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fushitoru · 4 months ago

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worth the wait a nerdjo fic

pairing ⸺ nerd/academic rival/rich boy!gojo x reader

summary ⸺ you abhor your academic rival, satoru gojo. he's a cocky asshole that you fight with constantly for the spot at first place. but when you finally discover what's underneath all those lame sweaters of his with a once in a blue moon visit at the gym (spoiler alert: he's not a scrawny nerd), you'll be fighting your severe attraction to the man who makes your life a bit harder. and maybe fall in love with him, too, in the process.

warnings ⸺ smut, f recieving oral, praise, he makes you beg for it lol, p i v sex, making out, angst if you squint, a lot of fluff, college AU, nerd!gojo, reader gets insecure sometimes and is treated horribly by her discord mod TA/research advisor, typical misogyny/sexism in STEM fields, but gojo defends her!!!, sleeper build gojo with a happy trail because im a slut, the good old pining and yearning i like. art by @/deltapork

a/n thank u to all my beta readers for editing part of this for me :3 happy valentines day!!!

general masterlist

You blink at your paper.

98.

You suppose you should be happy—it’s a graduate level physics class, anyways. For a moment, you stare at the red markings of the TA that graded it, as if willing an error in the one problem you made a mistake on could make it go away.

2+2=5.

You exhaled sharply, almost fighting back tears. You’d think you could avoid simple arithmetic mistakes, but apparently doing tensor products comes easier than simple addition to you. Shoving your backpack on your chair, you stuff in your laptop and the test haphazardly, not caring that it’s going to get messed and crumpled up in your backpack after your folders and binders jostle around. Fuck that test.

You wouldn’t normally act as if the test had personally wronged you—trust, you were not going to get that heated were it any class. But because of this one class, one person, you knew it was coming. The inevitable.

"Better luck next time." The voice, drenched in smug satisfaction, slithered through the air behind you, his voice and demeanor like a slimy, slimy snake.

Your jaw tightened, but you forced yourself to remain calm as you turned around. And there he was—Gojo Satoru, the bane of your existence, a plague upon your academic record, a walking, talking statistical anomaly who somehow managed to be both infuriatingly brilliant and aggressively insufferable.

He leaned against the desk beside yours, glasses sliding down just enough to reveal the glint of those ridiculously blue eyes. He crosses his arms while they’re covered in that ridiculous, ugly sweater he’s wearing—he’s probably going for the old money aesthetic, but he doesn’t need to know he gives off more “finance bro that helps billionaires evade taxes,” or whatever finance bros do.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” you sniff, pretending to act nonchalant while you grab your backpack, swinging it roughly on your shoulder like it was the weight of your grievances against him.

"The test." Gojo unfolded a crisp sheet of paper with the kind of theatrical flourish reserved for revealing royal decrees. A perfect 100, circled in bold red ink.

Your stomach twisted. This is what those two points meant. Two stupid, meaningless, soul-crushing, rage-inducing points.

"Guess that makes it… what, five to three this semester?" He tapped his chin, pretending to count, as if the score wasn’t already seared into your brain like an irreversible branding. "My lead, obviously. But hey, if you ever need tutoring, I could always squeeze you in."

You bite the inside of your cheek in frustration. “I wouldn’t want to impose on the time for any of your hobbies. After all, when will you get the time to watch anime? My 5000 Year Old Girlfriend is Stuck in a Twelve Year Old’s Body, was it?”

He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt, as if your words had truly pierced him through his chest. “Tut, tut. After all this time, I’d think you’d have my anime preferences memorized since you’re so obsessed with me. It’s Digimon, not whatever pedophilic shit you think I jerk off too.” He pauses, and then his voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “But you know Fred, the grad student TA that holds recitation every Wednesday? I just know he’s probably a Discord mod of a server that sends, like, daily tentacle porn. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on the Megan's law registry either.”

Now, you have to hold back your smile because Gojo has a point. Fred is not just any TA. Fred is the grad student that mentors you on a research project; the program’s super selective, so when you realized you got him, you couldn’t just back out and give up the opportunity. However, Fred isn’t just a weird–-he’s sooo handsy with his greasy ass hands, so you accept any and all Fred slander. Because he’s your research advisor, you can’t wait to finish the project any faster. He probably would be into underage girls, but you don’t need to express your approval to Gojo, or worst of all, let him think he’s funny. God knows that would get into his head. “Yea, yea. Whatever. Anyways, I hope you have fun with your Pokemon—”

“Digimon.”

“—or whatever. I’m leaving. Some of us have things to do. Later, Gojo.”

You turned on your heel, lest Gojo hook you in with another taunt.

Maybe you needed to blow off some steam, if you’re allowing yourself to lose to Gojo.

Worst of all, it’s become a streak, like two times in a row—one on this quiz, and the other on the midterm a few weeks back. Your mind goes back to the last women in STEM recruiting event you had went to, and, how, in the middle of taking a bite of the delicious margherita pizza they offered, you registered that the woman in the panel had insisted that what helped her power through her PhD and dickwad supervisors was by exercising. Her fervor over pilates could almost qualify as a cult pitch, but it made you pause at the moment. Before you continued to further engorge yourself on the food offered on the charcuterie board.

But maybe it was time to hone your focus in, and some sweaty endorphins might help you get just that.

You’re not really surprised the demographic at your university’s gym looks like the way it does. After all, not only was it renowned for its academics (from all the nepo babies like Gojo whose families donated buildings and had like four generations of alumnus), but it was also a Division I school. So not only was the gym packed but it was packed with men.

As you walked in the hallway towards the room that contained weight machines, gym bag slung over your shoulder, you eyed the glistening backs of the (D1, mind you) men’s swim team through the glass that separated your path and the swimming pool.

Wow, those Speedos really hugged their asses. You imagined Gojo in one, and almost snorted. Rich boy nerd Satoru definitely didn’t learn how to swim; his family’s mansion probably had a twenty year old personal lifeguard that Gojo lost his virginity to, or something. Regardless, he would squint in his silly swim goggles, the exact antithesis of sex appeal while his glow-in-the-dark eyes lit up the pool while he stroked, cheeks puffed like a pufferfish.

Regardless, the smell of testosterone that hits you when you enter the weight area is almost nauseating, and, if you’re honest, a little intimidating. You’re not exactly the fittest of people, so you quickly speed walk past the grunting and sweaty men at the squat machines and barbells, avoiding eye contact and praying furiously that none of them perceive you.

When you reach the dumbbell stands, you hunch over, taking random light weights. Then, you pretend you know what you’re doing while jumping every so slightly whenever anyone comes in six foot distance of you. It’s only when another girl comes in to grab a weight (and when she bends over, you definitely ogle her ass in a way that would get you slapped if you were a man) that your gaze removes itself from where it was focused on the 2.5 lb dumbbell you were previously bicep curling with. To see him.

The glint of ivory hair is unmistakable—you’ve basically gotten off to the fantasy of razoring it off in his sleep. His blue eyes are bored, pretty boy face framed in glasses. Now, he’s giving teenage boy turned to Andrew Tate after a breakup. Black sweatshirt and sweatpants that are too small, because they cling to his legs in a form-defining way. He’s walking over, hands in his pockets, to a barbell station. Slaps some guys on the shoulder as he goes through, gets a lot of daps.

Which is weird to you, because you only the Gojo inside your physics class, not outside. He’s a fucking nerd—a loser that spends his time beefing with you, so why is he so popular when he gives you the time of day?

There are three dimensions to gaining alpha status, or whatever they call male popularity. You have to be 1) rich, 2) really physically fit, or 3) just really charismatic. Considering that Gojo—in all his clothing—-looks like a twink moreso than ripped gym bro, it’s definitely not dimension two. So you conclude that it’s because he’s rich and probably throws yacht parties so these ripped guys don’t push him into a locker, or something.

When he finally reaches his destination, you smirk to yourself. With that scrawny build underneath all those loose sweaters, you know he’s only going to be able to lift the bar, no plates. After all, he was warming up. insulting Gojo in countless of ways by taking jabs at his physique mentally, so you barely register that he’s grabbing for the hem of his sweatshirt, peeling it up—

To reveal his bare torso.

Your first thought: Wow, he has huge bazonkas.

That has easily got to be one of the most built physiques you’ve seen at your college so far. His pectorals basically pop out out of his torso as he moves to grab plates. First, he grabs a really big plate—you’re not a gym expert, so you wouldn’t know the weight—and stacks it. And stacks another. And another. And another, until you’re sure it’s definitely more than your bodyweight.

As you’re staring at him in awe, your 2.5 lb dumbbells hang limply by your sides, abandoning all pretense of training to openly gawk at the clench of his biceps, the sweat rolling down his temple, and the set of his jaw as he stares holes into the bar. And by the way there’s heat creeping up your cheeks you realize one thing:

You’re screwed.

“You know what?”

You keep your eyes on your notes firmly, refusing to look at Gojo sitting right next to you. You don’t know why he always chooses to sit next to you on recitation, really—it’s not like you’re receptive to his company. After all, he could be doing other things—like metaphorically sucking a TA’s dick by talking about their research, where Gojo probably knows more about the TA’s research than they do themselves.

From your periphery, you notice Gojo pouting, then scooting his chair (dragging it, so it makes a god awful screeching noise against the floor tiles that has you cringing) until he’s so close that he slings an arm on the back of your chair and leans in closer and closer. You’re fighting to keep your eyes on your notes, face heating up traitorously until you feel his breath fan across your neck because he’s just so close.

“Rude, ignoring me. Look where that got you.” He then points to a problem on your paper, one you were currently working on. “You’re doing that wrong.”

You finally turn to glare at him, but he’s closer than you anticipated, his face just inches from yours. His grin is all sharp edges and knowing amusement, and it makes your stomach flip in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

“I’m not doing it wrong,” you argue, despite the creeping suspicion that, okay, maybe you did mess up somewhere.

“Oh, really?” Gojo drawls, tilting his head slightly. “Then why is your integral off by a factor of two?”

Your eyes snap back to your notes, scanning through the equations—and, dammit, he’s right.

You huff, begrudgingly erasing the mistake. “Whatever.”

“You know, you should really be thanking me,” Gojo muses, still leaning way too close for comfort. “If I weren’t here, who knows how many mistakes you’d make?”

“She’d have me,” comes a greasy voice, and you have to fight the tears in your eyes that arise when Fred (the aforementioned pedophilic TA and your research advisor) comes, his moldy cheese stench following him as he takes a seat from across you and Gojo. You grudgingly turn your face away from where it was so close to Gojo’s to look at him and sigh inwardly. At least Gojo’s face was prettier to look at.

“Hi, Fred,” you smile tightly, willing him to go away. “We’re good here, so you can help out other students—”

“How was your weekend?” He instead replies, and you wince. Stealing a quick glance at Gojo, it seems that his jaw and posture are uncharacteristically tense.

“Lot of work for the class and for, uh, our research,” you respond, nodding and averting your gaze to your paper and feigning working on a problem so that he would get the hint.

Fred, unfortunately, does not get the hint. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes too focused on you. “You really ought to take breaks, you know. You can give me the code late. Someone as cute as you shouldn’t stress so much. You’ll get wrinkles.”

Your fingers tighten around your pencil, your skin crawling at the way his tone veers into something too familiar, too patronizing. You open your mouth to give a clipped response, but Gojo beats you to it.

“Oh? Didn’t know you were an expert on skincare, Fred,” Gojo drawls, his voice deceptively light. His arm, which was still resting on the back of your chair, shifts just slightly—not quite pulling you in, but making his presence more noticeable. “Though, if we’re giving out advice, maybe you should take your own. I mean, stress must be rough on you too, right? All those late nights grading papers, staring at screens. Takes a toll.”

Fred bristles, but Gojo just smiles lazily, pushing up his glasses as he tilts his head. “Actually, you know what? Maybe we should all focus on our own business. Like, say, teaching, instead of weirdly hovering over students. Crazy thought, huh?”

You swear you see the muscle in Fred’s jaw twitch, but he forces out an awkward chuckle, shifting uncomfortably. “Right, right. Just looking out for her.”

“Don’t worry,” Gojo interrupts smoothly, now fully leaning into your space, his arm draping a little lower behind your chair, “I think she’s got plenty of people looking out for her already.” His voice is soft, but there’s an undeniable edge beneath the words.

Fred lingers for a second too long, but finally, he mutters something about helping another student and stands, walking off with an air of forced nonchalance.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, slumping slightly in your seat. Gojo hums beside you, his fingers tapping idly against the back of your chair.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he teases, but there’s something in his tone that’s softer than usual. He then makes a show of stretching, raising his arms. His sweater rides up a bit, exposing his lower abs and peeks of white that has you averting your gaze, the heat creeping up at his proximity once again. Then, his arm back on your chair. Weirdly, you find that you don’t mind it.

You sigh, resigned. You’ll figure out these feelings later. “Yeah. Thanks, Gojo.”

But you don’t immediately go back to your work, because Gojo suddenly hunches down and whispers in your ear. “Yea, I definitely saw an underage anime girl sticker on his laptop.”

Your responding snort is so loud everyone turns to look at you and Gojo, who is now sporting a mischievous and satisfied smile.

It starts with a single drop, fat and cold where it splats against your wrist. You glance up from your phone just in time to see the sky split open.

“Shit,” you mutter, stuffing your phone into your bag. The library doors shut behind you with a heavy clang, sealing away the scent of old books and the quiet hum of studying students. Outside, the air is thick with the petrichor of freshly fallen rain, and within seconds, the pavement is slick, puddles forming in the uneven cracks of the sidewalk. The streetlights reflect off the wet ground, casting fragmented golden glows against the darkening sky. You’d been studying to grind for the upcoming assignments; after all, to rival Gojo is a no small feat. It’s just unfortunate it seems to take you thousand times more effort than it does for Gojo.

“Guess we’re stuck together, huh?”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Satoru Gojo, standing beside you under the library’s narrow overhang, wearing that insufferable grin like he’s amused by the entire situation. Like the rain personally fell from the sky just to give him an opportunity to bother you.

“I’ll take my chances,” you say flatly, shifting your bag on your shoulder. But as you peer past the downpour, your stomach sinks. The rain is merciless, an unrelenting sheet of water stretching as far as you can see. There’s no way you’re making it back to your dorm without looking like you took a fully clothed shower.

Gojo hums, pulling something out of his bag. You blink when he flicks open a half-broken umbrella, the metal ribs slightly bent like it’s barely holding itself together. He gives it a little shake, sending droplets flying, before glancing at you with a smirk.

“Well?” He lifts a brow. “Wanna be smart about this?”

You do not want to be smart about this. You want to wait out the rain or make a break for it. But the storm shows no signs of letting up, and the thought of walking through it alone makes you hesitate.

Reluctantly, you sigh. “Fine. But I get most of the cover.”

“Hey, sharing is caring.” He tilts the umbrella slightly, just enough to make a point.

With great reluctance, you step closer. The moment you do, you regret it.

Gojo is warm. Even in the damp, chilled air, he radiates heat, standing so close that his sleeve brushes against yours. He smells good, too—like expensive laundry detergent with a faint undercurrent of something sweet, something distinctly him.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stare straight ahead as the two of you start walking. The rain pounds against the umbrella, droplets cascading off the edges, and with every step, you’re hyper-aware of the way Gojo moves beside you—loose-limbed, annoyingly graceful, a stark contrast to the crooked metal above your heads.

“Man, this thing’s on its last leg,” he muses, tilting the umbrella just slightly. Water dribbles off the side, landing directly onto your shoulder.

“Gojo!” you yelp, recoiling as the cold soaks through your shirt.

“Oops.” He does not sound remotely sorry.

You glare at him, but before you can snap back, he shrugs off his jacket and—without preamble—drapes it over you.

You freeze.

It’s warm, still carrying the heat of his body, and it smells so much like him—clean, sweet, dizzyingly familiar. Your brain short-circuits.

You force yourself to breathe, keeping your gaze firmly ahead. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice tight.

“I wanted to.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach flip. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, and—

Damn him. Damn him.

Water drips from his bangs, clinging to the sharp edges of his jawline, sliding down the curve of his throat. His shirt sticks to his skin, fabric clinging in a way that reveals the toned lines of his arms, the broad plane of his chest. He’s watching the rain, the usual teasing glint in his eyes softened into something contemplative.

You swear your eggs just recently got released, for you cannot help but avoid your ever going attraction to Satoru Gojo except the age-old excuse: ovulation. Your mind wanders to how his arms would feel around your head, to lay on his chest, how he’d be able to manhandle you, force you to take it—

But you’re snapped out of your inappropriate thoughts by what he says next.

“You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like this. Just us, no grades, no competing.”

You pause.

He says it so simply, so easily, like it’s nothing at all. But the words settle deep, curling somewhere warm inside you, and you don’t know what to do with them.

So you do what you do best: you shove them away, bury them beneath years of rivalry, of late-night study sessions fueled by caffeine and stubbornness, of sharp words and sharper glances.

You roll your eyes, forcing a scoff. “Don’t get used to it.”

But even as you say it, your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, holding it a little tighter.

It’s been a week since you saw Gojo. He had dropped you at your dorm in a surprisingly gentlemanly way, and you had insisted on returning the jacket only after washing it, to be courteous. What you didn’t mention was how you kept repeatedly smelling it in your dorm whenever you got a reprieve from your roommate’s eyes because Gojo smelled like expensive cologne and he did one thing most nerds / physics majors don’t do: shower. This fact, unfortunately, made you more attracted to him because the bar is truly in hell.

You’ve concluded that these…feelings can’t hurt you and that it isn’t real, like a beefy and shirtless Gojo-looking demon that’ll jump and surprise you from under your bed. So you move on your life, caught in the ever perpetual slog of studying and researching.

Thus, you find yourself at the library once more.

The night hums low around you, quiet except for the occasional shuffle of paper and the distant hum of the library’s espresso machine (only librarians could use it, however. you fervently thought that was a form of elitism, but you digress). You’re at the corner table, the one by the window, where the dim light pools just enough to illuminate your notes but not enough to make you feel like you’re being studied under a microscope. You think you’re alone—until you aren’t.

You don’t have to look up to know it’s him.

Satoru Gojo is hard to miss, even when he’s not trying. He slides into the chair across from you with the kind of ease that makes it seem like he belongs there, like he was always going to end up sitting across from you tonight. His hair is tousled, white strands falling forward in a way that makes him look softer under the warm light. His glasses are perched low on his nose, a rare sight given that he usually has them pushed up like some kind of pretentious scholar.

The two of you don’t speak.

It’s surprising, really. Gojo never runs out of things to say, whether it’s an obnoxious quip or some unnecessarily insightful observation that makes you want to throw your textbook at his face. But tonight, he just pulls out his own notes, taps his pen against the edge of his lips, and starts reading.

You should focus on your own studying, but something about this—this silence, this late-night haze, this tiny moment carved out of time—makes your mind wander. You steal glances when you think he won’t notice. His brows furrow when he’s concentrating, his jaw tightens when he’s stuck on something, and when he exhales, it’s this slow, measured thing, like he’s trying not to get frustrated. He’s just—

He’s just really there.

You’ve spent years defining Gojo as your rival. Your competition. The person standing in your way at every academic milestone. And yet, somehow, somewhere, he’s slipped into something else, something harder to define. Because you’ve seen him like this before—when he’s so focused that he forgets the world around him, when he bites his lip in thought, when he gets so caught up in something that he mutters under his breath without realizing it. And for the first time, it dawns on you: you don’t actually hate it.

You don’t hate this comfortable silence. This moment of peace, a white flag waving lazily between you both.

The hours blur. The café starts to empty. Your notes turn into background noise. It’s late, and the warmth from inside lulls you into something dangerously close to comfort.

A soft sound breaks through the quiet.

You glance up and freeze.

Gojo’s head has tilted to the side, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. His hand is curled loosely around his pen, and his breathing has evened out. He’s asleep.

For a moment, you don’t move. You barely breathe.

Gojo, asleep, is not something you’ve seen before. He’s always in motion, always buzzing with energy, always running his mouth about something. But right now, he’s still. His long lashes cast faint shadows over his cheekbones, and the tension he always carries—the cocky bravado, the smirking sharpness—is nowhere to be found. He just looks… peaceful.

Cutie.

What?

The thought slips in so quickly, so effortlessly, that it nearly makes you jolt. But when you look at him again—head tilted just slightly, glasses slipping down his nose, breathing slow and even—you can’t deny that the word fits. He looks like a lazy cat napping in a sunbeam, limbs loose, utterly unguarded. It’s so unlike him that you find yourself staring, caught in the contrast.

Your fingers twitch. Before you can stop yourself, you reach forward, slow and hesitant, to push his glasses back up his nose. But you catch yourself just before you touch him, as if the warmth of his skin might burn. Your hand hovers in the air for a fraction of a second too long, and then—

You pull away.

Your heart is pounding. It’s fine. It’s nothing. You just need to get out of here.

You gather your things quietly, glancing back at him one last time before slipping out the door into the cool night air. The moment you step outside, you take a breath, deep and shaking. The world feels different now. You feel different now.

Because for the first time, it isn’t just that you find Gojo attractive.

It’s that you care.

And you don’t know what the hell to do about it.

The gym, once again, smells like sweat and overpriced protein powder.

You don’t know what’s possessed you to come here today. Maybe it’s because you keep telling yourself that you need to exercise more, or maybe it’s because you need to take a break from studying before your brain melts. But deep down, if you’re really being honest with yourself, you know the real reason.

Gojo is here.

You spotted him the first time by accident. You were on the treadmill, barely jogging at a pace that wouldn’t embarrass you, when you caught a flash of white hair across the gym floor. And there he was—dressed in a fitted black sleeveless top and joggers, casually loading plates onto a barbell.

And he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

It was a stupid, inconsequential detail, but it made all the difference. Without them, he didn’t look like the annoying academic rival who constantly got under your skin, flashing his smug grin as he beat you in exams by the smallest possible margins. He looked… sharp. Unfiltered. Effortlessly attractive in a way that made your stomach tighten in ways you didn’t like.

You’d seen him in his regular clothes before, of course. You knew he had broad shoulders and long legs, that his body wasn’t just a lanky frame hidden behind layers of sweaters. But here, in the gym, watching him roll his shoulders as he prepped for another set—it hit differently. He was lean but muscular, his arms flexing as he adjusted his grip on the bar, and for some godforsaken reason, you couldn’t look away.

You shouldn’t be watching him. You should be focusing on your own workout, pretending you don’t care. But the way his shirt clung to his back, the way his forearms tensed, the way he exhaled sharply as he lifted—

You’re so screwed.

You force yourself to look away, grabbing the smallest dumbbells available and curling them in what has to be the weakest excuse for a workout imaginable. You’re barely paying attention to what you’re doing, too busy sneaking glances at Gojo between sets. It’s pathetic, but at least no one else is watching you.

Or so you think.

Because then she appears.

A girl.

Tall, toned, and effortlessly gorgeous, with sleek hair pulled into a high ponytail. She strides over to Gojo with a confidence you could never dream of and smiles at him, saying something that makes him laugh. Her ass is definitely bigger than yours, and she’s in this coordinated, cute, pink set, looking like she walked straight out of a fitness TikTok. You can’t hear what they’re talking about over the sound of weights clanking and some obnoxious EDM song blasting through the speakers, but you can see it. The way she leans in, the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way Gojo—

—smiles at her. That easy, lazy grin he always wears when he’s teasing you, except this time, it isn’t for you.

Your grip tightens around the dumbbells, something ugly curling in your chest. It gets worse when she gestures toward the squat rack, and Gojo nods before moving behind her, hands hovering just slightly as she sets up for a squat. You watch as he spots her, one hand resting lightly on her lower back, close enough to correct her form but far enough to be polite. He’s focused, watching her movements carefully, murmuring something that makes her laugh before she drops into another rep.

Your stomach twists.

This is stupid. You have no reason to be feeling this way.

It’s then that it hits you—you can have your silly little academic rival moments with Gojo, but, in the end, you’re just a footnote in his story, a fleeting challenge in a life where everything already belongs to him. He quite literally has generational wealth; he’s not going to spend his life buried in grant applications or clawing for recognition in a field that demands twice the effort for half the reward. He’ll be the one funding the research, sitting at the head of the table, making decisions that shape the future. And you? You’ll be one of the many who struggle just to be in the same room.

He’s the guy who spends his vacations on yachts or private islands—not just surrounded by wealth, but by people who belong there. Girls who glide through life with the same effortless ease as him, girls who don’t second-guess if they deserve to be in the spaces they occupy. Girls who don’t have to fight for their place at the table because it was always set for them.

Girls that are his equal—equally attractive, equally smart, equally rich.

Not you.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to look away, but the image is burned into your mind. The easy way he talks to her. The way she tilts her head when she listens. The way he doesn’t even know you’re here.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care.

But you do.

You grip the dumbbells tighter, exhaling sharply. Then you put them back, pick up your water bottle, and walk out of the gym before you do something stupid.

The office is too small. Too suffocating. Too filled with the weight of unspoken words and the sharp-edged smile of Fred, the TA, as he leans back in his chair and laces his fingers together.

"You know," he begins, voice sickly sweet, "I really expected more from you."

You sit stiffly in the chair across from him, your hands curled into fists in your lap, nails digging crescents into your skin. Your heart pounds, but your face remains carefully neutral. You've been called into his office under the guise of "academic guidance," but you know better. You always know better.

"I don't know what you mean," you say, keeping your voice even.

Fred exhales dramatically, shaking his head. "Come on. You and I both know you're barely keeping up in this project of ours."

You grit your teeth. You're not barely keeping up. You're giving him your work at the highest level, at its best. But Fred—Fred has always had a way of twisting things, making you feel small, insignificant, like your achievements are nothing more than accidents.

“I think my progress speaks for itself,” you respond tightly. Mind you, while he was supposed to be your mentor, you’ve done 80% of the work.

But you think Gojo’s defense of you ran deep into Fred’s heart because by the way he’s sleazily smirking at you, you know he’s trying to get back at you.

He smirks. "Your progress? Sure, you’re smart. But you think that’s enough? You think anyone’s going to care about a girl like you when there are people out there who don’t have to struggle to be exceptional?" He leans forward, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. "You’re wasting your time. The best you can hope for is being someone’s assistant. Maybe a glorified research grunt if you’re lucky. Just like for me."

Your stomach twists. You shouldn’t care. You know you shouldn’t care. But the words burrow deep, hitting a place inside you that already doubts, that already wonders if you’re nothing more than a temporary obstacle in a world built for people like Gojo Satoru—people born brilliant, born wealthy, born effortless.

Fred’s eyes flick over you, assessing, smug. "You’re working yourself to the bone for what? You’ll never be at the top. Not really."

The bitterness of the situation really dawns on you—Gojo’s the one who took a jab at Fred last week, not you. But you’re the one who’s left to deal with its consequences. You’re not going to assign blame and lament that it’s not Gojo in this office dealing with him. It was in your defense, after all.

But Fred’s words remind you. You’ll never be at the top. At Gojo’s level, who’s at the top without even seeming to put in effort.

You’ll never be his equal.

You stand abruptly, shoving your chair back so hard it scrapes against the floor. "If that’s all, I have work to do."

Fred chuckles, leaning back, clearly pleased with himself. "Sure, sure. Don’t say I never tried to give you advice."

You don’t respond. You just walk out, gripping your bag so tightly your knuckles turn white, the echo of his words following you down the hall, settling in your bones like lead.

The hallway is too bright. Too loud. Too full of people who don’t know that you’re on the verge of crumpling in on yourself like a dying star.

Your breath feels too shallow, too quick, and there’s a weight pressing down on your chest that no amount of rationalizing can shake off. It’s not even your meeting with Fred—just a slow accumulation of stress and exhaustion and frustration that’s settled deep in your bones. A grade lower than expected, an upcoming deadline you’re nowhere near prepared for, a general sense of drowning no matter how hard you try to keep up. It’s all too much, and your hands are starting to shake from how tightly you’re gripping the strap of your bag.

You just need to get out of here. You need air, space, something.

But, of course, the universe has a cruel sense of humor, because when you round the corner, you slam straight into Satoru Gojo.

“Whoa—”

Your balance is already precarious from the way you were rushing, and the impact sends you stumbling. For a split second, you think you might actually fall—your ankle twists awkwardly, the world tilts—and then there’s a strong hand gripping your wrist, another bracing against your back, steadying you before you can hit the ground.

You don’t process what happens immediately. Your mind is still stuck on too much, too fast, can’t breathe, and it takes you a second to realize that Gojo is holding you upright, his hands firm but careful, his expression hovering somewhere between amusement and concern.

“Jeez, what’s the rush?” he teases, but his voice lacks its usual careless lilt. He’s searching your face now, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, and that’s when you realize: you must look as bad as you feel.

Shit.

You jerk away from him, a little too fast, a little too sharp. “I’m fine.”

Gojo doesn’t look convinced. “You sure? Because it kinda seemed like you were about to pass out on the spot.”

“I said I’m fine.” You adjust your bag over your shoulder, shifting your weight onto your other foot, ignoring the faint throb in your ankle. “Go bother someone else.”

Most of the time, that’s enough to send him off with an exaggerated sigh and a smirk. But not today.

Today, Gojo just stands there, watching you like he’s trying to piece something together—like you’re a problem he wants to solve. He doesn’t press, not yet, but the silence stretches, and it’s unbearable, because you can feel the weight of his gaze, and you don’t want to be seen like this. Not by him.

So you give him a tight nod in dismissal, and walk away.

There’s a knock at your door. You frown because you didn’t expect any visitors, and you’re in your sleepwear. Regardless, you pad your way lazily and open the door.

To see Gojo.

What the fuck.

He’s drenched in the glow of the hallway light, looking entirely too at home despite standing on your threshold. His hair is still slightly damp from the rain, white strands falling over his forehead in careless disarray. He’s not wearing his glasses.

"Why are you here?" you demand, gripping the doorframe, willing your voice to stay steady.

He quirks an eyebrow, tilting his head just slightly. “You’re holding my jacket hostage.”

Oh. Right.

You make your way to your wardrobe, where the now-cleaned jacket hangs neatly on a hanger. Grabbing it, you hand it over to Gojo, who’s standing at your threshold while eyeing the insides of your dorm, as if trying to take in what your living space looks like. You shove it into his chest, stepping back like the heat of it burns. "Here."

Gojo takes it, but instead of leaving like a normal person, he lingers, running his fingers over the material like he’s checking for something. Then,, he lifts a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it in that way that only makes his biceps flex, his lean muscles shifting beneath his shirt. You hate that you notice.

A beat passes.

"You know," he muses, far too casually, "you seemed a little disheveled back there."

Your stomach twists. "It's not a big deal—"

"—Bullshit." His voice cuts through yours, sharp and immediate. He shifts, stepping just the tiniest bit closer, his tone losing its usual teasing lilt. “You’re lying. I saw what you looked like. What happened?”

“It's none of your business,” you say, stiffening. “Nor is it a big deal, really.”

Gojo exhales, something heavy in the sound. His eyes don’t leave yours, and for once, they aren’t filled with their usual mirth or mischief. Just something searching, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t have the strength to deal with right now.

"You always do that," he says, softer now, but no less intense. “Act like no one’s supposed to care. Like you’re carrying the world alone.”

Your fingers curl into your palms. Your lips press together. You don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to acknowledge the way his words settle too close to the truth.

And then, quietly, Gojo asks, “Do you not consider me your equal?”

You swallow.

Your silence must be enough of an answer because something shifts in his expression. It isn’t anger exactly, but it’s something close—something bitter and disappointed and aching all at once.

"You’re the one who shuts me out, you know." His voice is sharp now, edged with frustration. "You act like I'm the one keeping you at a distance, but every time I try to get close, you push me away."

Your throat tightens. “Why do you even care?”

Gojo lets out a breath, his head tilting just slightly, eyes scanning your face like you’re something he’s trying to figure out. Then he laughs, quiet and humorless.

“You really don’t know?”

“I—” Your voice wavers. “What do you mean—”

“For a girl so smart, you sure do act stupid.” He steps forward then, closing the space between you just enough to make you want to back away, but your feet don’t move. His voice drops lower. "Do you think I talk to you because I give a fuck about physics?"

Your brain short-circuits. “What—”

He groans, dragging a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I give zero fucks about the class or any class, trust me. I have better things to do than to try to aim for 100s on every test."

Your heart is pounding now, too loud, too fast. “Then why—”

"God," he exhales, tipping his head back, like he's debating whether or not he should even say it. Then, after a beat, he looks at you again, and whatever is in his eyes makes your stomach flip, makes your breath hitch.

Something in your chest lurches, but before you can even process it, he huffs a laugh—like he’s just remembered something ridiculous.

"You didn’t even look my way the first week," he says, eyes flicking over your face, searching. "I could tell you only cared about anyone that could challenge you. Like, it wasn’t even until I did better than you on the second midterm that you even talked to me."

You open your mouth, then close it, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Because—yeah. He’s not wrong. You had ignored him, dismissed him as just another overconfident rich kid who thought he was smarter than he was. It wasn’t until he proved himself, until he became a real obstacle in your path, that you bothered to acknowledge him.

Gojo smiles, but it’s not cocky this time—it’s small, almost rueful. "And then you looked at me like I was finally real. Like I existed."

Your breath hitches.

He shrugs, eyes dropping for a brief second before snapping back up to yours. "So, yeah. Maybe I started trying harder. Maybe I cared about all those stupid tests because it meant I got to see that fire in your eyes, that I got to be the one you were pushing against." He rubs the back of his neck, his biceps flexing in a way that would usually annoy you, but right now, you’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

Gojo stares at you for a long moment, gaze unwavering, like he’s daring you to say something—anything.

Your chest feels too tight, your pulse erratic, and you don’t know what to do with the way Gojo is looking at you—like you’re something precious, something worth holding onto.

But he’s wrong. He has to be wrong.

“You can’t like me,” you whisper.

Gojo frowns, expression shifting. “What?”

Your throat clenches, and before you can stop it, heat pricks at your eyes, blurring your vision. “You can’t like me,” you say again, voice cracking. “I can’t even match you.”

Gojo's face slackens, his teasing demeanor completely gone.

"You do everything so effortlessly," you force out, your fists clenching at your sides. "It’s so infuriating." A shaky breath escapes you, and you shake your head, looking down. “So why would you even want this? You make me feel this way, and I—I hate you for it.”

For a second, there’s only silence.

Then, Gojo exhales softly.

“Is that what you think?” His voice is so gentle it makes something inside you ache.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Gojo shifts, stepping forward slowly, carefully, like you’re something fragile. And then—then he reaches out, his fingers ghosting along your wrist before curling around it, grounding you. “It’s not effortless,” he murmurs. “I try so hard. You just don’t see it because I don’t want you to.”

"You really don’t get it, do you?" His voice is quieter now, something dangerously close to vulnerable. His fingers twitch at his sides. "I care because it’s you."

You shake your head, still not understanding, still unable to believe it.

Gojo watches you for a moment, then exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You act like I just woke up one day and decided to like you.” He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no real amusement in it. “Do you know how long I’ve been stuck on you? How infuriating it was, realizing that no matter how much attention I got, the only person I wanted it from was too busy treating me like an obstacle?”

Your breath catches.

“I tried everything,” he continues, voice rougher now. “Teasing you, annoying you, beating you in tests, losing to you in tests. It didn’t matter what I did, because you—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “You only saw me when I gave you a reason to compete.”

Your fingers tremble slightly at your sides. You don’t know what to say, don’t even know what you can say.

And suddenly, everything—the teasing, the constant pestering, the way he always had to be around you—it all clicks into place.

Your heart hammers in your chest, and before you can second-guess it, before you can even think, you surge forward and kiss him.

It’s a mess of a kiss—too rushed, too desperate, all clashing teeth and uneven breaths—but Gojo groans softly against your lips, like he’s been waiting for this. His hands are on you immediately, one slipping around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he presses you flush against him.

You’re dizzy. Overwhelmed. But it’s good. It’s him, and you don’t want to stop.

When you finally pull away, breathless and unsteady, Gojo is grinning, his lips slightly swollen.

“Worth the wait,” he murmurs, eyes shining.

You avert your gaze, fully blushing now. “But I—” You take a look at him, then hide your face in your hands. “I’m a stalker.”

“Maybe I’m into that.”

“No,” you bemoan. “I’ve stalked you at the gym, and I—” Your voice drops into a shameful whisper. “You were good. Like, stupidly good. Like, making everyone stare at you good.”

His lips twitch. “You were staring too, huh?”

You glare at him, but he just grins, all teeth, clearly eating this up.

“I hated it,” you insist, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “I hated that you’re already smarter than me, that you already have all these advantages, and then—and then you also have that? Like, it’s just unfair. You’re unfair.”

Gojo is silent for a second, and you think you’ve screwed up, but then exhales a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “You are so cute.”

“Stop it!” you whine, but you don’t protest when he pulls you closer and locks your lips with his another time. You clutch the front of his shirt, drag your hands on his chest, his arms, everywhere. Then, you guide his to firmly clutch your ass, to which he freezes.

“We can stop here. We don’t have to do anymore than this, and—”

But you interrupt him, slamming your lips against his once more. Grabbing him by the shoulder you pull him into your room and slam the door behind you, pushing him against the door. “Fuck no.”

He laughs breathlessly, then continues to switch your position, now you against the door. “Thank god. Now, jump.”

You do, and you almost moan at how easily he grabs you in his arms, your legs straddling him. It’s like you weigh nothing to him as he carries you over to your bed and manhandles you into it, following not long after.

When he gets on top of you, he maintains eye contact as he pulls your shirt over your head, trailing kisses down to your neck, the valley of your breasts (but not before giving each of the girls their own tender kiss), and your stomach. With his eyes boring into you, he slowly, teasingly drags the pants you were wearing down your legs until you’re just in your panties.

You let out a noise, and he coos. “I know, I know, baby.” He gives you a gentle kiss on the top of your mound, and you clench, squirming from the contact. “Let me take my time, though.”

He gently, but firmly, lays a hand on your hip as he starts licking the crotch of your panties. It’s truly maddening—the sensation is there, but you oh so wish his skilled tongue was meeting your skin, bare and electric.

He’s taking his time laving, ravishing your taste, but you’ve had enough. “Gojo, please,” you sob, throwing your head back and grinding further into his tongue, which he welcomes. “Stop teasing.”

“Mmmm,” he pretends to think, all while focused and looking only at your crotch, now rubbing your clit in small, miniscule circles. “I can, but,” and now he’s just mocking you, with the way he adopts a babying tone, “I think you’re going to have to beg for it.”

You groan in frustration as a response, but he only clicks his tongue as his fingers reach and finally rid you of your panties. He spreads your folds with two fingers, his face oh so close to your bare pussy. But instead of finally giving you what you want, he clicks his tongue, pouting as if you’re the one forcing him to be a bastard. “Yea, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to earn it.”

Before you can respond, he holds out his tongue and inches his face even closer to your bare folds until you can feel his warm breath over it. “You just have to say please.” Then, he ahhh-s, as if holding his tongue out to a doctor and says, “Look I’m so close—ahhh.”

You can only plead with him. “Please, Gojo.”

“No, it’s Satoru to you now, baby.”

“Satoru, please eat me out.”

He smiles. “Yeaa, that’s my girl.” And proceeds to eat you out in a way that has your toes curling.

He acts like a man eating his last meal on death row. It’s the masterful combination of laving over your folds, kissing your clit, and groaning and making noises that has you inching closer and closer to your orgasm. When you tell him, you’re close, he does exactly what he’s supposed to do—keep doing what he’s doing, same spot, same tempo, same pressure.

With a cry of his name, you come quickly, and he takes your writhing hips and their motion like a champ, easing you through it. When you feel the all-too-familiar feel of over sensitivity, you grab his hair and pull him towards your face, kissing him tenderly.

He maneuvers his huge frame to lay down next to you, and you fall easily into a gentle embrace. It’s a comfortable silence, as he burrows his face into your chest and you stroke his hair gently.

Gentler than how you’ve ever treated him.

It’s this thought exactly that you voice to him. “You know,” you muse softly. “I was such a bitch to you.” This gets his attention, because he moves from where he was comfortable (your boobs) to look at you in alarm. “Like, I was always mean, and like acting all high and mighty—”

“Whatever you think you did, it was hot,” he interrupts you, grinning boyishly. “Like damn when you insult me I get all fired up—”

“Satoru!” You laugh, shocked, looking down at him. “You’re crazy.”

“Yea,” he winks. “Crazy for you.”

You smile softly at that, biting your lip. “I mean, I get that.” You feel his curious gaze rove over you and heat creeps up your neck as you confess, “Like I was stalking you at the gym. I saw you one time, and um. You definitely have a sleeper build.”

He hums. “I get that a lot.”

“Yea,” you blurt. “you’re really hot. Like you have really big arms, which I definitely didn’t notice in all those sweaters you wear. You could definitely throw me around.”

Silence.

When you look down at him, he’s looking at you mischievously. He sits up, takes off his shirt, and says, “Want to test that theory?”

The both of you test the theory, indeed—it’s a nice nod to your guys’ academic, theoretical physics roots. But instead of some theory involving dark matter or quantum physics debated while in class, this theory takes all night to prove.

general masterlist

a/n special thank you to @purplegemadventures ily pookie <3 we were discussing how a lot of fics so far have made seem nerd gojo really cute and shy but we tried to envision a shit eating sassy diva just like hidden inventory arc <3 like what that one anon said i need my gojo to be a little annoying cocky (but cute) bastard (or, i quote, "your gojo makes me want to oil his scalp and give him an aggressive head massage and mess his hair up"). ANYWAYS props to that one anon that dropped the "nerd gojo with sleeper build" and my beloved @tiramisuandlove i love you forever

comment and reblog to let me know ur thots!

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satrs · 4 months ago

Text

Baby, Baby!

SYNOPSIS; Babyfever with the l&ds men<3

FEATURING; ZAYNE. XAVIER. SYLUS. RAFAYEL. CALEB. xfem!reader

TAGS; ADULT/NSFW CONTENT. MDNI! unprotected intercourse, smegual intercourse. br$$ding. creampi. heavy dörtytalk. extremely pathetic crybaby caleb alert!!!. mention of kids, duh!. doggy in rafs. mating press in sylus'. spooning in xaviers. cowgirl in calebs.

✎ A/N; FUCK SWEETIES! FINALLY FINISHED THIS!! I thought I'd see the pearly gates before I get to live this day LMAO. Couldn't stop thinking about my babytrapper!Caleb post, so this came out of it ^^ This might be my fav work yet ngl hehe

ZAYNE ✰ How to make a Baby 101!

"You",

Zayne stops himself as he takes a deep breath, a grunt rumbling in his throat, "You want a baby?"

It's as if you could read his mind. He's been thinking about this—about a baby—for quite a while now, seeing it as a next step after your established wedding. You're his love — his darling wife, so it only seemed it would be natural for you both to consider this next big step in your life.

Zayne loomed over you, his gaze dark, smoldering, and consuming. His breath was ragged, uneven, his hands trembling as they gripped your thighs, spreading you open beneath him.

Your eager nod was all it took for him to stuff his entire length inside you in one swift motion, feral, low grunt erupting from the depths of his lungs.

"l'll give it to you. Gonna-" he stops himself with a hiss, hips stuttering at your greedy grip onto his dick, "Gonna give my sweet darling a baby."

"P-please Zayne. Need it soooo bad!"

A helpless, broken mewl spilled from your lips as your nails clawed into his shoulders, heels digging into his back in a desperate attempt to pull him in deeper. His body shuddered at your neediness, at the way you begged so sweetly, so pathetically.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, strained, like he was holding himself back. Like he was fighting the urge to ruin you completely.

His fingers traced along your jaw, down your throat, until his hand traced circles on your belly. His lips parted, his tongue darting out to wet them as he stared down at you like you were something he could devour whole.

"You always let me have you like this," he rasped, his hips rolling forward, stretching you open inch by inch over and over again. "Like you were made for me."

You gasped, back arching, hands flying to his biceps, gripping tight, and Zayne let out a deep, guttural groan. His head fell forward, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath fanning over your lips as he pushed deeper, until there was no space left between you.

"Fuck," he hissed, his teeth gritting and his hands clutching at your waist like he was trying to ground himself. "Can’t hold back when you’re like this."

His hips snapped forward, the sudden movement pulling a shaky moan from your lips, and he drank it in like a man starved.

His pace was slow, deep, and precise—savoring the cramped space of your cunt, memorizing every pulse, every clench, and every desperate little noise you made.

"You feel that?" he whispered, pressing his circling hand down against your stomach, his touch firm, possessive. "Feel how deep I am?"

His lips brushed against your ear, his voice dropping into something low, rough, almost dangerous. "Nobody else gets to have you like this." His teeth nipped at your earlobe, his breath shuddering. "Nobody else ever will."

And when he pulled back—just enough to see the way you were falling apart beneath him—his lips curled into a dark, satisfaction.

"Mine."

The gluttonous vibration of his voice startled you almost, his mouth hot against your neck as you both simultaneously come undone, rolling your puffy clit between his digits to ride out your high.

But he wouldn't stop cumming - he couldn't. He has to make sure you take it. Fat spurts of cum paint your walls completely, pumping the oh-so familiar fluid into your womb.

"You'll be the best mother ever- fuckkk." He continues to ram his now spent cock into you, growing full erect again, the thought of your pregnant form just plastered before his vision.

You huffed, trying to shove at his chest, but the wicked smirk on his lips only deepened. Voice dripping with something dark and sweet, "I think I should go for another shot, just to be sure."

And a crazed smile creeps up his usually nonchalant features at your aghast expression, quick to plaster a sweet, dotting kiss to your plump lips.

He rolled his hips, slow, deep, deliberate, pushing his seed deeper and deeper into you, and he knew that this really didn't make any difference on the outcome from a medical state point but right now everything in him screamed to pump you full.

One thing is for certain, though— you're not coming out of this not pregnant with his child. Or maybe in plural as in children? Yeah, that sounds way better.

"Yeah," he chuckled against your skin, pressing a kiss to your jaw,

"One more for good luck."

XAVIER ✰ Oopsie-Daisy!

The first thing you felt was warmth—the heat of Xavier’s body pressed tight against yours, his arm heavy and unyielding over your waist, keeping you right where he wanted you. Even in sleep, he held you close, like he couldn’t stand the thought of you slipping away.

You weren’t sure how long he’d been awake, but the lazy caress of his fingers over your stomach told you he’d been lingering in this moment, taking his time. Soft, slow circles, the barest drag of his fingertips across sensitive skin—teasing, testing.

A slow roll of his hips, and suddenly you did feel it—the firm, heavy weight of his cock dragging through your slick folds, grinding right up against your clit.

A sharp gasp left your lips as he did it again, long and deliberate, letting the thick head of his cock glide through the wet mess he was making of you.

His fingers dragged lower, barely brushing over your clit before pulling away—keeping you right at the edge, keeping you desperate.

“You’re not leaving this bed ‘til you’re full," he promised, his cock sliding against you again, so damn slick, so damn hard. "So damn full you got no choice but to take, take, take.”

His breath, warm and steady, ghosted over your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. He must’ve felt it because a low chuckle rumbled in his chest.

In one swift motion he slides into you with ease, walls clenching around the all too familiar girth, his leaking pre smeared onto your insides.

"Mm-mm," he tsked, his gravelly voice thick with amusement. "Ain’t no runnin’ now, baby. You’re right where I want you."

His grip tightened slightly, his palm pressing just a little firmer against your stomach, like he wanted to hold you there, to remind you exactly who had you like this. His nose brushed against your jaw, lips ghosting over your skin as he pressed a slow, teasing kiss beneath your ear.

"Feel me in there?" he murmured, voice thick with possession. "All deep inside you, right where I belong."

His hand flexed, fingers splaying wider, pressing down just enough to make you feel every inch of him buried inside you.

"Tell me you love it," he whispered, his lips dragging down your neck, teeth grazing your skin. "Tell me you love bein’ mine. That you love me fillin’ you up like this."

Your breath hitched, and the second you whimpered out, "Hhnnn! — I love it when you fill me up, love you—"

Xavier growled low in his throat, his arm tightening around you, pulling you impossibly closer as his hips snapped forward in a slow, aching thrust.

"Damn right you do," he murmured, a smirk pressing against your skin.

Your breath hitched as his hips rolled forward, pressing his already-hard cock against your dripping heat between your thighs. A knowing chuckle rumbled through his chest.

"You want me to fill you up, don’t you? Fuck a baby into you?"

You opened your mouth to protest, but the second his fingers gripped your hips, the moment he rolled his own against you—

A small, broken gasp slipped out instead.

„Everyone's gonna know. They’ll know your mine. They’ll— goddd your squeezing me so damn tight, I can’t—„ his nonstop rambles only continue, accompanied by the lewd sounds echoing off the walls.

His breathing turns rapid, hooded eyes fixed onto your tummy, propping one strong leg onto the bed to sink deeper into you.

His chest pressed flush against your back, warm and solid, trapping you in his arms, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, giving him the perfect angle to bury himself deeper, harder, where you needed him most.

His hands—god, his hands—one pressed firmly against your stomach, splayed wide over your lower belly, like he could already feel himself inside you, claiming you from the inside out. The other? Sliding lower, fingers teasing along your inner thigh, thumbing at your sensitive bundle of nerves, making you cry out.

"Well," he breathed, lips brushing against your ear, voice dripping with pure sin, "who am I to deny my girl?"

The way your body shuddered at his words, the way you clenched down around him had Xavier groaning, curses spilling from his lips, his hips faltering for just a second before snapping forward with renewed force.

"You like that, huh?" he rasped, his fingers tightening their hold on your stomach. "Like knowing you’re mine? That no one else gets to see you like this?"

Plap. Plap. Plap.

His hips rolled, slow, deliberate, deep.

"Say it," he demanded, voice wrecked, desperate, pushing his forehead against your shoulder. "Tell me you’re mine. That I’m the only one who gets to have you like this."

His thrusts grew more frantic, his breath ragged against your ear, his grip almost bruising.

"Tell me," he rasped, grinding deep, making you feel every inch of him. And the second you did—the moment you choked out that you were his, that no one else could ever have you like this—

Xavier lost it.

His arm wrapped around your waist, locking you in place as he drove himself as deep as he could go, his body trembling against yours as he came undone.

And even as he shuddered, even as he pressed soft, lingering kisses to your shoulder, his hands never left your stomach.

Because now?

Everyone was going to know.

SYLUS ✰ Mission: Impregnable!

"A-again." His slight stutter doesn't go unnoticed by you, despite the loud echoing of his hips snapping into yours. "Say it again."

He had to have misunderstood something, right? Because if he didn't, if you really said what he thought you said- you're fucked.

You whine at his guttonal voice, his desperate hips drilling his dick further into your depths. "Wan'- oh! Wan' you to make me a mommy, Sy."

Sylus had that look in his eyes again—the kind that made your breath catch, the kind that sent a thrill up your spine. His fingers ghosted along your skin, calculating, possessive, until they found comfort with your hand interlocked with his.

"You realize," he murmured, voice low, precise, mere inches from your lips, "that biologically speaking, your body is at its most receptive right now."

You see, Sylus was no dummy. Of course, he was keeping track on your cycle. Who do you think he is? And it just so happened that today you're the most fertile.

Core burning in pure excitement, your heels dig into his lower back, eager and hungry for his seed. You whine as you feel his swollen cock bullying your poor cervix.

"Sylus-"

He silenced you with a slow, deep kiss, fingers tightening on your waist.

"And if I were to push you past your limit tonight—again and again—" his voice dipped, sending shivers down your spine, "well, statistically, the odds would be in my favor, wouldn’t they?"

Your breath caught as he tilted your chin up, making you look at him. His eyes gleamed with something dangerous, obsessive, completely focused on you.

His fingers slid down your stomach, tracing slow, calculated patterns, as if mapping out the future he was about to give you.

"I should be thorough," he mused, almost to himself. "Another round would increase the probability of success by at least—"

You didn’t get to hear the end of that sentence.

Because Sylus surged forward, lips crashing onto yours in a way that was desperate and all-consuming, like he was finally allowing himself to break past his carefully maintained restraint.

Like an unstoppable force, he slides out of you until only his crown was engulfed by your puckering hole until he slams! His entire length past your sobbing ring.

The ridiculous stretch his dick inflicts onto your poor pussy is otherworldly, almost unbelievable. As he forces his girthy inches further into you, a noticeable bulge appears on your tummy.

And oh boy, does he notice it.

All it takes is one glance — one look of those rubies of his— downwards to the gradually growing imprint of his tip meanly poking against your tummy, and he snaps.

His big arms reach for your legs and in almost an instant, you’re folded into the meanest, nastiest mating press known to man.

„O-Oh!“ you surprised hiccup does nothing to soften his antics — quite the opposite. A feral grunt erupting from the depth of his lungs lets you know in what condition your beloved Sylus is in.

„Twins. I‘ll give you twins.“

"Ah!- T-twins!?"

He‘s gone mad.

What's left of him is a disheveled mess, crazed out mind deadest on pumping you full of his gooey load, even if it's the last thing he'll do.

"Yes. Two sweet little girls, just as beautiful as their mother."

His massive frame caged you in, your thighs now folded up to your chest, leaving you completely at his mercy. His body was trembling, slick with sweat, but his grip on you was ironclad. He wouldn’t let you run, wouldn’t let you escape—not from him, not from this.

His chuckle swells your heart with so much love you can barely breathe. Or was it because of his dick reaching so ridiculously far up into you, you could almost feel him in your throat? Both perhaps.

Flaming eyes, usually so warm and gentle, were wild now—dangerous, obsessive. This wasn't your Sylus anymore. This is the leader of Onychinus—conquering and claiming everything he desires.

And at this moment, his desire was to make you the mother of his offspring.

"There," he growled, his voice raw, almost a snarl. "That’s where I need to be. Need to be deeper—need to—fuck—"

His hips snapped forward, sharp, relentless, sending white-hot pleasure sparking through your veins. Lips were parted, panting, his expression one of pure, animalistic need.

Your head lulled back, words failing you, but he wasn’t having that. His fingers wrapped around your jaw, forcing your gaze back to him.

"Stay with me," he pleaded in a whimper, his voice thick, strained. His thrusts were turning frantic now, sloppy, desperate, like he was losing control. "Wanna see your face when I fill you up."

You whimpered, and that was all it took.

Sylus let out a broken, guttural groan, his body shuddering violently as he bottomed out, burying his throbbing cock as deep as he could go. You could feel him— only him — hot, thick cum spilling inside you in endless waves, stuffing you full.

And the way he was still pressing his weight into you, still rolling his hips in slow, lazy circles, made you realize—

He was nowhere near done.

RAFAYEL ✰ Catching Feelings & Babies

The room was dimly lit, warm, and filled with the soft sound of ragged breaths and skin meeting skin. Rafayel’s strong hands gripped your hips, holding you firmly in place, keeping you exactly where he wanted you—where you belonged.

"You look so perfect like this," he murmured, voice deep and rich, like he was admiring a piece of fine art. Like you were something sacred. His fingers traced over the dip of your spine, down to where you stretched around him, taking him so beautifully.

"B-been waitin' for this sooo long baby, finallyyyy." Breathless, he pounds his hips against your plump ass again, again and again. His repeated movement rams you deeper into the soft cushion.

Rafayel’s hands were gentle, reverent, gliding over your heated skin, like you were something fragile and precious.

But his eyes?

Dark and Deep. Filled with something unshakable.

Your body arched instinctively, seeking more, needing more, and Rafayel only chuckled—low, dark, and knowing.

A broken gasp tore from your throat, your fingers clutching the sheets, barely able to hold yourself up as he pressed even deeper, stretching your hole to the very limit.

"Shhh, love," he soothed, one hand sliding up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades. "Let me take care of you."

He rolled his hips in slow, deep strokes — each one hitting the perfect spot, each one meant to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

"You feel it too, don’t you?" His voice was softer than usual, thick with emotion. His fingers splayed over your lower stomach, pressing just enough to make you feel every pulsating vein of his, every knock against your cervix.

"Y-yes", you swallowed hard, head spinning in circles while nodding. A slow, warm smile curled his lips, but beneath it was something more dangerous. Something primal.

"Good."

"That’s it," Rafayel praised, his voice like liquid gold, soothing and possessive all at once. "Take all of me. Let me give you everything."

He adjusted his angle, thrusting deeper, harder, slower, dragging out every sensation until you were a trembling mess beneath him.

"Listen to her. Cryin' for me ta fill her up." He follows suit with his long finger pressed against your plump lips, consoling you. "Shhh, baby. I know, I knowww. But ya gotta hold on for me, mkay?"

You cry out his name as his hefty length hits every spot imaginable inside of you, stars appearing behind your eye sockets. "Nghhh! Rafayel, I can't!"

Dizziness overcomes you as you reach back for his beefy arm, nails clawing crescent moons into his flesh. His steady hips cause his bulging head to nudge at your gushy spot repeatedly as your juices coat his length in a glossy essence.

The lewd squelch sounding from your cunt has him in a chokehold. Each rapid thrust of his sinks your body further into the sheets, his head spinning at the obscene sight of your back in a nasty arch, his pelvis snapping against your ass, each jiggle robbing a needy sound from him.

He‘ll never get enough of this— enough of you.

"Sh-Shit, cutie. Gonna give it to ya realll good. Fill you up — f-fuckkk! Make you a mommy.“ The slight crack in his voice gets drowned out by the loud sound of his heavy balls snapping against your poor swollen clit.

Hm. Mommy has a nice ring to it.

His hand left your waist, only to wrap around your throat, pulling you up—back against his chest and you didn’t think that it could be possible for him to get even deeper, but he did. His lips brushed your ear, his hot breath sending a shiver down your spine.

"You’re mine," he whispered, his voice a dark promise, an unshakable truth. "And when I fill you up—" he thrust harder, dragging a desperate moan from your lips—"yer' gonna stay mine forever."

And the way he was holding you so close, fucking you so deep, made you believe every single word.

He could burst right at the sight of your fucked-out face, and he starts to imagine how perfect your child would be. With your gorgeous hair and that stunning smile of yours, and—

"M‘ gonna cum! G-oshhhh please don’t stop don’t—"

She, no — they would have his eyes and—

With your head leaned against his shoulder, blue and pink ombre orbs fixate on your face.

His repeated shallow breaths tickle your neck, an impatient hand cups your belly, finger soothingly brushing over it, his hot breath brushing against your ear.

" Mhmmm yeahh. We’re gonna have two gorgeous girls, can’t have her be all alone, can we?“

"T-two?“ you manage to choke out in shock, only to be startled by his chuckle. "Yeahhh, you’re right. Two is too little. Four is more like it.“

The speedy plap! plap! plap! Against the valley of your ass turns irregular, needier, even.

"Four—fuck—four perfect little babies," he panted, his lips brushing over your temple, his voice thick with love and obsession. "We’ll have the perfect family, won’t we? You, me, our little ones—"

His thrusts turned sloppy, desperate, and then—his entire body locked up. A deep, wrecked groan tore from his throat, his fingers digging into your thighs as he spilled inside you, claiming you, filling you up until there wasn’t an inch left untouched.

He collapsed against your back, his weight warm, grounding, safe. His chest rose and fell in heavy pants, his lips pressing lazy, feather-light kisses along your skin.

"You’re mine," he murmured, his voice softer now, no less possessive but full of warmth. "My love, my home, my everything."

A shaky breath left you, your body spent but satisfied. "Four kids, huh?" you mumbled, exhaustion creeping into your voice.

Rafayel hummed, his arms wrapping around you, holding you impossibly close.

"Or maybe five."

CALEB ✰ Practice Makes Perfect

He must be dreaming, surely.

"Please, Caleb. Need it- need it so bad pleaseplease-"

Yeah. Because if there is heaven, fucking you raw for the first time surely is just that.

His head pressed against the bed, his breath coming in shaky, uneven pants, his hands gripping your hips so tight you were sure he’d leave bruises—but he didn’t mean to.

"So—so good," he whimpered, his voice breaking on the last syllable, like he was barely holding himself together. "D-don’t—don’t move, I can’t—"

You clenched around him, and he quite literally sobs.

He's a mess.

It's pathetic, really. Tears stream down his face as he sniffles back the waterfall from flowing. But he couldn't care less, honestly.

Scenarios of you with a round and glowing belly, the birth of your shared child, their first words, steps - hell, even their graduation. He had all of it laid out in a timeline.

If you could see his thoughts, you would've probably called him crazy. And he wouldn't even blame you.

His fingers trembled as he tried so hard to keep himself together, but he was slowly falling apart, crumbling, unraveling.

"I—" he choked on his own breath, tears pricking his lashes, his entire body shaking as your hips work faster, grinding harder against his pelvis. " ‘M too deep—too full—fuck, I can feel it—"

His arms wrapped around your waist, hugging you close, clinging, needy.

"Please," he begged, voice so broken, so wrecked, like he was praying to something greater than himself. "I-I wanna stay inside—I wanna stay with you forever."

His lips ghosted over your stiff nipples, soft, desperate kisses, imagining how full and plump they'll become once you're pregnant. And when you shifted the tiniest bit, he gasped—a wrecked, breathless little sound.

Your breath quickens, orgasm creeping up your spine with each rocking of your hips, desperately chasing your high.

His hips stuttered at the mere image of you - pregnant, movements turning frantic and uncontrolled, like he couldn’t take it anymore.

"C-caleb, I—" Mind going blank at one particular quick kiss against your cervix, you crash head first into your orgasm, pussy spasming around his girth.

A broken, wrecked sob tore from his throat, and you felt it—

The way his cock twitched inside you, the first thick pulse of heat spilling deep, painting your insides in long, desperate spurts.

His entire body shook, his arms wrapped around you so tightly you thought he might never let go.

"M-makin’ you a mommy," he babbled, voice thick with exhaustion, heavy with love. "Gonna—gonna make you so full, so round—"

God, he was a lost cause.

"I love you," he cried, his voice shaking, raw with need. "I love you—I love you—"

"Love you too, Caleb. You're s-so good for me. Gonna be a great papa." you spurt out in a spent, wobbly voice, body collapsing onto his in exhaustion.

And then he came. Again.

It was with a broken whimper, a desperate, wrecked sob, his entire body shaking, panting. He shoots endless ropes of cum deep into your womb, the overwhelming fullness in your tummy causing your mind to go hazy.

His orgasm was so intense and forceful, you can still feel stringy, weak cum dripping from his cock, only adding the cherry on top of your jammed vacancy.

He didn’t let go. He wouldn’t.

Even as his spent cock twitched inside you, even as his warm release dripped out in thick, messy streaks, he held you there, buried deep, unwilling to let even a drop go to waste.

His fingers clutched at your waist, desperate, like letting go would tear him apart. His chest rose and fell in quick, shaky pants, his eyes glassy, and his lips kiss-swollen and parted as he tried to catch his breath.

“P-please,” he rasped, his voice wrecked, pleading. “Don’t—don’t move yet.”

His face was flushed, his damp hair sticking to his forehead, tears clinging to his lashes. He was ruined, wrecked beyond repair, and it was all because of you.

A soft whimper tumbled from his lips as he nuzzled into your shoulder, his hands trailing weakly down your sides, needy, restless.

“Need to feel you just a little longer,” he mumbled, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. “Can’t—can’t be away from you yet.”

You could feel him still twitching inside you, his cock softening, but reluctant to leave. His release seeped out around the base, warm and sticky, but he just shifted his hips, pushing deeper, as if he could keep it all inside you.

"Made for me," he murmured, feverish, pressing sloppy, lingering kisses against your shoulder, your neck. "You're made for me."

His fingers roamed lazily, tracing the shape of your hips, your waist—like he was memorizing you, worshiping you, committing every inch of your body to memory.

"Promise me," he whispered against your ear, soft and broken. "Promise me you'll never leave me. That you'll always let me have you like this."

There was a plea in his voice, raw and vulnerable, like he’d fall apart if you said no.

You ran gentle fingers through his damp hair, soothing, reassuring and tugging him even closer.

"I'm yours, Caleb," you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

His breath hitched. His thighs trembled beneath you.

"Say it again," he whispered, so quietly it almost wasn't there.

"I'm yours."

A broken whimper slipped past his lips, his hands gripping you tighter, his body pressing so close you could feel every inch of him molding into you.

And with a deep, shaky sigh, Caleb finally let himself go—sinking into you, into your warmth, into the one place he always belonged.

Nowhere else. No one else.

Just you.

Always you.

#◛⑅·˚ ᵂᴼᴿᴷ #♡˳ᴸ&ᴰˢ #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #l&ds smut #sylus smut #caleb smut #xavier smut #l&ds #zayne smut #rafayel smut #love and deepspace #qin che #l&ds sylus #caleb lads #rafayel l&ds #l&ds zayne #lads zayne #divider by @anitalenia

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rafesangelita · 2 months ago

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♡ telling rafe you didn’t use his credit card

warnings: use of the name ‘daddy’ (pls just scroll if that’s not your thing, you’ve been warned!!), rafe gets mad at you, fluff

rafe was already waiting for you outside the house when you and your best friends pulled into the driveway of tanneyhill, a small smile gracing his lips as he watched you step off the pink buggy with your hands full of shopping bags. “bye, love you!” you blew a kiss to the car before waving, turning around only to be met with rafe towering over you. “hey, daddy!” you pecked his cheek, allowing him to take the bags from you as you two made your way inside. rafe kicked the door shut once you plopped down on the couch, your heels still adorning your feet as you pouted up at him to join you on the sofa.

“how was your outing, bunny?” he pulled you onto his lap, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear as he stroked your thigh, his eyes trailing down that pretty face of yours before settling on your glossy lips. “it was really good,” you smiled, resting a hand against his chest, “..but i kinda ran into a little hiccup, please don’t get mad.” rafe shifted his weight on the cushion beneath him, his eyebrows pinching slightly at your words. “what happened?” he swallowed thickly, watching the way a conflicted expression passed over your features.

“so.. i think i accidentally removed your card from my apple pay a while back and i’ve been meaning to add it again but i keep forgetting, and right before i left i decided to change purses but i didn’t realize i had left your physical card in my other bag, so when it came time to pay for my stuff i didn’t—” rafe cut off your rambling with a hand in the air, your explanation coming to an unexpected stop. “don’t tell me you paid with your own money.” he glared at you, his nostrils flaring as you looked away guiltily. “fuck, y/n.” he screwed his eyes shut, his head resting on the back of the couch as he groaned.

“why would you do that?” you shrugged, nervously fiddling with the charms on your nails as you tried to reassure him. “it’s okay! money just sits in my account anyways, it’s not a big deal!” you tried to ease his worries but he wasn’t having it. “it is though, bunny. you’re my girl, and my girl is taken care of, always. you should’ve called me and i could’ve arranged something.” he scolded you, his eyes wide as you mumbled a little ‘i’m sorry!’ — he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as you shrunk in on yourself, hating the way his disapproval felt.

“how much did all of that cost?” he asked, both of you turning to inspect the white bags with various shades of pink tissue paper sticking up from the top. “uhm.. like eight hundred??” rafe cursed under his breath, his skin growing hot at the revelation. he hated it when you spent even a single dollar on your card, so hearing that you spent a lot more than that only made him more pissed off with himself. “alright, listen. i’m gonna put three times that amount back into your account—” you quickly protested, your mouth falling open in disbelief. “rafe! no, that’s ridiculous—”

he shushed you, already taking his phone out of his pocket and transferring the money. “no, it’s not ridiculous, ‘next time you run into a little ‘hiccup’ you call me and i’ll go over to wherever you’re at and pay for your shit myself if i have to. do you understand me?” you stared up at him, biting on your bottom lip before nodding, surrendering to him without a word. “i really am sorry, ray..” you whispered, allowing him to reach over you and grab your bags. “don’t be, alright? i should’ve made sure you were good before you left, okay? it’s not on you.” he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“why don’t we go upstairs and you give me one of your little hauls?” you lit up at the suggestion, nodding your head frantically as you practically shot up from his lap. “i think some of the outfits in here will make it up to you..” you smiled, flashing him a wink before the click of your heels against the stairs echoed throughout the foyer. rafe chuckled to himself, his cock stirring in his pants once he caught a glimpse of the lace material in one of the bags. it was going to be a long, long, long, night.

thank you nonnie for celebrating with me ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

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silkentine · 1 year ago

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Me when they are the sisters ever: 😭😭😭 They came out soooo freaking well. I won’t lie, they took me a thousand years to finish but through the constant support from all of my buds (and my latent bisexuality), we made it 😤

Hopefully you guys know the deal by now: design choices, easter eggs, and (NEW!) closeup shots below the read more. ⬇️

I wanted Ace to have a very down-to-earth vibe and looked at Aussie beach-girls, coastal cowgirls, and vaqueras for reference. (IDK, I’ve just always envisioned Ace as part-Australian🌺 and Mexican 🏴‍☠️) Her clothing choices are mostly natural or utilitarian materials like the painted wooden beads on her top, her woven fabric and leather belts, and her denim jumpsuit. I gave her bikini top a zen-garden kind of feel because I read the first Ace’s Story Novel and I loved how idyllic and peaceful they made Sixis Island sound so I wanted to invoke that in some way.

Speaking of her painted wooden beads, they hang off the back of her top and represent her connection to Sabo and Luffy. They watch her back once she sets sail. She only wears one red glass bead earring because the other one got ripped out of her ear when a child, leaving her earlobe torn (don’t think about it too much 😢). Also, YES! she does wear a hibiscus flower just like Rouge (because I hate you and I want to make you cry, muhwahahahaha).

Also, I really wanted her to have super textured curly hair that licks behind her like flames. I am always considering whether or not a character should have long hair or not because I don’t want it to be a hindrance if they’re in a fight (or if they ARE a fighter with long hair, how to they avoid an enemy making use of that?). Ace is, of course, a Logia-type Devil Fruit User so I think she wouldn’t have trouble with people grabbing it LOL I get the feeling that she doesn’t take very good care of it even though it looks amazing. Like you’d think it would be soft and bouncy just by looking at it but if you ever get the chance to run your fingers through it, it’s a total rat’s nest and there’s sand and food all up in it. She still falls asleep while eating 😂 but she tries her best to only do it around people she can trust (woman moment 😔).

Honestly, her design is not that different from Ace’s canon look. It feels really vital to Ace’s character to have a lot of skin showing. And he’s always hanging all over himself with his hips all cocked like the weight of the world is too much to stand up straight. It is certainly not my OWN preference to make her an absolute smoke show. That’s just the character, okay? (I’m partially lying and the proof is that I turned the emblem on Ace’s hat strap into a sternum tattoo for no other reason than that it is sexy af.)

Here are some closeups of Ace:

Now for Sabo, I’ve made her very girly. I tried putting her in pants or something more militant but she told me that she’d wear the big poofy sleeves and hiked-up ruffled skirt. I think Sabo has always had a strong grasp on his fashion sense and individual flair and I truly believe that his personal style is one of the major influences for the rest of the Revolutionary Army resulting in the very flashy, queer, steampunk aesthetic (aside from Dragon’s plain-ass cloak). So of course I had to implement her nonconformist look when reimagining her as a woman and dress her up to the nines.

I’ve given her very ornate jewelry that is there to tell a story, even if she herself doesn’t know it. I like to think she picks up stuff from her travels that resonate with her, such as a damaged set of earrings with one stone missing or red cup-shaped shells featuring three nestled pearls. Another accessory that cannot go unmentioned is her dragon claw hat pin that keeps her top hat resting on top of her hair (and is definitely used as a weapon when the situation simply doesn’t call for trusty metal pipe). She also has a veil that obscures her prominent facial scar. I imagine she’s not very keen on the reminder of the incident from her childhood that took away her memories. I also kept her chipped toothed because 1) it’s fucking adorable and 2) is a visual reminder that she no longer aligns herself with the nobility who would have gotten such a thing fixed. She is so poised in almost every outward facet of her life from her dignified role as the Chief of Staff to the elegant materials in her clothing that it can be easy to forget she was also a rough and tumble forest dweller. Every time Koala remembers this, he lets out the biggest sigh.

Her hair is inspired by Gibson Girls and Elizabeth Swann from the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie. I wanted it to be fussy and tidy but fall apart when she’s in moments of distress. For example, when she remembers her sisters, her hair starts to look like Ace’s flaming mane. I’m so in love with her, I think she looks like an adorable little porcelain doll that would fuck you up. I made an effort to keep her eyes a little bit manic. I get lost in her steely black orbs (and also Ace’s warm brown ones, but we’re talking about Sabo rn).

Here are her close-ups:

Plot notes for this AU:

For this series of character designs, I wanted the expressions and outfits to be aligned with the canon plot but I don’t know if I have the heart to kill fem!Ace in my AU. I’m too attached and ASL has suffered enough!!!!! But Ace’s death is also a major defining moment for Luffy so it feels disingenuous to completely avoid it. Also a huge aspect of Sabo’s character is carrying on Ace’s will and I have so many thoughts about how the Dressrosa Colosseum scene would play out if they were all women. Oh well, I’ll cross that tragic bridge when I get to it. I’m definitely going to draw some Modern AU Girl Piece ASL though. They deserve to hang out with no stakes 😭 They are sisters!!!

Check out the tag “girl piece” on my blog for my other One Piece genderbends! 🥰

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maskedbyghost · 8 days ago

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cw: friends with benefits, angst, smut, mild possessiveness

It was supposed to be simple. That’s the part that pisses you off the most when you think about it. Because you weren’t trying to fall in love. You didn’t want a relationship, not after the last one. You were still a little bit fucked up from it, if you’re being honest. Still not sleeping great. Still carrying all that heavy stuff around that no one really talks about after a breakup. And then he showed up.

Simon.

You didn’t even like him that much at first. He was quiet, and kind of a dick honestly. Always had this hard look on his face like he didn’t care about anything. But then again, maybe that’s why you kept looking. He didn’t flirt with you like the other guys did. He didn’t compliment you or joke around. He just stared sometimes. Stared like he knew things about you that you hadn’t even said out loud yet.

And somehow, that made you feel safe. In a really stupid kind of way.

He didn’t ask you questions. You could sit next to him and say nothing, and he wouldn’t try to fix you. He’d just… be there. And that made it easier. Being around him felt like pressing pause on everything in your head.

You both agreed it would just be sex. That’s all. You said it first. Told him straight up you weren’t in the place for anything real, and he just shrugged like it didn’t make a difference either way. He wasn’t looking for more, either. No expectations, no feelings, no “what are we” conversations.

And in the beginning, that actually worked. You’d hook up after long days, or when you were lonely, or when you just needed to feel something. He’d come over late, sometimes not say more than a few words, and still end up with his mouth between your legs like he belonged there. He was rough, kind of mean about it, but it made your head go quiet, and that’s all you wanted. You didn’t need soft. You just needed to forget.

And Simon was really good at helping you forget.

It was simple, for a while at least. No cuddling, no texting unless one of you wanted something, no sleeping over unless it was late, and neither of you felt like getting up. You never kissed him unless it was during sex, he never called you baby, and you never touched his face.

But then, little things started to change. He’d linger longer after, or light your cigarette for you without saying anything. You started to recognize the sound of his boots on your stairs. And sometimes, he’d show up without texting first, but you wouldn’t mind.

You told yourself it was fine. You still weren’t asking for anything. You weren’t falling.... You weren’t hoping.

Until one day you were. And it was too late.

Because Simon? He never changed the deal. He still kept his walls up, still kept everything at arm’s length, and still fucked you like you were just a warm body and not someone who looked at him like he hung the moon.

And the worst part? You let him.

You didn’t talk much during sex. It was just a thing you both did, like it was part of the routine. Sometimes it was at his place, sometimes yours. Sometimes after a night out when you were drunk and touchy and didn’t want to sleep alone. You’d cling to his arm, pull him into a dark corner, whisper something like “Come back with me,” and he always would. He’d follow you home without hesitation.

He never smiled during it, never said sweet things, nor asked what you liked. It was like flipping a switch, one second he was just standing there, and the next his hand was in your hair and he was pushing you down on the bed without saying a word. No soft kisses. Just heavy hands and rough thrusts and that low sound he’d make when you moaned his name, like he hated how much he liked it.

He was rough in a way that made your whole body ache after. Hands on your throat, teeth on your skin. Sometimes he’d grab your face, push it into the pillow so hard it felt like he wanted to fuck you straight through it. His voice was always low, wrecked, barely there, like he was losing his mind but trying not to show it. And when he came, he’d bury himself so deep and still not stop moving, chasing something that never felt like enough.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t sweet. But god, it felt good.

Too good.

You weren’t supposed to want someone like that. You weren’t supposed to need it like that. But every time he fucked you like you were the only thing left keeping him grounded, it made your chest hurt in a way you didn’t want to admit.

And you liked it, you liked it even when it made you feel worse after.

You didn’t fall for him all at once. It happened slowly and stupidly. In the kind of way where you didn’t even notice it at first, because you were too busy pretending it was still casual.

It was little stuff. Like how he always stood behind you in a crowd, not touching you or anything, just close enough that you could feel him, like a wall at your back. Or how he’d rest his hand on your lower back when you crossed the street, not saying a word, not even looking at you. Just doing it like it was natural. Like he cared without meaning to.

Sometimes, he stayed the night. Not every time, or often enough for it to mean something, but still it happened. He never cuddled, never reached for you after. He would just lay there, breathing heavily like he was thinking too loud. He didn’t sleep much, and you didn’t either. You’d stare at the ceiling, both of you pretending the silence didn’t feel like it was screaming.

You wanted to believe that meant something. That even if he couldn’t say it, he felt something. That he kept coming back because he needed you, not just your body. You started reaching for him more, after, during, even before. Just little touches. A kiss on the cheek, a hand on his chest, or a soft press of your lips when he was still inside you.

But the more you gave, the more he pulled back. Like he could feel you slipping, and it scared him. Like he already knew where this was headed and was trying to stop it before it got worse.

He started fucking you harder when you tried to kiss him slow. Rougher, meaner, almost. Like he was trying to shove the feelings out of both of you. Like he thought if he could just fuck the softness out of it, it would go back to the way it was.

And he’d leave faster. No lingering, talking, or sitting on the edge of the bed while you pulled on your shirt. He’d zip up his hoodie, say something stupid like “I’ll see you around,” and disappear like it didn’t mean anything.

But it meant something to you. And you think, deep down, it meant something to him, too.

He just didn’t know what to do with it. So he did what he always did... he ran.

That night felt different before anything even started. You don’t know how to explain it exactly. It was quiet, but not the good kind. Not the comfortable kind. Just this weird silence sitting between you like something waiting to be said. You didn’t say it, of course. You never did. He was already pulling your shirt off, already undoing his belt, already pushing you back like it was routine.

And it was. That was the thing. It had become routine.

But you couldn’t keep doing it like this anymore. You were tired. Tired of feeling used even when he wasn’t trying to use you. Tired of pretending it didn’t matter that he never looked at you when he came. Tired of giving everything and getting nothing back.

So you tried something different.

You didn’t moan for him the way he liked. Didn’t arch your back or scratch at his shoulders or whisper how good he felt. You just… touched his face. Softly. Like it was something you’d been wanting to do for a long time but were scared he’d push you away.

Your fingers brushed his cheek. Your thumb barely touched the scar near his jaw, and you just said, “Slow down.”

That was it. Just two words. And he snapped.

His hand went around your throat so fast it made your breath catch. His other hand grabbed your wrists, shoved them into the pillow, and held them there like you’d done something wrong. And then he started fucking you harder, rougher. Like he was trying to erase what you’d just done.

You didn’t say anything, couldn’t. His hips were slamming into you like he was mad, but not at you. Like he was mad at himself. Or maybe the world. Or maybe just the way your voice sounded when you asked for more than he could give.

“Don’t,” he growled into your neck, and his voice didn’t even sound like him. It sounded like someone scared.

You didn’t cry. Not right then.

You just lay there and took it. Let him fuck you like he always did, let him pretend it didn’t mean anything, even though it did. You felt it, how desperate it was, how shaky his breath was when he finally finished, how his hands didn’t let go even when it was over.

But you knew. You finally knew.

He couldn’t love you. Not the way you wanted. Not the way you needed.

And something deep in your chest cracked open. Just enough to let the cold in.

You didn’t say a word after. Just rolled over when he got up. Pulled the blanket up to your chest and stared at the wall, blinking too fast, trying not to let the tears win.

And he left like nothing happened.

But everything had.

The next time you saw him, you already knew it would be the last. It felt different the second you let him in, like there was something in the air that neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You didn’t smile, he didn’t kiss you. You just walked back into your room in silence, still wearing the oversized shirt you’d borrowed from him weeks ago, the one you never meant to keep, the one that smelled like him no matter how many times you washed it, and you stood there with your arms crossed like you were trying to hold yourself together, like saying what you were about to say would physically hurt.

And it did.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said, and your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to. You didn’t look at him because you knew if you did, if you saw the way he blinked at you, or the way his jaw clenched, or the way he didn’t even flinch like he saw this coming, it would break you in half. So you stared at the floor, or the wall, or anywhere but him, and you just said it. Because if you didn’t say it now, you never would.

He didn’t say anything right away. Didn’t ask why. He just sat down slowly on the edge of your bed, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed, and the rise and fall of his chest was shaky, like he couldn’t catch his breath, like your words had knocked the wind out of him but he was too proud to show it.

“I knew this would happen,” he said finally, and his voice wasn’t cold, it wasn’t empty—it was just tired. Like he was mad at himself. “Eventually.”

You nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at you, and you could feel your throat starting to close up, feel the sting building behind your eyes, and your whole body felt heavy. “I wanted to pretend it wouldn’t,” you whispered, your hands twisting in the hem of his shirt, your voice cracking even though you were trying to stay calm, “but I can’t. I love you. And you don’t—or you won’t. And I can’t keep asking for something you’re scared to give.”

That made him look up.

His face was blank at first; he was trying to process it, trying to understand how it had gotten to this point, even though you both knew exactly how. And then he stood, slowly, like he was afraid too sudden a move would scare you off, and he walked toward you with that careful look he only got when he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing but was still trying anyway.

And then he kissed you.

Soft, at first, because he wasn’t sure if you’d let him. Maybe he thought you’d push him away. But you didn’t. You kissed him back even though you knew it wouldn’t change anything. You let him press you into the wall, let his hands slide up under the shirt that technically wasn’t his anymore, let his mouth find your neck, your collarbone, your lips again, and none of it felt like the usual heat, it just felt sad and desperate.

You let him fuck you because you knew this was the last time. You let him take you to bed and pull your underwear down and slide inside like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

His hands were rough like always, his teeth scraped your skin, his thrusts were deep, a little too fast, a little too rough—but there was a shakiness in the way he held you, like maybe he already hated himself for letting it get to this point. He didn’t know how to say any of the things you needed to hear, so he fucked you instead.

And then, just when you thought that was all it was going to be—just another night, just another goodbye—he slowed down.

He stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard, and he didn’t move. Just held you there, skin to skin, and everything about him felt different all of a sudden... softer... scared.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, so quiet it almost didn’t sound like him.

Your chest tightened, and your voice broke when you tried to answer. “Then why didn’t you—”

“Because if I let myself love you, I’d lose you anyway,” he said, and his voice was raw now. “You’d wake up one day and realise I’m not enough. That I can’t be what you need. That you deserve better than someone like me. Someone who’s barely hanging on. Someone who doesn’t know how to hold you without wondering if he’s gonna fuck it all up.”

You touched his face slowly. Like you were afraid he’d flinch away. But he didn’t. He let you, for the first time, he really let you.

“I don’t want someone else,” you whispered, and your thumb brushed his cheek, and your eyes were wet even though you were trying not to fall apart. “I wanted you. I still do.”

And when he started to move again, it wasn’t rough. It wasn’t rushed. It was slow and deep. Like he was trying to give you everything he’d held back for so long. His hands ran over your body like he was learning it all over again. His lips pressed to your shoulder, your jaw, your mouth. He looked at you the whole time, like he didn’t want to forget your face.

“I love you,” he said, and his voice shook, and his thrusts stayed steady, “I love you, I love you....fuck, I love you.”

You cried into his kiss. Your hands wrapped around his neck and your body trembled as he whispered all the stupid, sweet things he never let himself say before. You’re mine. I’ll do better. I need you. Please don’t leave.

And then, somewhere in the middle of it, somewhere between your broken sobs and his desperate kisses, he grabbed you tight, pulled you against him, and whispered it like a promise, like a threat, like a man who was finally ready to fight for something.

“Fuck that,” he growled, his voice suddenly shaking with something angry and scared and real. “You’re not leaving me. You’re mine. I don’t care how bad I am at this. I’m not letting you go.”

You were still crying. He was still shaking. And everything was still so goddamn complicated.

But he stayed, and that was a start.

---------------------------------------------

idk what this is honestly ...

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @preeyas-world @ruleroftides @rose37373

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley smut

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bernardsbendystraws · 23 days ago

Text

₊˚⊹ ᰔ be real ─ m.s.

summary ʚɞ you and matt have been dating for barely a month. things have been really good, but things get a bit tense when matt calls you out on faking it...

cw ʚɞ smut, fluff, faking it, trouble finishing, use of toys, embarassaing convo, desperate needy sex, p n v, raw, creampie, praise kink, begging (both), and more

pairing ʚɞ matt sturniolo x reader

notes ʚɞ copyright notice. wc 2000+. lol this may or may not be based of true circumstances...

ʚ with love and big tits, rose ɞ → nav

“Listen, I know you’ve been faking it.”

His confrontational words immediately made your heart drop to your stomach. Although they were said in a neutral tone with a sympathetic face, you couldn’t help but let your teeth sink into your bottom lip, your fingers pinching the material of your sweatshirt while your eyes stayed glued down to your lap.

You couldn’t look at him even if you wanted to. Shame and embarrassment made your face blister with an uncomfortable heat, your eyes blinking rapidly as you heard him speak.

“I…I know this is kinda awkward-”

You huff at his statement. This was a lot more than kinda awkward—it was the type of embarrassment that made you wanna walk out the door and never see him again. You were debating letting the short time of building your relationship fall down the drain in order to keep your pride intact.

Faking an orgasm wasn’t a new thing for you, you’ve always done it in every single relationship. It’s not necessarily the other person's fault either. You had…well, tried—really, really hard. You had even kept a sex journal to track your progress in reaching the big ‘O’ – and you did hit it at some point, but not much progress was truly made.

“-but I want you to tell me how I can help, you know? I can’t…I can’t just read your body or anything if you’re faking stuff. I—I don’t want this to be a long-run issue, I want you to feel good, I…I wanna talk about it.”

His words make your lips twist to the side, your face scrunching in humiliation as you try to pull your gaze up to meet his.

The second you see the outline of his lips, your eyes fall back down, burning with shame as your vision gets blurry. Blinking back ferociously, you cringe watching a tear fall into your lap, a loud sniffle making your spine run stiff.

“Hey, hey,” Matt coos, reaching out and petting your arm in an attempt to provide some sort of comfort. “-I just wanna talk so we can make it better, okay? I’m not trying to be mean or anything, just…just want you to feel good too.”

You nod at his words. Taking a deep sigh, you force yourself to look up—the sight of his puzzled expression making your heart clench in your chest.

“Well,” you start, licking over your lips as your eyes wander around his living room, “-it’s just…I don’t…there’s…” you sigh in frustration, the explanation jumbled and sounding as clueless as you feel.

Matt’s hand slides down to your knee. He gives you a reassuring squeeze, offering a small smile as encouragement.

“It’s just…it’s not….it’s not you. I just…can’t.”

The blunt statement makes a frown tug on his face. Your boyfriend of barely a month slouches in his seat on the couch ottoman directly in front of you, his eyes flickering across your features as he takes a minute to digest the statement.

“You…you can’t?” he repeats, his face scrunching more as you give an affirmative nod. “-like, you’ve just…never?” he questions, his head tilting towards the side as he sees you shrug.

“I, um, well—I have, just…” your eyes squint shut, your scalp itching as you try to focus on the conversation at hand, “-I can’t without a…a vibrator? Like…it’s just…it’s always been that way. No matter what I do, no matter what I try—-”

“So you need a vibrator in order to finish?” he remarks, genuine curiosity leaking from his tone.

Your toes crack, your feet shifting anxiously on the ground as you give a slight nod. This is embarrassing—fucking humiliating. You’re basically telling him there is no way he can fix it—there’s no way that he’ll ever be enough—and you know that probably sucks to hear.

“I’m sorry, I—I don’t even know. I’ve tried, I just…I can’t without one. It’s not you or—”

“Hey,” he laughs, cutting off your rambled apology while squeezing your knee once again. “-it doesn’t offend me or anything. I wanted to be able to fix it and you gave me a clear solution. If anything….” he wiggles his bros, licking over his lips, “-’m excited, baby.”

You roll your eyes at his antics, biting back a smile from his boyish behavior. It’s like some sort of weight has been lifted off of you—something that felt so worrisome turning into something else—something that makes you want to get closer to him.

“So….what kind of vibrator does my girlfriend like?”

___

You wish you could smack that stupid grin off his face. He’s really having fun—his hand lightly placing the light trembling object a couple inches away from your sensitive bud—the sensations echoing just enough to give you a taste of bliss.

“Matt…” you whine, tugging on his hair and scowling. He has the audacity to let out a slight laugh, his hand moving the vibrator around your clit as he watches you squirm.

A whimper falls through your lips. Your back arches off the mattress of his bed, the motion making the small bullet glide onto your clit as you let out a broken moan.

“Yeah? Feels good, baby?” he tuts, biting hungrily on his lip as he watches you writhe beneath him.

It’s a fucking sight. Your legs are spread for him, your knees locking around his waist as he lets his hard cock rest against your quivering thigh.

He presses the device more firmly against your sensitivity, watching as your eyes bulge open, your lips parting as a sinful noise erupts from the back of your throat.

Your knees lock on either side of his hips. He hisses as you instinctively pull him closer, the movement making his throbbing dick slide against your inner leg.

The build-up is happening. He can tell by the way your legs tense and shake that you will finish eventually. Matt has been dreaming of this moment—dreaming of seeing you so consumed by pleasure that you completely let go for him.

“Shit, sweetheart—look at that,” he coos, staring between your bodies to look at your plump and swollen clit. Letting his fingers glide the toy between your wet folds, he gathers the slick leaking from your entrance before pushing the device up again, pushing it against your puffy bud.

“Oh, fuck! Matt!” you cry, your hands clawing into his shoulders as you feel yourself clench around nothing. “-need…need you inside me—please, need it so—so bad,” you breathe, your body craving to be filled and fucked more than anything.

“I…fuck, okay—give me a second,” he husks, lifting his hips just enough to align his tip with your pulsating hole, easily slipping in with both his hands still preoccupied—one holding him up, the other holding the toy.

“Shitttttt, there we go,” he rasps, hissing as he feels your walls tighten around him as he starts to bottom out. The stretch is usually a bit uncomfortable, but right now it feels like you’re satisfying a painfully apparent craving.

You yelp as he grinds himself into you. Matt groans loudly, his cock twitching inside of you while your chest arches into his. “Oh—oh god!” you cry, his pelvis making the vibrator flush against your overly sensitive clit, your entire body starting to tense as he starts to thrust in and out of your slippery heat.

“Fuck—’m…” Matt bites into his lip, trying to distract himself from how good you feel wrapped around him.

Honestly, the sight alone was already making him struggle to hold back from cumming by rubbing up against your thigh. This is intense. He’s trying to create a steady rhythm, but every time you convulse around his length, he feels his balls draw up, his gut tightening as he attempts to keep his hips driving into you.

“Please…please tell me you’re close, baby—baby, please,” he sputters, his groans undeniably getting louder in a way that makes your entire body echo with euphoria. He sounds so desperate for you to finish—so intoxicated by everything that he needs you to cum before he breaks entirely.

“I—-I—” you stumble over your words, the thoughts inside your head too far pushed into the back of your mind as he gives you everything he has—hammering his cock deep inside of your pulsating walls with desperation falling through his lips with noises that make you feel like you’re on fire.

“C’mon,” he coos, his hand shaking as he holds the vibrator, gliding it against your swollen bud as your feet push off the bed, pushing your pelvis into his as everything becomes intoxicatingly overwhelming. “-cum for me, you got it—please, baby—I—I need it, please.”

Your body turns rigid, the waves of euphoria pummeling down on you with a hot bliss that makes a brutal noise rip from the back of your throat.

Matt lets out a loud whimper. The feeling of your wet walls nearly suffocating his dick and making it impossible for him to hold back.

The waves of your orgasm are crashing hard, the vicious pleasure making your mind run on pure instinct as you lock your legs around him.

“Gonna cum—where—where d–do—”

You dig your ankles further into his back, a sob leaving your lips from the ruthless vibrations from the vibrator still planted on your clit. “Inside…please, Matt. I—I want it,” you hiccup, screeching as he fucks himself somehow deeper inside of you, making your entire body tremble as his hips flex, stilling with his pelvis flush against your own.

“Fuckkkkkkk, gon—gonna cum—’s…so–so good, baby—did so good for me,” he breathes, moaning as he feels you milk him.

The vein on his neck protrudes, his hand holding himself up grasping gently into your hair, his elbow propped upwards as he leaves a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss onto your neck.

The vibrations on your pulsing bud pause. Matt tosses the small bullet on the side of the bed, unmoving with his cock slowly softening inside of you.

You feel him panting against your neck, your own chest rapidly rising and falling as he lifts his head up to look at you. “You okay?” he questions, analyzing your face as you nod breathlessly.

He combs his hand through your hair, letting out a dry laugh as he notices you starting to doze off. “Here, lemme clean us up and then we can go to bed.”

Slowly pulling out, he cringes as you wince. He presses a kiss to the side of your cheek, getting up and grabbing a damp washcloth from his bathroom.

Matt lets out a huff as he notices you struggling to stay awake. He gently nudges your legs open, swallowing thickly as he sees his cum dripping out of you.

Well—your mixed cum.

He smiles proudly as he brings the semi-warm cloth downwards, tentatively cleaning you. He tosses it to the side carelessly, kissing your knees before lowering your legs back down to rest comfortably on his bed.

Peeking your eyes open, you smile sleepily. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Matt grins wider. He plops down on the bed next to you, pulling you onto his chest and tugging a blanket over the two of you. “Because, I feel like I just won the fuckin’ lottery.” he answers.

A lazy giggle vibrates through your lips. “Matt, you’re ridiculous,” you puff, smacking his chest playfully as your lips curl with a soft smile.

Grabbing your hand in his own, he pulls it up to his mouth, kissing along your knuckles. “-’m serious. I think I just discovered my biggest kink.”

Your brows furrow. Looking up, you let your chin rest on his chest, your eyes narrowing with curiosity. “Oh? And what’s that?”

He grins at your interrogation. “My biggest kink is you feeling good—you being real with me.” he says.

You blush at his words. Your nose scrunches with endearment, your eyes squinting as a smile pulls on your face. “You’re such a dork,” you tease.

“Nuh-uh,” he puffs, pulling you in closer. You feel his lips on the crown of your head, a gentle kiss making you sink further into his hold. “-just being real.”

#bbs.recents #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x you #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo smut #sturniolo imagine

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danysdaughter · 19 days ago

Text

Once More To See You

pairing | 40s!bucky x 40s!reader & post-catws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 12.8k words

summary | in the 40s, the two of you were meant to be forever—wild, in love, and untouched by anything but each other. but time tore you two apart, and when fate brought you back together decades later, love still lived between you and bucky... just no longer in the same lifetime

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, p in v sex, time skip, angst, heavy angst/no comfort (we die like men), canon divergence (post-tfatws), unresolved feelings, mention of war and ptsd, bittersweet / painful romantic resolution, reader cries (a lot), bucky crying (internally), mitski energy, BABY TONY, leo fitz cameo

a/n | chat, we all crying in the club with this one. based on this request

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Brooklyn, July 1942

The summer air in Brooklyn was thick and golden, the kind that made your skin feel kissed and alive.

You were barefoot on the edge of the rooftop, the sun setting behind you like fire rolling across the skyline, and Bucky Barnes was watching you like you were the most dangerous thing he'd ever seen—and he’d already gotten into three bar fights this month.

“You're gonna fall,” he warned, arms crossed, but with a smile pulling at his lips.

You turned your head, a grin already blooming. “Then catch me.”

“Don’t joke,” he said, stepping closer. “You know I would.”

You turned fully, facing him, the wind pulling your dress tight around your legs. “That’s the problem, Bucky. You always would.“

He paused, eyes on you now—less amused, more... full. You felt it in your chest.

You walked toward him slowly, deliberately, barefoot and brave. “What would you do if I jumped off something one day and you weren’t fast enough?”

He caught your wrist when you reached him. “Then I’d follow you down.“

You stared at him. The laughter on your tongue dissolved.

That was always the thing with Bucky. He said stuff like that, and he meant it. Fully. Without fear. Like loving you was easy.

“You make it too easy to love you,” you whispered, eyes soft now.

“And you make it hard to survive,” he shot back, teasing, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. “Running around barefoot on rooftops like a little menace.”

“I just don’t want to waste time being careful,” you murmured, resting your forehead to his. “We’ve got now, don’t we?”

He kissed you like a promise.

Slow. Long. With one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other anchoring your hip. You sank into it, into him. Into the kind of kiss that made the city disappear.

When he pulled back, he said it—finally said it.

“I’m in love with you.”

You blinked.

You smiled.

And then, without missing a beat: “Took you long enough.”

────────────────────────

Later That Night – Bucky’s Apartment

The fan turned slowly overhead, humming quietly as the heat clung to the air, thick and lazy. You were stretched across Bucky’s bed, legs tangled in the sheets, one hand trailing down the slope of his chest while the other held a cigarette loosely between your fingers.

Bucky watched you like he always did: completely, unapologetically.

"You’re staring,” you murmured.

“You’re naked in my bed,” he said. “I’d be stupid not to.”

You grinned, putting the cigarette out in the tray on the nightstand before crawling over to straddle his hips. “Stupid, huh?”

He ran his hands up your thighs, gripping them like he was grounding himself. “The second I saw you in that bar a year ago, I knew I was in trouble.”

You leaned down, nose brushing his. “Good. Trouble keeps you young.”

Your lips met—soft at first, sweet—but it didn’t stay that way.

Bucky's hands slid up your back, palms warm and sure, dragging you against him as your hips began to roll. His cock hardened beneath you, thick and hot where it pressed between your thighs. You moaned into his mouth, hips grinding down in slow, teasing circles that made his grip on your ass tighten.

“You're gonna kill me,” he groaned, voice ragged.

“Not yet,” you whispered, reaching between you to line him up.

You sank down onto him with a gasp, your walls stretching around him, the burn sweet and perfect. Bucky’s hands flew to your hips, holding you steady as you took all of him, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

“Jesus Christ,” he choked.

You didn’t move at first. Just leaned forward, forehead to his, feeling the way he throbbed inside you, the way his breath stuttered against your lips.

Then you rolled your hips—slow and deep—and his whole body tensed.

“You're so fuckin' tight,” he panted, bucking up into you instinctively. “Like you were made for me.“

You bit your lip, rocked again. “Maybe I was.”

And that was all it took.

He gripped your hips and fucked up into you, his rhythm desperate, rough, but never careless. You met him thrust for thrust, nails dragging down his chest, breath hot against his throat.

The bed creaked beneath you, headboard knocking the wall, bodies slick and needy. You were panting now, fingers tangled in his hair, moaning shamelessly as your orgasm built like fire curling in your belly.

“Come on, baby,” Bucky groaned, voice gone. “Come for me. Show me I’m the only one who gets to have you like this.”

Your body clenched—tight, hot, overwhelming—and then you were coming, crying out his name, hips jerking as he held you down and fucked you through it.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—” Bucky’s rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he spilled inside the rubber, hands gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

You collapsed onto him, both of you sticky and breathless, hearts thudding in unison.

“I love you,” he whispered again, softer this time, like he knew what was coming.

You closed your eyes, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

“Then don’t ever leave me.”

He didn’t answer.

He just held you tighter.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, September 1943

Three weeks before Bucky ships out

The letter sat on the kitchen table, opened, unfolded, and lined up too neatly for it to be an accident. You froze in the doorway, fingers still smudged with newspaper ink from the classifieds you hadn’t really been reading.

Bucky stood on the other side of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“You weren’t gonna tell me?” he asked, voice low but razor-sharp.

You exhaled slowly. “I was. I was waiting for the right—”

“There’s no right time to tell me you’ve signed up to follow me into a war zone.”

“I didn’t sign up for you,” you said, stepping forward, calm but firm. “I signed up for the people who need help. And for the ones who don’t get to come home.”

He laughed—bitter and low. “Right. And that just happens to be the same front line I’m getting sent to?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Because yes. Yes, it did happen to be the same region. Same Allied deployment. You’d pulled every string possible, leaned on every nurse you trained beside, begged to be assigned where you knew he was going.

“I’m not gonna sit at home and wonder every day if you’re still alive,” you said. “I won’t do it.”

“You’re not supposed to be there,” he snapped. “Do you know what it’s like out there? You think the enemy’s gonna care you’ve got a Red Cross on your arm? You think they won’t shoot through a nurse like anyone else?”

“I know the risks.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, slamming a hand on the table hard enough to rattle the cup beside your letter. “You’ve never seen a man bleed out on the ground with half his leg gone. You’ve never had shrapnel spray through a tent while you’re catching your breath.”

His voice cracked.

You stepped closer.

“This isn’t about you thinking I’m naïve,” you said quietly. “It’s about you being scared.”

He looked at you then—really looked.

And God, he was scared. Eyes red, jaw clenched like it hurt to speak.

“I am scared,” he said, voice softer now. “I’m terrified.”

You reached for him, fingers brushing his forearm. “Then let me be where I can help. Let me do what I can. Don’t ask me to stay behind and feel helpless.”

He swallowed, shaking his head.

You stepped closer. “You’d do the same for me.”

“That’s not the point.*”

“It is,” you said. “It is, James. Because I don’t want to lose you and wonder if I could’ve saved someone else just like you.”

He let out a shaky breath and pulled you into his arms like he couldn’t hold himself up anymore.

You stood there, pressed to his chest, both of you silent.

You weren’t changing your mind.

And neither was he.

His forehead pressed to yours, breath shaky, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress like he needed to hold something.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered.

You kissed him. Slow. Steady. Real.

“You won't.”

2 Years Later

Occupied France, 1944

A dusty bar just past midnight

The bar was a converted farmhouse—dusty, dimly lit, and barely holding itself together. Bottles clinked, laughter spilled like smoke, and music hummed from a battered radio in the corner.

Somewhere in the background, Dugan was arm-wrestling two locals at once, while Morita laughed so hard he nearly fell off his stool. There were glasses clinking, boots scuffing the floor, and one of the Commandos yelling about needing more whiskey like they hadn’t just cleared out half the stock already.

And Bucky was holding you like he couldn’t believe it.

You were tucked into his lap in a shadowed booth near the back, your arms draped around his neck, one hand gently threading through his hair. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, fingers pressed to the curve of your spine like he was scared you'd slip away if he loosened his grip.

Outside, the war still existed. But not here.

Not in this small, golden sliver of now.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “You know they’re watching.”

He smiled, eyes half-lidded and heavy with whiskey and relief. “Let ‘em. If I can’t kiss my girl after dropping a Hydra base, what the hell are we even fighting for?”

You laughed, low and quiet. It rumbled in his chest.

“I missed your laugh,” he said, voice rough. “It’s been weeks since we’ve had more than ten minutes where we weren’t being shot at or yelled at.”

You tightened your arms around him. “You keep surviving and I’ll keep laughing.”

He went still for a moment, just holding you, his nose brushing the side of your neck.

You leaned into his touch, fingertips tracing along the nape of his neck. “What are you thinking about?”

He paused.

Then he smiled—small, quiet, soft.

“I see it now.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “What?”

Your brows furrowed slightly.

“The future,” he murmured. “Us. After all this. I didn’t used to let myself picture it. Thought it was bad luck or something. But tonight? I see it clear as day.”

You swallowed, throat suddenly tight.

You opened your mouth to answer, but he cut you off—his voice gentler now, steadier. Certain.

“When this is over, I’m gonna marry you.”

Your breath caught.

Not because it surprised you. Not because it was sudden.

But because he meant it.

His hand slid up your spine, warm and steady.

“I’m serious,” he whispered. “We’ll get a better place in Brooklyn. You’ll still complain about the noise. I’ll pretend I like fixing things. You’ll still be wild. And I'll still follow you anywhere.”

“Bucky…” you breathed.

He leaned in, kissed you like it was a vow.

“When it’s done,” he said again. “You and me.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, smiling as you fought the sting in your eyes.

There, in the middle of a war. Blood on his knuckles. Dust on your shoes. You both knew the odds were shit. But still—he saw it. You.

You pressed your forehead to his.

“I’ll hold you to it, Barnes.”

“You better,” he whispered.

Then he kissed you again—slow and deep and full of everything he’d never said, everything he was too afraid to hope for.

You didn’t say anything either.

Because you saw it too.

And it was beautiful.

And it would never happen.

────────────────────────

Austria – Hydra Territory, March 1945

The flaps of the medical tent opened with a violent rustle as Bucky stormed in, his arms wrapped tightly around your limp body.

“I need a medic!” he shouted, voice hoarse, desperate. “Somebody—she needs help, now!”

Your head lolled against his shoulder, blood trailing from a gash at your temple. Your uniform was scorched along one side, and your skin—hot to the touch, glowing faintly blue—made his breath choke in his throat.

Steve was right behind him, bloodied and breathless from the mission, his face pale beneath the dirt and sweat. “Bucky—there—over there.”

Bucky stumbled toward the nearest cot, easing you down with shaking hands. “She’s not—she’s not waking up—why isn’t she waking up?!”

“Move,” a voice snapped. One of the medics pushed past him, and behind them, Howard Stark rushed in, eyes scanning the tent before landing on your still body.

“What happened?” the doctor asked quickly, already peeling back your uniform sleeves to check your vitals. “Where was she hit?”

“She—shit, she—she was trying to get to the evac point and that Hydra weapon—the blue thing, it exploded—she was right there, it hit her—dead on.” Bucky’s words were a mess, stumbling out one over the other as he paced, eyes wide and wild. “There was this light—this blast—and she just—she dropped.”

Howard’s head snapped toward him, face going white. “The Tesseract?”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “What?”

“That wasn’t just energy,” Howard said, approaching the cot fast. “That was Tesseract radiation. If she was that close to a direct hit—she should be—”

“Don’t say it,” Bucky growled, eyes blazing. “She’s not dead. She’s not.”

He dropped to his knees beside the cot, grabbing your hand, pressing it to his lips. “C’mon, doll. You’re tough. You always get up. You’re gonna get up now.”

The medic pulled out a flashlight, gently prying one of your eyes open. “Pupils responsive but sluggish. She’s breathing, but it’s shallow. Pulse is unstable.”

Howard moved in beside them, watching your vitals with a furrowed brow. “This doesn’t make sense. There’s no visible trauma except the cut. If she took a full dose of that energy—”

“Why isn’t she waking up?” Bucky’s voice cracked, and suddenly he was whispering. “She’s always so loud, y’know? Never sits still. Never—she wouldn’t just go quiet like this. She wouldn’t.”

Steve placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Buck. We’re gonna figure this out.”

Bucky shook his head, holding your hand tighter. “She promised me a future, Steve. She promised.”

And you weren’t waking up.

Not yet.

────────────────────────

Two Days Later

You hadn’t moved.

Not once.

Not even a twitch.

Bucky sat beside your cot, slouched in a metal folding chair, his fingers still wrapped around your hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His uniform was wrinkled. His face unshaved. Eyes red and ringed with exhaustion, like sleep hadn’t dared touch him in forty-eight hours.

Outside, the camp buzzed with movement—boots, trucks, whispered plans. Another Hydra facility marked. Another opportunity to get ahead.

But inside the tent, it was silent. Except for the monitor’s slow, steady beep. The only sign you were still in there somewhere.

He watched your face like it might change. Like your eyelids might flutter. Like you’d sigh and mutter something sarcastic just to mess with him.

But nothing. Stillness.

Until the tent flap rustled, and Steve stepped inside.

Bucky didn’t look at him.

Steve waited a beat, then approached quietly. “Zola’s train. We’ve got confirmation. If we intercept it, we can get him—and maybe trace it back to the Tesseract.”

Bucky’s grip on your hand tightened.

“Buck…”

“I can’t leave her,” Bucky muttered, voice low, ragged. “She could wake up. She’s gonna be scared, disoriented. I have to be here.”

Steve crouched beside him, elbows resting on his knees.

“She’s strong,” he said gently. “She’ll hold on. She always does.”

Bucky shook his head slowly, like if he moved too fast, everything would fall apart. “She followed me here, Steve. Through hell. And now she’s like this ‘cause she was near me. I can’t—I won’t walk away from her.”

Steve was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, soft and steady, “One last mission.”

Bucky didn’t speak.

“We get Zola. We find out what Hydra’s planning. What they hit her with. Maybe it'll help Howard figure out how to wake her.“

Bucky’s jaw flexed.

Steve placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll come back to her. You always do.”

The silence stretched. Bucky looked at your face, memorizing it all over again.

Then—reluctantly, slowly—he stood.

He leaned down, brushed his lips over your knuckles. “Don’t you dare wake up without me.”

And then he walked out.

Into the mission that would steal him away.

────────────────────────

London Outskirts — Allied Medical Facility, April 1945

There was a buzzing under your skin.

Not like electricity. Not pain, exactly. Just… noise. Dull and heavy, like someone had wrapped you in cotton and dropped you underwater.

You blinked, slow and uneven, as the world filtered back in pieces.

White ceiling. IV drip. The scent of antiseptic and wilted flowers.

You didn’t know where you were. Or when. Or how long it had been since anything had felt real.

Your throat was dry. A soft, broken sound rasped from your lips, not quite a word, not quite a cry.

Movement.

A figure stirred beside you, and your head turned weakly toward it. There she was—Peggy Carter—neat, composed, hair swept into a familiar roll, lips pressed in a tight, unreadable line.

You tried to speak.

Nothing came out.

Your tongue felt thick. Your thoughts slow. Your chest ached—not sharp, but deep, like it had been cracked open and stitched back wrong.

Your lips parted. It took effort to find your voice.

“…Peg?”

She looked up instantly, eyes wide with something too deep to name. Relief. Sorrow. Something between the two.

“Hey,” she said softly, reaching for your hand. Her grip was warm. Gentle. “You’re awake.”

You blinked again. Your eyelids felt like stone.

“Where’s… Bucky?”

Peggy hesitated. And you knew.

Not because of what she said.

Because of how long it took her to say it.

You blinked again, trying to force the fog out of your head. “Where is he?” you repeated, a little clearer. A little louder.

Peggy’s eyes were steady. Too steady.

“There was a mission,” she said gently. “A train in the Alps. HYDRA. Bucky was… he fell.”

You stared at her, the words not quite landing.

“He fell,” you repeated.

She nodded once, eyes glistening. “Off the side. Into the ravine. We searched for him. We tried—”

“No.” It was out before you meant to say it.

Peggy looked down.

You opened your mouth to keep talking, but your chest locked up. Something thick and painful wedged under your ribs. You tried again.

The buzzing returned. It roared now. Every breath hurt.

“No…” you said again, barely above a whisper.

Peggy reached for your hand.

You flinched.

“No—no, no,” you repeated, squeezing your eyes shut like it would erase her words. “You’re wrong. He—he said—we had plans. He promised—he—”

Peggy squeezed your hand, her voice like broken glass. “I’m so sorry.”

Your chest heaved. Tears slid down your cheeks in silence—slow, unstoppable.

You didn’t sob. Not yet. You just cried. Soft and disbelieving.

The kind of crying that felt like your bones were cracking open from the inside out. Like your body couldn’t process the grief fast enough.

He was gone.

Your entire world, gone.

You turned your face away from Peggy, trembling as the tears kept falling.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t speak.

You just wept quietly into the pillow, mourning a future that died a thousand miles away—on a mountainside, in the snow—where no one could bring it back.

Five Years Later – Brooklyn, 1950

You didn’t notice it at first.

You never noticed anything, really.

The world had kept moving without you, chugging forward like a train on a track you’d never boarded. You went through the motions—woke up, went to work, cooked meals you rarely ate. Laughed sometimes, though you never meant it. Time passed. The war ended. Cities rebuilt.

But inside?

You were still there. Still in that bed. Still in that room.

Still clinging to a lifeless hand that never gripped back.

Grief had folded itself into your bones like marrow. You carried it like your own shadow—quiet, constant, invisible to anyone who didn’t know where to look.

You’d heard the comments, of course.

At first, they’d sounded like kindness.

“You’ve held up so well.”

“Still got that youthful glow, huh?”

“God, I wish my skin looked like that.”

But you never paid them any mind. Compliments slid off you like water off wax paper. You never saw what they saw. When you looked in the mirror, all you ever saw were dead eyes. Eyes that stopped shining the day Bucky didn’t come back to you.

Until one day… you looked.

Really looked.

You were standing in front of the mirror, brushing your wet hair absently, staring at yourself like usual—not *at* yourself, just through—when something pulled you up short.

Your hand stilled.

You blinked.

And this time, you really saw it.

Your cheeks—still full. No hollows. No lines from laughter or frowning, even though you'd done plenty of the latter and none of the former.

Your skin—glassy. Smooth. Not youthful, not radiant. Just… untouched.

No crow’s feet. No crease between your brows where you’d furrowed them every morning for five years straight.

Your fingers tightened around the brush.

You leaned closer.

No greys in your hair. Not one. You combed through the strands slowly with your fingers, heart beginning to thrum like distant thunder.

Your hands—steady, soft. No sag to the skin. No dark spots. No thinning at the knuckles.

You didn’t look thirty. You didn’t even look twenty-five. You looked exactly the same. And in 1950, that wasn’t beautiful.

It was unnatural.

It hit you in the gut like ice.

You stepped back from the mirror, shaking your head like that might fix it. Like your reflection might catch up to the pain you’d earned.

But it didn’t.

Because you hadn’t aged a day.

And something was very, very wrong.

That's how you ended up in front of Howard Stark again.

Hair wind-tossed, coat clutched tight around your body, eyes hollow as you stood in the lobby of a new office in Washington D.C.—clean lines, too many acronyms, glass walls that looked out onto a world you didn’t recognize anymore.

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” you said.

Howard blinked when he saw you. He hadn’t changed much—bags deeper under his eyes, tie looser than it used to be, but his mind still whirring like a machine. He didn’t ask questions. Just brought you inside.

That’s how you found out about S.H.I.E.L.D.

Some quiet initiative he and Peggy had started—first as a resistance concept, now evolving into something more. Protection. Prevention. Oversight.

And now? Medical diagnostics. They ran tests. Endless ones. Blood. DNA mapping. Tissue scans. Vital readings.

They cross-referenced data from other soldiers exposed to Hydra weapons, to radiation, to anything remotely alien. They even examined your service uniform—residues from the blast, particles trapped in the fabric’s weave.

And the answer came slowly. Then all at once.

“You’re not aging,” Howard said, voice flat with disbelief, eyes scanning the readouts. “Not at all.”

Peggy sat in the corner of the room, hands clasped, eyes dim.

Your heart thudded in your chest.

Howard looked at the scans again. “Your cellular regeneration rate is exponentially higher than the baseline. Mitochondrial aging markers are… nonexistent. The tissue sample we took yesterday? It’s already reversed degradation overnight.”

You stared at him like he was speaking a language you didn’t want to learn.

“What does that mean?” you whispered.

He hesitated. “It means your body is repairing itself faster than it can age. And at this rate… it likely won’t ever stop.”

Your breath hitched.

Peggy stood. “We think it was the Tesseract,” she said gently. “The radiation wasn’t like anything we’ve encountered. It was… beyond us. Beyond Earth. It changed you.”

“I don’t want this,” you said, voice small, breaking. “Howard—fix it.”

He looked at you.

And for the first time in your life, you saw fear in his eyes.

“We’re trying.”

You laughed—short, bitter. “Try harder. I don’t want to be some—some relic. Some myth people study as I live forever. I don’t even want to live right now.”

Peggy reached for you. You pulled away.

And then the days blurred. Months passed in white walls and test tubes. Howard kept trying. Peggy kept reassuring. You kept waking up to the same face in the mirror, the same unwrinkled skin, the same 24-year-old trapped in a body that wouldn’t let go.

And before you knew it… it was 1960.

You were supposed to be forty. But the woman in the mirror? Still looked like the girl who had just lost everything.

New York, 1970

Stark Residence – Late Autumn

“He’s beautiful,” you said softly.

The baby blinked up at you, barely able to focus, cheeks round and pink, one tiny fist curled in your sweater. His eyelids fluttered, mouth opening in a sleepy pout.

“Can’t believe you named a baby Anthony, Howard,” you added dryly, glancing up at Howard. “What is he—fifty already?”

Maria laughed from her seat on the couch. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I said.”

Howard rolled his eyes. “It’s a strong name. Classic.”

“It’s a grandfather’s name,” you teased, rocking gently as the baby blinked again. “He’s gonna come out of the bassinet asking about tax reform.”

Maria smiled, rubbing her side gently. “How was Italy?”

You exhaled through a faint smile. “Beautiful. Quiet. Just the break I needed.”

Maria nodded knowingly. You didn’t have to say more. Everyone needed to escape sometimes. You, more than most.

“Though,” you added, “I did have some issues at the airport. Apparently, people get suspicious when your passport says you were born in 1920.”

Howard gave you a look from across the room, but you ignored him.

“And you?” you asked Maria, gently bouncing the baby as he started to fidget. “How are you doing? Six months in and you’re still glowing.”

Maria smiled, eyes warm. “Recovering. Slowly. He’s worth it, though.”

You nodded and glanced down at little Anthony. He yawned, the movement so pure and small it made your chest ache.

Then Howard spoke.

“You missed your last screening.”

The air shifted. The bounce of the baby in your arms slowed.

“It’s just one test,” you said without looking up. “None of them work anyway.”

Howard straightened from his chair. “That’s not the point. Science is evolving every day—we’re closer now than we were six months ago. You can’t just keep skipping—”

“You’ve been saying that to me for the last twenty-five years, Howard.”

Silence.

The baby cooed, soft and unaware of the sharpness that had entered the room.

Maria cleared her throat gently, trying to soften it again. “He’s right, you know. One day something will work.”

You rocked Anthony again, gaze drifting down to his little hand curling in your shirt.

Maria’s voice was softer now. “You ever think about doing this for yourself? Finding someone? Starting a family?”

You stared at the baby. Long enough that the quiet turned into something heavy.

Then you whispered, “So I can outlive them, too?”

No one spoke. Maria reached for her tea. Howard looked away.

Anthony blinked up at you, peaceful and unaware of the fact that your heart had just folded in half again—quietly, invisibly, like it had learned to over the decades.

Washington, D.C. – 2011

S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters, The Triskelion

Level 4 Medical Wing

The medical wing smelled like antiseptic and recycled air—sterile, humming, too bright. You’d memorized every corner of it. Every buzzing fluorescent tube. Every faint scratch on the polished floor from wheeled machines that came and went like clockwork.

You sat on the exam table, sleeve rolled up, arm extended. Your gaze was blank, unfocused, fixed on a point past the wall while the needle pierced your vein.

The young man adjusting the monitor beside you was rambling. Scottish. Awkward. Unapologetically enthusiastic.

“…so basically, your cellular repair rate’s increased by point-zero-four percent in the last decade, which—honestly? Shouldn’t even be possible. We’ve all sort of—well—not to be weird—but we’ve sort of been passing your case files around the medical research division like they’re…” He cleared his throat. “Like they’re legend.”

You blinked slowly.

He winced at himself. “Right. Sorry. That was probably weird to say out loud.”

You said nothing.

He smiled awkwardly and gently removed the IV. “Honestly, I can’t believe they’ve got me doing your panel this cycle. It’s usually Doctor Winslow, or sometimes Simmons when she’s not in the field—uh, that’s my colleague, she’s brilliant—but I drew the assignment this time and I—well, you’ve been with S.H.I.E.L.D. longer than the agency has even existed, which is wild, right?”

You tilted your head slightly, like you were watching a small animal knock its head against a glass door.

He fumbled with a tablet, clearly trying to keep the energy going. “Anyway, it’s fascinating. You’re…you’re basically a walking contradiction. Functionally immortal, ageless, regenerative to a degree we can’t replicate even with alien tech—God, I hope that wasn’t offensive, calling you that—immortal, I mean.”

You raised one brow.

He paled slightly. “Sorry. I talk a lot when I’m nervous.”

You didn’t smile. But you also didn’t tell him to shut up, so he took it as a kind of social win.

When he finally finished up with the last scan, he gave you a sheepish glance.

“Um… would it be weird to ask for a photo?”

You slowly turned your head, looking at him fully for the first time.

The silence that followed was so sharp, it could’ve been used to sterilize the room.

His face blanched. “Right. Yes. Terrible idea. That was—that was inappropriate. Of course. Never mind. I’m just gonna go ahead and, uh—upload these. You’re done for today! Thanks!”

You slid off the table wordlessly, tugging your sleeve back down.

And as you walked out, you heard him whisper to himself, “Cool. No, totally cool. Great job, Fitz. Legendary immortal war nurse just stared into your soul.”

The door hissed shut behind you, and you exhaled—long, steady, trying to shake off the sterile weight of fluorescent lights and Fitz’s over-enthusiastic commentary still clinging to your thoughts like static.

You turned down the hall—

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall just outside the medical wing like he had all the time in the world. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders relaxed. That signature half-smile that never reached his eyes until you made it.

Agent Cole Turner.

“You missed your window,” you said, not even slowing your pace. “I escaped the lab untouched.”

He pushed off the wall, falling into step beside you effortlessly.

“They always let you go. I just come here for the view.”

You raised a brow. “You’re shameless.”

“And yet you don’t seem to mind,” he said, glancing sideways at you, voice low, rich, smooth enough to run a finger through. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you time your exit to run into me.”

“I could have you reassigned.”

“I’d come back.”

You cast him a glance—flat, unimpressed, too good at hiding the flutter under your ribs.

But he saw it.

He always saw it.

Turner let the silence hang a second too long. Then, like he couldn’t help himself:

“You look different today.”

You stiffened slightly. “Do I?”

“It’s your eyes,” he said, quieter now. “They’re a little softer. Sadder.”

You didn’t answer. He stopped walking. You took two more steps before you realized and turned slowly back to him.

“Something happen?”

“It’s just been a day,” you said.

He studied you for a long beat, something sharper edging into his expression. “You’re not like the rest of them.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“I say it like it’s true.” He took a step closer. “You keep everyone at arm’s length like it’s a strategy. But you still come back. Still take the tests. Still give just enough. Why?”

You blinked slowly. “Maybe I’m a creature of habit.”

“You’re not a creature of anything. You’re a woman who’s been running from something so long, she doesn’t know what it feels like to stay.”

That hit a little too close. You looked away.

Turner’s voice dropped again, lower, more deliberate. “I could take you out. Just coffee. Just air.”

You stared at him.

“You don’t even know what today is,” you said softly.

He tilted his head. “Then tell me.”

You didn’t. Because it was your birthday. You were now ninety-one.

And you still looked like you were twenty-four, standing in front of a man you might’ve let yourself love in a different life.

You gave a short breath of a smile instead. “You’re really bad at backing off.”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “That’s what they keep telling me.”

You turned away before he could see you almost smile again.

He fell into step beside you once more, casually.

“Tell me one thing, and I’ll go.”

You paused. “What?”

“Do you look at me like that on purpose?”

You didn’t look at him this time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But you did. And so did he.

He let out a soft breath, low and amused. “Then I’ll see you around.”

You didn’t watch him walk away. But you wanted to. More than you’d admit.

But you continued, stepping out into the cool D.C. air, the late afternoon light washing over the concrete courtyard in golden warmth.

And for the first time that day—a real smile touched your lips.

Because there he was.

Leaning against a sleek black Audi like it was a runway, sunglasses perched on his nose, suit pressed like he hadn’t ever known a wrinkle in his life.

Tony Stark.

He pushed off the car when he saw you, arms opening like he was about to go full dramatic hug.

You crossed your arms. “What are you doing here?”

He removed his sunglasses with a flourish. “What, you think I’d miss my godmother’s birthday? The woman who once grounded me for hot-wiring my own father’s car?”

“You were eleven,” you said.

“I was innovating,” he countered, pointing a finger. “Visionary. Ahead of my time.”

“You were stealing a ride to go get candy.”

Tony grinned. “And you were the only one who had the guts to chase me down in heels and throw me into a bush.”

You shrugged. “And I’d do it again.”

“I know. That’s why I love you.” He opened the passenger side door. “Get in, old lady. I’m taking you out.”

You raised a brow. “Where?”

“That crappy restaurant in Brooklyn you always go on about,” he said, circling around to his side. “You know the one. Peeling wallpaper. Weird lasagna. Waiter with a God complex.”

“Vincent’s,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “You hate that place.”

He started the car. “I do. But you don’t. And I’m feeling particularly generous today.”

You slid in beside him, smirking. “Did Pepper put you up to this?”

He turned to you with mock offense. “Wow. You think I can’t do a nice thing out of my own volition?”

“You called me an ‘ancient vampire’ last year when I wouldn’t let you have champagne before noon.”

“And I was right,” he said. ��But you’re my ancient vampire. Which means I’m buying you overpriced garlic bread and pretending I don’t gag at marinara.”

You laughed, for real this time, the sound warm and effortless.

He glanced at you sideways, smirk softening. “You deserve something good today.”

You looked out the window for a second. “Thanks, Tony.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just pulled onto the road and turned the radio down.

Then, casually: “You know, if I had a time machine, I’d go back and punch anyone who ever made you feel alone on your birthday.”

You looked at him again—really looked.

And your chest ached in the best way.

“Careful,” you said. “If you get any more sentimental, I might think you’re going soft.”

He smirked. “I’m Tony Stark. I can be whatever I want.”

You smiled again. “Then today? Be my annoying godson who buys me garlic bread.”

“Done.”

────────────────────────

The cabin of Tony’s jet was warm and plush, stocked with things you’d never dream of asking for but he always insisted on having. The faint hum of altitude mixed with his voice as he made some dramatic comment about how you were a “terrible birthday date” for refusing to pick a champagne.

You rolled your eyes, lounging with a drink in hand, just starting to let yourself relax.

And then your phone rang.

You frowned.

Tony looked up too. “You actually have your ringer on? What are you, eighty?”

“Actually I'm ninety-one,” you murmured, glancing at the screen.

Unknown.

You picked up.

“…Hello?”

“Don’t speak,” came Fury’s voice, sharp and direct. “Just listen. We’ve got a situation. You need to come to our Manhattan facility. Immediately.”

You straightened in your seat. “What? Why? What’s going on?”

“We recovered something. Someone.”

You were already on edge. “Fury—”

“It’s Rogers,” he said flatly. “Captain America. We found his body in the Arctic. He’s… he’s awake.”

Silence.

It ripped through you like a bullet.

“What?”

“We thawed him two days ago. He’s stable. Fully conscious. Still adjusting.”

Your breath left your lungs like a punch. “You what? And you’re just telling me now? I should’ve been told the moment you found him—how long have you known?!”

There was a beat of static. Then the line went dead. You pulled the phone back, stared at the screen: Call ended.

“Motherf—” You cut yourself off, nearly launching the device across the cabin.

Tony raised both brows, slowly closing his tablet. “Well. That sounded like a vibe killer.”

You were already standing, heart pounding, hands shaking. “I—I need to raincheck. I’m sorry.”

He blinked. “Raincheck? On your birthday dinner?”

You looked at him, pained. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t serious.”

He studied you for a second, expression unreadable.

Then: “Fine. But if this turns out to be you ghosting me to avoid carbs, I will send you gluten-laced muffins in retaliation.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek, grateful and soft.

“Next time,” you promised.

He nodded, but as you rushed toward the cabin door, he called after you.

“Tell the Captain he owes me a drink. I’ve got questions about the hair.”

You didn’t answer.

You were already gone.

────────────────────────

S.H.I.E.L.D. Manhattan Facility – Sub-Level 3

The elevator opened with a cold metallic hiss, and there he was—Nick Fury, standing at the threshold with his arms folded, eye already tracking your every movement like he expected a detonation.

You didn’t greet him.

You didn’t slow down.

You stormed past him with the force of a tidal wave.

“You should’ve told me immediately,” you snapped, heels echoing down the corridor as he turned to follow you.

He didn’t flinch. “You weren’t cleared.”

You stopped.

Pivoted sharply.

Face to face with the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., your expression carved from stone.

“Bullshit.”

Fury’s jaw flexed. “Might I remind you that you are not an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Nevertheless having the clearance—”

“He is Captain goddamn America,” you bit out, voice low and lethal. “And you thought it wasn’t logical to contact the only living person he knows? The one who knew him before the shield, before the serum, before the goddamn war?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you stepped closer, finger pointed square at his chest.

“Don’t play smart with me, boy.”

That stopped him. For a second, the Director of the world’s most covert agency looked like he’d been slapped.

“I was born before your parents even met,” you said coldly. “I was holding soldiers hand while they bled out on a field you’ve only ever read about. I sat in a room and cried over Steve Rogers before your daddy learned how to spell his own name.”

Your voice shook—not with weakness, but with fury barely leashed. “I watched everyone I ever loved disappear. And now he’s back, and you didn’t tell me.”

Fury’s gaze dropped, just for a moment.

“You think S.H.I.E.L.D. built me?” you hissed. “I’ve outlived organizations. I’ve outlived time. You don’t keep something like this from me.”

There was a beat of silence. The hallway was cold and empty, save for your words hanging heavy in the air.

Finally, Fury spoke, quieter.

“…He’s just through here.”

You stared at the door.

Your hand trembled, just slightly. The door slid open with a soft hiss.

The room beyond was quiet, dimly lit. Stark white walls. No windows. Just the low hum of surveillance tech and a single man sitting at the edge of a hospital-style cot.

Steve Rogers.

His elbows rested on his knees, broad shoulders hunched, head in his hands like the weight of the century he missed was finally bearing down.

You stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind you with a final click.

He didn’t hear it. Not at first. But then—his head lifted. His eyes—tired, shell-shocked, too blue—locked on yours.

And for a moment… everything stilled.

He stared at you like you were a ghost. Like you might disappear if he blinked too hard.

“…No,” he whispered, breath catching in his chest. “No… that can’t be…”

You didn’t move yet. Just looked at him, eyes burning. “It’s me, Steve.”

He was on his feet in seconds—crossing the room in three long, desperate strides, his hand reaching before he could stop himself, like he needed to touch you to believe you were real.

You let him.

He stopped inches away, eyes wide, searching every line of your face.

You whispered, “I’m real.”

He didn’t speak.

He just pulled you into his arms—tight, fierce, trembling—and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding for seventy years.

His voice cracked at your ear.

“…How?”

You closed your eyes, gripping the back of his shirt. “It’s a long story. One you won’t believe.”

He held you like the world had finally stopped spinning.

And maybe, for one perfect second, it had.

────────────────────────

New York City – Stark Tower, 2012

The streets of Manhattan were still choked with debris, flickering emergency lights, and the aftermath of an invasion no one expected. But you didn’t stop moving—not through the airport, not through the eerily quiet flight, not through the ash and twisted metal littering the city.

Because you saw it.

The footage.

Steve.

Tony.

A hole in the sky. And now—you were here.

You stepped through the busted entryway of Stark Tower, heart in your throat, shoes crunching glass. Security didn’t stop you. They knew who you were.

You pushed through the ruined lobby, into the elevator—thankfully still functioning—and rode it in dead silence, hands clenched.

The doors opened onto chaos.

And you saw them.

Tony, pacing near a half-functional console, bruised and blood-streaked but upright. Romanoff sitting on the edge of a workbench, stitches on her temple. Barton standing guard at the window. And—

“Steve—”

He turned at the sound of your voice.

You crossed the room before you could stop yourself, arms flying around him, holding tight.

“Are you okay?” you demanded, breathless, checking him over with your hands, ignoring the shield slung across his back. “What the hell happened—I saw you on the news, I thought—”

“I’m okay,” he murmured, voice tired but warm. “I’m here.”

“Well, great,” Tony cut in dryly, limping slightly toward you. “Glad to see Cap gets all the hugs. Never mind me, the guy who literally flew a nuke into space and crash-landed back to Earth like a comet.”

You turned, expression flat. Then without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him too, tight, one hand on the back of his head.

He blinked. “Okay. Wow. That worked better than expected.”

You pulled back. “Never do that again.”

“No promises,” he said, voice softer now. “But… since you’re here—” he gestured vaguely to the rubble, “—and we’re alive, I might’ve found something. A possible fix.”

You frowned. “Fix for what?”

Before he could answer, a voice echoed behind you like rolling thunder.

“Milady.”

You turned—and stared.

There, standing tall among the wreckage, was a man out of myth.

Blonde hair, broad shoulders, armor gleaming despite the mess. A cape. And a hammer—impossibly heavy-looking, dangling from his fingers like it was nothing.

Your eyes widened.

He stepped forward with regal ease. “I am Thor of Asgard, son of Odin, and wielder of Mjölnir.”

You blinked. “Hi.”

He bowed his head slightly. “The Captain of America and the Man of Iron have spoken of you.”

Steve looked faintly exasperated; Tony was smirking.

“They told me of your… predicament,” Thor continued, “and of the relic that caused it. The Tesseract and it's power is not unknown to me. It is one of the Infinity Stones—powerful beyond your world’s understanding.”

You glanced between them, mind catching up. “You know what it is?”

Thor nodded. “And I believe I can help.”

You stared at him.

For a moment, all you could see was possibility.

You turned slowly toward Steve, toward Tony.

Steve gave a small, hopeful nod. “I think he can really help you.”

And for the first time in a very, very long time…you felt it.

Hope.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn – Abandoned Warehouse, October 2014

The space was cold. Cracked walls. Rotting beams. Bare concrete that echoed every breath like it was trying to remind him he was still alive.

He sat in the corner of the second floor, back to the wall, knees drawn up, metal fingers clenched around the edge of a weather-worn blanket someone had left behind. He hadn't turned the lights on. He couldn't. He didn’t want to see what kind of ghost looked back at him.

A memory flickered.

A pair of blue eyes—his? Someone else's?

Gone.

He pressed his fists to his forehead, hard. Like pressure might force the truth out.

He knew the facts.

Names from placards and plaques. Faces on digital screens in museum halls. Steve Rogers: Hero. Captain. Friend.

And a photograph—grainy, faded.

Her.

You.

A woman in a dark dress. Laughing. Elbow hooked in Bucky Barnes’s. Smiling like you didn’t know war was waiting.

But he didn’t remember your name.

Not really.

Only—flashes.

A smoky bar. Laughter like wind chimes. A voice sharp with wit, low with want. The way you’d leaned in, chin tipped up, mouth just barely grazing his.

Then—touch. A warm thigh under his palm. Your fingers threaded through his hair. Skin on skin in a dark apartment that smelled like old books and lavender. His hand gripping your hip, your breath catching in his ear, your laugh—

“You make it too easy to love you.”

That one he remembered.

He choked on a breath. Pressed the heel of his hand to his mouth.

It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

His mind was full of holes, Hydra-shaped voids that swallowed everything whole. But you were like a splinter stuck beneath his ribs—sharp, aching, impossible to dig out.

And it hurt. It hurt.

Not just the not-knowing. The not-having. But the knowing enough to miss it. To miss you.

He doubled over, forehead to his knees, metal fingers curling into the floor, dragging small scars into the concrete.

He hadn’t cried. Not in forever. But now his chest was cracking open, silent and violent and shaking.

Because the woman in the flashes—

the one who touched him like he wasn’t a weapon—

the one who kissed him like tomorrow was a joke—

She was real.

The air had gone still.

No traffic. No wind. Just the buzz of old wiring somewhere in the walls and the sound of his own breathing—too fast, too shallow, like even that was a struggle.

He opened his notebook again—small, weather-stained, bent at the corners. A pen rested inside it, lid chewed to hell. His hand trembled as he flipped past scribbled museum facts, fragmented Russian, coordinates scratched in blind frustration.

Then—on the last page. A single line.

"Beautiful eyes, sharp mouth. Loud and free."

He stared at it. He didn’t remember writing it. But he knew it was about you.

You, who lived in the gaps between dreams and triggers. You, who surfaced in the quiet moments before the nightmares started. You, who touched him like he wasn’t broken, even though maybe he always had been.

The worst part? He couldn’t remember your name. Not your voice. Not your laugh in full.

Just impressions—like the warmth a flame leaves after it’s gone out.

A breathless laugh behind a rooftop kiss. A low murmur against his throat—“Don’t ever leave me.” A flash of skin in moonlight, your leg draped over his hip. And something deeper. Something dear.

The way you’d looked at him once—like he was worth everything. That memory stabbed.

Because no one looked at him like that anymore. Not even himself.

His metal hand clenched around the pen until it creaked, until it cracked, until the ink bled into his palm and he barely noticed.

He stood, pacing, fast and desperate. He needed something. A lead. A name. A reason.

He tore through the backpack he kept hidden under the floorboards—scavenged burner phones, papers, an old StarkPad he barely knew how to use.

He cracked it open with shaking hands.

Typed:

Brooklyn, 1940s. Woman. Bucky Barnes.

Nothing. Too vague.

Bucky Barnes. War nurse. Brooklyn, 1940s. WW2.

Still nothing useful.

He slammed the pad down hard enough to fracture the case.

“Please…” he whispered to no one. “Please…”

He didn’t know who he was begging.

Not Steve. Not God. Just you.

Because he could live without memories. But not without you.

The cracked StarkPad balanced on his knee, the screen flickering from overuse. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then moved faster—typing, deleting, retyping again over and over.

And then—

There it was.

A headline.

“The Mysterious Case of The Girl Stuck in Time: Survivor of World War II. Known for her service as a front-line nurse alongside Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Has not aged since 1945.“

His breath caught.

He clicked the article with trembling fingers, the screen loading slow like it knew it held something sacred.

There you were.

A black-and-white photo from the war, standing in uniform beside Steve and him, smiling wide. The same eyes.

Then a more recent image—different setting. S.H.I.E.L.D. file photo, maybe. Hair pulled back, skin impossibly smooth. Too smooth. Like glass. Like time had decided it didn’t apply to you.

You looked the same.

But also—not.

The curve of your lips was tight, your eyes dull. Your beauty was preserved, but your light had dulled. In the photo, you looked like someone still breathing only because the alternative was worse.

His fingers brushed the screen like it might bring you closer.

He didn't understand.

What the hell did they do to you?

He dug deeper. Articles. Theories. Old interviews. They all called you a miracle. A myth. A phenomenon.

They didn’t know what he did.

That you were real.

Warm. Loud. Wild.

The girl who kissed him like the world was ending.

The woman who swore she’d never let the war steal you both.

Now the war had ended.

And you were still fighting.

He kept scrolling. More photos. All of them wrong.

That wasn’t how you’d looked when you whispered “You’re mine” against his mouth.

But you were alive.

His heart pounded. For the first time since the collapse of the helicarriers—for the first time since your name came back to him—he felt something close to clarity.

He had to find you.

No matter how long it took. No matter who you’d become. Because somewhere in there—

you were still his.

────────────────────────

San Francisco – November, 2014

Outer Richmond District, 4:37 p.m.

The sky hung low, swollen with clouds, heavy with the kind of gray that made the entire street look washed in cold ash. Rain fell in a soft, steady rhythm—thousands of tiny drops kissing pavement, pooling along curbs, hissing off car roofs.

Bucky stood across the street, half-sheltered beneath the overhang of a florist’s shop. A faded baseball cap pulled low over his brow, collar turned up high. The leather of his gloves creaked as his fingers flexed in slow, anxious rhythm.

He’d been here for hours.

Watched people pass. Listened to the city breathe in traffic hums and bicycle bells.

Waiting.

Waiting to see you.

He knew your life now—what pieces the world had.

The woman they called “The Girl Stuck in Time.”

He’d read everything. Every grainy tabloid photo, every polished New York Times spread from the 60s. He found the interview you gave in ’71—your voice quiet, controlled, your smile tight as you said you were just “trying to do something good with the time I’ve been given.”

Philanthropy. Global aid. A foundation in your name. Book deals you barely promoted. Speeches you didn’t like giving. Smiling for photos you didn’t believe in.

A life that looked full. Beautiful.

But behind your eyes? Still the same sadness from the museum photos.

Still you.

And now you lived here. In San Francisco. Far from Brooklyn. Far from the ghosts.

He didn’t blame you.

He didn’t know what he expected. He didn’t even know what he wanted.

Just a glimpse.

Just you.

You stepped out of the café first—coat belted tight, hair swept back from your face, a slight flush to your cheeks from the warmth you’d just left behind. Your umbrella tilted slightly as you adjusted your bag on your shoulder, brow furrowed at something on your phone.

And then you looked up.

It wasn’t even at him—just up, vaguely, across the street.

But it didn’t matter.

Because your face.

Bucky’s lungs forgot how to work.

You looked exactly like the pictures.

Exactly like the memories—at least, the fractured ones that still burned inside him.

But it was more than that.

It was you.

Alive. Breathing. Whole.

The girl from his dreams. The girl who haunted the spaces between gunfire and screaming. The girl whose name he whispered in sleep like a prayer, whose laugh he remembered better than his own.

You weren’t just real. You were here. And for one moment, just one impossible second—

You smiled.

Soft. Small.

Like the rain didn’t matter. Like maybe you had seen him. And in that moment, Bucky thought—maybe.

Maybe this was it. Maybe the universe had given him a mercy. Maybe you had been waiting for him too. Maybe this was the end of the darkness. Maybe he could finally come home.

His feet moved before he knew it. One step into the street. Then another.

Then—

Another figure stepped into view. A man. Umbrella in one hand, bouquet in the other.

Bucky stopped. Mid-step.

The man reached you. And you lit up. Brighter than you had been in those pictures he saw. Brighter than any memory he had left of you.

You laughed, pressed your hand to your mouth, and said something Bucky couldn’t hear, but he didn’t need to. The look on your face said everything.

This wasn’t polite. Wasn’t passing. This was love.

The way you touched his arm. The way he brushed a thumb across your jaw, held your umbrella steady as you tilted your head to receive it.

The flowers. Hydrangeas, your favorite. The familiar rhythm of your bodies as you walked together. The comfort of your closeness.

It was intimate. It was effortless. It was everything Bucky had lost—and you had found.

His chest cracked. Not in a dramatic way. Not loud.

Just quietly. Completely.

He stumbled back onto the curb like he’d been punched, mouth open, breath stolen. His hands curled into fists—both of them—like he could grip the pain and hold it somewhere that wasn’t his ribs.

You were smiling like you were safe.

You were holding someone else like he was home.

The ache bloomed slow.

Hot. Cold. Heavy.

He backed into the shadow of the building, eyes still locked on you.

He had imagined this moment so many times.

But in all of them, you were alone. Waiting. Needing him.

Not…

Not like this.

Not happy. Not healed. Not loved by someone else.

He didn’t feel the rain pick up again. Didn’t feel the damp against his jacket, the wind at his back. All he felt was the slow collapse of something deep in his chest.

A collapse that didn’t come with a crash.

Just… silence.

Stillness.

Because he was too late.

The woman in his dreams—the girl from rooftops, from crumpled sheets, from smoky bars and whispered promises—she had survived.

She had moved on.

And he had no right to pull her back.

Because that smile—

That was enough. That was all he came for.

Once more to see you.

────────────────────────

San Francisco, January 2015

You didn’t know what to say.

You didn’t know how to breathe.

Steve had said the words so quietly, like saying them too loud might break something sacred.

“He’s alive.”

And your whole world folded in on itself. Again.

You stared at him. Blinked once. Twice. Waiting for it to make sense.

It didn’t.

Not right away.

Your hands were still in your lap. Fingers laced together, knuckles bone-white. You hadn’t moved since he said it—like if you stayed perfectly still, the gravity wouldn’t shift.

But it already had.

“He went into hiding after D.C.,” Steve had said, voice tight. “Tried to disappear again. But eventually… he came to me.”

You hadn’t looked at him. Couldn’t. The room felt too full. Too loud.

“And the only thing I could think to do…” He’d run a hand through his hair. “He needs something to hold on to. Someone. He barely remembers me. Only fragments. Just what Hydra left behind, and what he read in a museum.”

A sharp breath caught in your throat. Of course. That’s what he’d been reduced to. A legend on a plaque. A soldier behind glass.

And now—he was breathing. Somewhere in the same country. And he didn’t even remember Steve.

But he remembered you.

That’s why Steve was here. Because you were the only thread Bucky still clung to in the tangled web of his mind.

“I didn’t know if I should come,” Steve said finally, quieter now. “But… if there’s anything that can help him—it’s you.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed again. Nothing came out.

Because you had loved him. Loved him with every second you were sure you’d never get back.

And now? Now he was here.

And it felt like your heart had just started again. But you didn’t know if it was beating for him.

You didn’t know what to feel—except everything, all at once.

────────────────────────

New York City – Stark Tower, February, 2015

The jet landed in silence. No welcoming fanfare. No agents or escorts. Just the hum of engines winding down and the weight of Steve Rogers standing beside you like the ghost of your former life made flesh.

He hadn’t said much during the flight. He didn’t need to. The silence between you spoke loud enough.

And now, as you stepped into the elevator, every floor closer felt like pressure against your lungs. The kind that makes it hard to breathe.

You hadn’t seen Bucky Barnes in seventy years. And he wasn’t the same man.

Steve had told you as much. That the boy who used to kiss your neck in the back of his tenement hallway now had metal where his arm used to be. That he rarely spoke unless spoken to. That he was healing—but painfully slow.

You nodded. Told Steve you understood. But you didn’t. Not until the elevator doors opened. Not until you saw him.

He was in the corner of the room—half-shadowed, quiet, like he was trying to make himself smaller than a man his size could be.

And God, he was bigger.

The serum had carved him into something unrecognizable and so achingly familiar. Broad shoulders, thick arms, his back rising and falling in slow, cautious breaths.

But it was the hair that struck you.

Longer now, brushing his jaw. Unkempt but soft. And tucked behind it—those eyes.

Still that same steel-blue.

Still yours.

For a second, you didn’t move.

Your eyes traced the metal arm—exposed, gleaming in the light. Every line of it sculpted, silent, awful. That was new. That wasn’t the man you remembered. That arm had done things your Bucky never would have.

But when he turned—

When he really looked at you—

Time stopped.

Your breath caught in your throat like a sob you hadn’t meant to let out. And still… you walked forward. One slow step at a time. Trying to keep your spine straight. Your voice level.

“Do you… do you know who I am?” you asked.

You hated how your voice trembled.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Like his body knew before his mind did. Like his heart was dragging up something his brain couldn’t catch yet.

Then—finally—he spoke. Your name. Whispered. Barely there.

But yours.

It hit you like a knife to the sternum.

His lips parted like he wanted to say more—but the words came slow, fractured, unsteady.

“I… I met you in a bar,” he murmured, voice raw from disuse. “June ’41. Summer night. You were with… friends. Your hair was down. Laughing.”

“And you…” he huffed, something like a memory making his mouth twitch. “You told me not to buy you a drink because you didn’t like whiskey. Said I could impress you by dancing instead.”

Your eyes burned.

“You danced with me. That night. All night.”

A slow nod.

“And the next,” he mumbled. “And every night I could steal before they shipped us out.”

You looked at him then—really looked—and felt everything crash forward. All the time, all the silence, all the grief.

Because it was him. Changed. But him.

That need—the one you thought had died with the war—it flooded you all over again. Your skin remembered his touch. Your mouth remembered the shape of his name in a moan. Your heart remembered everything.

It was still there. Alive and loud and aching. But so was something else.

Because you loved someone else now. A different man. A good man. One who had held you when the world forgot you. One who kissed your cheek when your nightmares made you shake. One who was real.

And now your whole world was breaking open.

All over again.

A Year Later

The Avengers Compound – Sublevel Quarters

Morning, June 2016

The world was quiet. Too quiet for a day like this.

Bucky sat in the half-dark of his room, blinds pulled but not shut. Sunlight bled through in thin, uneven strips, painting his floor in quiet gold. The air was warm—June warmth—but he hadn’t changed out of last night’s clothes. Just a black shirt. Worn jeans. Bare feet.

The metal arm caught the sunlight. And he hated how quiet the room was. How quiet he was.

The voices were gone now. The static. The screaming commands. The weight of Hydra’s grip wasn’t around his throat anymore—but something else had replaced it.

Emptiness.

Like he’d fought his way out of hell and found nothing waiting for him on the other side.

His reflection in windows didn’t scare him now.

But it didn’t look like him, either. He didn’t know what he looked like anymore.

There was a knock. Soft. Then the door opened slowly.

Steve stepped in, already in a charcoal suit, tie neat. He looked uncomfortable—like the fabric didn’t sit right on his soldier’s frame. But his expression was soft. Tired. Familiar.

“We’re headin’ out,” Steve said, voice low. “Last call if you wanna come.”

Bucky didn’t look at him.

Just kept twisting the chain of his dog tags—cool, rhythmic, constant.

He already knew what today was.

Your wedding day.

And somehow, it felt like his funeral.

Today, you’d be someone else’s wife.

You’d wear white.

You’d say I do.

And Bucky would watch the sunset knowing he wasn’t the man you wanted forever with anymore.

“I’m not coming,” Bucky murmured, finally.

Steve didn’t answer right away. He stepped in, let the door close behind him.

“You could,” he said. “Nobody would mind.”

“I would.”

Silence.

Steve sighed. “You’re not… excluded, Buck.”

Bucky let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh. Could’ve been a choke.

“I know.”

His fingers stopped moving.

“I just don’t think I can watch it happen,” he whispered.

Steve looked at him for a long time. “You love her.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“I’m glad she’s happy,” Bucky said eventually. “I mean it.”

Steve nodded, quiet.

“But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

The room fell still again.

Steve walked over, rested a hand briefly on Bucky’s shouler, “It’s okay, Buck.”

He hated how gentle his voice was. Hated that he needed it.

“You did good, letting her go.”

Bucky didn’t look at him just clenched his fist over the tags.

He didn't say anything else. He couldn't.

And then Steve turned to leave. Gave him one last look over his shoulder.

“I’ll tell her you said congratulations.”

The door clicked shut behind him. And Bucky just sat there. Still. Breathing like it hurt. The silence swelled again. And then—

Something snapped.

He stood. Abruptly. Too fast. The chair scraped.

His breath caught. He stared at the door. His chest was tight. His heart too loud.

He didn’t know what he was going to say. Or do.

But he had to see you.

Just once.

One more time.

Before he let you go completely.

────────────────────────

The Plaza, Private Bridal Suite – New York, Late Morning, June 2016

The room was silent.

Soft light filtered in through lace-curtained windows, dust floating like quiet confetti in the air. The kind of stillness meant to calm. The kind of stillness you’d prayed for.

You stood in front of the mirror, veil draped over the back of a nearby chair. The dress fit perfectly. Your hair was set, every pin tucked just so. Everything was exactly how you had planned it.

And still…

Your fingers trembled as they traced the edge of your neckline.

Your eyes studied your reflection like it was a stranger.

This was supposed to be the beginning. The start of your real life.

You’d earned this. You’d survived. In 2012, the doctors confirmed it—after Thor's help, your cells had finally stabilized. The tesseract’s grip had faded. You were free.

You were aging. Like everyone else. Like you were supposed to. And you’d cried.

Out of relief. Out of fear. Out of the overwhelming weight of time returning to your body.

But you hadn’t gone back to your old self.

You hadn’t gone back to her.

The wild girl who danced barefoot. Who loved a soldier with reckless joy. Who pressed her cheek to a metal dog tag in the dark and whispered “come back to me.”

You buried her.

Built something new. Something safe.

You found someone who loved the woman you became—quiet, poised, a little haunted but finally real.

And today, you were marrying him.

Your hand hovered over your heart. But there was this… ache.

It didn’t make sense. Everything was perfect.

The dress. The weather. The man waiting at the altar. But something deep inside your chest was pulling.

You pressed your hand flat to your ribcage, as if that would stop it. It wouldn’t.

Because it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t doubt. It was something else.

Something… missing.

And you didn’t know why.

You didn’t hear the door open. You didn't hear it close. You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you.

You were too lost in the mirror. In the image of yourself. The one everyone else would call beautiful. Radiant. The woman who made it. Who endured.

But all you saw was someone still trying to believe this was real. Still trying to make that ache go away.

Then—

A voice. Low. Familiar. Reverent.

“You look beautiful.”

You flinched. Spun. Your breath caught. Because he was there.

Bucky.

Standing just inside the door, tux fitted like it was cut from memory, his long hair combed back, bowtie slightly uneven—because of course it was.

He looked… God.

He looked unreal.

You hadn’t seen him in months. Not since you’d started wedding planning. Not since the night you said goodbye with your eyes but not your mouth.

But here he was. Right in front of you.

You stared at him. And he stared right back. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

The air felt too thin.

And somehow, it wasn’t the dress that made you feel exposed—it was his eyes.

Because he looked at you like he still remembered the curve of your smile before it broke. Like he still saw the woman from 1942. And every version you became after.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

It was all you could manage.

His lips parted like your name was the only thing holding him together. He took a breath.

And the world, for just a second—stopped turning.

Your throat was tight. It ached just to breathe.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Your fingers brushed against the fabric of your gown, like that would steady you. Like anything could.

Bucky’s eyes dropped briefly to your hand. And lingered.

On the ring. Silver. Simple. Clean.

His mouth twitched—not in a smile. In something like memory.

“For him,” he murmured. “Not you.”

You blinked. “What?”

He nodded at your hand. “It’s silver. You always liked gold.”

You looked down. And for a second, the breath you’d been holding collapsed in your lungs. Because he was right. You did like gold. You always had.

“Bucky…” your voice broke around the name, fragile.

He stepped closer. Not much. Just enough to be near.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I just—I needed to see you. Just once.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely stand.

His voice was velvet and gravel, threaded with every unspoken word you’d buried over the years.

“I didn’t come to stop you,” he said. “I just… I didn’t want the last time I saw you to be the memory of you walking away.”

You closed your eyes. Because it hurt.

Everything about this—his presence, his voice, his knowing you even now—it made your chest feel like it was folding in on itself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“But you are.”

“I am.”

Silence. Thick. Unforgiving. And still—you didn’t move. You swallowed, but it didn’t help.

Your voice came out thinner than you meant it to, laced with something between ache and awe.

“You’re alive…”

You shook your head, barely. “But I still feel like I’m mourning you.”

The words hit the room like a confession no one had earned but had to be said anyway.

And maybe you were mourning him.

Not just the man in front of you, breathing and solid, with his tux and his sorrowful eyes. But the man you were supposed to have.

The one who never got to put a ring on your finger. The one who never came back from that train.

A tear slipped free before you could stop it. Bucky moved before you even registered it—just one step. But it was instinct. Memory. Love.

His fingers brushed your cheek, feather-light, catching the tear like it offended him. His metal hand didn’t flinch. He held you like he might break something sacred.

You leaned into the touch before you could stop yourself. Sighed softly, shakily.

He studied you like you were the most precious thing on earth.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured, voice low, rough-edged. “It’ll ruin your face.”

You let out something between a laugh and a sob. “It’s already ruined.”

“No,” he said, softly, firmly. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your breath stilled. His thumb traced the damp track left behind. His brow was drawn, eyes dim but focused like the moment might disappear if he blinked. And in his silence was everything neither of you could say.

I loved you. I still do. But it’s not mine to hold anymore.

You didn’t mean to reach for him. But you did.

Arms around his waist. Face against his chest. The scent of him—clean, warm, familiar in a way that shattered you.

And he held you. Not like someone about to say goodbye. But like someone who already had. His arms wrapped around you like they were the only safe place you had left. One flesh, one steel. Both trembling.

You could feel his heartbeat—steady, slow, heavy.

He lowered his head, nose brushing your hair, your temple, your jaw. And he breathed you in. Like he wanted to memorize you one last time. Like this was the end of a dream he had held onto for too long.

You held him just as tightly.

Because what else could you do? What else could you give him, when your name was about to become someone else’s?

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered.

And the silence that followed was louder than any scream. You didn’t say it back. Not because it wasn’t true. But because it was.

A knock shattered the stillness. Soft. Gentle. Final. You both froze.

Your hands lingered on his back for just one more second. Then slowly—too slowly—you pulled away.

You crossed the room. Heart in your throat. You opened the door.

Tony stood there in a sleek tux, his mouth already forming some sarcastic line until his eyes locked on you. And for once—he said nothing.

He just looked at you. Then softly, “You ready?”

You didn’t answer right away. You turned.

Bucky stood in the shadowed half of the room, just behind the edge of the door. Out of sight. Out of reach.

But your eyes found his. One last time.

He didn’t move. Didn’t smile. But he nodded. Just once.

You nodded back. And then turned.

You took the bouquet Tony handed you. Slipped your fingers into the loop of your veil.

And when he offered his arm, you rested your hand on it gently.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. Because some part of you would always be in that room.

Wrapped in arms that could no longer hold you.

────────────────────────

The music swelled—soft, elegant, perfect.

You held onto Tony’s arm, bouquet trembling slightly in your hands. Your veil floated gently behind you, trailing over polished marble floors beneath glittering chandeliers.

The room was everything you’d never imagined as a little girl. Beautiful. Grand. Full of carefully curated perfection.

Your eyes lifted—

And there he was.

Cole.

Waiting at the altar. Back straight. Eyes soft. A man who had held your hand through everything, who had made you laugh when you thought you’d forgotten how.

But as your steps echoed down the aisle—

Your mind drifted. Just for a second.

And the year wasn’t 2016 anymore.

It was 1946.

And you weren’t in Upper Manhattan.

You were in a modest little church in Brooklyn—St. Mary’s of Carmine, two blocks from the tenement you’d grown up in. The kind of church with creaky pews and peeling paint, where sunlight spilled through old stained glass like warm memory.

And waiting at the end of that aisle…

Was Bucky.

Fresh-faced. Hair neat, eyes wide and red-rimmed like he’d already cried and might do it again. He looked at you like the whole damn war had been worth it just to see you in white.

Next to him—Steve. Grinning, proud, a little choked up but trying to play it cool.

You weren’t wearing silk or designer lace. Just a simple, sleeveless dress. No name label. Just love stitched into every seam.

And you were walking toward forever.

The fantasy faded as the room came back into focus—music, flowers, the soft murmur of guests.

Cole was still there. Still smiling. Still waiting.

And you loved him. You really did.

But as you neared him—hand still resting on Tony’s arm—you couldn’t stop the ache that curled low in your chest.

Because somewhere in time, in a church that never stood long enough… You’d already walked this aisle once before.

Your steps slowed. Tony gently squeezed your hand, then released your arm, stepping back as you took your place at the altar.

The air was still.

Cole turned to face you fully. His eyes were soft, steady, full of the kind of love that didn’t need grand declarations.

And maybe that was why this could be real. Why this was.

Your fingers trembled slightly around your bouquet. You glanced up once, just once, to the soft light pouring through the high windows.

The music faded. The pastor cleared his throat gently.

“Dearly beloved…”

You looked forward again. At Cole. At the future you had chosen.

Even as another version of you, in another year, in another universe, still stood in a Brooklyn church, whispering I do to a boy with a medal on his chest and stars in his eyes.

And maybe that version of you would always live, tucked away in a corner of your heart.

But this one? This you—

This you was ready.

The ceremony had begun.

And you didn’t look back.

A/N | Yes chat, we all crying rn, I don't know how many times I made myself cry writing this. Lowkey think this should be left like this, but if ever I write a part 2, it would be like post-blip, Tony's dead, Steve's dead, and cole died somehow, and you're suffering from postpartum and grief, and Bucky's there always to be there for you.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut

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