make known)

Explained

Called

Began

Told

Reported

Observed

Remarked(Say something as a comment;mention 2. Regard with attention;notice)

Noted

Continued

Conferred(Grant or bestow 2. Have discussion;exchange opinions)

Replying

Replied

Retorted(Say something in answer to a remark, usually in a sharp, angry, or witty manner)

Answered

Responded

Suggesting

Advised

Appealed

Asserted

Beckoned(Make a gesture with the hand, arm, or head to encourage someone to come near)

Urged

Promised

Inclined

Implored(Beg someone earnestly or desperately to do something)

Implied

Hinted

Persuaded

Touted(Attempt to sell, typically by pestering in an aggressive or bold way)

Proposed

Teasing or Flirting

Grinned

Quipped (Make a witty remark)

Teased

Taunted

Purred

Mocked

Mimicked

Provoked (Stimulate or give rise to in someone)

Joked

Lied

Imitated

Making a Sound

Breathed

Choked

Croaked

Drawled(Speak in a slow, lazy way with prolonged vowel sounds)

Echoed

Grunted

Keened (Wail in grief for a dead person)

Moaned

Mumbled

Murmured

Painted

Sang

Stifled

Sniveled(Cry and sniff in a feeble or fretful way)

Snorted

Whimpered

Whined

Uttered

Bawled

Howled

Whispered

Accusing

Accused

Articulated

Postulated(Suggest or assume the existence or fact truth or a basis for a reasoning, discussion, or belief)

Angry

Barked

Bellowed (Emit a deep, loud roar, typically in pain or anger)

Bossed

Carped (Complain or find fault continually about trivial matters)

Censured (Express severe disapproval)

Commended

Criticized

Demanded

Raged

Ordered

Reprimanded

Scoffed (Speak to someone or about something in a scornful derision or mocking way)

Scolded

Seethed (Bubble up as a result or being boiled)

Snapped

Screamed

Snarled

Told off

Thundered

Roared

Yelled

Chided (Scold or rebuke)

Leered (Look or gaze in an unpleasant, malicious, or lascivious way)

Condemned 

Rebuked (Express sharp disapproval or criticism of someone because of their behavior or actions)

Admonished (Warn or reprimand firmly)

Chastised (Rebuke or reprimand severely) 

Berated (Scold or criticize angrily)

Interrupting

Interjected

Interrupted

Chimed in

Comforting

Soothed

Comforted

Reassured

Consoled

Empathized

Asking a Question

Sought

Inquired

Doubted

Hypothesized

Guessed

Supposed

Suggested

Lilted (Speak, sing, or sound with a lilt)

Wondered

Probed(Physically explore or examine)

Beseeched(Ask someone urgently and fervently;implore)

Acceptance

Accepted

Acknowledged

Admitted

Affirmed

Agreed

Justified

Settled

Verified

Concurred

Condoned(accept and allow behavior usually thought as offensive)

Cocky or Snarky

Grinned

Taunted

Purred

Jabbered(Talk rapidly and excitedly with little sense)

Fear

Shrieked

Screamed

Swore

Quaked

Shivered

Trembled

Warned

Cautioned

Shuddered

Stammered

Fretted (Be constantly or visibly worried or anxious)

Hesitated

Stuttered

Quavered (Shake or tremble in speaking, typically through nervousness or emotion)

Happy

Babbled

Beamed

Blurted

Bursted

Cheered

Chortled (Laugh in a breathy, gleeful way;chuckle)

Chuckled

Crooned (Hum or sing in a soft, low voice, especially in a sentimental manner)

Crowed (Gloating;saying something in a triumphant manner)

Exclaimed

Giggled

Laughed

Rejoiced

Sad

Wailed

Cried

Sobbed

Yelped

Agonized (Undergo great mental anguish through worrying about something)

Blubbered (Sob noiselessly and uncontrollably)

Groaned

Mourned

Puled (Cry querulously or weakly)

Cried

Wept

Grieved 

Lamented (Mourn someone's death)

"She said with (a)(tone)" Is also a better option than just "she said". Or mix and match

Casual 

Chiding 

Courteous 

Curious 

Dry 

Flirtatious 

Level 

Rasping 

Small 

Panicky 

Soothing 

Condescending 

Perpetually tired/angry/excited 

Controlled grin

Fond look

Gloomy sigh

Note of relief

Sad smile

Sense of guilt

Sigh of irritation

Forced smirk

Wry smile

Crooked smile

Conviction

Determination

Rage

Firm persistence

Pleasure

Quiet empathy

Simple directness

Astonishment

Still emotion

Also here are some better adjectives for words you are banned from using too

“Good”

Exceptional

Adequate

Splendid

Superb

Admirable

Favorable

Marvelous

Satisfactory

Reputable

Worthy

Respectable

Pure

Uncorrupted

Efficient

Dependable

Merciful

Considerate

Mannerly

Proper

Decorous

Satisfactory

“Okay”

Satisfactory

Approved

Acceptable

Passable

Tolerable

Sustainable

“Nice”

Lovely

Beautiful

Favorable

Adequate

Kind

Friendly

Attractive

Polite

Helpful

Inviting

Nifty

Delightful

Pleasant

Admirable

Pretty

“Bad”

Atrocious

Awful

Cheap

Rough

Unacceptable

Cruddy

Defective

Incorrect

Inadequate

Raunchy

Inferior

Poor

“With anger”

Acidly

Angrily

Crossly

Irritably

Loudly

Roughly

Tartly

Tightly

Smugly

Sternly

Hotly

“With sadness”

Depressingly

Gently

Sadly

Softly

Desperately

“Not caring”

Absently

Complacently

Dryly

“With arrogance”

Sarcastically

Condescendingly

Smugly

“With neutrality”

Naturally

Calmly

Approvingly

“With care”

Understandingly

Empathetically

Carefully

Hesitantly

Cautiously

Quietly

Uncertainly

That is my peace, thank you

[mulloey]

hunted • yunho

it’s all a game, he says. you’re desperate to play.

yunho x fem!reader

words: 4.7k

warnings: extremely dark kinks, heavy consensual non consent (cnc), dubcon at some points though you have a safeword, internet hookups (don’t), unprotected sex (don’t), the word ‘rape’ is used, hard dom!yunho, fear play, glove kink, choking, impact play, knife play, under-negotiated kink, size kink, painful sex, sir kink, you’re referred to within the scene as a victim and a sex slave, explicit threats of bodily harm and death in the context of cnc, mind break possibly, aftercare, crying etc

you’ve been appropriately warned of the content ahead. click out if you are uncomfortable. this is not safe to do irl. hate is blocked.

-

You don’t know where else to turn.

It’s been on your mind for a while— this fantasy. This game. You don’t know why, or how, and you’d never, ever admit it, but it plagues your thoughts, day after day, haunting your dreams night after night without respite. You’re too ashamed to even say it.

You never told any of your previous partners; you’d hint, maybe, suggesting weaker, milder things to nudge them the right direction, but they always shied away, got scared about three miles south of what you actually wanted, and ran screaming. You know it’s wrong. If anything, the fact that they ran away should have been a green flag. But it wasn’t. Not to you.

You make the account around 3am. Your username is nondescript, profile photo grainy and blurred, showing just enough to attract someone who might be able to do this for you. You write the post with trembling hands; the words come easier to you than you’ll ever admit.

I want to be forced. I want to be raped. I want to be punished for resisting. I imagine a stranger, maybe one I’d only seen in passing. He can’t get enough of me. He needs me. He’ll have me. He follows me wherever I’m going, lying in wait. It doesn’t matter how much I resist. I’m going to be his. He. Will. Have. Me.

As expected, your phone is blown up by the time you check it. Hundreds of old, gross, sleazy men desperate to get a taste of your — shudder — young pussy, as one called it. You hadn’t given a specific age, just that you’re in your 20s, but they all seem content to run with the idea of you being on the lower end, rather than the higher. Perverts.

You scroll through the messages. each one confirming the rational part of your brain that says this is a stupid, dangerous idea and you should forget you ever even had it.

It’s the one at the bottom that stops you. Sent not long after you’d gone to sleep, but they’d liked the post almost instantly. The profile picture is like yours — grainy, blurred, but suggesting a toned, young-ish, large body — and he too is in his 20s, if he’s telling the truth. His message is short and respectful— a breath of fresh air.

youknowme: Nice post. Do you really want that, or do you just like imagining it?

You bite your lip. You don’t know why, but this person feels… different. Exciting. You want to know more.

rosedepths: i really want it. can you give it to me?

youknowme: I could. Would you take it all?

You chuckle— you know what he means, but you figure you’ll have some fun. See if he’s expecting a sweet, scared little doe who’ll be quick to submit; or if he’s expecting a fight. If he’s expecting you.

rosedepths: nope.

The typing button appears and disappears a few times. You assume he doesn’t like your response, and he’s not as exciting a match as you’d hoped, until his next message comes through.

youknowme: Yes, you will.

Oh, fuck. You feel yourself leaking as you read it over and over. You’re desperate to know more.

rosedepths: have you done this before? raping a stranger?

youknowme: I hope you’re talking about CNC, Rose. If you are, then yes. I have.

rosedepths: you any good at it?

youknowme: I’ve subdued much feistier things than you. I can give you what you’re asking for. Do you want it?

The need in your stomach is so profound you think you could keel over. You’ve never found it easier to type something out.

rosedepths: yes.

You talk until you sleep, and you’re optimistic about this guy. He’s careful and meticulous with your kinks and limits, guiding you through the details while still retaining the mystery and allure you’re craving. Despite your protests, he insists on a safeword, but assures you that that’s ‘the only thing in the world that will stop him.’

As you become more familiar with this site, designed solely for this purpose it seems, you see this man is… popular. To say the least. He even has what looks like a review section from other women he’s fucked and oh, there’s pictures. Not of him— but of the deep bruises and stinging cuts he’s left behind. You click through the reviews, pupils dilating the longer you stare the screen down.

He fucked me so good.

He put me in my place.

He’s brutal.

No one’s ever made me cry like that. Or cum.

When he proposes a meeting, you don’t think twice.

By the time next Friday rolls around, the knot in your stomach is a constant; it follows you around, heavy and aching as it trails behind every step. You know it’s just nerves, excitement, the thrill of knowing you’re about to do something very, very wrong. But some part of you does wonder if it’s doubt— are you being stupid? Is this a bad idea? Well, yes. You are and it is. But is it… too bad? You don’t know. As the clock ticks slowly towards your ‘appointment’, you feel more and more anxious to find out.

You clock out at 5, hurrying down the stairs of your office building to dash home. You’d prepared your bag already, shaved this morning and placed your fanciest, laciest set of lingerie under your work clothes. You take a second to freshen up, touch up your makeup and dump your work bag on your bed before you’re hurrying out the door again.

The hotel he’d booked is downtown, shiny and new and well beyond your price range. You wonder for a moment what this man does for work. Your knowledge of him is very, very limited— by design, of course. This whole game, this whole exercise hinges on him being a total stranger. But still, you can’t help but be curious. The one clue you have is the name the room was booked under— Yunho. You must have said it to yourself a thousand times; trying it out, the sound, the feeling. It tastes tantalising on your tongue and you’re bubbling with need by the time you make it to your room.

You hesitate when you reach the door. He’d told you he’d arrive later, at an undetermined time, but you can’t help but wonder. Is he in there, lying in wait? Will you open the door to find him sat on the bed, or hidden behind a corner, or, your heart races at the thought, right there on the other side? You breathe, in, out, in, out. You can do this. There’s nothing you could find on the other side of the door that you wouldn’t beg for another day.

You’re almost disappointed when you walk into the room to find it totally empty. You check the bathroom, the corners, the cupboards, half hoping to find him looming there, waiting to strike. But you don’t. You sigh, sitting down on the bed and sliding off your shoes. You’re not really sure what to do now. You suppose you could touch yourself, you doubt he’d blame you for being excited, but over the past few days, without realising you’ve found yourself almost saving yourself for him; each time your hands had wandered down there, you’d stopped yourself. He’ll take care of it.

Sighing, you decide to turn on the TV, flicking lazily through the channels until you find something that entertains you until he arrives.

With every unexplained noise, every creaking of a neighbour’s door, you look up eagerly, hoping to see Yunho looming in the doorway. But you don’t. Hours go by, your hope fading more and more, until you accept that he’s just not coming tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. You hope.

By the time you’re ready to sleep, you’ve passed several hours in front of the mindless reality show you ended up settling on. Trying to ignore the crushing disappointment that Yunho hasn’t shown up today, and the fear that he never will, you turn the TV off and settle into the sheets.

He’ll come tomorrow. He has to.

Eyes adjusting to the darkness, you make yourself comfortable in the cool, fresh sheets. The only sounds in the quiet room are your slow, steady breaths and the low hum of the air-conditioning. As your eyes begin to droop, you feel yourself relaxing into the memory foam, wondering and hoping he’ll be there when you wake up…

Click.

There’s a hand on your mouth. The lights are on.

Your eyes snap open and your body jolts, adrenaline flowing instantly. The hand is large, covering your mouth and nose and you can’t breathe.

As you adjust to the light you get a good look at him, and you’re so shocked that for a moment you forget you’re supposed to struggle. Yunho is gorgeous. Fading blue hair, dark enough to seem black from a distance; features gentle, eyes dangerous and all blending perfectly together. He’s wearing a white shirt and pinstripe waistcoat that struggles against a broad, toned chest that seems to be trying to escape and his large hands are covered by a pair of thick, leather gloves.

Fuck. You’d beg for this man any other day, happily and eagerly. But you can’t do that now. You have to fight. You thrash against him, legs flailing but his body holds you down, pinning you in place and oh, he’s large, too. He could incapacitate you now and be done with it, but it seems he wants to play.

“Well, aren’t you sweet.”

His voice is low and rough and addictive, dripping with want and danger. He stares you down, eyes narrowed, blank, burning.

“Gonna be a good girl for me?”

The pressure of his hand has eased enough for you to breathe and you lie still for a moment, gauging your next move. You nod, slowly. I’ll be good.

He smiles, not really believing you, and then his hands are off you. For one second, they’re off of you and you take your chance— you jump up and bolt out of the bed, dashing in the direction of the door. You hear him curse, but you know he’d chosen this room, large enough to practically count as a suite, specifically to give you more room to run. And run you do; you’re still half-asleep — you’re not quite sure if you did fall asleep, in the end, or if he got to you just as you were drifting off — but the adrenaline pumping through your veins is enough to carry your feet towards the exit.

You hear him on your tail but he’s not running— no, his steps are leisurely, like he knows he’s going to catch you and is merely amused by your idea that it would end any other way.

He lets you get to the door and pull it halfway open, just enough to think you’ll make it out into the hall, before it slams shut in your face, only just missing your fingers where they’d lingered in the doorway. Then there’s strong arms on your body, slamming you with full force, your body colliding painfully with the heavy wood. You struggle pitifully in his hold and as the lock clicks shut above you, you hear the barely restrained anger in his voice.

“And where the fuck are you going, bitch?” He growls. He grabs your hair and tugs your head backwards, sending a painful sting through your scalp then slams your head back against the door. “You tryna get away, pretty girl?”

You grunt, pushing back against him as hard as you can, but with his firm grip on you all you manage to do is push your ass back against his crotch. He groans, the grip on your hair tightening. “Fucking tease,” he mutters. “Bet you’re wet already.”

He spins you around, holding you by the neck against the door, his body caging you in as his other hand roams across your breasts, squeezing them just short of painfully. You struggle fruitlessly but you’re completely trapped and you know it.

You feel his knee nudging at your closed legs, clenched together to keep him away from your heat as if it’s not aching for him already. “Open,” he says.

“Never.”

“Fine.” His leg draws back and lands a kick between your knees and you yelp, legs forced apart; he shoves his thigh into the gap, holding your legs open and your pussy exposed as his hand runs up your bare thigh and slips beneath the silk slip you curse yourself for wearing to bed. Could you have made this any easier for him?

His fingers tease the edge of your cotton panties, pulling it back and slapping the elastic against your skin and all you can do is stay in place, held under his weight as he toys with you. But you’re not done and this isn’t over. You’re just biding your time. You just need an opportunity; a moment of carelessness for you to slip away.

He runs a finger softly across your covered pussy, and the smug expression on his face tells you exactly what he finds there.

“For someone who doesn’t want this,” he says, “you’re awfully fucking wet.”

“Fuck you,” you spit.

He’s quick to react; a heavy slap lands on your face, turning your head forcefully to the side and leaving a lingering ache.

“Wet and mouthy,” he says. “I wonder how quickly you’ll break.”

Your stomach twists but you give nothing away; you’re enjoying the back and forth, the game, too much to give up yet, no matter how desperately you want him to just fuck you alrady.

“I’ll never fucking break,” you snap.

“Oh, you’ll break.” He leans in closer, enough for you to feel his breath on your face as he speaks. “They always do.”

You can hear your heart beating wildly, pounding against your ribs and your breath stutters. “And if I don’t?”

“If you don’t…” He lets the words hang in the air, gaze flickering across your shivering form. His mouth curls into a thin smile. “I’ll just have to hurt you real, real bad.”

You swallow thickly, tension caught in your throat. You wish that didn’t sound so enticing.

“Now,” he says. “Open your mouth.”

You force yourself to laugh, amused despite your terror by the notion that you’d just give in and obey. You purse your lips, sealing your mouth shut— directly defiant. His eyes flash and his hand tightens around your throat, cutting off your airflow as he presses down on the sides of your neck. You manage to hold out for a few seconds until you feel your eyes bulge and you gasp, mouth opening in a desperate bid for air. He loosens his grip, grabbing your chin and pushing his thumb in just far enough to hold your mouth open for him to spit into it. The saliva lands on your tongue and he pushes your mouth closed, pressing his hand over your mouth and nose again. “Swallow.”

Knowing he won’t let you breathe until you do, you swallow the spit; it feels disgusting and degrading sliding down your throat but the humiliation burns with pleasure and you’re desperate for more.

“Good girl,” he smiles. “Not that hard to listen, is it?”

You scowl, squirming under his hold. Yes, it is that hard. You manage to wring your arms free enough to grab at his arm, trying to pull his hand off of your face. In the panic one of your nails digs into his forearm and he growls, pulling you forward just to slam you backwards again. Your ears are ringing and his hand is pressed even tighter across your mouth and nose.

“Disobedient little bitch,” he hisses, “you want me to fuck you up?”

Yes, fuck, please, your mind says. But you keep that on the inside, and instead of begging or submitting or doing any of the things your body is screaming and pleading for you to do, you bite down. You bite down hard.

The taste of blood is a small victory as he shouts, snatching his hand away from you but this time he doesn’t give you the chance to get away; you make it a few steps before he grabs your wrists, clutching them easily in his injured hand, forcing them behind you back and twisting them painfully to hold you in place so he can backhand you again— and again, and again. You scream in pain, but if he notices, he doesn’t care. His expression is livid, eyes black and burning with rage. “Fucking. Little. Bitch.” Each word is punctuated by a hard slap, knocking the wind out of you over and over.

“Someone needs to put you in your fucking place,” he growls. “Dumb little sex slave.”

The word hits you somewhere deep, stomach twisting into knots as wetness pools. Slave. Fuck.

“I’m not your fucking sex slave,” you bite back and he laughs.

“You don’t know what the fuck you are. Stop squirming.” He twists your arms a little further, teetering on the edge of too far. You whine, straining against him and he cooes. “Hurts, baby?”

“Yes it fucking hurts,” you snap.

He snorts, amused. His eyes darken again as he leans in closer. “Any more attitude and I’ll fucking break them.”

You can’t help the gasp that escapes you, fear pushing through your veins again. His grip on your arms is iron and you know he could snap them with ease. But would he really? You say nothing, staring up at him with wide, pleading eyes. He grins.

“Don’t think I won’t,” he laughs. “I’ll break every bone in your body if it’ll keep you pliant.”

“I’ll do it one by one,” he continues. His grip on your wrists tightens again but he doesn’t twist any further; still toeing the line. “Nice and slow so you feel it all,” he smiles, and you know he’s imagining it as he speaks. You wish you could say you weren’t. “Let you hear the crack of each bone snapping in half until you’re completely destroyed. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You shake your head, voice quivering. “No.”

“Good.”

You scowl, squirming again to show your displeasure. “Let me go, Yunho.”

He hadn’t told you what to call him, but you decide to take a gamble that he doesn’t want you using his name and you’re right— he grabs your neck, pressing down hard enough to make you dizzy. “Call me that again,” he hisses, “and I’ll slit your fucking throat. Got it?”

You catch the whimper before it leaves your throat but you can’t stop your pussy from leaking even more than it already was. You didn’t know you could be so terrified or so horny. But you’re not giving up yet.

“You call me sir,” he says, “is that clear?”

You smile thinly. “Yes, sir,” you say, so sweet and polite that he sees right through it. He raises an eyebrow, waiting for your next move and it comes in the form of a wad of spit, landing like a bullet between his eyes.

Then you’re on the bed. You’re landing on the bed, shoved down and he’s crawling over you, holding you down with his weight and— there’s a knife on your throat.

Your eyes widen, all your blood rushing to your head at once. A knife… he’d never mentioned a knife. On your profile you’d said you were open to knife play, but he was so meticulous when he went through all the kinks he was planning that you thought… Well, you didn’t think he’d have a knife.

“Oh, that got your attention, didn’t it?” He grins. There’s a fire, a dangerous gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there before and you feel it in the deepest parts of your body. You feel something else, too, and it burns just as brightly as your arousal. As he presses the knife down just enough to sting, you realise you are genuinely, truly afraid of Yunho. And yet…

Yunho sees it too; “fucking gushing,” he spits. “You’re more sick than I am. Don’t act like a victim now.”

You whine, squirming slightly and he hums thoughtfully.

“Or do,” he decides. “Actually, I’m sort of hoping you don’t do what I tell you. I’d love to watch the light leave your eyes when you finally stop struggling.”

Your breath hitches, caught in your throat. You don’t… you don’t know how you feel about this. You knew he’d be intense; the reviews had painted a clear picture of just how much he feeds off of fear. But there’s a wild, uncontrolled look in his eyes as he threatens your life so casually, so smoothly, that makes you wonder…

No. You know it’s fake. It’s all fake. You know it’s just a game and you know he’d stop if you said the safe word he gave you. But the knife at your neck is real. The darkness in his eyes is real. The fear is real. And he sees it in your eyes, his lips twitching into a small smile as though he can tell the exact moment you accept it. “Good girl,” he purrs. “Are you ready to listen?”

You say nothing, glowering up at him. He smiles, tilting his head.

“Open your mouth.”

Fuck no. This isn’t over. You meet his eyes with your mouth firmly, resoundingly shut. You purse your lips for good measure, determined to disobey.

His hand collides with your face again; the back of it, this time, and the feeling of his knuckles against your cheek makes you cry out before you can stop yourself. He seizes the opportunity of your parted lips and plunges two gloved fingers into your mouth. You choke, spluttering and he tuts, looking disappointed. Even with fingers in your throat, you feel like a naughty, scolded child beneath his firm gaze.

“See,” he says, his voice low, “I could make this so much worse for you. It’s in your best interest to do what I tell you.”

His fingers push in deeper and you feel the bile rising; you thrash and panic in his hold and he snorts, finally easing up. As you gasp for breath, he pulls his fingers away, a string of drool following him from your mouth and coating his fingers. He wipes them down on his pressed pants, looking disgusted. “Fucking mutt,” he spits. “Let’s put you to good use.”

Before you can register what’s happening, his dick is pushing into your mouth and fuck he’s massive. You can hardly hold him in your throat and your vision blurs with tears even before he starts to move— when he does, he wastes no time starting slow; he goes straight to fucking your mouth with hard, deep thrusts and you feel your tears and saliva cascading down onto your chest. You must look disgusting, but you’ve never heard anyone sound as feral as he does.

Just as you’re getting used to the feeling, he pulls out. His cock slaps against your face before he flips you over, bending you painfully over the edge of the bed. He doesn’t waste time prepping you — not that he needs to with the way you’re dripping — before forcing himself into your tight hole. You scream, feeling yourself being torn apart and he laughs, pushing your head into the mattress. “Fucking bitch,” he growls. His low voice is barely heard above the slapping of his skin on yours and the lewd squelching of your sopping pussy. You burn with humiliation but you can hardly think of anything but the pain of being stretched open and the force of his thrusts. You sob into the sheets but he doesn’t care, only getting rougher each time you cry out.

“Take it,” he barks, “you’ve been waiting for this dick your entire fucking life. So fucking take it.”

“S-sir,” you gasp. You thrash as much as you can under his iron grip, dizzy with pain and pleasure.

He snarls, hand landing hard on your ass. “Drop the act, bitch,” he growls. “I know you fucking love this. Clench.”

Still sobbing, you do your best to obey, clenching your pussy around his dick and it sends a jolt of electricity through your body. He groans, movement stuttering slightly under the new pressure on his dick.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “Such a pretty little victim. With a tight fucking hole.”

You feel his orgasm approaching; all the pent-up energy and frustration of fighting and subduing you pulsing through his dick as it pounds against your walls. His grip tightens on your waist, other arm coming to wrap around your neck, holding you in a chokehold as he finally releases inside you.

He grunts and moans through his orgasm and you feel the warmth of his cum filling you up before he finally collapses on top of you, pulling out quickly.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “It’s over, baby.”

The dam breaks. Your low, desperate sobs give way to full blown weeping, your whole body shivering with each cry. A million emotions, previously drowned out by pain and fear and pleasure, are suddenly at the surface, pushing against your skin and desperate to break through. You couldn’t name or number them if you tried but you don’t have to, because Yunho is there— his hands are on your skin, voice in your ear as he soothes you with whispered words you can’t comprehend.

“I’ve got you,” you finally make out. He says it again and again, over and over. It forms a familiar rhythm you can follow and cling to as you come back down to earth.

I’ve got you.

I’ve got you.

I’ve got you.

He’s there when the fog clears, cradling your aching body in his arms. His smile is soft and fond but there’s a concern in his eyes as he looks you up and down. “How do you feel?” He asks.

You open your mouth but no words come; you make a soft, content-sounding noise, the best you can do for now, and he chuckles. “I’ll take that as ‘you’re fine’, then.”

He shifts slightly, adjusting you to hold you closer to his chest. You follow his heartbeat as it thuds lowly in his chest. You hadn’t expected this, really; he’d said aftercare was a non-negotiable for him, so you knew he wasn’t going to just fuck you and dip, but the care and tenderness with which he cradles and soothes you is almost as electric as the brutality of before. It’s as funny as it was, you suppose, inevitable— this man has violated you in every way, and yet you’ve never felt more safe than you do in his arms. Two separate faces; opposing but inseparable.

A while later, he asks if he can give you a bath and you nod. You’re strangely embarrassed as he lowers you into the hot water, quietly soothing you when you hiss as it touches the wounds on your ass and thighs; maybe it’s the tenderness of his care or the knowledge that every mark on your body was put there by him, but you feel oddly exposed.

Still, he’s careful as he holds you still, letting your aching joints soak as he cleanses you of the remnants of what he just did to you. When he lifts you out, wrapping you in a soft towel and carrying you back to bed, you feel like you’re floating on a cloud.

Your voice returns soon enough, and quickly something pushes through to the front of your mind. Still slightly in the haze of subspace as the last drops of adrenaline dissipate, it seems like a reasonable, if not pertinent question.

“Yunho,” you say. He makes a ‘hm?’ noise, squeezing your thigh in recognition. “Would you really have broken my bones?”

He laughs, and you feel his body shaking slightly. It feels… warm. Familiar. “No,” he says. “That’s just part of the game. My favourite part, actually.”

“What part?”

“Making you wonder if it’s really a game.”

Through the aching pain of your pussy, you feel a slight twinge, making you clench unconsciously. Oh.

“You had a safeword,” he says. “So I knew I could push you. But I didn’t do anything I wasn’t sure would make your little pussy throb.”

You can’t help but blush at his words, mewling slightly as you snuggle further into his hold. You could stay like this, wrapped in his strong arms and held securely against his chest, for a long, long time. You wonder if he could, too.

“Yunho,” you say softly.

“Will you stay?”

You glance at him nervously, afraid of his answer. He smiles, holding you closer. “As long as you need,” he says.

-

thank you for reading! comments/feedback/reblogs are appreciated! requests are open! love🖤🖤🖤

taglist open!

[nineteenninety-six]

Jack with wife having their newborn baby being brought it, baby can’t stop crying. And like many it’s robinavitch’s shift but like at one point she finally lets herself cry and line Jack puts a hand on her shoulder and she turns around in his arms crying.

Pairings: Jack Abbot x Reader

TW: sick babies. medical inaccuracies.

AN: I don't think this is what you wanted exactly but I kinda struggled with it, so sorry. In all honestly I tend to struggle with requests that are similar to ones I've done before, especially when they're requested close together or just after I posted one.

Pregnancy was particularly challenging for you. Intense and relentless morning sickness accompanied you from the early weeks, along with a lack of appetite and an aversion to most smells, making your pregnancy even more difficult. Pregnancy was not your friend, so you eagerly counted down the days until your little bundle of joy arrived, and when they did, it was the best day of your life.

Jack was on paternity leave and ensured you lacked nothing while he was home. He handled the cooking, cleaning, and even fed the baby while you rested. Jack was not only a wonderful husband but also an amazing father. He took care of the early morning feedings and always soothed the baby when they woke up in the middle of the night before you even stirred. He eased your anxious new mother worries, calming you with his extensive medical knowledge. So when young Elena woke up sick, crying nonstop, you weren’t completely terrified because you had Jack. However, the fearful look he shot you after examining her almost made your knees buckle from fear.

"Go take her to the truck, I'll be right behind you." Jack instructs you as he pulls out his phone, quickly dialling a number and shoving the phone between his ear and shoulder as he picks up the diaper bag and passes you the car keys.

You cradle Elena in your arms, trying to soothe her crying as you slip into some sandals and hurry towards the garage, "Should we call an ambulance?"

Jack shakes his head, "Quicker to drive. I'm calling Robby now."

You try to swallow the fear but your hands shakes as you strap your sweet girl into her seat in Jack's truck. She briefly quiets down, so you wipe her tears and press a kiss to her soft cheeks before you step back, closing the backseat door before joining Jack in the front, sitting in the passenger seat.

Elena quickly started back with her cries, her wails piercing your ears as she squirmed in pain. You couldn't stop looking back at her, calling out her name and resting your hand in her tiny lap so she knows you haven't disappeared but it doesn't stop her cries.

Jack's hand on your thigh pulls your attention over to him and he flashes you a comforting smile before he returns his focus back to the road.

"She'll be okay. The fact she's constantly screaming and crying means that she can breathe, she'll soon tire herself out." Jack comforts you, "The screaming, the crying, it's the only way she can communicate with us that she's in pain somewhere."

Jack pulls into the staff parking lot of the hospital and turns off the car before he turns to you, "And it's my job to find out why."

Soon you're walking through the doors into the emergency department, Elena in Jack's arms as Robby quickly saddles up next to you, guiding you into a private room. 

"Symtoms?" Robby asks getting straight to work, snapping on some gloves to begin his examination of the baby.

"She woke up crying, and hasn't stopped all day." You tell him as you run your fingers over your baby's sparse hair on her head, "She hasn't eaten either, she doesn't stop crying for long enough for me to even try to use a bottle."

"And last night? How was she?" Robby asks as he uses his stethoscope.

"Fine, no issues. She woke up at the usual times throughout the night too, nothing different." Jack says as he stands behind you, a comforting hand on your hip.

"I'm going to call for a Paeds consult but it seems minor to me. I think we'll start her off some fluids and antibiotics and monitor her for a few hours."

You deflate in relief, the fear that there was something seriously wrong with your daughter dissipates and you turn in Jack's arms, tucking your face underneath his chin before you begin to cry.

Jack soothed you as you cried in his arms, rubbing a comforting hand up and down your back and muttering reassuring words into your ear in between kisses to your forehead.

"She's fine, she's okay" Jack murmurs, "She's our brave, strong girl, don't worry."

You nod and sniffle, wiping your tears with your sleeve before you turn back to your daughter who was now in Robby's arms, significantly quieter.

"Maybe she just wanted to meet her uncle Robby," Robby jokes as he swayed Elena from side to side, "She just got a little bit impatient."

Jack rolls his eyes and scoffs but doesn't take Elena from Robby, "Well enjoy the two minutes you have because once I get Dana and Collins in here, you won't get another chance."

Robby doesn't even look away from Elena, "Yeah well ask Dana to bring the IV and antibiotics whilst you're at it."

Jack shakes his head with a laugh but does as he's asked anyway, giving you one last kiss on the cheek before he leaves the room to get the charge nurse.

[satoruan]

SNAPING AT THEIR KIDS — Jujutsu Kaisen

( CW ) f!reader, children, tantrums, lots of tears  

FEATURING: Nanami Kento, Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Choso Kamo 

Authors note: the way Choso’s son refuses to eat dinner when you all sit down, he just huffs and puffs and you eventually have to give in and buy him Taco Bell, so he doesn’t go to sleep on an empty stomach. And Gojo’s son knew what he was doing when he hit him hehe. 

☾GOJO SATORU 

“Daddy, I wanna go to the park.” His twins yell for what feels like the thousandth time today. Satoru whines, throwing his arm over his eyes when one of the twins points flashlights in his face. “I said no, Daddy doesn’t feel well today—we can play in your room, how about we build a fort?” Satoru answers again—just like he did the last time and the time before and the time before that. “No Daddy! Wanna go to ‘park!” His girl screams before his son hits him square in the dick with the flashlight. He jumps up, howling in pain. “I said not today!” He snaps and instantly regrets it when he hears the venom in his voice. How holds his throbbing dick before looking up and his babies. They both stare at him with frowns. His little girl looks about ready to start sobbing and his son looks like he wants to hit him with the flashlight again. “Shit, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to yell,” He apologizes, flinching back when little tears slip out their eyes. “I’m sorry, I'm sorry, don’t cry. How ‘bout we go to the park okay? Daddy didn’t mean to yell, oh don’t cry, baby.” He whispers, reaching out with big hands to grab them and pull them into his lap. “Park?” “Yep, park.” They look at each other before breaking out in a scream. 

☾GETO SUGURU 

“Daddy?” His daughter pulls the end of his long hair. “I'm busy, baby.” He answers as he scrolls through his emails on his work computer. “Wanna see.” She whines, trying to climb onto her father’s lap. She just slides off, unable to pull her body weight up with small arms. “In a little bit, go play with Mommy baby,” he says, trying to convince his daughter who just huffs and holds her arms up to him. “I wanna work too!” She whines and Suguru grumbles before lifting her onto his lap. He sets her in the nook of her arm. She snuggles into Suguru's content for a few minutes. “My turn Daddy.” She stands up on his lap and reaches over to touch the computer. She fails, instead pushing the cup of water he had been slipping on. The cup tilts over and pours all over Suguru’s computer. “Dammit D/n!” He growls out and though he doesn't yell his deep voice is enough to cause his daughter to jump in fear. “Sorry, ’m sorry.” She cries, trying to crawl out of her father's lap. “Shit--It’s alright baby. Hey, it’s okay sweet girl.” “I didn’t mean to.” “I know. Let’s clean up our mess, okay?” He kisses his daughter's forehead and carries her to grab a towel. 

☾CHOSO KAMO 

“I don’t want your ugly food.” His son screams at him. “Well, you aren’t getting Fast food.” He mutters. “I want Taco Bell!” He screams, but Choso just ignores him and continues to stir the food. “I said I want Taco Bell!” He throws himself on the floor, kicking and rolling around Choso’s legs. Choso tries to ignore the temper tantrum his son is throwing but after several minutes it starts to get unbearable. Anything he says just goes in one ear and out the other. “No Fast food!” He eventually snaps. S/n immediately stops rolling on the floor when he hears his father yell. Choso turns the stove on low before walking over and crouching in front of his son. “Daddy doesn’t wanna yell baby, but you gotta understand that you can’t get Fast food every day. It’s not healthy for you alright?” He explains to his son. His son just glares up at him. Choso smiles back which prompts the little boy to grumble how stupid and ugly his father looks. When they eventually come to an understanding, he picks him up and lets him help him cook.  

☾NANAMI KENTO 

Nanami’s loud voice echoes through the living room, and you race to the living room in worry. Once you turn the corner you see your daughter looking at him with wide tear-filled eyes. She’s never seen this side of her dad; you can’t think of one time her dad raised his voice at her. “Kento? What’s going on?” You glare at him as your daughter comes running into you. You hold her little body to you. Kento stands there with a shocked expression on his face. He didn’t mean to snap at his little girl, he just had a bad day at the office and brought that attitude home. “Daddy’s mean.” Your daughter cries out, wrapping her small arms tighter around your legs. “Princess,” Kento whispers as he cautiously walks towards you two. “I didn’t mean to yell at you princess, I’m so sorry.” He chokes out, crouching down to her level. When she hears the familiar softness in her dad’s voice, she slowly peaks around you. Kento holds his arms open. She doesn’t hesitate and jumps into her father's arms. “s’ok I forgive you, Daddy.” She sniffles into his neck. Nanami squeezes her tightly, whispering out apologies on how he’ll never do it again. You can tell by the look in his eyes your daughter will be getting extra spoiled in the next few days.  

[readreidsworld]

Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: Spencer gets released from prison and decides he can no longer live another day without you by his side

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••���•••••••••••

You didn’t cry in front of anyone not once. Not JJ, not Emily. Not even Garcia when she pulled you into a thousand hugs during those first few weeks after Spencer was taken into custody.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart. Because if you did who would be strong for him?

You visited every chance you could. You kept your voice steady when you spoke to him, even when his eyes looked so tired and haunted you could barely breathe. You told him about new cases, updates from Garcia, how Henry was doing in school. You wore your best smiles and never let him see the ache.

But behind closed doors , You curled up in his cardigan. You sobbed into your pillow.

You clutched the mug he used every morning like it was a lifeline.

And when you were alone in your car outside the prison, after another too short visit, you’d scream just to let it out. The fear, the rage, the heartbreak.

Because he didn’t deserve this.

And you missed him. God, you missed him so much.

When Spencer finally walked out of prison, he barely made it five feet before you were in his arms.

He’d grown thinner. Tired. But his arms still fit around you like home. You kissed his face, over and over, whispering how proud you were, how strong he’d been, how much you loved him.

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” you kept whispering, like if you said it enough, you could make the pain disappear for both of you.

He didn’t say much that first day. He just kept touching you your hand, your cheek, your hair like he couldn’t believe you were real. Every time he looked away, his fingers found their way back to you. And every time you looked at him, he was already looking at you.

You stayed home for a few days after his release. The two of you didn’t leave the apartment once. You cooked for him, let him pick the shows, read together in bed. You held him when he had nightmares and never let go.

One morning, you found him standing by the window before sunrise, staring out with tears in his eyes.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek into his back.

“I’m okay,” he whispered. “I just… I don’t know what to do with all this freedom. But I do know one thing.”

You turned him around slowly, hands on his waist. “What’s that?”

“I’m never letting them take me from you again.” His voice cracked. “I wasted so much time thinking I had more time. But nothing is promised.”

“Spence—”

He dropped to one knee.

“I don’t have a ring,” he said quickly, nervously. “I was going to wait, to make it special. But I can’t wait anymore. I don’t want to waste another second. I need to know you’ll always be mine, because I am already yours.”

Tears welled in your eyes as your hands flew to your mouth.

“Will you marry me, right now? Today? Just us if you want, or the whole team, I don’t care. I just want to be your husband. Please?”

You knelt down in front of him, hands trembling as you cupped his face. “Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, yes, of course, Spencer. I’ve been yours for years.”

Two hours later, in Rossi’s garden you were getting married.

Garcia wore a crown of fake flowers and sobbed through the entire thing.

Rossi stood in the back with a soft smile.

You wore a simple white dress Emily had rushed to grab from her closet, and Spencer wore his best shirt the one you’d gotten him for his birthday last year.

The vows weren’t fancy. They weren’t rehearsed. They were spoken between tears and laughter, whispered promises, and forehead kisses.

When he said “I do,” Spencer looked at you like the sun had finally come out after the longest winter of his life.

And when he kissed you, you knew you’d never have to be strong alone again. Not anymore.

You were home.

He was free.

And you were finally his wife.

Forever.

The first night in prison, Spencer lay awake with your name in his mouth like a prayer.

The bunk was hard, the air heavy. He could still feel your hug the way you held on just a second longer when they led him away. You were trying to be strong. You were always trying to be strong. He hated that he made you need to be.

He kept your face in his head like a reel. The little squint you did when you smiled. The way your hands shook when you were overwhelmed but you always pretended they weren’t. The way you kissed his temple when you thought he was asleep.

He hated that he couldn’t protect you from this.

But worse he hated that you couldn’t protect him from it either.

You came to see him every chance they let you. Dressed in neat clothes, hair pulled back, smiles in place. At first, he thought you were okay.

But Spencer had studied you too long to miss the cracks.

Your eyes were always red-rimmed. You looked thinner. Tired.

And sometimes, when you’d talk about your day, your voice would catch just slightly like you were choking on words you weren’t saying. Like I cried last night or I had a panic attack in the shower or I miss you so much it hurts to breathe.

But you smiled anyway. For him.

You were always strong. For him.

And that’s what broke his heart the most.

He counted days in letters.

You’d leave little notes tucked into books you brought him. One liners. Inside jokes. Sentences that barely filled the margins but filled his chest instead.

“I wore your cardigan all week.”

“Garcia says hi and also to tell you she cried during a cat video yesterday.”

“I love you more today than I did yesterday, somehow.”

He would lie on his bunk and reread them like scripture. Because if he thought too long about what you were going through without him if he imagined you curled up alone in your apartment, trying to breathe without breaking he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

When they told him he was getting out, he didn’t believe it.

When they put him in clean clothes, when they walked him out the gates, his legs barely moved. Every step felt like waking from a coma.

And then he saw you.

You were standing there in a soft sweater, eyes full of tears. And suddenly the weight lifted all at once. It was over. He was free. You were real.

You threw your arms around him and kissed him like the world was ending.

He clung to you like it just started again.

Back home, he couldn’t stop touching you.

Not in a possessive way. Just… grounding. His fingers in your hair. Your palm against his chest. Knees pressed together on the couch. Your heartbeat was the only thing that kept the dizziness at bay.

That first night, when he woke up gasping, you were already sitting up beside him.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered. You were crying. “You’re safe. You’re home.”

He nodded, but the guilt curled in his chest. Because you were still carrying it all. You still weren’t sleeping. And it hit him like a flood:

He never wanted to put you through that again.

The next morning, he stood by the window and watched the sky change color. You were asleep in bed, tangled in his shirt, peaceful for once. And it was there, in that quiet, that it clicked.

He needed to marry you.

He needed to make it real needed to tether himself to you in the only way he knew how. Not because he thought you’d leave. But because he needed to stay. Permanently. Legally. Eternally.

He didn’t have a ring. He didn’t have a plan. He barely had himself back together.

But he had love. And he had you.

That was enough.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” he said, voice shaking as he knelt in front of you.

You gasped, eyes wide and shining.

“I want to be your husband,” he said. “Please. Let’s get married today. I can’t be away from you again. I won’t survive it.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you dropped to your knees and kissed him, laughing through it.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, Spencer. A million times, yes.”

A few hours later, surrounded by the team, he stood in Rossi’s garden in front of you in a borrowed tie and his best shirt.

You held his hands with that same steady strength you always gave him. But now he could see the relief in your smile.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

When he said “I do,” he meant it in every way possible.

I do choose you.

I do love you.

I do promise never to make you suffer alone again.

When he kissed you, he finally exhaled.

He was yours.

You were his.

And the rest of his life could finally begin.

Spencer had been nervous walking back into the BAU after prison. But walking in with you, as his wife?

That felt… different. Softer. Full circle.

The elevator doors opened and there you were, fingers laced through his, wedding bands glinting under the fluorescent lights like tiny flashes of rebellion against everything the last year had thrown at you both.

Your badge still sat proudly on your hip. His hung newly reissued around his neck.

And your last name, now officially hyphenated with Reid, looked absolutely perfect in the updated Bureau directory.

The bullpen was already buzzing when you walked in case files being shuffled, Garcia talking a mile a minute to Luke over speakerphone but the moment JJ looked up, everything came to a halt.

“Oh my god” she gasped, standing so fast her chair rolled back.

You barely had a second to respond before she rushed around her desk and threw her arms around both of you. “You actually did it!”

“We did ,” you said, grinning. “Last night in Rossi’s garden.”

“With me crying,” Garcia added, appearing suddenly from behind a potted plant like a pastel fairy godmother. “Like, aggressively crying.”

Rossi was next. He gave Spencer a smile, followed by a firm handshake and a pat on the shoulder. “Welcome home. Both of you.”

Emily held your hands up, examining your simple, shining bands. “You two are disgustingly adorable. I hope you know that.”

“They know,” Luke said with a smirk. “They haven’t stopped smiling since they walked in.”

“We haven’t stopped smiling since the wedding,” you corrected.

Spencer just stood beside you, beaming. It was different from the smile he wore for press conferences or lectures. This was his softest smile. The one only you got to see most of the time. Except now? He didn’t care who saw it.

You were his wife. And he was proud.

Later that morning, Garcia showed up in the briefing room with a PowerPoint titled:

Operation: Welcome Back, Dr. and Agent Reid

It had confetti animations. There were cupcakes. A picture slideshow of you and Reid. JJ and Emily brought in a cake shaped like a stack of books. And someone probably Garcia hung up a ridiculous “JUST MARRIED (AND STILL BADASS FBI AGENTS )” banner across the whiteboard.

You and Spencer sat close during the meeting. His hand stayed on your thigh the entire time under the table. Every time he looked at you, he felt that swell of quiet disbelief.

You were his partner in every way now. In life. In work. In love.

After the debrief, he turned toward you with a smile. “How long do you think it’ll take them to stop making heart eyes at us?”

You grinned. “Let’s hope never.”

He leaned in and whispered, “I love you, Mrs. Reid.”

You squeezed his hand. “I love you more, Dr. Reid.”

And just like that, the world after all its chaos, its heartbreak, its time apart finally felt right again.

Because no matter how dark things had gotten, the two of you made it back.

Together. Married. Whole.Back where you belonged.

[rose24207]

hello I saw that your requests were open and was wondering if you could do hurt comfort with mafia max verstappan with pregnant reader

It’s not enough

Summary: After a brutal attack on his pregnant girlfriend, Mad Max goes to extreme lengths to ensure her and their baby's safety, revealing the depths of his love and protection.

Mafia!Max x pregnant!reader

Genre: angst, fluff

TW: Mafia, guns, ambush, killings, wounds, etc, you know how it is

A/N: I love this ideas and request y‘all send me!! Don’t stop!!

Navigation

You always knew being with Max meant living with a target on your back.

But you had never felt it press so heavily against you until tonight.

Until the blood.

Until the screams.

Until you felt fear grip you in a way you had never known before—not just for yourself, but for the life growing inside you.

And now, as Max cradled you against him, his hands stained with someone else's blood, his voice trembling with rage and desperation, you realized just how far he would go to protect what was his.

Even if it meant burning the world down.

It had started as a normal evening.

Max had insisted you stay at the estate while he handled a meeting, but you had been restless. You hated being cooped up, feeling like a porcelain doll locked away in a glass case.

So, with heavy security and an armored car, you convinced Max’s men to take you to dinner.

You should have known better.

The attack happened in an instant.

One second, you were stepping out of the restaurant, laughing softly at something one of Max’s guards had said. The next, gunfire erupted, sharp and deafening, shattering the quiet night.

“Get down!” someone shouted.

A hand shoved you behind the car, your heart hammering as chaos unfolded around you. Max’s men fired back, but the attack was coordinated. Precise. They had been waiting.

You barely had time to process it before a hand grabbed your wrist, yanking you back.

“No!” you screamed, thrashing against the masked figure dragging you away.

The panic was instant, primal.

Not just for you—but for the child inside you.

You fought with everything you had, kicking, clawing, but they were stronger. You could hear the desperate shouts of Max’s men, the gunfire ringing in your ears.

And then—

A shot.

Blinding pain seared through your shoulder.

The force sent you crashing to the pavement, a cry ripping from your throat.

Someone was shouting your name.

And then came his voice.

“Kill them all!”

The command was raw, furious—filled with a kind of rage you had never heard from Max before.

The sound of rapid gunfire followed, bodies dropping, men screaming. And then—

Silence.

A shadow loomed over you, and then—warm hands. Shaking. Bloodstained.

“Baby? Baby, look at me.”

Max’s voice was strained, barely controlled. His hands hovered over you like he was afraid to touch you, his breath ragged.

You tried to blink through the pain, vision blurring. “Max…”

“You’re okay,” he choked out, pressing his hands against your wound, trying to stop the bleeding. “Just stay with me. You’re going to be fine. The baby—is the baby okay?”

Tears welled in your eyes, fear gripping you harder than the pain. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

Max let out a sharp breath, his jaw tightening. “Get the car,” he barked at one of his men, his voice deadly. “Now.”

Someone tried to take you from him, but Max growled, holding you tighter. “Don’t touch her.” His voice was low, dangerous. “I’ve got her.”

He carried you into the backseat of the car himself, his grip firm but gentle. The moment the door slammed shut, he pulled you against him, his hand never leaving your stomach.

“Drive,” he ordered.

The car sped through the streets, running red lights, tires screeching. Max held you close, pressing kisses against your hair, whispering to you in Dutch, his voice breaking between promises and threats.

“You’re okay.” A kiss. “I swear on my life, you’re okay.” Another kiss. “I’ll kill them all for this. Every last one.

You weren’t sure if he was trying to comfort you or himself.

But as you clutched his hand, the pain making it hard to breathe, you whispered, “Max… if something happens—”

“Don’t.” His voice was sharp, final. His grip tightened. “Nothing is going to happen. You’re both going to be okay.”

You wanted to believe him.

But you had never seen him this scared before.

The hospital was locked down within minutes.

Max’s men secured the entire floor, and the doctor—one of Max’s trusted personal physicians—was already waiting.

They worked quickly, stopping the bleeding, running tests.

Max didn’t leave your side for a second.

He sat beside you, gripping your hand like a lifeline, his knee bouncing with barely contained tension.

When the doctor finally returned, Max stood so fast his chair scraped against the floor.

“The baby?” he demanded.

The doctor gave a small nod. “They’re okay.”

A choked breath left Max’s lips. He swayed slightly, exhaling like he had been holding it all this time. His hand trembled as he reached for you again.

“And her?”

“She’ll be fine,” the doctor assured. “She just needs rest.”

Max finally let himself breathe. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, his hand cupping your cheek.

“You scared me,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse, raw. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’m still here.”

He let out a shaky breath. “You always will be,” he vowed.

His lips brushed over yours, the kiss gentle, reverent. Like he was afraid you would disappear if he let go.

But then, his eyes darkened, something lethal creeping in.

“They’re dead,” he said softly, brushing a hand over your stomach. “But it’s not enough.”

You knew what he meant.

This wasn’t over.

Not until he made sure no one ever tried to touch what was his again.

The fallout was brutal.

By the time you left the hospital, entire factions had been wiped out. Those responsible for the ambush were found and dealt with—mercilessly.

Max wasn’t just sending a message.

He was making sure no one ever dared to come near you or your child again.

And when it was all over, when the blood had dried and the city whispered about the storm that had passed through, Max finally came home to you.

He found you in the bedroom, sitting by the window, your hand resting on your stomach.

Silent.

Haunted.

Max knelt in front of you, his hands settling on your thighs. “Talk to me,” he murmured.

You let out a shaky breath. “I was so scared.”

His fingers tightened slightly. “I know.”

“I thought I was going to lose…” Your voice broke. “I thought I was going to lose our baby.”

His jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with something dangerous. “I would have burned the entire world down if that happened.”

You reached for him, threading your fingers through his. “Max…”

His mask slipped. For the first time since that night, you saw the raw fear in his eyes.

“I can’t lose you,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “Not you. Not them.” His hand covered yours, pressing against your stomach. “You’re my life.”

Tears welled in your eyes. You pulled him closer, wrapping your arms around him as he buried his face against your stomach, his body finally trembling.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair. “We’re okay.”

For the first time in days, Max finally let himself believe it.

And as he held you, pressing soft kisses against your belly, he swore—

No one would ever come close to hurting you again.

Not while he was alive.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @hmma3 , @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane

[acid-ixx]

to you, my greatest passion (soft yandere! batfam x traumatized! reader oneshot)

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

tw: allusions to stockholm syndrome, flawed relationship (they have no concept of boundaries) and mild descriptions of injuries and torture (not by the batfam). read until the end for an author's note. happy 4k followers to me :)) uh leave comments if u like this type of analysis and want to see more. i had no direction for writing this. please don't let this flop huhu i might delete this since i don't like it

as much as i love my angst, we all need something soft at times, and moments with yan!batfam with a reader who is absolutely fucking broken from their past that the mere implication that someone could love them is enough to let them melt into whoever's chest they lay upon that night.

just, hurt/comfort. one that heals the soul in its overly possessive embrace. the same way chapped lips peck softly on your cheeks, muscled arms caress your fragile, shivering body, and legs tangle upon yours in a cacophony of warm, cozy blankets.

where as the longer time passes in the manor, the more you learn to love. to let go of the painful memories your tormenters left you. to allow past scars to heal into a mere visage of what once was streaks coated in blood. your family acts as your new abductors, yes, but how could you hold your freedom against them when it is them that comfort you from drowning through the deepest depths of your nightmares?

nightmares of the past, of the knives that break through your already gashed skin, or the ropes that burn through bruises and laceration— every time you wake up crying, with tears running down your cheeks and a pained cry; a recollection of the torture you were subject to, it is them that come running to your room not a moment after.

it's bruce's tall, domineering form that crumbles into soft, snug pillows for you. your father arms that punches criminals into prison become the shoulder you lean on. calloused fingers rub your cheeks, wiping away your tears, holding your face in his palms like you're the most fragile thing on earth— and you are. every time he looks at your dampened eyes and sniffling nose, he gets reminded of how lonely he was as a child, who lost his parent too young to the cruelty of the world, of gotham and her unyielding coldness. and when he reminisces, he begins to cage you in his arms a tad bit tighter, begins to comfort you longer and softer than he has ever done with anyone else, as if he is reassuring himself. it is with you that his vulnerability, that fear of loss becomes all too stronger. and every time you cry a bit longer, your hold on his sleeves becoming unyielding, does bruce become crueler in his pursuit of fighting crime, a lesson to himself that the people he punishes are those with hands capable enough to harm you, his precious, his pearl that glints throughout the moonlight.

whenever your father is unavailable, it's dick who runs to you, with all the intention to provide you comfort. it's him who calls you his baby bird, as he reassures you that you're no burden in his eyes every time you scream in terror as your sleep. it's him who loves to drown you in his affection, always near, always close, never far and never too much. physically, he's the most doting to a fault. tender, yet tight were his hugs. his kisses to your cheeks and your forehead always linger, as if hesitant to release itself from its rightful place. it's a testiment to how much he loves you, how he's incapable of separating himself from you. god, he loves you so much he wishes he'd just melt right into your skin, so that you actually finally realize how you're the most important thing in the world to him. you, his baby bird. if he had met you sooner, quite earlier, right after his parent's have died, then maybe he could've managed his anger better, could've learned to cope with you through the battles you both fought. it's with you that dick feel unbearably euphoric, ready to spill his love to the point where tears consume his eyes and his head laid on your chest refuses to detach itself.

jason isn't familiar with what warmth feels like, not anymore. but when he sees your hapless state, he sees a reflection of himself in that abandoned warehouse. broken, defiled, hurt. with nothing to comfort you from the cold other than the ropes that burn through your skin and the adrenaline that runs through your veins. he forgots what solace feels like, what it means, but through your shared trauma does jason learn. he learns to talk to you, with you, learns to pinpoint each and every emotion he felt at the time, what you felt inside that putrid basement. he learns to manage his grief because he doesn't want to anger himself looking at you, at just how much justice can only serve so many. the longer you talk to jason, the more he becomes softer, yet hungrier. he learns how to hold you in a way a brother learns to hold his baby sibling for the first time when conceived. he relearns the warmth he felt, like when he was finally able to be good enough to be the successor to the title of robin, when he felt you drool on his chest when you trusted him enough to sleep in his room. yet this time that feeling was accompanied with that ominous, distracting essence. one that makes jason's knuckles crack and have him prepare his guns, as he discovers that you can never truly erase the past. and even though it might take years for him to be your ideal brother, he could at least be your sole protector.

then there's tim, who never truly had the opportunity to develop that deeper sense of love he wanted to feel until he was officially adopted into the wayne family right after his parents' death. don't get him wrong, he loves his mom and dad, and so does he loves his current family— but it's obsession that drives him nonetheless. the need to prove himself, to gather information about everyone to know who they truly are; beyond that there's nothing more than shallowness, a neverending hole he can't satisfy. but with you? oh god, you. to tim, you're his everything. you devour his being whole. with you, there's always something new. the need to track every single thing about you leads him into this cycle of want and need that coagulates into desire, into drive. every time you smile, or laugh, or frown, he gains newer intel about you, one he loops into the deepest crevices of his brain at a constant, you are his constant. but staying right behind you can only do so much. and as he sits right beside you in bed, awkwardly comforting you through the ways he mirrored off from his brothers: a sloppy kiss to your knuckles, a joke cracked here and there, and wiping your eyes and nose with his sleeves; tim learns that stalking can only do so much. he learns what it feels like to be needed for emotional connection and nothing else and that only further motivates him to be perfect for you, and to be with you, his sibling, more often than to simply live right under your nose.

and damian, your baby brother, who's unsurprisingly the one who sleeps in your room, or has you sleep in his room, the most. damian tells himself he's incapable of love, of showing it or reciprocating it. but for you, he tries, and like jason, he learns. he discovers just how depraved both of you are when it comes to love. it enlightens you both and it makes damian feel a deeper sense of connection with you than anyone else. with you, he feels like a child: vulnerable, yet uncaring and free, like the true meaning of being a robin, one the soars through the skies with no grandfather or mother or league to watch your every step as their successor. all the times you cry, he silently sobs with you, holding your cheeks down to his level with scarred palms. silent, yet comforting, he'd allow his smaller form to simply become your teddy bear whilst he whispers consolations. about how strong his older sibling is, how precious you are for being comfortable with him to speak of your problems, how you're everything to damian just as he wishes to be the world for you. it makes you think you're more immature that him, it makes him grateful that he has you. even though he doesn't say it, he shows through actions just how truly important you are whenever he draws a sword towards his enemies, thinking about you and his unsaid promises.

nights where you're reminded of that solitary confinement, of the darkness that creeps into your vision and the voices that pierce through your ears. nights where you feel you've exhausted yourself of hope, where what was once warmth that hugs your heart is now that frigid, yet burning spikes that penetrates into the confidence that you'll somehow, someday, run away from that hellhole— those were nights you thought you'd never live with proper sleep. but as one or two of them holds you in their embrace whenever your nightmares consume your being, you're slowly allowing your established walls to fall apart, all for the mere implication of their love.

who would save you, if not for them? their hushed whispers of consolation, hands that wrap around your figure, and fingers that knead your cheeks provide you that deep sated comfort you always wanted. the sleeves they use to wipe away both saltine liquid and snot, to slowly silence your blubbering rambles, your inconsolable crying; it's warmer than the basement you used to be locked in as a child, with dripping faucets the only source of your water— they saved you once before, who's to say they won't save you a thousand times more?

every time you feel like crying, every time that familiar faulty tap in your eyes begins to dampen against ashen skin, it's them that asks you if you're alright. even if you grit your teeth, even if you seeth or bite or beat or punch or kick, to punish yourself, to cope through the trauma, to not feel nothing.

every time pain begins to sear through your skin, it's your grandfather, father, brothers and sisters that huddle around you and tell you 'you're safe here, in the manor, with us'.

every time they spend hours, ditching patrol nights, cooking your comfort food, reading your favorite books, watching movies for hours, ignoring your assigned sleep schedule, kissing your scarred hands gently, reverently, cuddling your form against their strong ones as a silent promise that with them, there's nothing to harm you no more— you'd feel lighter every time, a tad happier, even. slowly, but surely, melting against the confines of your adorned cage and the embrace of your loving captors.

every time they help you heal, it makes you forgive, and it makes you forget their prior kidnapping in return of building new memories with them, in a safer haven, with nobody to hurt you any longer, with nobody to bash your head against concrete walls, to punish you. you who is underserving of the circumstances bought upon you back then.

safe, a word you thought you'll never feel, a word you didn't even know existed in the crevices of your heart. but it is with them that you slowly start to associate safe with family.

the family that you've come to love and cherish in your own imperfect ways, the same way a stray dog becomes too loyal to a passerby when given bones for leftovers every day.

but you're not an animal, and you're not a pavlovian dog meant to be conditioned. no, you're their baby, their love, their treasure and their only one. the love they feed you exceeds beyond leftovers. only you can devour them wholly, the same way they cloak your world in the love that fills that neverending pit in your heart.

you're not biologically related to any of them in any way, too. yet it was all a matter of coincidence that they stumbled upon you.

but really, past is past.

then is then.

now it's just you and them.

it's you, with them.

just your family. overbearing, overprotective, overpowering.

but nothing is always over to you. their love isn't too much. how could you tell yourself it's too much? not when you were never given a basis of what is too much. how is one too much when you were never even given enough?

trust is built upon a foundation of connecting with others who can relate with you one way or another, who can see past through your flaws and mistakes— it's a bond that precedes mere acquaintanceship.

you might've met them later than everyone else, but it's you that completes them.

you're the puzzle that completes the family photographs, the goal for bruce to continue his legacy as batman and to ward off all evil, the inspiration for dick to be that aspiring hero everyone sees him to be, the reason jason begins to reform himself for your sake, the purpose for tim's endless pursuit of knowledge, the muse for damian's painting, the subject for his love he thought was no more, the ambition for steph's prolongation despite her countless of failures, the motivation for barbara to seek out all the criminals who have harmed you, the influence for cass to be stronger to protect you, the catalyst for duke to use his metahuman abilities for good, to take out those who walk in broad daylight, as if they weren't involved in your past tortures.

you're everything that they are.

their sunshine and moonlight, their companionship and loneliness, their pain and pleasure, their yin and yan.

their greatest passion.

a/n: hii guys erm. this is so sudden and also counts as a rant but yk... i feel like quitting this blog but at the same time not. it's just, i feel like writing has been more of an obligation than anything else. it doesn't help the fact that i've only been getting interaction if i were to actually produce something good. beyond that, it feels like people are expecting more of me. i get it, updates are sporadic, they appear in the blink of an eye when you least expect it, but at the same time it's just hard juggling what i want to write and what i feel like i need to write. this blog was primarily to post about my thoughts and to talk to people but lately, every time i open this app to write, i feel these plethora of thoughts and expectations telling me that if i don't do well enough then people would merely ignore whatever i post or it's just bad by standards. and yes i'm grateful for all the people supporting my writing, but at the same time i'm lead to a cycle of me losing my motivation to continue writing. ugh idk what im doing anymore help :((

tl;dr: will i stop writing? no, but at the same time i don't know. someday, i may deactivate this account out of impulse if i feel too much, or not. it depends hehe.