#and then fight like hell when everything goes wrong

[secondbeatsongs]

there may be many things wrong with just about everything right now. but my god, at least we've got gays kissing on live television

[inseobts]

Unintentional couple behaviour

you two acts like a loving couple all the time, so what happens when someone points it out?

characters: luffy, kidd, katakuri, shanks and mihawk

(zoro, sanji, law, ace and sabo)

a/n: since a loooot asked for more, here I am eheh

words count: around 0.4k - 1.1k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Monkey D. Luffy:

You don’t know when it started.

Maybe it was the way Luffy always stole food from your plate, but make sure to never let anyone else touch it.

Maybe it was how he always grabbed your hand first whenever the crew split up.

Maybe it was how he insisted on napping with you, his head always finding your lap, his arms always looping around you like a makeshift pillow.

Whatever it was, it had been going on for way too long. And the worst part is that you never questioned it.

Until now.

It starts with Sanji.

You’re sitting at the dinner table, picking at your food, when Sanji suddenly snorts “You two should just date already.”

You blink “…What?”

Sanji gestures between you and Luffy “You’re basically a couple anyway.”

You choke on your drink.

Luffy just tilts his head, mid-bite “Huh?”

Sanji raises an eyebrow “Seriously? You guys act like a couple all the time.”

You open your mouth to argue, to deny everything, but then Nami nods “He’s right, you know.”

Usopp grins “Yeah, I mean, have you even seen yourselves?”

Franky chuckles “Super obvious, bro.”

You stare. And then Zoro, of all people, grunts “They’re not wrong.”

Your brain short-circuits. Luffy just blinks at all of them, then turns to you “Wait… are we a couple?”

Your face burns “No!”

The crew groans.

“Oh, come on.”

“You’re in denial.”

“This is painful to watch.”

You glare “We’re just friends!”

Luffy nods “Yeah! Just friends!”

The crew stares. Then Brook smiles “Oh? Then you wouldn’t mind if I asked y/n out on a date?”

Silence.

Then Luffy’s fork snaps in half and the table goes dead quiet.

Luffy grins at Brook, but it’s not his usual happy-go-lucky grin. It’s the grin he wears before picking a fight.

“Yohoho,” Brook laughs nervously “Just kidding.”

Luffy hums, still smiling “Good.”

Your stomach flips because holy shit. That was jealousy. Luffy was jealous... Over you.

The realization haunts you for the rest of the night. Because if Luffy was jealous then what did that mean?

Did he actually—?

No.

No, this is Luffy. He’s just protective. That’s just who he is.

…Right?

You barely sleep, and the next morning you wake up to Luffy in your bed.

Sprawled across your mattress. Arms locked around your waist. Face buried in your shoulder.

Like it’s completely normal.

Like he always does this.

Your heart pounds.

Because—wait!

He does always do this. Every night. Every time you’re on the Sunny, he sneaks into your bed without even asking. And you never questioned it.

Because it was just Luffy.

But now everything feels different.

You slowly try to move, but his grip tightens.

“Mm… don’t go” he mumbles sleepily, lips brushing against your skin.

And that’s it. You lose it.

“LUFFY, WHAT ARE WE?!”

Luffy jerks awake “Huh—?”

“What are we?!” you repeat, flustered as hell.

Luffy rubs his eyes, confused “We’re us.”

You groan “That’s not an answer!”

He tilts his head “What do you mean?”

You gesture wildly “This! Us! The sleeping together! The hand-holding! The food-sharing!”

Luffy suddenly grins “Oh.”

Your heart stops “What do you mean, oh?”

Luffy laughs. And then, without hesitation, he leans in and kisses you.

Soft. Certain.

Like he’s been waiting to do it forever.

You freeze. Your brain short-circuits.

He pulls back, grinning “So? Are we a couple now?”

You gape “…WHAT?!”

Luffy just laughs “Well, we’ve basically been dating this whole time, right?”

Your eye twitches “AND YOU KNEW?!”

Luffy shrugs “I just thought you knew too.”

You sputter, because what the hell. What the actual hell. Luffy just decided you were dating. And you never even noticed.

You flop back onto the bed.

Luffy just grins, tugging you closer “You’re thinking too much” he mumbles, nuzzling against you.

Your heart races.

Your face is burning.

But… maybe the crew was right. Maybe you and Luffy were always meant to be.

Even if you were the last person to realize it.

── .✦ Eustass Kidd:

You’ve always known Kid was the stubborn type. He was gruff, intense, and always had that tough guy act. But lately, you’ve noticed something strange. The more you were around him, the more he didn’t seem to mind you being there. In fact, he almost seemed to expect it.

It starts with those small things, things he doesn’t think twice about. Like when you’re both sitting on the deck, and a gust of wind hits just as you’re about to stand. Before you can catch your balance, Kid’s hand shoots out, steadying you. He doesn’t say anything, but his grip lingers just long enough for you to notice.

“Watch it” he mutters, his usual gruff tone, but there’s something softer behind his eyes. You smile but say nothing. Killer, standing nearby, simply raises an eyebrow before looking away, smirking under his mask.

A few days later, when the crew is at port, you notice Kid keeping an eye on you more than usual. Every time someone gets too close or even bumps into you, his sharp gaze zeroes in, and he doesn’t hesitate to step in between you and whoever’s too close. At one point, a shady pirate from a different crew tries to flirt with you. Before you can even respond, Kid steps forward, pushing the pirate away with a low growl.

“Get lost.”

You blink, surprised at his intensity, but he doesn’t look at you, just at the pirate who’s now backing off.

“Kid, I can handle myself” you say, rolling your eyes.

“Doesn’t mean you should have to” he grumbles under his breath, clearly annoyed by something. He turns away before you can say anything else, muttering about how annoying it is to babysit you. But you know it’s not just that.

The crew knows it too.

Heat lets out a low whistle as he passes by “Damn, Captain, didn’t know you were the protective boyfriend type.”

Kid turns on him with a glare “Shut the hell up.”

Heat just laughs, walking away. You shake your head, but the warmth in your chest lingers.

Then, it all comes to a head one evening. The crew’s just finished a round of celebrations, the ship rocking gently in the quiet of the night. You’re leaning against the rail, enjoying the peace when you feel him behind you.

“Can’t sleep?” Kid asks, his voice low as usual.

You turn around, finding him standing there, arms crossed, the moonlight casting a soft glow over his scowling face.

“I could ask you the same thing” you reply.

There’s a quiet moment as you both stand there, not speaking. His eyes never leave yours, and the tension between you both seems to grow with every passing second.

Suddenly, you hear footsteps approaching. Instinctively, you move closer to Kid. You don’t even think about it, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his hand shifts from where it was casually resting at his side to just hovering near your waist.

The ship creaks, the quiet atmosphere making you both more aware of each other’s presence. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. His fingers are so close, just barely grazing your side as if to assure himself you’re right there.

The closeness feels… different. Intimate.

You glance up at him “Kid?” you ask softly, your heart beating a little faster.

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead, his eyes flicker over your face, and you can see the internal struggle within him. It’s a battle, and for a second, you think he might just ignore it, keep up the stubborn front.

But then, his hand finally rests against your side. His touch isn’t harsh, but gentle. You don’t pull away.

“I don’t know why I keep doing this shit” he admits, his voice low but clear “But when it comes to you… I don’t want to risk something happening.”

You blink, surprised “Risk what?”

His gaze softens, and the gruffness in his tone fades away. He looks straight at you, the usual deflective annoyance replaced with something more vulnerable.

“I don’t want anyone else near you. Not after I saw that idiot trying to hit on you.”

You smile, your heart fluttering in your chest “Kid, I’m not a damsel in distress.”

“I know,” he replies quickly, but there’s no hiding the quiet affection in his voice now “I just… I don’t want to lose you.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and before you can even respond, something unspoken passes between you both. In a split second, his lips are near yours, and the kiss is soft, almost hesitant, like he’s still not sure if he’s allowed to show this side of himself.

But you kiss him back, your hand gently resting against his chest. The kiss lingers for a moment longer than either of you anticipated, but it feels like the world has paused, like this is the only thing that matters in that moment.

When you pull away, you both stand there in silence, but this time, it’s not awkward. It’s comfortable.

And then the moment is completely shattered by the sound of someone clearing their throat. You both snap your heads toward the entrance to the deck, where Killer and Wire are standing, watching with amused expressions.

“So,” Wire says, smirking, “you two finally gonna admit you’re basically married, or should we keep pretending this isn’t happening?”

Your face heats up immediately, but Kid just groans, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Go to hell” he grumbles.

Killer just shakes his head “Too late, Captain. Everyone’s been taking bets on when you’d figure it out.”

You gape “What?”

Wire grins “Yeah. Heat won. He said you’d kiss before the next port. Guess we owe him a round of drinks.”

Kid looks absolutely done. You, on the other hand, can’t help but laugh. Because honestly? It’s not surprising.

You look back up at Kid, who’s still scowling but isn’t pulling away from you. You squeeze his hand briefly before grinning.

“Guess we were the last ones to know, huh?”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, but there’s no real annoyance in his expression anymore. Just acceptance. And maybe, just maybe, the start of something real.

── .✦ Red-Haired Shanks:

Being part of the Red Hair Pirates meant living in a constant mess of drinking, laughing, and reckless adventures.

And somehow you ended up being the most responsible one. Which was probably why everyone assumed you and Shanks were together.

The problem?

You weren’t.

But apparently, no one got the memo.

It starts with Yasopp.

You’re in the middle of patching up Shanks’ arm because, once again, he got into a bar fight for fun, when Yasopp smirks at you from across the deck.

“You know,” he says casually, “you’re basically married to him at this point.”

You nearly stab Shanks with the needle.

“What?!”

Shanks, meanwhile, just laughs.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even deny it.

“C’mon,” Yasopp continues, “you take care of him, clean up after him, yell at him when he’s reckless...”

“I yell at all of you.”

“Yeah, but you baby him.”

Shanks grins “It’s true. You do.”

You glare “I do not.”

Shanks just shrugs “If you say so.”

And that should be the end of it. But it’s not.

Because after that the whole crew starts treating you like... ugh.

“Oi, Y/N! Can you grab Shanks another drink?”

“Y/N, tell the captain to stop picking fights with Marines again.”

“Hey, Y/N, Shanks says he wants something spicy, maybe you could help... and it's not about food”

You want to scream.

But Shanks?

Shanks just goes along with it. Smiling. Laughing. Letting everyone assume you’re his.

And the worst part is that you let them, because deep down you don’t hate the idea.

And that’s dangerous.

Then one night, it all clicks.

You’re sitting at a bonfire, surrounded by the crew, listening to them sing and drink and bicker over who can hold their liquor best.

You’re not paying attention until you hear your name.

“So, Captain,” Lucky Roux says, “when’s the wedding?”

You choke on your drink. But before you can argue, Shanks just grins.

“Oh, give it time.”

The crew erupts into laughter.

You just stare at him.

Because... what????

Shanks turns to you, smiling like he didn’t just casually imply he plans on marrying you.

And something in his expression—

Something warm. Something knowing.

It hits you all at once.

The hand-holding. The lingering touches. The way he always pulls you onto his lap when there’s no room to sit.

The way he lets you fuss over him when he gets hurt, the way he only ever listens to you.

The way he looks at you like you’re something precious.

Your heart pounds.

And Shanks just grins against your lips.

“Took you long enough” he murmurs.

And when you pull back, breathless, flustered, you realize that maybe you’ve been his this whole time.

You blink, heart still racing as the weight of his words settles in. The laughter of the crew fades into background noise, the warmth of the bonfire casting flickering shadows over Shanks’ face. He’s watching you, waiting, like he already knows the answer, like he’s known it for years.

And maybe he has.

Maybe he’s been waiting for you to catch up.

Your throat is dry. You open your mouth, but no words come out, just a strangled sound of disbelief.

Shanks chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners “You alright there, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he hasn’t just upended everything you thought you knew.

Your hands tighten in his shirt, and you can’t tell if it’s to ground yourself or to pull him closer “You...” you swallow, voice quieter now, meant just for him “You should’ve said something...”

He tilts his head, considering “I thought I did. Plenty of times.”

You scowl, smacking his chest lightly, which only makes him laugh “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Oh, I know.” His fingers brush your jaw, featherlight, reverent “I just like seeing you all flustered.”

You groan, but you don’t pull away. And well, that says everything, doesn’t it?

And Shanks knows it too, because his grin softens, something unreadable flickering in his gaze “So,” he murmurs, close enough that his breath tickles your lips, “now that you’ve finally figured it out, what do you plan to do about it?”

The challenge is there, teasing, but there’s something raw beneath it, something real.

You take a breath. Then, before you can overthink it, you grab the front of his coat and pull him in, kissing him again, firmer this time.

The crew erupts in cheers. Someone whistles. Someone else yells about winning a bet.

But all you can focus on is the way Shanks smiles against your lips, like he’s just won something far more important.

And maybe you have too.

── .✦ Charlotte Katakuri:

The first time someone calls you Katakuri’s spouse, you nearly drop your mochi donut.

“Excuse me, what?”

The Big Mom Pirates stare at you like you’re stupid.

“Well, yeah,” Oven says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world “You take care of him, he lets you into his tea time, you’re the only one who sees his face—”

Brûlée smirks “And you always defend him when people talk behind his back.”

Daifuku nods “Might as well be married already.”

You sputter “That doesn’t mean—! We’re not—! He’s just my commander!”

Oven raises an eyebrow “You ever see Katakuri treat anyone else the way he treats you?”

You freeze.

Because... okay.

That’s a good point.

Katakuri isn’t exactly warm with people. He’s respected, feared, distant. A perfectionist. The strongest Sweet Commander.

And yet, with you?

He lets you tease him. Lets you see him.

Lets you in.

Your stomach flips.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

You try to forget about it.

But after that you start noticing things.

The way Katakuri always saves you the best snacks at tea time.

The way he steps in front of you during battles without thinking.

The way he lets you touch him, his arm, his back, his face.

His unguarded moments are always with you.

And suddenly you can’t ignore it.

Neither can the crew.

It all comes to a head one evening.

You’re sitting with Katakuri in his usual spot, tea cooling beside him, the setting sun casting a warm glow over his sharp features. He’s eating, as usual, but his guard is down because you’re here.

And then the words slip out.

“…Katakuri.��

He glances at you, chewing “Hm?”

You hesitate. Then screw it.

“Are we… something?”

Katakuri pauses.

Slowly, he sets his cup down. Then he exhales, like he’s been waiting for this.

“You tell me,” he says, voice steady “Would it bother you if we were?”

Your heart pounds. Because no, it wouldn’t.

You swallow “No.”

Katakuri watches you for a long moment. Then, he smirks.

“Then I suppose we are.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Wait—WHAT?!”

Katakuri chuckles, low and deep “Did you really think I’d let just anyone this close to me?”

You gasp, because hold on. Has he known this whole time?!

Your face burns “You could’ve said something sooner, you jerk!”

Katakuri just leans closer, his presence overwhelming.

“…Would you have been ready to hear it?”

You freeze, because damn it.

He’s right.

── .✦ Dracule Mihawk:

Living on Kuraigana Island with Mihawk isn’t easy, but somehow, you get used to it.

You get used to the silence. The way he watches you over the rim of his wine glass. The way he corrects your sword stance with the barest touch of his fingers.

You get used to the way he does things for you without asking, bringing you an extra plate at meals, fixing your sword when it’s damaged, moving his coat so you don’t sit on the cold stone steps.

It’s just how he is... Or so you think.

Until one day Perona stares at the two of you across the dining table and snorts.

“You guys act like a married couple.”

You choke on your drink. Mihawk just raises an eyebrow.

Perona grins “Oh, come on! You live together, train together, eat together—hell, you even drink out of each other’s cups sometimes!”

You freeze.

Because—wait. When did that start happening?!

You sneak a glance at Mihawk, expecting him to argue.

But instead, he just takes a sip of wine and says, “And?”

Your brain short-circuits.

Because what does he mean, ‘and’?!

Perona cackles “Oh, this is gold.”

Meanwhile, you’re too busy spiraling to notice the small, knowing smirk on Mihawk’s lips.

Because the truth is, he knew all along.

The next few days pass in a strange haze. Every time you’re near Mihawk, you’re hyper-aware of his actions. The way he hands you your sword when it’s too heavy for you to lift properly, the way he adjusts your stance when you’re practicing, even the way he leaves his wine glass half-filled so you can sip it without asking.

You can’t help but start noticing the little things. And it makes your stomach do these strange little flips you can’t quite explain.

You try to convince yourself that you’re just overthinking it. After all, you’ve spent so much time together, working side-by-side, that it’s only natural for him to be a bit… attentive. But you can’t help but feel that there’s more to it than that.

One evening, you’re training in the yard. Mihawk is watching from the porch, as usual, but today there’s something different in the air. Maybe it’s the cool breeze, or the strange feeling of him staring at you.

“Focus” he calls out when you fumble with your sword.

You grit your teeth and refocus, sweat already beading on your forehead. Your movements become sharper, more determined, but you can’t quite shake the feeling that something is… off.

When you finish the routine, Mihawk’s still leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can feel his gaze. You give him a quick, sideways glance, noticing the faint hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Something wrong?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

His response comes as a slow, deliberate drawl “You still aren’t quite in sync with your sword. I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”

You feel your face flush, but you push through it “Yeah? Well, I’m not some grandmaster swordsman like you, Mihawk.”

He steps closer, his presence almost overwhelming, but his gaze softens for a moment “You’re getting better. I’m simply making sure you don’t lose track of your progress.”

The softness in his voice catches you off-guard, and for a split second, you feel as if you’re standing on the edge of something, something new.

But you quickly push it aside, shaking it off as just another passing thought. You turn to grab your sword again, determined to change the subject.

“Thanks for the help,” you mutter, trying to keep your voice steady “But I think I need a break. My arms are sore.”

Mihawk doesn’t respond at first. Instead, he merely watches you for a moment before he speaks again, his tone unusually gentle.

“Are you sure you’re fine? You’ve been training for hours without rest.”

You give him a small, appreciative nod “I’ll be fine. You’re too used to looking out for me, Mihawk.”

He lets out a faint chuckle, but you notice that there’s a strange intensity in his gaze now “I suppose I am.”

Before you can react, you feel something slightly off, a flicker of tension between you two.

It’s subtle, but it’s there. And you feel it in the way he looks at you, the way he almost seems to be waiting for you to say something.

But, just like that, the moment passes. He steps back, motioning for you to take a rest.

“I’ll prepare dinner,” he says quietly, as if nothing had happened “I’m sure you’re hungry.”

You blink “You cook?”

“Of course,” he says with a slight, almost invisible smirk “It’s not difficult, and you’ve been working hard all day. You deserve a proper meal.”

You feel your heart race at his words, but you manage to keep it together “Alright, I’ll take you up on that.”

But as Mihawk turns to walk away, you pause.

For just a second, you wonder... has this always been a normal interaction between you two? Or has it grown into something more without you even realizing it?

The unease gnaws at you as you sit down on the steps, watching him disappear into the house.

You’re overthinking it. You’re just friends.

...Right?

Later that evening, you’re sitting across from Mihawk, your meal already finished. The conversation is easy, but there’s still that lingering, unspoken tension hanging in the air.

Finally, Mihawk breaks the silence, his voice low and casual “You’ve been avoiding the subject.”

Your brow furrows in confusion “What subject?”

“The subject of us.”

You choke on your drink, sputtering “What—us?!”

His expression remains unreadable, but there’s a faint glimmer in his eyes “You think I haven’t noticed? You’ve been acting strange around me lately. Ever since Perona made her comment.”

You freeze “I—uh—”

“Let’s stop pretending,” he continues “We’ve been behaving like a couple, whether we admit it or not.”

Your heart starts to race. You open your mouth to deny it, but the words get stuck. Instead, you just stare at him, trying to make sense of what he’s saying.

And that’s when Mihawk leans forward just slightly, his voice dropping lower “I don’t know what you’re feeling, but I do know that I don’t want you to leave.”

The bluntness of his words takes your breath away.

“I never planned to leave” you manage to say, the words barely leaving your lips.

Mihawk gives you a rare, genuine smile, one that’s so small and almost imperceptible that you’re not sure you saw it at all. But something in his eyes shifts.

“Good.”

And just like that, the tension finally breaks.

You’re not sure where this will go. But for now, you’re content to just be here with him, uncertain, but sure of one thing: neither of you are going anywhere.

[boyfhee]

박성훈 、COMPATIBILITY TESTS

there is a fault in your names.

featuring ⋆ rich boy ! sunghoon x fem reader

genre ⋆ fluff, skinship

note ⋆ brought the HOON back. not the best work in the series but hope you enjoy it nonetheless ><ㅤ SERIES

“sixty-three,” your boyfriend looks at the phone screen condensingly, his lips jutting out in a pout as quickly as his brows furrow at the number. “try it with just hoon and your name,”

“sunghoon, it’s—” you try to reason with him for the seventh time this morning but it’s of no use. you barely even get to finish your sentences because of his stubbornness.

“no! no. i’m not letting this go until we get that hundred percent,” he’s almost whining now, half frowning and half pouting.

he’s stubborn, he’s adamant. you figure there isn’t much to argue about when you are head to head with sunghoon.

“it’s just a compatibility test,” you refresh the page, shaking your head as if to surrender.

he clicks his tongue. “and we are very compatible,”

sunghoon fell for you because you were a little mean to him over a project. your words were laced with exhaustion and a drive to achieve perfection. as for him, he had already found it in you.

you can smack his butt in front of the council and he would probably gaze at you longingly. he lets you play with his hair even if it means he has to redo it. you can document your entire day in his phone and post his silly pictures on your account and he would not bat an eye.

your parents don’t get along but he still asked you for a dance in the charity gala hosted by his family, and you had gladly given your hand to him even though it was half out of spite.

sunghoon truly thinks there is no one as compatible as the two of you, and would take it up with the heavens if he had to.

you enter your names on the website again, making sure to add just ‘hoon’ instead of his full name— he is sitting wide eyed and anxious as if this decides this entire life ahead.

well, for sunghoon, it probably does.

“sixty-seven percent,” you add with an exasperated sigh, giving him a look that clearly spells ‘let’s stop.’

“are you sure you’re spelling our names correctly?” you scowl at his words but his expression is nothing like he is giving up. sunghoon would fight for you, even if it’s really not that serious at this moment. “let me try,”

and your boyfriend thinks something will change if he keeps trying. it has to— the two of you are a match made in heaven.

cruising amidst family rivalry and the good for nothing guys that try to get your attention, sunghoon’s love has found its way to your heart. he feels like a warrior, the luckiest person alive to be the one you had given your heart.

he is the happiest person alive to see his name next to yours. although right now, it’s everything that is stressing him out.

your head rests on his shoulder as he types your names with proper care before pressing ‘calculate’ and you click your tongue when you notice a small blunder. “it’s sunghoon and not seunghoon. you’re spelling your own name incorrectly,”

there’s a quiet pause while he goes over the letters, and then his eyes zoom in on the number.

his brows burrow and his heart skips a beat, not sure if it’s in dread or delight.

“yeah, but why is it ninety-eight percent compatible?” his eyelids squint at the screen, contemplating the biggest decision of his life. “should i change my name?”

and you slap his arm playfully while a huff falls off your lips. “don’t be silly,”

“i mean, it’s not—”

and with the slide of the door across the frame, his words are cut short. sunghoon watches the new student that walks right behind the teacher.

he listens, sees, jaw dropped and eyes blown open.

choi seunghoon, as the guy introduces himself.

sunghoon’s entire world shifts a little to the left.

this has to be a joke, your boyfriend tells himself. why would you be more compatible with the guy who is literally just sunghoon’s name spelt wrong?

hell, he is not changing his name. sunghoon despises the idea of you being ninety-eight percent compatible with every other seunghoon that exists.

he wants you all to himself.

sunghoon shifts a little closer to you, a bit quiet, a tad bit more irrational— he takes the phone from you and kisses your hand. “we need to change your name, baby,”

[satellite-evans]

all I need

Pairing: Lando Norris x driver!reader

Summary: Lando gets furiuos when you get fined for swearing after your crash.

Word count: 2.9k+

Warnings: fluff, swearing, injuries, angry lando

Request : Hi could I please request a lando x reader fic where the reader is a driver and she gets in a big crash and the team radio is like asking if she is okay and shes like answers after a bit and is in pain because she just CRASHED and then she accidentally swears on radio and she gets fined and the media is going crazy and like lando is just being a good protective boyfriend and is defending her in interviews and stuff? Thanks!! xoxo - anon 🍟

A/N:

Hi love, thank you so much for sending in a request and trusting me enough to write your idea!! I hope I did it justice xxx

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

One moment, everything is fine—you’re fighting for position, pushing the car to its absolute limit, heart pounding with adrenaline as you navigate the treacherous corners. The next, it all goes horribly wrong.

The rear tires lose grip. A sharp twitch, then a full spin. Time slows, but your mind races. Your hands react on instinct, desperately trying to correct, but it’s too late. The world outside the cockpit blurs in a sickening whirl of colors—track, barriers, sky. Then nothing but gut-wrenching weightlessness as the car lifts off the ground.

The impact is catastrophic. Metal shrieks against metal, carbon fiber shatters like glass. The force slams through your body, rattling bones, squeezing air from your lungs. Pain flares—sharp, immediate—radiating from your ribs, your shoulders, your skull as the cockpit jolts to a brutal stop. Static crackles in your helmet.

For a moment, everything is eerily still. Your pulse roars in your ears, drowning out the stunned gasps from the crowd, the commentary scrambling to make sense of what just happened. Your breath is ragged, shallow. The world tilts nauseatingly around you.

Then, the radio buzzes to life.

"Y/N, Y/N, are you okay?!" David's voice is urgent, bordering on frantic. There’s a tightness to it you’ve never heard before, and that alone terrifies you more than the crash itself.

You try to respond, but pain flares when you shift. A groan escapes before you can stop it. Your fingers fumble for the radio button, and when you finally manage to press it, your voice comes out weak, breathless.

"Fuck—yeah, I think so." A cough, a wince. "That hurt."

Across the track, in his car, Lando watches it all unfold in real-time. His stomach drops, breath catching as he sees your car crumple against the barriers. His knuckles go white around the steering wheel, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. The images flash across the big screens, slow-motion replays dissecting the crash from every angle. He can’t tear his eyes away.

Is she okay? Is she responding?!" His voice is laced with panic, the desperation evident.

His race engineer hesitates. "We're waiting on confirmation, Lando. Focus on the race."

But how the hell is he supposed to do that? The car, the track, the championship—all of it fades. Right now, none of it matters except you.

His grip on the steering wheel tightens. "Please—can you keep me updated? I need to know if she's okay." His voice wavers just slightly, the emotion threatening to spill over.

A pause. Then, softer, "We will, Lando. Just focus for now."

He exhales sharply, forcing himself to keep driving, but his eyes keep flicking to the screens around the circuit, searching for any sign of movement from you. His heart pounds as he waits—praying to hear your voice again.

A beat of silence stretches after your message. Then, Race Control’s voice cuts through.

"Y/N, reminder that all radio transmissions are broadcasted live. Watch the language."

Despite everything, a strained, breathy laugh escapes you. "Yeah, yeah, noted. Ow."

The medical car is already pulling up, orange lights flashing, marshals swarming the wreckage. You can hear them shouting, their voices urgent but professional. Someone taps on the side of your cockpit, checking for a response. Your fingers twitch, slow and uncoordinated, but you give them a thumbs-up.

The crowd, stunned into silence, exhales as one. The commentators try to fill the dead air with reassurances, but the tension is thick. On social media, the crash is already going viral—clips looping endlessly, speculation running rampant.

The straps of your harness dig into your bruised shoulders as the adrenaline begins to wear off, replaced by a dull, spreading ache that makes every breath feel like a struggle. The world around you is a cacophony of noise—sirens wailing, the frantic chatter of the marshals, the dull roar of the crowd beyond the barriers—but it all feels distant, muffled by the ringing in your ears.

"Try not to move too much," one of the medical staff instructs gently, his gloved hands already working to unbuckle you from the mangled remains of your car. "Can you feel everything?"

You give a small, shaky nod. "Yeah," you breathe, wincing as you shift slightly. "Just sore. Really sore."

The relief on his face is immediate, but the tension in the air remains. They move carefully, extracting you from the cockpit as gingerly as possible. As soon as you're free, your knees threaten to buckle, but strong arms catch you before you hit the ground.

"You’re alright, we’ve got you," another voice reassures, steadying you as they guide you toward the waiting medical car. The flash of cameras in the distance, the low hum of anxious murmurs from the pit lane—it all feels surreal.

The moment the checkered flag waves, Lando doesn’t care about anything else. Not the debrief, not the podium celebrations—none of it matters. His car screeches to a halt in parc fermé, barely lined up properly, but he’s already halfway out before the engine even fully shuts down. His hands rip off his steering wheel, then his helmet, tossing it aside as he breaks into a full sprint toward the medical center.

His lungs burn, but he doesn’t slow down. The only thing driving him forward is the sheer panic gripping his chest. His mind replays the crash on an agonizing loop—the way your car crumpled, how long it took for you to respond, the thought of losing you was eating him alive. He pushes past team personnel, ignoring their calls, shoving the medical center doors open with enough force to make them slam against the walls.

"Where is she?" His voice is sharp, almost desperate.

A nurse barely has time to react before he spots you. Sitting on the edge of the examination bed, bruised and battered, your race suit scuffed with streaks of dirt and dried blood. Your arm is wrapped around your ribs, and there’s a gash just below your glove, crimson seeping through the fabric. Your right knee is swollen, and every inhale looks like it stings.

But you’re alive.

Lando exhales a shuddering breath, his entire body sagging with relief. He crosses the room in seconds, reaching you like you might disappear if he doesn’t move fast enough. Without hesitation, he takes your hand, gripping it tightly like an anchor. His fingers ghost over your bruised knuckles, his touch impossibly gentle.

"Jesus, Y/N…" His voice is hoarse, cracking under the weight of the fear still clinging to him.

You manage a small, tired smile despite the pain. "I’m fine. Trust me, it’s not as bad as it looks."

His jaw clenches, eyes scanning you like he doesn’t quite believe you. "Not as bad as it looks? You scared the hell out of me. Don’t do that again. Ever."

The intensity of his words makes your chest tighten—not just from the bruises, but from the raw emotion behind them. You squeeze his hand, grounding him.

Later, after the doctors clear you—bruised ribs, mild concussion, but nothing broken—you limp out of the medical center, Lando’s arm wrapped protectively around your waist. Every step sends a dull ache through your body, but at least you’re standing.

David intercepts you, shifting awkwardly on his feet. "So, uh… don’t shoot the messenger, but you’re getting a fine for the team radio."

You blink. "You’re kidding, right?"

Before David can even answer, Lando scoffs, disbelief flashing across his face. "She just survived a high-speed crash, and they’re fining her for swearing? Seriously?"

David sighs, handing over the paperwork with an apologetic shrug. "Yeah… FIA wasn’t too happy. Regulations and all."

You stare at the notice for a beat before letting out a tired, incredulous laugh. "Yeah, okay. Next time I crash at 200 mph, I’ll be sure to say ‘gosh darn it’ instead."

Lando shakes his head, jaw tight with frustration. "Unbelievable."

But instead of dwelling on it, he just pulls you in closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The warmth of his embrace eases some of the lingering tension in your body. "Don’t worry about it, love. If they want to fine you for being human, let them. You’re still the toughest person I know."

You smile, leaning into him, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. Because at the end of the day, a fine means nothing when you still have Lando by your side.

And, as expected, the media goes absolutely wild.

"Formula 1 Driver Y/N Y/L/N Fined After Shocking Radio Message Post-Crash!"

"Did Y/N Deserve Her FIA Penalty? Fans Debate Over Radio Outburst!"

"Y/N’s Crash Sparks Controversy: Was the Fine Justified?"

The headlines flood every social platform within minutes. Slow-motion replays of the crash loop endlessly on TV screens, side-by-side with grainy images of you wincing as you climbed out of the wreckage. Every angle is analyzed, every expression dissected.

Your post-race hospital visit is barely over when reporters start circling like vultures, bombarding you with questions before you even have the strength to face them, but Lando was having none of it.

Seated in front of the media, still in his race suit, Lando’s jaw is tight, hands clenched on the table as microphones are shoved toward him.

"Lando, there's been a lot of discussion about Y/N’s penalty for language over the team radio. Do you think the FIA was justified in issuing the fine?"

He scoffs, jaw tightening. "Are we seriously focusing on a fine when she just survived a massive crash?" His voice is sharp, edged with barely restrained anger. "She was in pain. She was shaken up. And she swore—who wouldn’t? It's ridiculous."

The journalists shift uncomfortably, but another one presses on. "Rules are rules, though. FIA has strict guidelines about profanity on public transmissions. Do you think it sets a bad precedent if they don’t enforce them?"

Lando lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Mate, if your first thought after seeing a crash like that is to talk about a penalty, maybe rethink your priorities."

Another journalist jumps in. "But don’t you think it’s important to maintain professionalism on the radio? A lot of young fans look up to drivers."

Lando rolls his eyes. "Right, because what’s really damaging to young fans isn’t the fact that someone just had a life-threatening accident, but the fact that she said ‘fuck’ while trying to breathe properly again." He leans forward, voice lower but no less cutting. "If we’re talking role models, maybe start by making sure the sport actually supports its drivers instead of fining them for reacting like a human being."

His words are already making waves, clips spreading across social media.

And while you’re still exhausted, still aching from the crash, there’s something about seeing him so openly, fiercely in your corner that makes your heart ache in the best way.

Even after the official interviews, the media frenzy doesn’t stop. Paparazzi crowd outside the paddock, desperate for a statement. Team members act as buffers, but there’s only so much they can do.

As you slowly make your way out of the motorhome, Lando’s arm firmly around your waist, cameras flash, voices overlapping as reporters shout over each other.

"Y/N, do you think the FIA’s decision was fair?"

"Do you regret your words on the radio?"

"Lando, how did it feel watching the crash happen live?"

He tenses beside you. "How do you think it felt?" His voice is sharp, protective. "I watched someone I love crash at full speed. So no, I don’t really give a damn about some radio penalty right now."

You squeeze his hand in silent gratitude. He doesn’t have to be this involved, but he is. Always.

Another journalist turns to you, voice softer but no less intrusive. "Y/N, how are you feeling after the accident?"

You exhale, trying to keep your expression neutral despite the lingering pain. "Sore, obviously. But I’m okay."

"Will you be racing in the next Grand Prix?"

Lando answers before you can. "She’s focusing on recovery first. That’s the priority."

It’s not a direct confirmation, but it’s enough to hold off the speculation—at least for now.

The chaos of the day finally starts to feel like a distant memory as you curl up on the couch in Lando’s apartment. An ice pack rests gently on your ribs, offering some comfort against the bruising, but it’s Lando’s presence that truly calms you. His arm drapes protectively around you, pulling you in close like he never wants to let go, his warmth surrounding you in a way that makes you feel safe. His thumb moves in slow, soothing circles on your arm, the rhythm gentle and steady.

It’s such a contrast to the frantic energy of the day—the flashing cameras, the endless questions, the tension in the air—but now, in this moment, all of that feels like it belongs to another world. This is where you’re grounded.

You sigh, resting your head against his shoulder, letting the quietness of the room wrap around you like a soft blanket. But there’s something still heavy in the pit of your stomach, a lingering feeling that something was unsettled. You tilt your head up to look at him, your eyes tracing the faint lines of worry still etched across his face, the tension that’s only now starting to ease from his features.

"You didn’t have to go that hard for me," you murmur, your voice soft, though you know the words don’t quite do justice to what you’re feeling. You had been overwhelmed by everything that happened, but he—he had been beside you every step of the way, his every move showing how deeply he cared.

He scoffs, shaking his head slowly like the idea is completely foreign to him. "Of course I did. It’s bullshit," he mutters, his voice laced with frustration that hasn’t quite gone away. "You should be getting support, not fined for a stupid word." The words come out with a little more heat than he intends, but it’s the underlying softness in his voice, the way he’s speaking to you like he wants to protect you from the world’s unfairness, that makes your heart flutter.

You chuckle softly, a tired sound that makes his grip on you tighten just a fraction, like he’s afraid you might slip away. "Guess I owe you, huh?" you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

Lando’s response is immediate—he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. His hands shift, cradling you with a tenderness that almost feels too gentle, like you’re something precious he’s afraid to break. "Just don’t scare me like that again," he whispers, his voice barely above a breath, as though the thought of you being hurt again is more than he can bear. "And we’ll call it even."

You smile up at him, heart full of warmth for this man who always seems to put your well-being before his own. But you can’t promise him that. You know how the sport works, how unpredictable it is. You’ll never be able to give him that guarantee.

But there’s something you can promise him, something more important. You squeeze his hand, the simple act grounding you both in this moment. Your voice is steady as you look up into his eyes, locking your gaze with his. "No matter what happens," you say, the words firm but soft, a promise from the deepest part of you, "you’ll always have me. I’ll always have you."

His expression softens in a way that makes you think he’s heard every unspoken word in your statement, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The air between you feels full—full of shared understanding, full of the love you have for each other, full of the promise that no matter the challenges, no matter the risks, you’ll face it all side by side.

For a long moment, Lando is quiet, his thumb still brushing over your skin in slow, absentminded strokes. But then his breath catches slightly, and when you glance up, you see it—the way his eyes shimmer with unshed tears. His jaw tenses as if he’s trying to hold it all back, but the emotion is too heavy, too raw.

"I thought I lost you," he admits, his voice breaking just enough to reveal the fear he’s been holding in. "When everything was happening, and I couldn’t reach you..." He trails off, shaking his head as if trying to push the memory away, but his grip on you tightens like he never wants to let go again. "I don’t know what I would’ve done if—"

"Hey," you interrupt softly, your hand moving to cup his face, your thumb brushing against the dampness on his cheek. "I’m here. I’m okay. And I’m not going anywhere."

That seems to break whatever wall he was trying to hold up. Lando lets out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping against yours as he closes his eyes. "I just... I can’t lose you," he confesses, the words raw and vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache. "Not you."

You press a soft kiss to his lips, hoping it conveys everything words can’t. "You won’t," you promise against his mouth, your voice unwavering. "I’m right here."

He nods slightly, like he’s trying to believe it, and when he pulls you into his arms again, it’s with a desperation that speaks to how close he felt to losing you. But in this moment, with his heart laid bare and your arms wrapped tightly around each other, there’s nothing else that matters.

Lando kisses you gently on the forehead, his lips lingering there for just a second longer. "That’s all I need," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. Then, his arms pull you even closer, his warmth radiating through your bones.

[disgustingtwitches]

MDNI

Working at a restaurant with 141 (pt. 4)

You thought it was a mistake when someone called in reserving a party of 14 for a birthday. The voice on the other line assures you it is not, and that they'll be arriving at 7pm. You inform everyone.

"Who wid want a birthday in this shithole?"

Johnny gaffaued, spraying down some dishes.

"Probably just a prank call."

Kyle replied, arms wrapped around your waist and head resting on your shoulders. But it wasn't a prank call. The first half of the party arrive and you and Gaz have to scramble to push tables together. It's overwhelming, everyone is talking all at once, demanding things left and right. Gaz swoops in to help deal with one half the table while you the other. The food comes out, leaving you to be able to sit in the back for a few minutes, talking to the guys about nothing. Walking back out, some older man was snapping his fingers at you, waving his arms as if they weren't the only fucking people in the joint.

"Steaks burnt to hell, remake it."

He slides the plate to you, making you catch it before it falls off the side of the table. You apologize profusely and send it back to the kitchen. Price raises an eyebrow,

"Looks fine to me."

He stares at the piece of charcoal on the plate.

"Fucks sake, lemme do it."

Simon grabs his shoulder and cooks another steak. You set it down infront of the old man, watching him take a bite. He throws his fork down,

"Still burnt. How hard is it to cook a fucking steak?"

You look at the plate, meats still pink in the middle. Apologize again and offer to remake it.

"No, don't bother. Jesus."

He stares daggers into you. You wring your hands nervously.

"Actually, everyone's food was shit. None of us should have to pay for this."

Your mouth goes dry. You look over your shoulder to meet eyes with Kyle at the bar. He immediately walks over.

"Everything alright?"

He puts on his nicest customer service voice and that charming smile that can melt anyone. Except this asshole apparently.

"No everything is not alright, this was the worst dining experience I've ever had! Everything came out wrong, and it all tastes like shit!"

Spit flies out from the mans mouth. Kyle stands between you and the customer, trying to diffuse the situation. And much to your horror, one by one, the table starts to leave. You try to say something but they ignore you.

"Go get Johnny."

You run back, trying to act casual in front of Simon and John while tugging Johnny by the sleeve. He looks down, concerned.

He's on the floor before you can finish telling him what happened,

"Ye'r gonnae have tae pay sir."

His tone is more firm than Gaz, arms crossed and looking down at the old man. You're almost in tears as you watch more of the table file out the door, you turn back to look at Gaz. He frowns, furious. There's a heated argument at the table, the old man is yelling now. Not at Kyle or Johnny, but the only person he wasn't afraid of; you. The commotion makes John and Simon step out. This idiot is gonna get himself killed. You can see the moment when the customer loses the fight in his eyes. Shuts right up as soon as Simon says,

"Problem?"

Like a fish out of water, all the old man does is open and close his mouth wordlessly.

"Grab the cheque."

You don't know who Simon said that to but you and Soap crash into each other turning around and walking to the POS system. Ghost gently grabs the bill from your shaky hands and shoves it into the customers chest,

"Cash only."

"I don't have cash."

"There's an ATM around the corner."

The old man nearly jumps out of his seat,

"Right. Be right back."

He rushes to the door, Kyle and John follow.

"Oh there's no need-"

"Making sure you don't get lost."

Kyle smiles, eyes dangerous. It's about five minutes when they're back, the old man placing some 20s down before complaining under his breath. Then he gets kicked out,

"I need my change!"

He looks over Johnny's shoulder, looking to you for help. You shrug, arms crossed. When the door closes you sigh, running fingers through your hair

"You alright, darling?"

Gaz asks, voice as sweet as ever, gentle hand on your face. You nod.

~

That evening was pleasant. More than that really. They pampered you, cooed and soothed you as you huffed and sniffled. Ran you a hot bath,

"Poor thing, dinnae deserve tha."

Johnny massaged shampoo into your hair.

"Won't let you stay around next time we deal with something like that again."

Kyle kneaded the tension out your shoulders. John sat you in his lap, brushing hair out of your face while saying sweet nothings. You really do enjoy milking this for all it's worth, sad eyes looking up and huffing like you didn't get over that bullshit as soon as that old man walked out the door.

"Pampered little princess, you know that?"

Simon's lips are pressed up to your neck, just under your ear. You just nod, his words rattling around your brain while you got fucked senseless. You're tired, but the boys promised to coax an orgasm out of you. From each one of them. Then another. Well, you're a trooper, so what's one more round? Showered with soft kisses and praise, a foolish smile is painted across your face in a pleasurable state of stupor; Gosh, aren't you just spoiled rotten?

**sorry if it's short! I am on holiday ( ╥ω╥ )**

[rosiepods]

toji goes absolutely feral when he sees you wearing his clothes. Now don’t get me wrong, he adores seeing you all dolled up in fancy clothes when you guys go out. But the sight of you wearing his shirt? Hell, even his boxers? It’s like his mind short circuits, and he immediately has to have his hands on you. It’s the way his clothes flow over your curves so naturally that gets him going. Toji woke up to an empty bed this morning which is unusual since you were always fighting to stay in bed past normal time. Slightly alarmed, he searched the apartment looking for you, his lover. When he saw you he stopped in his tracks, there you were in the kitchen, wearing his shirt and boxers while making breakfast. Humming slightly, you were oblivious to the forest-green orbs staring at you as you continued with your day. You wanted to surprise him with breakfast since he constantly takes care of you. Toji stayed still until you had flipped the last pancake and set everything to pounce on you completely. His hands immediately started roaming your body and all you could do was giggle. After that, you knew breakfast wasn’t getting eaten.

[tinkcantwrite]

apologies ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

bucky x fem!reader

summary - the thunderbolts* team’s mission goes wrong and you’re worried out of your mind when you don’t hear from bucky. but you shouldn’t worry because he makes it up to you in his own way ;)

warnings - 18+ mdni (you are responsible for the media you consume), oral (f receiving), p in v, dirty talk, little bit of fluff

notes - post thunderbolts* – reader and bucky already have an established relationship !!! and as always ty @luvemmdubb for beta reading ilysm

word count - 2.5k

You swore on everything good in this world that Bucky Barnes was going to drive you up the damn wall.

You sat at the counter of the kitchen in the New Avengers building as you ran a hand through your hair, staring at the tablet in front of you. The team had gone out on another recon mission, something about having to run surveillance on a warehouse used by, yet again, another group of mass weapons dealers. When they had left, Bucky had pressed a kiss to the top of your forehead, reassuring you that it was going to be quick and easy. Simple and nothing out of the ordinary.

You should have known better than to believe that.

Grainy black and white security footage replayed in front of you, reliving the combat that had broken out between the team and men at the warehouse. To put it kindly, the team had sort of gotten their asses handed to them. From what you could tell of the footage, your team had been caught off guard and out numbered. They had tried to fight but it looked like they had taken a really bad beating. 

Shortly after the security footage had cut out, presumably by a stray bullet, Val had called you, telling you an extraction team had gotten them out and that everybody was alive. Bob had appeared from whatever alcove he was hiding out in and rubbed a hand over your back, offering you an awkward yet comforting smile. You had smiled up at him, squeezing his hand in thanks before he retreated back to wherever he had camped out with his current read. 

You glanced down at your phone. Nothing. It had been hours now and Bucky still hadn’t let you know he was okay. You’d take anything at this point: a text, a call, a fucking email. Hell, you’d even take Morse code.

The two of you had talked about this on multiple occasions, agreeing that if anything went awry on a mission that the other wasn’t on, you’d check in as soon as possible. It didn't have to be this huge paragraph, it could be a simple “hey” or one singular letter or one of those silly emojis Bucky had taken a liking to after you’d shown him how to get to them on his phone.

But exactly 5 hours and 28 minutes later (not that you were counting or anything) and you were still in the dark. Not a single smiley face cat or a lone thumbs up. Nothing.

The pit that sat in the bottom of your stomach felt like it weighed tons, pressing down on you as if trying to smother you from the inside out. You had full faith in the team, knew they were skilled and could handle their own when it mattered most but anxiety still gnawed at you, chipping away as the minutes continued to tick by into hours.

You continued to stare at the footage on the tablet, waiting for something to change, some notification to pop up saying ‘Hey the team is just dandy!’ even though you knew it wouldn’t.

Your head whipped around at the sound of several pairs of boots on tile. The door to the floor slid open and the – now disheveled – New Avengers stepped out. You winced as you took them in, the cuts and bruises and exhausted faces plastered on them all.

Yelena was the first to see you, waving sheepishly at your glare. When you simply raised a brow in response, she cleared her throat, waving a hand behind her at Bucky to motion him forward.

“I think she’s mad. Make her not mad,” she mumbled, twisting her head behind her but never letting her gaze slip from you.

Beside her, Ava snorted softly as you shoved off of your stool and slowly stalked to stand in front of them. Bucky pushed forward from behind the group. Alexei muttered something about how scary you were when you were quiet like this, to which John responded by shooting him a look.

Bucky tilted his head with a hesitant smile, pushing hair and dirt from his tired face. “Doll, look we –”

“Nuh uh,” you tsked, shaking your head. Glancing at the group behind him, you pointed to the side towards the hallway. “All of you go get cleaned up and get some rest. Val is expecting you first thing in the morning for mission reports.”

They nodded, the group dissipating in quiet mumbles and sympathetic glances back to Bucky as the other four turned to go to their rooms. Bucky moved to go as well but your hand darted out, grabbing his metal arm. “You don’t get to leave just yet.” Without looking at you, he closed his eyes and groaned inaudibly, turning on his heel to stand in front of you. You blinked up at him, your glare hard and unwavering.

“Look. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that, okay? We were supposed to be in and out. Just go in, get the layout, get an estimate of how many people were inside, then come straight back, but we weren’t ready for an ambush.” Bucky tried to explain, hands situated on his hips as he looked down at you, daring to meet your eyes. “They knew we were coming, I don't know how, but they did. And after that first shot it all went to hell and I got sidetracked and I'm sorry I didn't call.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, tentatively stepping towards you. Your gaze softened momentarily. You swallowed, rolling his words over before nodding.

“I know. But you can’t just not tell me. I had to hear it from Val that you were okay. And I know that you had more pressing matters at that moment, I am well aware of that, but Buck, you said if shit like this happened you would let me know.” You chewed on your bottom lip, arms crossed, turning your head away from him to look out at the city below you.

He nodded, ducking his head. “I know that, doll. I’m sorry, okay?” Bucky stepped closer, tilting your head with his hand to face him. The feeling of his cold, metallic hand against your flushed skin sent a shiver down your spine.

You met his steely blue eyes as you nodded softly. At your nod, his shoulders slumped, tension vanishing from his face. Bucky smiled softly, pulling you into his chest. Your arms twined around his neck, leaning into him.

Bucky rested his chin on your shoulder, nose brushing against your neck, lips pecking your shoulder through your shirt. You rolled your eyes as you pushed him back gently, swatting at his chest. 

“Go shower. You aren’t getting in that bed covered in whatever that is.” You motioned at his shirt which was now ripped and littered with dirt and blood. Bucky smirked, leaning down into you once more.

“I will but you know you like me when I’m all ratty like this.” He smirked harder at the red blooming across the apple of your cheeks. You scoffed, hitting his chest again. 

Bucky grinned, stepping even closer, your chests brushing. He kissed your nose before bending down and hooking an arm around your waist, hoisting you over his shoulder. 

“James Buchanan Barnes I am not doing this right now. I’m still pissed off at you. Put me the fuck down.” Your fist met his back as he laughed, deep and rich, sliding a hand over the back of your knee and giving it a possessive squeeze.

Your vision swayed as he started forward, hauling you towards your room. The door to your room opened and Bucky flicked the light on with his free hand before stalking towards your bed and tossing you down unceremoniously.

You flopped back on the bed among the untucked blankets and sheets with a soft oof, hair splayed around you like a halo. Bucky grinned above you, holding your wrists with his hands as he caged you in. You rolled your eyes, tugging your wrists to no avail.

“I’m still mad at you,” you muttered, meeting his eyes as he moved to rest his knee between your legs.

“I know, but I’m hoping I can make it up to you,” Bucky hummed, low and raspy, as he gathered both of your wrists in his broad metal hand. He ducked his head to your chin, leaving a trail of scalding, sloppy kisses down your neck and towards your collarbone. Your knees twitched at his side as he hovered above you, desperate for connection, desperate to soothe the ache that had begun to grow between your thighs.

In one fluid motion, Bucky had slid your shirt off of you, and continued his path with his mouth over your chest, brushing against the swells of your breasts. He toyed with the edge of your bra with his teeth, grazing your tender skin, sending a shiver through your limbs. 

You felt him smirk into your skin at your shiver, slipping a hand between your back and the cotton sheets beneath you. Your bra shifted forward, loosened by his hand, as he slipped it up and over your arms.

Holding your gaze, Bucky dipped lower, exhaling gently onto your exposed nipples. He hummed against you, before kissing around the now-perked nipple and taking it into his mouth. Working the soft flesh with his tongue, he took the other in his vibranium hand, rolling the bud between his thumb and pointer finger. 

Underneath him you squirmed, a mix of pleasure and need swirling inside you like the beginnings of a thunderstorm in mid-July. You felt it coiling in your belly, tight and hot and consuming, as he worked at your chest, pulling soft, wordless moans from your lungs.

Bucky traveled lower even still, kissing along your ribs, down along your stomach, and across the waistband of your underwear. He hummed as one hand toyed with the tiny silk bow in the center of the lace elastic. 

“You just casually wear these?” He glanced up at you, eyes teasing. You groaned, rolling your eyes, as he flicked the bow with his forefinger, slipping it under the elastic and popping it softly against your skin

“Shut up,” you huffed, face turning scarlet as he slipped the fabric off of you. Bucky inhaled sharply as he nudged your clenched thighs apart.

“Spread your legs for me, doll. That’s it,” he muttered, peppering soft kisses along the sensitive skin on the inside of your thighs. Your fingers threaded through his hair as his nose brushed just above where you wanted him most.

You tugged at the ends of his hair and he glanced up. You nodded gently and he smiled, kissing your belly before licking a stripe up your folds. You gasped, back arching slightly as he teased your core with his tongue, darting in and out just enough to make you grind your teeth in desperation.

Bucky pulled back, blowing a puff of cold air against your clit, making you groan his name, the side of your cheek pressed firm into the mattress beneath you. “Taste so fuckin’ good for me.”

He gripped your thigh, hoisting it over one shoulder while bracing himself against the other as he dove into you like a man starved. 

His tongue worked at you meticulously, pressing into your harder with each grunt and whimper you let out. Bucky grunted against you, a sound hard in his chest, that sent a white hot flash of heat down your trembling spine.

“Buck…” you exhaled, voice quivering. Bucky looked up from where he was situated between your legs, face flushed with something raw, almost primal, tongue stilled inside of you. “Need you,” you gasped, “Now.”

Bucky laughed lowly against you, sending a tremor through you once more as he sat back, resting on the backs of his thighs. “For somebody who was mad at me just a little bit ago, you sure are needy now, aren’t you, doll?” 

You attempted to glare at him but it was lost on him as he tugged his black shirt over his head. Bucky leaned up over you once more, pulling your head up as his hand cupped the back of your head, capturing your lips in a kiss. This time, a more gentle kiss, more sincere. 

He stood from the bed, slipping his belt off and stepping out of his battered jeans. Despite having seen him this way dozens of times before, you still blushed, biting the inside of your lip as he tossed his boxers down beside his jeans. 

Bucky situated himself back between your legs, pressing a kiss to your collarbone as he toyed with your clit with his fingers. His head hovered near your ear, the scruff of his 5 o’clock shadow tickling your cheek as he uttered filth into your ear, sucking at the skin just under it as you whined. You grasped at his face with your hands, pulling him into a deep kiss, opening your mouth as he teased at your lips with his teeth.

On top of you, you felt Bucky’s hand move from between your legs. You gasped into his mouth, eyes fluttering as his tip nudged at your entrance.

“Let me make it up to you,” he mumbled, resting his forehead against yours. You nodded, half conscious eyes blinking up at him, brimming with a mixture of need and anticipation.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, moving to rest his head in the junction between your neck and shoulder as he pressed into you. You gasped, thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he sunk into you completely. 

“Fuck…” he mumbled, ragged and tense, as your hips bucked up into his. “You can get mad at me anytime you want if this is what it takes to apologize, doll.”

You whimpered at both his words and at the way Bucky lifted his hips, sliding out of you and pushing back in. Slowly but surely, his pace sped up, ramming in and out of you. An amalgamation of moans and grunts, sweat and sex, heat and intensity, filled the space around the two of you. Your bodies connected together in soft thuds, matching the pace of the need thundering through you both.

You tensed around him and he groaned, lips attaching to the tender spot underneath your ear as he braced himself against your arms. 

“I’m sorry baby,” he panted beneath thrusts, punctuating each word by hitting that spot inside of you, “I’ll call you next time, I fucking swear it.” 

You whined, as Bucky filled every inch of you, babbling back at the praises that tumbled recklessly from his mouth. You gasped, hands spasming underneath his vice-like grip as you squeezed around him, body tightening suddenly. You blinked, stars swimming across the horizon as he continued to rock into you, riding out your high as you relaxed back into the bed underneath you. 

Bucky came undone, panting into your shoulder and pressing deep into you with one concluding grunt. He stilled, remaining inside of you, before holding himself over you on his forearms. You blinked up at him blearily, exhaustion taking over your face.

He smiled at you lazily, face flushed and glowing in the soft light. “Am I forgiven now?” 

You laughed weakly, reaching up to push a strand of hair away, plastered to his temple by the light sheen of sweat that coated his face.

“I dunno. I think you should try apologizing again.”

[hoshifighting]

     woozi + accidental stimulation

— wrestling session with your bestfriend!jihoon goes “wrong” when he accidentally uses your sensitive spot to knock you out.

WARNINGS: +18, smut, “fight” sensitive neck, dry humping, moaning, neck biting, fingering, doggy style, hair pulling, brief blowjob, oral [f. receiving], messy make out.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

it was just another lazy afternoon with jihoon—your best friend for god knows how long, the one who knew exactly how to annoy you without really trying. the sun was spilling through the curtains, casting lazy, golden light on the couch where you two had been for hours now, pretending to care about the second movie you picked. it was boring as hell, but it was an excuse to hang out and mess around like always.

jihoon sits next to you, half-distracted, his arms loosely crossed, eyes half-lidded like he’s about to pass out from boredom.

your legs were sprawled across his lap for the past half hour.

“this movie sucks,” you say, yawning without covering your mouth. before you even finish, jihoon’s finger is already pressing against your lips, making you flinch and shove his hand away.

“don’t yawn like that,” he mumbles, a smirk tugging at his lips. “rude.”

you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help smirking, leaning over to jab him in the side, just under his ribs—his weak spot. his whole body jolts as he twists away from you, that adorable flinch he always does making you snicker. as he lets out an annoyed grunt. “don’t start what you can’t finish.”

“oh please, i finish everything,” you teased, but the movie was getting too dull and the wrestling was way more interesting, anyway. it was like a daily ritual—one of you would start messing with the other until it escalated into full-on play-fighting.

it took about five seconds before jihoon decided enough was enough and tackled you sideways. you yelped as he pushed you back into the cushions, his weight pressing down, one of his hands grabbing at your wrist to pin it above your head. “what did i just say?” he taunted, eyes glinting as he straddled your waist, keeping you down just enough to make it a challenge.

“you suck,” you managed between laughs, trying to wiggle free, but he wasn’t giving up that easily. with a twist of your hips, you somehow managed to roll him over onto his back, both of you collapsing into a heap of limbs and laughter. jihoon let out a loud groan when you climbed on top of him, your knees pressed on either side of his waist.

“you know i always win,” you grinned down at him, breathless, as you pinned both his arms above his head, a smug smile pulling at your lips.

“only ‘cause you cheat,” jihoon muttered, his voice slightly strained from trying not to laugh. you could see his eyes narrow, a playful look flashing across his face, and before you had time to process it, he tilted his head, and bit down your neck to scare you.

you felt your entire body freeze, your grip on his wrists faltering for a split second, the sensation is sharper than it should be, the sound that escapes your mouth isn’t just a reaction...

it’s a moan.

your thighs tremble, knees still locked on either side of his waist, but they give just enough for you to sink down, pressing directly onto his lap. his breath catches, and you both freeze.

“you—” he starts, but his voice falters, turning into a nervous laugh, one that vibrates through your body because of how close you are. “i didn’t mean… shit…”

“i—” your voice is breathy, the thin fabric of your shorts doing absolutely nothing to stop the heat between your legs from meeting the growing hardness beneath you. it’s accidental—completely accidental—but you feel everything.

jihoon goes rigid beneath you, his arms still pinned above his head, but his eyes darken, his chest rising and falling a little quicker now. “did you just—”

“right,” you say, but your voice sounds breathy, way too affected for someone trying to play it off. you should pull away, but your body doesn’t cooperate.

his hips shift beneath you, making the volume of his cock hump on you. you bite your lip hard, trying to steady yourself, but it's useless. the friction is too much, and when you grind down ever so slightly—just to readjust—you both groan at the same time.

“fuck, stop moving—” jihoon hisses, but there’s no real anger in his voice, just this strained, breathy sound that makes your head spin.

“you bit me, it’s your fault,” you shoot back, your voice shaky. but you’re not moving off him either. you could, but something in the way his fingers flex against your hold, the way his eyes flicker between yours and your lips, keeps you there.

your hands tighten their hold on his arms, keeping him pinned, and you’re both so still, so aware of the closeness now.

“you can let go, you know,” he murmurs, but there’s no urgency in his voice. he doesn’t try to get up. his eyes flick to your lips for just a second before returning to your eyes, and your heart stumbles again.

“you started it,” you whispered, your voice barely steady, your body betraying the playful act you’d been putting up. your pulse quickened, your hips rocking again, and this time, neither of you pretended it wasn’t on purpose.

“if—you—” but he couldn’t finish the sentence, not when your hips kept moving like that, drawing small, helpless sounds from both of you.

the friction between your bodies makes your mind blank for a second, and you swear you feel him tense beneath you, his breath coming out in a shaky exhale.

“if you’re gonna keep doing that—” jihoon mutters. “i’m not sure i can stay still.”

for a second you wonder if you’ve ever felt anything this intense. you’re breathing hard, chest pressed against his, and his lips are so close to yours now, you can practically feel the heat of his breath.

“fuck... are we really doing this?” his voice is raspy, and his eyes search yours, looking for an answer you don’t even have yet.

but the heat pooling in your stomach says enough, and you both know it.

your breath is still ragged, his cock pressing up against you as you settle into the friction. you haven’t even kissed him yet, and already it’s way too much. the second you grind down on him again, his hips jerk up into you. it’s not even subtle anymore. jihoon lets out this strangled groan, one arm free now as he grips your waist like he’s barely holding himself back.

you don’t even know how it gets to this point—just that you’re suddenly on all fours on the couch, knees digging into the cushions, your breath catching in your throat as his hands smooth down your back, stopping at your ass and squeezing like he’s wanted to do this for years.

"not even a kiss?" you tease, twisting your head back just enough to catch his eye, and jihoon looks at you. he doesn't respond, just slides one hand up your waist and over your shoulder, guiding you back so you're flush against him.

he leans in close, his lips brushing over your neck, the heat of his breath making your skin prickle. "you want a kiss?" he murmurs, his voice so soft it almost doesn’t fit with the way he's palming your ass, fingers slipping underneath the hem of your shorts to graze the bare skin.

“yeah,” you whisper, but it comes out a little breathless, like you're already losing your edge. you’re too turned on to keep teasing, but the second his lips press against yours, you’re gone.

he kisses you slow at first, letting it build, his tongue flicking against yours, and it’s filthy. jihoon deepens it, sucking on your bottom lip before his tongue tangles with yours again, wet and messy, a mix of moans and spit. you’re gripping him, your nails digging into his skin, and he pulls you impossibly closer, chest pressed against your back as his tongue moves against yours in a way that makes your whole body tense up.

“fuck—jihoon,” you moan into his mouth, and he just groans in response, gripping your waist with both hands now, flipping you over so fast your head spins.

“on all fours,” he says, his voice rough, and you barely have time to process before you feel his hands pushing you up, your knees sinking into the couch again, ass in the air. his hands slide down your sides, one gripping your waist and the other tracing over the curve of your ass.

his fingers slide under the hem of your shorts, yanking them down, panties pulled with them. there’s nothing gentle in the way he does it, and that’s exactly what you want.

“fuck, jihoon—” you manage to get out, but your voice cuts off in a moan as he slides two fingers between your legs, finding how wet you already are—and god, those fingers always called your attention. he hisses through his teeth, his fingers slick as they dip inside you, stretching you instantly.

"you’re soaked already," he says, more of a statement than a question, and you bite your lip hard because you can't deny it. you press back against his hand, needing more, and he doesn't waste time. his fingers pump inside you faster, curling just right, making you tremble, thighs shaking.

you moan, the sound escaping before you can even stop it, and it only urges him on. his free hand comes down, grabbing a fistful of your hair, pulling you back slightly so your back arches deeper. the sharp pull ships hot air through you, and fuck, it feels so good you can barely think.

“jihoon—” you gasp again, legs already feeling weak, the pressure building in your stomach from his fingers driving in and out of you at a merciless pace. he’s relentless, thumb brushing against your clit just to make it worse. you whimper, body shaking under his touch, and you can hear him curse under his breath behind you.

“god, i’ve been wanting to do this forever,” he growls, yanking his fingers out of you suddenly, and the emptiness makes you whine. but before you can complain, he’s shoving your knees apart wider, positioning himself between them. his hands grip your hips, pulling you back towards his face, and then you feel it—his mouth on you.

the first swipe of his tongue over your clit makes your entire body jolt, and you cry out, fingers clutching the couch cushions hard. he doesn’t give you a second to adjust, his mouth working you over, tongue sliding through your folds, lips sucking on your clit until you're practically shaking.

you rock back against him, desperate for more, hips moving on their own, and he groans into you, the sound vibrating through your sopping cunt. he licks you like he’s starving for it.

“fuck—jihoon, i’m—” you can barely get the words out, the pleasure building so quickly it makes your head spin. you’re close, too close, but before you can even get there, he pulls away, leaving you panting, so fucking close to falling apart.

“not yet,” he mutters, his voice dark and rough, and then you feel him again—this time, the head of his cock pressing against you.

you’re so wet it’s easy for him to push in, but the stretch still makes you gasp. he doesn’t give you a second to adjust, thrusting in deep, filling you completely in one hard stroke. you moan, the sound high-pitched, and his fingers dig into your hips as he starts to move.

it’s hard, rough, each thrust making your body jolt forward, and all you can do is hold onto the couch as he sets a brutal pace.

he reaches forward, fisting a hand in your hair again, yanking your head back roughly. the sharp pull makes a thick tear roll down your cheek, and you cry out, moaning his name as his hips slam against yours.

“jihoon—fuck—” you gasp, the words barely coherent/

he pulls your hair harder, his other hand reaching around to find your clit, fingers rubbing fast circles as he keeps thrusting into you, relentless, pushing you closer to the edge. your legs are shaking, body trembling under him, and you can feel it—so fucking close now.

“come on, baby, i wanna feel you cum,” he moans into your ear, and that’s all it takes. the combination of his cock slamming into you and his fingers on your clitmakes you cum hard, crying out, body shaking violently as you sob.

your thighs clamp together as your orgasm rips through you, and jihoon groans loudly behind you, hips slamming into you one last time before he follows, taking his cock in. arush, cumming hard watching the white mess on your ass, his hand still tangled in your hair as his hips stutter against yours.

you collapse onto the couch, completely spent, body trembling and limbs weak, and jihoon collapses on top of you, his breathing just as ragged as yours.

you can’t help but laugh, the tension fading away as the heat between you slowly dissolves into something softer. he grunts, rolling off of you and collapsing next to you on the couch. neither of you say anything for a few moments, just trying to catch your breath, the living room smelling like sex

“well,” jihoon finally says, voice hoarse, a teasing grin tugging at his lips, “if that’s one way to kill time.”

you glance at yourself and then at him, laughing at the mess, his body is on the worst position ever—maybe that's why his back always hurts—and then you look at his still-lowered shorts, flushed cock resting on his abdomen, trying to twitch back to life.

“i want to suck you off so bad...” you raise up reaching for him, hand wrapped on the base, as your tongue slides on the pink tip.

jihoon doesnt even have time to process, his hands flying to your head as he arches his back. “wait—fuck!”

[supernova2205]

The Silence Of The Mole

Poly 141 x Medic Reader

Summary: A field medic and lover to the 141 is caught in a web of suspicion and betrayal after a mission goes wrong. Accused of being a mole, the reader faces harsh interrogations from the squad, leading to deep emotional scars. As the truth comes out, trust is shattered, and the reader must decide whether they can ever forgive the team, especially those they were closest to.

Warning: ⚠️ Ghost being extra mean ⚠️

The mission had gone to hell in seconds. You crouched behind cover in the wreckage of what was once a safehouse, blood staining your gloves as you worked frantically to save an injured operative. Shouts and gunfire echoed around you, the air thick with the stench of smoke and burnt flesh. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

The intel had been airtight, or so everyone believed. You’d moved in with precision, confidence, and a plan. But the ambush hit hard and fast, your every move countered like they were reading from the same playbook.

You didn’t have time to think about how it had gone wrong. You were too busy pulling Soap out of the line of fire, throwing yourself between Gaz and the sniper that had him pinned, dragging Ghost back when shrapnel ripped through his shoulder. The fight was chaos, but somehow, you all made it out alive—just barely.

When you finally made it back to base, everything was eerily silent. No one spoke as you filed into the debriefing room, the weight of the failed mission pressing down on all of you. Price stood at the head of the table, his face like stone, and you could feel the tension in the room simmering beneath the surface.

“This wasn’t bad luck,” Price said finally, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Someone sold us out.”

The words hit like a physical blow. You looked around the room, seeing the same shock and disbelief mirrored in everyone’s faces. A mole. Someone had betrayed the team.

The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, until Ghost spoke. “We need to find out who.”

It wasn’t long before the rumors started.

It began as whispers, quiet and insidious.

“She always knows where everyone is.”

“I heard she was asking a lot of questions before the mission.”

“She’s close with all of them—maybe too close.”

At first, you ignored it. You told yourself it was just paranoia, that people were looking for someone to blame. But then the stares started. The sidelong glances in the hallways, the conversations that stopped when you walked into the room.

You tried to push it aside, focusing on your work in the med bay. But the tension followed you everywhere, growing louder and more hostile with every passing day.

The breaking point came when Price called you into the debriefing room.

The room felt colder than usual, the air thick with tension. Price sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable. Ghost was next to him, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture radiating controlled fury. Soap and Gaz sat farther back, their expressions uneasy.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” you asked, your voice steady despite the sinking feeling in your stomach.

“Take a seat,” Price said.

You hesitated, glancing at the others, but eventually sat down. The silence stretched on, oppressive and uncomfortable, until Price finally spoke.

“There’s been a development,” he said. “Rumors are going around that you’re the mole.”

You froze, the words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “What?”

“It’s not just rumors,” Ghost said, his voice low and biting. “We have to investigate.”

Your stomach twisted. “You think I did this?”

“No one’s saying that—” Soap started, but Ghost cut him off.

“We’re saying we can’t rule you out,” he said.

Your breath caught in your throat. “I’ve been with this team for years. I’ve saved your lives more times than I can count. How can you even think—”

“Enough,” Price interrupted, his tone sharp. “We’re not accusing you. But we need answers.”

Your chest tightened, anger and disbelief warring with the hurt that clawed at your throat. “So, what? You’re interrogating me now?”

No one answered, but the tension in the room was answer enough.

The interrogation started that night.

Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz all took turns questioning you, their voices sharp and relentless as they picked apart every detail of your actions before and during the mission.

“Where were you two hours before deployment?” Price asked, his voice calm but cold.

“In the med bay, prepping supplies,” you answered, your hands clenched into fists beneath the table.

“Alone?” Ghost pressed, his tone unreadable, though the accusation was clear.

You nodded. “Yes. I always prep alone; you know that.”

“That’s convenient,” Ghost said, his eyes narrowing.

Your jaw tightened. “What are you implying?”

“Just stating the facts,” he replied, his voice clipped.

Soap shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding your gaze. Gaz leaned forward, his brow furrowed in conflict, but he didn’t speak up. It felt like they were watching you drown, unsure whether to save you or let you sink.

The questioning dragged on for hours, each question more pointed than the last. They dissected your every move, twisting your words until even you started doubting yourself.

“Did you access the mission brief before it was officially released?” Price asked.

“I didn’t,” you said firmly.

“We’ve got logs showing someone accessed it from a med bay terminal,” Ghost said, his voice hard. “You’re the only one who uses that terminal.”

Your stomach dropped. “I didn’t touch it. I swear.”

“Then who did?” Price asked, his eyes boring into yours.

“I don’t know!” you snapped, your voice cracking under the pressure. “But it wasn’t me.”

Your words hung in the air, but the doubt in their eyes didn’t waver.

The interrogations became a daily occurrence. They pulled you into that cold, sterile room every night, questioning you until your voice was hoarse and your body ached from the tension. The physical toll started to show—dark circles under your eyes, a tremor in your hands that you couldn’t hide.

But the worst part wasn’t the exhaustion or the relentless questions. It was the way they looked at you.

Price, the man who had been your anchor in countless storms, now looked at you like a stranger. Ghost, your silent protector, treated you like an enemy. Even Soap and Gaz, the ones who always comforted you and usually had your back no matter what, kept their distance, their expressions torn between doubt and guilt.

It wasn’t long before the interrogations escalated.

One night, after yet another grueling session, Ghost stood and loomed over you, his towering presence casting a shadow over the room.

“You’re not telling us everything,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

“Lies,” he said simply.

Before you could respond, Ghost’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist in an ironclad hold. You gasped as he pulled you to your feet, his grip bruising.

“Ghost,” Soap said sharply, stepping forward. “That’s enough.”

But Ghost didn’t let go. “People died because of that ambush,” he said, his voice cold and venomous. “Our people. You think you’re walking out of here without giving us answers?”

“I didn’t do it!” you shouted, your voice breaking.

Ghost’s grip tightened, and panic surged in your chest. You tried to pull away, but he was too strong.

“That’s enough,” Price said, his voice sharp as a blade.

Ghost hesitated, then released you, shoving you back into the chair. You stumbled, clutching your wrist as tears blurred your vision.

The room was silent, the tension thick enough to choke on.

The physical strain from the interrogations started to show. Your body ached from being yanked and shoved, your wrists bruised from Ghost’s rough grip. Your hands, once steady and skilled, trembled constantly, making it harder to do your job in the med bay.

It wasn’t just the physical toll. The emotional weight was unbearable. The 141—your lovers, your partners, your family—looked at you like you were a stranger. No matter how much you pleaded, no matter how many times you swore your innocence, they refused to believe you.

Only Gaz and Soap seemed to falter. They still looked at you with doubt, but there were moments when you caught glimpses of something else—guilt, hesitation, maybe even regret. But they didn’t say anything, and their silence hurt almost as much as the accusations.

A week later, the truth finally came out.

You were in the med bay, stitching up a soldier’s wound with trembling hands, when Price walked in. The look on his face was unreadable, but there was something heavy in his eyes.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice softer than it had been in days.

You nodded, though your chest tightened with apprehension.

Price led you to the debriefing room, where Ghost, Soap, and Gaz were already waiting. The tension in the room was palpable, but this time, it felt different.

“We know the truth,” Price said, his voice low.

Your heart stopped.

“It wasn’t you,” he continued. “The intel breach came from someone else. A jealous operative spread the rumors to cover their tracks.”

You stared at him, the words not fully sinking in. “What?”

“They’ve been discharged,” Ghost said, his tone clipped.

You looked between them, your anger and disbelief bubbling to the surface. “So that’s it? You spent a week tearing me apart, treating me like a traitor, and now you expect me to just move on?”

No one answered.

“Do you have any idea what you put me through?” you demanded, your voice shaking. “What you did to me?”

“Lass, we—” Soap started, but you cut him off.

“Don’t,” you said sharply, tears streaming down your face. “Don’t you dare try to justify it.”

They tried to apologize, but the damage was done. The betrayal cut too deep, and no amount of words could erase the memories of their accusations—the way they’d looked at you, interrogated you, hurt you. It had shattered something fundamental between you and the people you once trusted with your life.

You stopped sharing quarters with them, opting instead to sleep in the med bay. It wasn’t ideal—your back ached from the stiff cot, and the sterile smell of antiseptic filled your dreams—but at least it gave you space. You couldn’t bear to wake up beside them, to feel their hands on you, knowing what they’d done.

The med bay became your haven. You threw yourself into your work, tending to wounded soldiers and drowning yourself in the steady routine of bandages, stitches, and medications. You thought if you stayed busy enough, you wouldn’t have to think about the past week—or the aching void in your chest where their love used to be.

Soap and Gaz tried the hardest to make amends.

“Lass, let me help you with that,” Soap said one evening, stepping into the med bay as you struggled to move a heavy supply crate.

“I don’t need your help,” you said coldly, refusing to look at him.

“Please,” he said, his voice quiet. “I just… I want to help.”

You hesitated for a moment before stepping aside, letting him carry the crate to the storage room. He lingered after, standing awkwardly by the door as if waiting for you to say something.

“Is there something else you need?” you asked, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice.

Soap flinched but shook his head. “No. Just… sorry.”

You turned away, refusing to let him see the tears welling in your eyes.

Gaz was more subtle, his attempts to bridge the gap quieter but no less earnest. He stayed late in the med bay, helping you clean up or organize supplies without saying a word. He brought you coffee in the mornings, setting it down on your desk before slipping away.

“I know you don’t want to talk to me,” he said one night as you worked side by side. “And I don’t blame you. But I want you to know that I’m sorry. For all of it.”

You didn’t respond, keeping your focus on the sutures in your hands. But when he left, you found yourself staring at the door long after it closed, wondering if maybe—just maybe—he meant it.

Ghost and Price, on the other hand, kept their distance.

You saw them in passing—Ghost’s hulking figure lingering in the shadows, Price’s steady presence in the command room—but they didn’t approach you. They didn’t try to explain themselves, didn’t offer apologies or excuses. At first, you were relieved. You didn’t think you could handle hearing their voices without breaking all over again.

But as the days stretched on, their silence began to weigh on you. It felt like they were avoiding you, like they’d given up on even trying to make things right. And maybe they had.

One night, as you sat alone in the med bay, the door creaked open. You looked up to see Price standing in the doorway, his hat in his hands.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

“Where else would I be?” you replied, your tone sharper than you intended.

He stepped inside, hesitating for a moment before sitting down across from you. The weight of his presence filled the room, the silence stretching unbearably between you.

“I owe you an apology,” he said finally.

You stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

“I let my judgment get clouded,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I should’ve trusted you. I didn’t. And that’s on me.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Do you have any idea what you put me through? What you all put me through?”

Price looked up, and for the first time, you saw the guilt etched into his features. “I can’t take it back,” he said. “But I want to make it right.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. “You can’t make it right, Price. Not after this.”

Ghost came to you a few days later.

You were organizing supplies when you felt his presence behind you, a familiar weight that sent a shiver down your spine.

“What do you want, Ghost?” you asked, not turning around.

“I wanted to talk,” he said, his voice unusually hesitant.

You laughed bitterly. “You? Talk? That’s a first.”

There was a pause, and when you finally turned to face him, you saw something you had only seen when he showed you his face: vulnerability.

“I was wrong,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was wrong about you. And I’m sorry.”

You stared at him, the words hanging in the air between you. For a moment, you almost believed him. But then you remembered the way he’d looked at you during the interrogations—the cold, unyielding fury in his eyes—and the anger surged back.

“You think ‘sorry’ is enough?” you asked, your voice shaking. “You didn’t just accuse me, Ghost. You hurt me. Physically, emotionally—you broke me.”

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking. “And I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

“Good,” you said, your eyes blazing with tears. “Because I don’t think I can forgive you either.”

Soap and Gaz were the only ones you started to let back in. It was slow—painfully slow—but their earnest efforts began to chip away at the walls you’d built around yourself.

Soap made you laugh again, his humor cautious but genuine. Gaz stayed by your side during the long, quiet nights in the med bay, his steady presence a comfort you didn’t realize you needed.

Price and Ghost, though—they remained on the outside. No matter how much they apologized, no matter how many times they tried to reach out, you couldn’t bring yourself to let them in. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

And yet, despite everything, a part of you still longed for the family you’d lost. Whether that longing would ever outweigh the pain they’d caused, though, was a question you weren’t ready to answer. Not yet.

Authors note: Hey everyone! I hope you enjoyed this week’s fic! It was definitely a rollercoaster for me to write my heart was all over the place! I’d love to hear your thoughts on it, so please let me know what you liked and if there’s anything else you’d like me to explore. Looking forward to your feedback and what you’d like to see next 🫶🏼

[wolfbluebird]

The Tape we Erased

Natasha Romanoff x Female!Reader

(The Making of the Tape)

Summary: After a drunken night neither of them remembers, you and Natasha wake up in bed together — naked, marked, and silent. Best friends. Supposedly straight. You agree never to talk about it. But the footage doesn’t lie. What started as a mistake slowly unravels everything you thought you knew about your feelings for her — and hers for you. Avoidance turns to longing, silence turns to ache, until one quiet confession finally breaks the tension. This time, you’re awake for it. And this time, it’s not a mistake.

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: brief angst, avoidance/miscommunication, internalised confusion about sexuality, mentions of weight loss, mild deceptions of emotional withdrawal, first time wlw (r)

(WLW content- Men and minors Dni)

You wake up to a familiar scent—lavender and leather, something sharper underneath. And not your own shampoo. Which is weird, because this is not your pillow. Not your room. And definitely not your bed. You blink into the soft cotton, blinking away the crust of sleep, the throb of a hangover pounding at the inside of your skull like it’s trying to get out. Something’s wrong. Not oh-I-drank-too-much wrong. Not where’s-my-phone wrong. Something more serious.

Because you’re naked.

Fully, absolutely, no-socks-even naked.

And this is Natasha Romanoff’s room.

You sit up slowly. Very slowly. Like the world will tip over if you move too fast. The sheet slides off your bare shoulders and—yep. There they are.

Marks.

Everywhere.

Your collarbone. Your chest. Down your arms. Even lower. You don’t look too long, but your inner thigh looks like someone made out with it like it owed them rent.

You stare at nothing for a long moment.

Then say, very quietly: “…fuck.”

The door to the en-suite creaks open and Natasha walks out in a towel, hair wet, face flushed from steam, skin glowing like she’s walked off a runway and not, presumably, done unspeakable things to you while you were blackout drunk. You don’t know what expression you expected her to have—maybe smugness, maybe regret. But the way her eyes widen when she sees you says everything.

She doesn’t remember either.

“Shit,” she mutters.

You echo it, because there’s nothing else to say.

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You end up in the kitchen twenty minutes later, both in your worst loungewear like you’ve regressed to hungover uni students. You avoid looking at each other. She cooks eggs. You make the toast, which you promptly burn, because your hands are still shaking. Coffee helps. A little. But there’s still this massive, smothering tension in the air.

And you’re still so naked under this hoodie.

“So,” Natasha finally says, chewing like the eggs offend her. “How drunk were we?”

You poke at your plate. “Drunk enough that I remember literally nothing. Like… not even vibes. Just darkness. Brain gone.”

She makes a noise. Not quite agreement. Not quite relief. You steal a look at her, try to gauge if she’s freaking out as badly as you are. She’s got that blank expression on, the one she uses in briefings and fights and when people get too close. You’re best friends—you know her tells. You know she’s quietly imploding.

Your mouth moves before you can stop it. “I mean, judging by these—” You pull the collar of your sweatshirt down slightly to show her the edge of a very angry-looking hickey. “—I think at least one of us had a hell of a time.”

Her face goes scarlet. “Please never say that again.”

“I’m just saying,” you mutter, laughing weakly, because humour is your default defence mechanism when your reality starts cracking like old paint. “Someone was enthusiastic. I have a bite mark on my ass. My ass, Nat.”

She makes a strangled sound like she’s swallowing a laugh and a scream at once.

Then the thought hits you, and it lands like a rock in your chest.

You look up. “Wait… doesn’t the common room have cameras?”

She freezes. Doesn’t answer.

“Oh my god,” you say. “It does. You’ve said it before—Tony has them everywhere. Even here. Are you telling me there’s a recording of us—?”

“Absolutely not,” she says, eyes wide. “We’re not doing this.”

“Come on,” you say, already reaching for your phone. “Aren’t you just a little curious?”

“No. I want it to stay a mystery. Like a blackout horror movie.”

“Natasha.”

She closes her eyes like she’s trying to will you out of existence. “Fine. One look. Then it gets deleted. Forever.”

You nod, trying to hide your grin. You’re totally chill. Completely unaffected. Just curious. Because you’re straight. Obviously.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You sit beside her on the couch, legs pulled under you, blanket around both your laps like that will protect your friendship from the trainwreck about to happen. The screen flickers on.

“JARVIS,” you say, too casually, “can you pull footage from last night’s common room? Starting around… 9 p.m.?”

“Confirmed,” the AI responds. “Shall I begin playback?”

“No,” Natasha says immediately.

“Yes,” you say over her.

She sighs like she’s aged five years.

And then it begins.

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It starts tame. You and Natasha sitting on the couch, drinks in hand. Laughing. Loud. Leaning into each other. You’re close. Too close. You remember this part, maybe. Sort of. The way her hand brushed yours. The way you nudged her shoulder. The way she was already a little too comfortable curling her legs into your lap.

Then you start touching. Hair. Knees. Her hand slides up your thigh and you don’t push it away.

Then your shirt’s gone.

Then hers.

Then she’s on top of you. You’re in her lap. Your mouth is on her neck. She’s laughing, breathless, flushed. Your hands are under the waistband of her sweats. Her hips roll up. You hear a moan and only realise it’s you when Natasha makes a noise next to you on the couch.

You pause the video.

Silence.

You turn to her very slowly. “We made a sex tape.”

“This is not a sex tape,” she says through gritted teeth.

“This is a CCTV sex tape in Tony Stark’s common room,” you whisper. “That is worse. That is so much worse.”

You stare at yourself on the frozen screen. Sweaty. Shirtless. Looking like you want to devour your best friend.

You’ve never slept with a woman in your life. Never wanted to. You’ve said that. Repeatedly. With confidence. With certainty.

So why does your stomach flip like that?

Why are you still kind of dizzy from the sight of her mouth against your throat, her hands on your hips, the sounds you were making—

“JARVIS,” Natasha croaks, “delete all footage from 9 p.m. to 2 a.m., yesterday. Immediately.”

“Footage deleted,” JARVIS confirms.

You exhale. Collapse into the cushions like your bones have turned to liquid. You feel nauseous. You feel high. You feel like you’re falling backwards into something very large and very dangerous.

“We can’t ever talk about this,” you say.

“Agreed.”

“Like, ever. Not even in passing. Not even jokingly.”

“Especially not jokingly,” she says.

There’s a pause.

And then you both start laughing.

It’s too much. It’s hysterical. The kind of laughter that comes right before a full-blown panic attack. You double over, face in your hands, wheezing. Natasha’s shaking beside you, shoulders hunched, hands over her eyes.

“I bit you,” she gasps. “Why would I do that?”

“I moaned,” you groan. “Like, actual softcore levels of moaning.”

“You straddled me in pyjamas.”

“You pulled my hair!”

“You liked it!”

“Stop!”

More laughter. Collapsing into each other, gripping your sides.

And then, slowly, breath returning, the laughter fades.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You stare at the blank TV screen. Something silent settles in the room. Not awkward. Just… delicate.

You break it first. “We’re best friends, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And we’re gonna keep being best friends?”

“Of course.”

“So that was… an accident.”

“Drunk mistake.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool.”

You nod. Like if you say it enough, it’ll become true. Like it’s not still sitting under your skin, all heat and confusion and maybe a little bit of longing.

“Pinky swear,” you say, offering your finger.

Natasha stares at it like it’s a grenade.

Then, with a sigh, she loops her pinky through yours.

“Deadly secrecy,” she says.

“Bury-it-under-a-shallow-grave secrecy.”

You both nod.

It’s a pact.

It has to be.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Later, Bucky sees you limping slightly down the hall and raises an eyebrow.

“Yoga injury,” Natasha says smoothly, passing him.

You nod too hard. “Yep. Definitely yoga. Bad downward dog.”

Bucky shrugs and keeps walking.

Natasha smirks.

You glare at her.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You never talk about it again.

Not once.

But sometimes, she’ll glance at you in the middle of a movie night, and you’ll see her eyes flicker down to your neck. Like she’s remembering. Like she’s not supposed to.

And sometimes you still hear the echo of her voice in your ear, that slurred Russian endearment you didn’t even realise you knew.

You’re still straight. Obviously. Totally. Mostly. Probably.

You don’t talk about it.

You don’t even think about it.

Except when you do.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Natasha’s good at burying things. Lives, missions, guilt. Feelings.

She tells herself she’s buried this, too.

Except she hasn’t.

Because it keeps coming back in flashes. Not even the good parts. Not the sex. Just the look on your face when you paused the footage—laughing, half-horrified, half-gleeful. You looked at her like you’d won something. Like you’d stolen a secret. And maybe you had.

Maybe you’d stolen her.

She can’t stop thinking about the way you touched her. Not even the memory of the touches—just the look in your eyes on the screen. Like you were starving. Like you meant it.

That’s what haunts her.

Because Natasha has always been attracted to women. She’s known it since she was twelve. She’s dated them. Slept with them. Loved one or two, even if she never said the words. But she never let herself think of you that way—not seriously—because you were you.

Straight. Untouchable. A little reckless, a little clueless, always warm, always there.

You flirted with everyone, but it was always harmless. Always safe.

She thought.

And now she can’t stop thinking about the way you said ours. “Our sex tape.” Like it was a thing you’d made together. Like it mattered.

You said you were straight. Again and again. Drunk, sober, laughing over dinner. “Not my thing,” you’d say when she teased you about some actress, brushing it off like it wasn’t even a question.

And yet.

And yet.

Natasha wakes up three nights in a row thinking she feels your mouth on her throat. Her hips jerking against phantom fingers. Your voice in her ear, slurred and aching: God, you feel so good, Nat.

She’s not imagining that.

She knows she’s not.

But she can’t say anything. Because you’re still doing the thing—playing it off, being casual, being you. Still laughing about it when it comes up in the smallest ways. You elbow her at breakfast when someone on the news says the word “tape” and go, “Not ours, though.”

And she laughs. She does. She laughs because that’s what she’s supposed to do.

But she thinks about the way your hips rolled down onto hers like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like it wasn’t the first time. Like it wouldn’t be the last.

And then she starts wondering—was it? Was it your first time?

You said you were straight. But you didn’t act like it. Not that night. Not with her.

Maybe that’s what’s ruining her.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

She tries.

She really tries to forget.

She throws herself into sparring. Takes extra missions. Works through lunch. Avoids the common room unless it’s empty. Watches you from corners and shadows like you’re a threat she hasn’t decided how to neutralise.

You’re not even doing anything. That’s what makes it worse.

You’re just… being you.

Messy hair, too-loud laugh, feet on the furniture, casual as ever. You joke. You poke. You steal fries from her plate. You fall asleep with your head on her shoulder during movie nights like nothing happened.

Like your teeth were never in her shoulder.

Like you didn’t whimper her name against her throat.

Like you didn’t grab her face with both hands and kiss her like she was air.

She’s drowning in it.

And you don’t even seem to know.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It finally cracks on a night when the compound is quiet and the hallway smells like rain.

You find her in the gym, well past midnight, hitting the bag like it owes her something.

You watch her for a while before saying anything.

“You’re mad at me.”

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn. “No, I’m not.”

You walk in anyway. Drop your bag by the wall. “You’ve been weird.”

She keeps punching. Keeps not looking at you.

You fold your arms. “Is this about that night?”

Nothing.

“Because you’re acting like I killed your dog.”

That gets her. She snorts, stops, breathes heavy. Lets the bag sway.

You step closer. “I get it. It was a mistake. You don’t have to keep punishing me like I ruined your life.”

She turns slowly. Wipes sweat from her brow. Her eyes are dark. Dangerous.

“You didn’t ruin my life.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

There’s silence. Long. Tight.

Then she says, low and rough, “You kissed me first.”

You blink. “What?”

“That night. You kissed me first. I watched the tape.”

“I—” you falter, “I don’t remember doing that.”

“Well, you did.”

She steps toward you, slow and deliberate.

“You kissed me first. And then you said my name like it was the only word you knew. And then you looked at me like you wanted me.”

“I was drunk.”

“You were you,” she says sharply. “You were you, and you knew what you were doing.”

You back up a step. Not from fear. From the weight of it.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“To what?”

You bite your lip. “I’m not… I don’t do that.”

“You did.”

“Yeah, but I’m not—”

“Not what?” she demands. “Not gay? Not into girls? Not into me?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Nothing comes out.

She softens then. Just slightly.

“It’s not about labels,” she says quietly. “I don’t care what box you think you fit in. I just know how you made me feel. And I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen anymore.”

You swallow. “Why now?”

She looks away. Her voice goes smaller. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. And I’m tired of pretending it didn’t mean something.”

You stare at her.

And it hits you all at once—how close she is. How wrecked she looks. How scared.

Not of you. Of what she’s saying. Of being wrong.

You could lie.

You could say it didn’t mean anything. That you were drunk and stupid and it was a blip, a hiccup in time.

You could say you’re straight and you always will be.

But the lie sticks in your throat.

Because your body remembers.

You remember the feel of her hands gripping your thighs, her mouth dragging open-mouthed kisses across your chest, the low growl she made when you pulled her hair.

You remember thinking, mid-kiss, God, this is Nat. This is my Nat.

And it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt like falling.

So you don’t lie. But you don’t confess, either.

You just say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

And Natasha exhales. Not relief. Just… release.

“Me neither,” she murmurs. “But I’m still here.”

She steps back. Gives you space. Doesn’t push.

“I won’t bring it up again,” she says. “But I had to say it. Just once.”

You nod. Almost imperceptibly.

And she leaves the gym, sweat-soaked and silent, like she just handed you her heart in a body bag.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Two weeks.

Not a word. Not a glance. Not even a pity-like on your stupid sarcastic meme in the group chat.

Natasha Romanoff, former best friend and maker of your “not-a-sex-tape,” has gone dark on you. You know she’s still in the compound—JARVIS told you when you asked if she was on mission. But it’s like she’s erased herself from your orbit.

You’re not sure if you’re supposed to be mad. Hurt. Guilty. Relieved.

You just feel hollow.

You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You weren’t together. You never were. You were friends, drunk, confused—nothing more. You’ve had meaningless flings. You’ve had blurred lines before. But this is Natasha.

You’ve never had silence with Natasha.

You think maybe that’s what’s killing you.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The final straw comes on a Sunday.

You pass her in the corridor.

Or rather—you don’t.

You hear her voice at the end of the hall, laughter in it, soft and easy. You freeze. You wait. You hope she’ll see you. Say your name. Even scowl. Something.

But she doesn’t.

She turns the corner, laughing with Sam, eyes shining, and never even looks your way.

And something in you shatters so quietly it doesn’t even echo.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You don’t go to Wanda right away.

You sit on it. Let it curdle. Try to swallow it down like spoiled milk and pretend it’s still edible.

It takes you three days.

And then you knock on her door like a ghost.

She opens it barefoot, wearing an oversized hoodie and leggings, hair messy, no makeup—so soft and real it makes your throat ache.

“Hey,” she says, gentle as wind. “You okay?”

You don’t answer. Just step in and sit on the edge of her bed like your body is moving without permission.

She doesn’t push. Just closes the door and sits cross-legged across from you, waiting.

And you break.

“I think I fucked everything up.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Tell me.”

So you do.

You tell her about the night. The drunkenness. The tape. The moaning, the biting, the laughing, the pretending.

You tell her about the fight. The hallway. The way Natasha said “You kissed me first” like it meant something.

You don’t cry. But your voice wobbles.

“I told her I didn’t know what I was doing. And I meant it. I still mean it. But she’s been avoiding me ever since, and I feel like—like I’ve lost her. And the worst part is, I don’t know if I’m more upset because I lost my best friend… or because I think I wanted more.”

Wanda doesn’t speak. She lets you fill the silence.

And you do.

“I always said I was straight. I believed it. Still kind of do. Or did, I guess. But that night…” You laugh—shaky and bitter. “That night didn’t feel like a mistake. And not just because the sex was good, which it was, obviously, I mean it’s Natasha—but because it was her. And it felt like—”

You pause.

Wanda’s voice is quiet. “Like something that was waiting to happen.”

Your eyes snap up. “Yes.”

She nods. “And now she’s gone.”

You nod back, helpless. “And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this feeling. I keep thinking maybe I made it up. Maybe I wanted something she didn’t. Or maybe she wanted something I couldn’t give.”

“She wanted you,” Wanda says gently. “I saw it. I’ve felt it. For a long time.”

Your stomach twists. “Then why is she avoiding me?”

Wanda’s eyes are sympathetic. “Because you said you didn’t know what you were doing. Because you never told her if you regretted it. Because she’s scared she misread you.”

You shake your head. “That’s not fair. I didn’t know. I still don’t know. It’s not like I woke up the next day suddenly into women. It’s not that simple.”

“I know,” Wanda says. “But hearts aren’t logical. And Natasha… she doesn’t risk them often. You’re not just someone to her.”

You flinch. “Then why won’t she talk to me?”

Wanda gives a small, sad smile. “Because she thinks talking to you might hurt more than silence.”

You let that sit. Heavy. Dense.

“She looked at me like I mattered,” you whisper. “Like I was hers.”

“You are,” Wanda says.

You shake your head. “I’m not ready.”

“You don’t have to be. But you do need to tell her you’re still there. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s nothing more than that.”

You nod slowly.

Feeling unprepared and even more confused than before.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It’s been a week since you told Wanda.

You haven’t really left your room since.

Not in any meaningful way, anyway. You go out once a day, at most, grab something from the kitchen that barely qualifies as a meal, then disappear before anyone can talk to you. Sometimes you reheat leftovers and let them go cold in your hands. Other times you just stand at the counter until your chest starts to ache, then walk away. The others have stopped trying to stop you. You suppose they think you’re busy. Or brooding. Or just being you.

You’re not.

You’re… stuck.

Wrapped in a knot of thoughts you can’t undo, spiralling slowly inward.

You’ve never been good at sitting still with feelings, and now they’re the only thing left in the room.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You keep trying to rationalise it, make it make sense.

You and Natasha were always close. You’ve shared beds after missions. You’ve fallen asleep with your head in her lap more than once. She used to let you paint her nails while she complained about Clint. You used to steal her hoodies, and she used to steal your fries.

It was always touchy. Soft. Familiar.

Comfortable.

It was never supposed to hurt.

But now it does. It hurts every time she walks into a room and doesn’t look at you. Hurts every time you hear her voice down the hall and your chest clenches like it’s trying to keep itself from saying her name.

Hurts to realise you can’t un-know what she tastes like. Or what she sounds like with your name in her mouth like a secret.

You thought it was platonic.

You wanted to think it was platonic.

But you keep dreaming about her.

Keep waking up flushed and guilty and alone.

And that doesn’t feel very friendly.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You haven’t messaged her.

She hasn’t messaged you.

She hasn’t been in the same room as you since that morning in the kitchen—since you both laughed awkwardly about your accidental sex tape and agreed, without saying it directly, to pretend it never happened.

You don’t think she meant to cut you out of her life.

But she has.

She’s been avoiding you so obviously it’s almost funny.

You catch glimpses of her sometimes, in passing—leaving the gym as you walk toward it, stepping into the elevator just before you round the corner. A shadow of her in every doorway you’re too slow to reach.

But she’s not ignoring you.

Not really.

Because she’s still looking.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You notice it in the little things. You left a mug in the kitchen—one you always use, the chipped ceramic one with the whale tail handle—and the next day it was washed and back in your cupboard. You’re the only one who ever bothers to clean up after you. No one else would’ve cared.

A few days ago, you passed Steve in the hall. He gave you that tight-lipped smile of his and said, “Natasha mentioned you’ve been keeping to yourself. You alright?”

You shrugged.

He didn’t press.

You think she’s been asking around.

You think she’s been trying to spot you without seeing you.

It should make you feel better.

It doesn’t.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You spend hours sitting on the floor of your room with your back to the bed, your knees pulled up and a hoodie wrapped around you like armour. It’s hers—dark grey, oversized, still faintly scented like something warm. She gave it to you two years ago after a mission in the Alps, when you’d taken a fall through thin ice and come out shaking and soaked to the bone. She tossed it over your head like it meant nothing, said, “Don’t freeze to death before debrief, dumbass.”

You never gave it back.

You told yourself you liked the way it fit. That was all.

Now, it feels like the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You’re not sleeping much. Or at all.

The thoughts won’t shut up long enough to let you rest. You cycle through the same ones on repeat, trying to make them mean something. Trying to figure out when exactly things changed.

Was it in Prague, when she kissed your forehead after a night op?

Was it in that bar in Berlin, when she danced with you like you were the only one in the room?

Was it on movie nights, when she always pulled you into her side before the opening credits even rolled?

Or had it always been like this?

Had you just been too afraid to look at it straight on?

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The worst thing is you still want her here.

Even now, even after everything, you miss her.

You miss her laugh. You miss the way she teases you, always two steps ahead. You miss the way she used to throw popcorn at you during bad horror movies and tell you to shut up when you overanalysed the plot.

You miss your best friend.

But now you’re not sure if that’s all she was.

You don’t know what she is to you anymore.

You don’t know what you are to her.

And that unknowing—that—is what’s undoing you.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The knock comes just after eight.

You’re sitting in the dark again, curled up on your bed with your back to the door, wearing her hoodie like a second skin and cradling a half-finished mug of lukewarm tea. You haven’t spoken to anyone in days.

The knock is soft.

Hesitant.

You freeze.

A second passes.

Then another.

Then a voice, low and uncertain: “It’s me.”

Your heart stumbles.

You don’t move. Don’t speak.

You think maybe if you’re quiet enough, she’ll go away. You’re not sure you can handle this. You’re not sure you can breathe with her in the room.

But the knock comes again.

“Please.”

When you open the door, the light from the hallway stings your eyes.

Natasha stands there in a faded tank top and joggers, barefoot, arms crossed tightly over her chest like she regrets this already. Her hair’s up in a messy twist, her jaw tight. But her eyes—they soften the second they land on you.

You know what she sees.

The tear-burns drying at the corners of your eyes. The sleeves of her jumper pulled down over your fists like you’re hiding in it.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does she.

She just stares for a moment, taking you in, like she wasn’t expecting you to look like this.

Like it hurts her to see it.

Then, quietly: “Can I come in?”

You nod without meaning to.

She follows you inside like she’s holding her breath.

You sit down on the edge of your bed, legs folding under you automatically, and she hesitates before lowering herself beside you—close, but not close enough to touch. She doesn’t look at you. Her hands rest between her knees. Her body is angled slightly away, like she doesn’t know if she’s welcome here.

You want to touch her so badly it aches.

You want to pull her close and feel her settle into your side like she used to. You want to bury your face in her neck and inhale the comfort you’ve been missing for weeks.

But you don’t move.

And neither does she.

“I’ve been worried about you.”

It’s quiet. Careful.

You nod again, eyes fixed on your knees. “I’ve been fine.”

You haven’t.

She doesn’t push. Just hums, soft and non-judgmental.

“I was going to check on you sooner,” she says, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt. “I kept meaning to.”

You wait for her to say but I didn’t. She doesn’t. She doesn’t have to.

You look at her from the corner of your eye. The low light of your bedroom makes her look smaller than usual. Her posture’s curled in on itself, defensive. Or maybe nervous.

Natasha Romanoff. Nervous.

It would be laughable if it weren’t so fragile.

“What changed?” you ask quietly. “Why now?”

She shrugs, like the answer is obvious. “I didn’t see you all week.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I know.”

And that’s it. Just that. I know.

She doesn’t excuse it. Doesn’t explain. Just owns it.

You almost wish she’d lie about it.

You don’t want to believe she had to choose to look for you.

You want her to have missed you.

You want her to—

“I missed you.”

You blink.

She’s looking at you now. She says it like it’s nothing.

Like it’s just a fact.

“I missed you,” she repeats. “Every day.”

You say nothing.

Your chest is filling with something you can’t name, something trembling and sharp at the edges. Something that wants to burst free.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

“I kept thinking about that night,” she says, voice softer now. “Trying to make sense of it. Wondering if I should’ve stopped us.”

You glance at her. Her brows are drawn in like she’s been stuck in this thought for days.

“I wasn’t that drunk,” she murmurs. “And neither were you.”

You feel your throat close a little.

“I think—” She breaks off. Sighs. “I think I wanted to believe we were more gone than we were. So I could tell myself it didn’t mean anything.”

The ache in your chest flares.

“And it did,” you whisper.

She nods.

You stare at her, stunned at the honesty in her face. No mask. No joke. Just… her.

She’s laying the pieces out for you.

All you have to do is say it.

“I’m in love with you.”

It comes out raw. Desperate. You didn’t mean to say it like that, like your ribs were cracking under the weight of it.

But maybe that’s the only way it could’ve come out.

Natasha freezes.

You stare down at your hands in your lap, blinking back heat in your eyes. You wish you’d eased into it. Said it pretty. Said it soft. You wish—

Her hand brushes yours. Then finds it. Her fingers curl around yours like they belong there. Your heart stutters. You look up. And she’s already leaning in.

The kiss is gentle. Quiet. Full of hesitation and history.

Her lips find yours like they’ve done it before—like they remember you.

There’s no firestorm this time. No drunken frenzy. No bite, no grab, no frantic unzipping of clothes. Just lips and hands and a slow ache in your chest that says home.

Her hand cups your jaw and your eyes flutter shut. You melt into her without a second thought, without even a choice. Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten around hers.

And it feels… right. Uncomplicated. Like this has always been waiting.

When you part, she keeps her forehead pressed to yours. Her breath warms your cheek.

“I knew,” she murmurs.

You frown faintly. “What?”

“I knew. Not that night. Before.” She breathes out a little laugh, short and self-deprecating. “I think I always knew.”

You want to ask why she never said anything. But you already know. The same reason you didn’t. You thought it was platonic. You wanted it to be platonic. Because that would’ve been easier. Because this? This changes everything. And somehow, it feels like you’ve never been more okay with that.

She kisses you again.

But it’s not gentle, not this time.

There’s something desperate in it, something deeper — not rough, but urgent. Like she’s only just allowed herself to want this, and now she’s starved.

You respond without thinking.

Her mouth moves against yours with more meaning, more ache, and when her hands find your waist, your ribs, the side of your neck — you let her. You open to her like it’s instinct, like your body remembers her even if your memory pretended to forget.

Clothes come off slowly.

Not in a frantic way, not like last time. You take your time now. Eyes on each other. Lingering touches. Bare skin unveiled like something sacred. Her fingers trail your spine. Your breath catches. She whispers your name like it’s a confession, and when you tilt your head back and exhale, her mouth finds the hollow of your throat like it belongs there.

You melt for her. You burn.

Your bedsheets get ruffled. Pillows shoved out of the way. Her hands never leave your skin, not for a second. You’re not drunk this time — you feel every press, every kiss, every moment with aching clarity.

You give yourself to her like it’s the first time.

Because it is.

This time, you’re awake for it.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You sleep tangled up in each other. Her arms around your waist. Your head buried in her collarbone. Her heartbeat against your ear, steady and human and soft.

There’s no shame. No dread in your gut. No fear of what tomorrow will mean.

You don’t stay up all night replaying the footage in your head.

Because this time, there is no footage.

No witness.

Just her. Just you.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The morning sunlight is softer than it was three weeks ago.

It bleeds across your floor in gold, catching on the outline of her shoulder where the covers have slipped low. Her skin is marked — lightly scratched and bitten in places where you’d been too caught up to think. And you know you match her now.

You wake in a bed full of heat, skin to skin, and you don’t flinch.

You don’t panic.

You just… lie there. Still. Warm. Whole.

Your cheek is pressed against her bare shoulder. Your legs tangled under the duvet. Her breath stirs your hair every so often. She hasn’t woken yet — or if she has, she’s pretending not to.

It’s peaceful.

It’s right.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You lie like that for a while, unmoving.

Your muscles are sore. Your throat’s dry. Your heart feels raw, but not in a bad way. More like you cracked open last night, and now everything else feels sharper. Realer.

Natasha shifts a little behind you and her arm curls around your waist without needing to be asked.

You close your eyes.

You wonder if she’s thinking the same thing you are — that this is where you were always supposed to end up. That maybe, despite everything, despite the silence and the fear and the three weeks of pretending… this was inevitable.

Maybe you both just needed to get out of your own way.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You don’t speak yet.

There’s no need.

Not now.

Last time, you woke in this bed naked and marked and full of questions. You spent the whole day terrified that it meant nothing. That it was a mistake.

This time, you don’t even need to look for answers.

She gave them to you last night.

In the way she touched you.

In the way she looked at you like you weren’t a secret.

In the way she kissed you like you belonged to her.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You shift a little, slow and careful, to face her. The duvet slips off your bare shoulder. She blinks awake at the movement — or maybe she was already awake, just like you.

Her eyes meet yours. She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. You just smile, small and honest. She mirrors it.

Then her hand reaches to brush a strand of hair from your cheek. The touch is feather-light, but it sends a full-body warmth curling through your chest.

You lean in before you can talk yourself out of it.

And she meets you halfway. The kiss is soft this time. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just real.

[Masterlist]

[bambieyedoll]

⋆·˚ ༘ * SHANE WALSH HEADCANNONS 𐚁̸.ᐟ

𐙚 being in a relationship with shane walsh.

shane is the definition of overprotective—before the apocalypse, he was already the guy who’d walk you to your car at night, hand on your lower back, scanning the parking lot like he was on duty.

after everything goes to hell? that instinct goes into overdrive.

there’s no such thing as “too cautious” in shane’s book. he walks in front of you when entering new areas, his arm instinctively pushing you back if he senses something’s off.

“stay close,” he mutters, scanning the area with sharp, trained eyes.

if there’s even a hint of danger, his temper flares. he’s not just protective—he’s vicious when it comes to keeping you safe.

someone threatens you? shane doesn’t just handle it; he makes sure they never even think about looking at you the wrong way again.

if you so much as scrape your knee, he’s pissed—not at you, but at himself. he grumbles about how you need to be more careful, but his hands are impossibly gentle as he patches you up.

he becomes the most stubborn caretaker alive.

he’ll insist you rest—literally picking you up if he has to. “i don’t care what you say, you’re sittin’ down.”

he trusts you, but he doesn’t trust anyone else.

if another guy even thinks about flirting with you, shane’s mood shifts instantly—shoulders squared, arms crossed, jaw tight. the energy around him changes, heavy and warning.

the guy doesn’t get the hint? shane makes it clear. his voice goes low and sharp, a dark smirk tugging at his lips. “i think you’re confused, buddy. she’s taken.”

but his possessiveness isn’t just about other men—it’s about keeping you close.

if you disappear for too long, he gets restless, pacing, snapping at people, searching for you like a man losing his mind. the second he sees you, his hand is on your waist, gripping tight.

he’s not good with words when it comes to affection, but his actions speak for him. if he finds a can of your favorite food, it’s yours. if he senses danger, you’re behind him before you even realize what’s happening.

jealousy. shane doesn’t like competition, even if it’s just a conversation. he has that sharp, narrowed stare, his jaw tightening when another man gets too friendly.

if you call him out on it, he scoffs, “ain’t nothin’. just keepin’ an eye out.”

but let’s be real—he’s intense. he loves with the same energy that he fights with. his grip is firm when he touches you, his kisses are heated, and when he holds you at night, he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

𐙚 arguments with shane.

shane doesn’t do passive-aggressive.

if he’s mad, you’ll know. his hands will go to his hips, his jaw clenched, his voice tight and biting. “oh, so that’s how it is?”

if you try to walk away first? forget it. he’ll step in front of you, blocking your path, voice low and rough: “we ain’t done talkin’.”

if he ever loses it in front of you and takes thing too far, he feels immediate regret.

the fire in his eyes dims, his hands rubbing over his face like he’s trying to shake off the anger. “shit… i didn’t mean—”

if you’re the one who’s mad at him? it drives him insane. he can take the world turning against him, but not you.

he’ll follow you around, getting frustrated the longer you ignore him, voice rough with irritation: “c’mon, don’t do this. talk to me.”

but the aftermath of an argument is where you see his real feelings.

after arguments, his touches turn softer. like he’s trying to prove something without saying it.

he’ll rest his forehead against yours, breathing deep, his hands running over your arms, your back, just making sure you’re still there.

shane doesn’t apologize easily, but his guilt is obvious—he’ll linger near you, offer you extra food, or fix something you were struggling with.

if you cry? game over. his whole demeanor shifts. his voice drops to something softer, and he’ll run a hand down his face thinking of ways to make it up to you.

𐙚 shane’s confession.

shane is the kind of guy who fights his feelings. hard. he’s been burned before, and deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves love.

shane fights it for as long as he can.

love makes you weak—that’s what he tells himself. but with you? it doesn’t feel like weakness. it feels like something he doesn’t deserve but can’t live without.

the confession doesn’t come easy.

it happens after an argument, frustration bubbling over into something raw. his voice is rough, breath ragged as he finally snaps: “you think i don’t care? hell, i’ve been losin’ my mind over you! every time you walk away, i’m scared i ain’t gonna see you again!”

when the words finally come out, it’s desperate. like he’s afraid if he doesn’t say it now, he never will.

he grips your arms, eyes wild, searching yours like he needs you to understand just how deep this runs. “i love you. you hear me? and i ain’t lettin’ you go.”

𐙚 shane’s love language.

acts of service & physical touch.

his kisses are hungry, his hands gripping your waist, your neck, your jaw—always holding you like he needs to feel you real and solid under his touch.

he’s always touching you—not just in private, but in front of everyone.

hand on your lower back, fingers wrapping around your wrist when he leads you through a crowd, an arm slung over your shoulder to make sure everyone knows you’re his.

he’s not the type to say “i love you” all the time, but he’ll make sure you eat, clean your weapons, and stand between you and danger.

he’s not a big talker about feelings, but sometimes, when the world is quiet, he lets things slip.

his voice is low, almost gruff, as he murmurs, “don’t know what i’d do without you.”

and if you ever call him out on it? he just smirks, shakes his head, and pulls you closer like that’s answer enough.

only you get to see the softer side of shane walsh.

when it’s just the two of you, his walls drop—he doesn’t have to be the tough guy.

it comes out in quiet moments—when he pulls you close at night, his face buried in your hair, his arms wrapped tight around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

when he thinks you’re asleep, his hands never stop moving—thumb brushing your cheek, fingers gripping your waist, lips ghosting over your forehead. his breathing steady but deep like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you beside him.

𐙚 when shane thinks he’s losing you.

shane doesn’t just fear losing you—he’s obsessed over it. it gnaws at him, a constant, quiet fear in the back of his mind.

if you’re injured, shane panics. not outwardly— he’s barking orders, carrying you like you weigh nothing, pushing through exhaustion and fear.

but the moment he’s alone, it hits him like a punch to the gut.

his hands would tremble as he patched you up, his voice rough with guilt. “that was stupid. brave, but stupid. i’m supposed to protect you.”

if you go missing, he loses it. he’s frantic, aggressive, doing whatever it takes to get you back.

when he finds you, his relief is so overwhelming it almost hurts. he grips your arms, breathing hard, his forehead pressing against yours. “don’t—don’t ever do that again.”

if you ever get distant—whether from trauma or doubt—shane doesn’t know how to handle it. he doesn’t do well with silence.

if you shut him out, he gets frustrated, desperate. he’ll grab your wrist, force you to look at him, voice cracking as he asks, “what’s wrong? just tell me what i did, and i’ll fix it.”

and if you ever tried to leave him, he wouldn’t let you.

not in a cruel way, but in a shane way—raw, relentless, determined. he’d track you down, stand in front of you with that fire in his eyes, breathing hard like he just ran miles. “you ain’t leavin’ me. i won’t let you.”

[delulu-julia]

TMNT 2012 x Very Touchy Reader

Omg Donnie’s part just HUGE…Well you can tell who’s my favourite turtle ahhaha ,’> this is my first writing, sorry if something is wrong, and I tried to do my best with their characters, but still I think there’s huge oc in the Mickey’s part…;( The first one is more for platonic, and second- for romance. I would appreciate any support from you. Like, repost—everything is welcome! Well, enjoy!

Before They Fell in Love:

Leonardo

Leo is polite about it. At first. He’s a leader, a ninja, a warrior—someone who’s trained his whole life to stay composed. Letting emotions get the best of him isn’t an option.

So, yeah, he doesn’t mind your affection, but he’s not sure if it’s… normal? You hug everyone, so does that mean it’s nothing special?

The first time you lean on him, he tenses up for a split second before slowly relaxing.

‘Okay, it’s just a friendly gesture. Friendly. Totally normal.’

Then it happens again. And again. A casual lean against his side. A playful nudge. Fingers brushing against his arm without a second thought.

But you don’t seem to notice. You just go about it like it’s completely natural. A casual touch here, a hug there, always comfortable in his space. It’s just… you.

And at some point, he stops flinching. He stops overthinking it. You lean against him, and he doesn’t move away. You grab his hand, and he lets you hold it.

That’s just how you are. It doesn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t mean anything. And that should be comforting.

And, well, surprisingly, it is

Raphael

“What the hell?!”

The first time it happens, you hit the nearest wall. Not because he’s mad. Not because he doesn’t like it. Just because—what the hell was that?!

Who just hugs someone like that out of nowhere? Who just leans on him like it’s normal? He doesn’t even know you that well! And what kind of person grabs his arm like that and—ugh, what do you even want?!

He’s not used to this. At all. His whole life, physical contact meant fighting. Training. Defending. Not… whatever the hell this is.

So yeah. He shoves you off. Hard. Maybe growls something like “Keep your hands to yourself.” Maybe glares. Maybe acts like you personally offended him.

But you don’t stop. You never stop. You hug him, lean on him, sit too close, grab his hand—it’s like you don’t care how many times he tries to push you away.

And, somehow, he gets used to it. He still complains, still scoffs, still acts annoyed—but he doesn’t shove you anymore. Not really.

Because at some point, you stopped being just some newbie. At some point, you became part of the team. At some point, he started liking it…

Not that he’d ever admit that.

Donatello

At first, Donnie doesn’t think much of it. Sure, it’s unexpected—he’s not really used to people being so physically affectionate with him. (Or at all, really.) But he assumes it’s just part of your personality, a quirk like any other.

And, well… it’s nice. It’s warm.

A casual touch here, a light squeeze there—like it’s the most natural thing in the world. A hand brushing against his arm when talking, leaning against his shoulder while watching him doing something on his lab, even fingers absentmindedly playing with his when you’re sitting close.

One second, he’s focused on his work, adjusting a circuit board or analyzing some data. The next? You’re leaning against him. Just—casually. Like it’s normal.

And suddenly, he forgets what numbers are. What was he doing? What was the problem? What’s his name again? Oh, right—flustered. His name is Flustered.

He tries to act natural, but he’s failing miserably. If you hug him? He malfunctions. If you grab his hand? He’s about to blue-screen. And the further you go, the more his head goes crazy

He starts assuming this means something. It has to, right? People don’t just do that. Not unless they—you know.

So he starts to wonder. Maybe you like him? Maybe this is your way of saying something? Maybe—

Oh. Oh no.

You do it to everyone. Of course... It’s just who you are. It doesn’t mean anything… maybe that's even good.

Michelangelo

Are you kidding? This is the best thing that’s ever happened to him!

You hug him? He hugs back—tighter. You lean on him? He leans right back. You grab his arm? Guess what? You’ve got a new arm accessory now, and it’s him.

Mikey doesn’t just tolerate it—he thrives on it. He’s all about physical affection, and finally, finally, someone else in this lair gets it!

It’s like having a cuddle buddy on demand. Except you’re not just some buddy, you’re—you. And that makes it even better!

He loves how comfortable you are with him. Loves how easy it is. Loves how you don’t hesitate, don’t hold back, don’t act weird about it.

But, you know, he’s not delusional. He knows you’re just like that. He sees you do the same thing to Raph, Leo, Donnie—even April and Casey

And that’s cool! Totally cool

He doesn't care about last part. As long as you pay attention to him, and don't push him away, it’s okay. Mickey isn't prone to jealousy like that, especially in this context

After they fall in love:

Leonardo

Now, it’s a problem.

Because before, it was just a weird habit you had. Now? Now he notices every single time you do it.

Every hug, every touch, every time you casually rest your head on Donnie’s shoulder or grab Mikey’s hand or—ugh.

But he’s Leonardo. He’s not going to make it weird. He’s not going to ask you to stop. He’s not going to let it bother him.

Except… it does.

So he does what he always does—acts like it doesn’t. Keeps his posture straight, keeps his voice steady, keeps his feelings locked down.

And if, sometimes, he finds himself standing a little closer to you than necessary—if he lets you lean on him longer than the others—well…

…That’s just him being a good leader. Obviously.

Raphael

“Seriously? Again?…”

At first, he doesn’t think anything’s changed. You’re still acting the same. You’re still hugging him, leaning against him, grabbing his arm when you talk.

…But now, he’s hyper-aware of it.

Now, every time you touch him, his brain short-circuits. Every hug lasts too long. Every brush of your hand makes his skin tingle. Every time you lean against him, he has to force himself not to freeze up like an idiot.

And the worst part? You don’t even notice.

Because you do it to everyone. Leo. Donnie. Mikey. April. Even Casey.

And every single time, Raph has to fight the urge to rip them away from you.

It’s not like he’s jealous! (He is) But it’s not just that. It’s the fact that he thought—he hoped—maybe it meant something when you did it to him.

But it doesn’t. Because this is just who you are.

So he does what he always does—bottles it up, shoves it down, and tells himself it doesn’t matter. You don’t belong to him.

But damn… he wishes you did.

Donatello

Well…

You still hug him the same way. You still lean on him, casually brushing against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You still reach for his hand without a second thought, still curl up next to him on the couch whenever there’s room.

So why does it feel different now?

Why does his breath hitch every time you touch him? Why does his heart start pounding so hard he’s afraid you’ll hear it? Why does he suddenly crave it when you aren’t near?…

It’s fine. It’s fine. He just needs to get a grip, keep his cool, not let it get to him. He’s handled worse. He’s fought aliens. He’s hacked top-level security systems. He can survive this.

…And then he sees you do it to someone else.

And suddenly, it’s not fine.

He never cared before. He swears he didn’t. (Liar) But now, every time he watches you casually wrap an arm around Leo’s shoulders, every time you ruffle Mikey’s head or let Raph pull you into a playful headlock, it twists something sharp in his chest.

He’s stupid, right? You’ve always been like this. He knew that from the start. It’s not like you’re doing it on purpose, not like you’re trying to mess with him. This is just who you are.

And maybe that’s what bothers him the most.

It’s driving him crazy. It’s not fair. It’s not fair that you can just—just do that without thinking! Without thinking what he feels about it

Because when you do it with him, it’s everything. It means everything.

But when you do it with everyone else… maybe it doesn’t mean anything at all.

And the worst part? He can’t even say anything. Because who is he to ask you to stop?

Michelangelo

At first, nothing really changes. Mikey’s still Mikey. Still grinning when you hug him, still throwing an arm around you whenever he can, still enjoying every second of it.

But then, one day, it hits him.

You hug everyone. You hold hands with everyone. You sit in people’s laps, drape yourself over their shoulders, peck on the other people cheek’s… and then go to him and act like it’s nothing.

And suddenly, it’s not fun anymore. Now its feels unfair. He used to love it, but now he wants more.

He starts stealing extra hugs. Holding on for just a bit longer. Staying next to you. And one day, he just… grabs you.

“Okay, my turn! Hug me! Now!”

(And he means it.)

Not because he wants to own you or anything—that’s not it! It’s just…

He thought maybe — just maybe — it was different with him.

But it’s not.

And that sucks.

[midniqhtt]

mattheo riddle

masterlist • slytherin boys • 05/12/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs

𑣲 no smoke, only love in the air I @papercorgiworld

When the guys notice that you don’t like their smoking habit they quit, but dealing with the withdrawal has your boyfriend constantly needy for a kiss.

𑣲 pansys interrogation I @/papercorgiworld

Weird behaviour and rumours have Pansy asking questions and figuring out who the guys are crushing on.

𑣲 mattheo I @/papercorgiworld

The things Mattheo Riddle does for love

𑣲 gryffindor fevers I @/papercorgiworld

While the Slytherins usually bully you, everything drastically changes when you go missing and Mattheo finds out he might have, what Pansy calls: Gryffindor fever.

𑣲 “i’m not sorry” I @/papercorgiworld

A game of spin the bottle with your brother’s best friend, what could possibly go wrong? 

𑣲 can’t catch me now I @unmarlou

your disappearance alongside the golden trio during the rise of his father leaves mattheo hallow.

𑣲 please please please I @writingsbychlo

mattheo is your slightly toxic, slightly unhinged, but absolutely adoring and completely obsessed boyfriend.

𑣲 hide and seek I @/writingsbychlo

you and mattheo play a little game on hallowe’en.

𑣲 for you I @mrsbarnesblog

Mattheo gets into another fight with a new guy and when Professor McGonnagal surprisingly do not punishes your boyfriend for it, you discover what she really thinks about your relationships.

𑣲 whos afraid of little old me I @thestarsarebrightertonight

mattheo riddle isnt scared of anything , but when you blew up at him for messing up your potion. he felt fear for the first time. fear of a usually bubbly hufflepuff.

𑣲 i can fix him (no i really i can) I @/thestarsarebrightertonight

mattheo riddle is cold as ice , he always has been , so who are you to think you can fix him?

𑣲 the alchemy I @/thestarsarebrightertonighy

mattheo riddle hasnt left you alone with his relentless flirting since third year , youre sick of it! or are you?

𑣲 love blooms in strange places I @amongemeraldclouds

When Mattheo was assigned to help you tend to the greenhouse as punishment, he never expected detention could be so pleasant.

𑣲 apocalypse I @sadnymi

𑣲 cloud nine part 2 I @/sadnymi

The "jinx girl," as they call her, is said to bring bad luck. However, when Mattheo Riddle decides to get to know the school's most neglected girl and takes matters into his own hands, Y/N's life is turned upside down in a mere night.

𑣲 on a night like tonight I @weasleyreidstyles

𑣲 starlight I @wordsarelife

mattheo had been liking you for years and when you loose your cat, it's finally his time to prove how good of a boyfriend he would be

𑣲 the game I @/wordsarelife

after one night with you, mattheo can't help but want more. sadly, you aren't the type for relationships

𑣲 unexpected I @suugarbabe

𑣲 magical creatures I @/suugarbabe

𑣲 mirrorball moon I @iris-qt

mattheo riddle goes out of his way to make your life a living hell. what happens when jealously takes over at the yule ball? how will he fix things…

𑣲 5 days to forever I @/iris-qt

mattheo riddle strikes up a bet with his friends which gives him 5 days to confess to the girl of his dreams. he tries and tries but something always seems to interrupt them.

𑣲 brain and heart I @muntitled

Jealousy makes the heart grow fonder.

𑣲 a green and silver ring I @miryum

An arranged marriage between you and Mattheo, one that might lead to something beautiful

𑣲 brother best friend I @pizzaapeteer

𑣲 she will be loved part 2 I @/pizzaapeteer

Reader is hopelessly and madly in love with her best friend Mattheo while constantly having her heart broken living in the shadows of other girls. Unaware that he’s hiding a secret and unable to express the truth about how he feels for her too.

𑣲 speed dating I @/pizzaapeteer

street racer!mattheo can't take his eyes off you even when he's driving, especially when you bring his heart to life by impressing him with your own skills.

𑣲 yes, really I @ageofstarkey

you’re drawing in the astronomy tower to clear your head & mattheo finds you

𑣲 poor thing I @/ageofstarky

you’re on your period, and matthéo’s there to help you feel less awful.

𑣲 can’t move on I @0luv9

He was done fucked, a weak man on his knees for her, mad for her, in love with her and funny enough she didn't know. Him sleeping around isn't helping him though.

𑣲 sharp kisses I @crvptidgf

after begging Mattheo to mark you as his, he finally gives in

𑣲 if i can’t have you baby I @angelfic

you weren't quite used to the attention of other boys, and it seems your brother's best friend isn't too fond of it either

𑣲 blurb I @amiableness

𑣲 heart on my sleeve I @theostrophywife

𑣲 one of the girls I @mxrccuryy

you're tired of being mattheo’s situationship but he doesn’t seem to get that until it is too late. another night of being left as just another one of those girls makes him realise that maybe you are different

𑣲 do you still care? I @sunkissedscribbles

mattheo’s plan to see if you still care backfires completely and ends with a breakup, but are you two able to resolve what's gone wrong?

𑣲 we aren't over I @slytherinslut0

FWB gets jealous seeing you kiss another guy at a party after the two of you had called things off.

𑣲 fear I @deadghosy

fearing to harm your lover, you drink blood from another. Making the riddle himself feel jealous and angry at how you could think he can’t take it.

𑣲 me and the devil I @ahqkas

they didn't understand how you did it, how you tamed the devil, how you made him fall so deeply in love with you that the darkness in him seemed to shrink in your presence. but the truth was, you hadn't tamed him at all. you’d simply loved him, and that was all mattheo riddle ever needed to be tamed

𑣲 home is wherever i'm with you I @lexamiele

𑣲 are you ladies alright? I @allurearia

where mattheo certainty didn't expect you of all people to open the door.

𑣲 third wheeling I @iamgonnagetyouback

[aimfor-theheart]

hey i'm back, have you talked about ex gf pit!fighter vi...just curious...you know...for a friend...

jazz i can't tell you the psychic damage i took from this ask. looking at it with mine own two eyes. i thought about it all night. i haven't talked about her yet but I WILL NOW !

ex gf pitfighter!vi who never really moves on from you. and she doesn't expect you to move on from her, either. worse than that, she doesn't let you move on from her. she checks up on you still, hangs around you like a stray dog, always on your heels somehow.

ex gf pitfighter!vi who "accidentally" manages to scare off anyone who may be interested in you at the bars or at the fights. she swears it's not her fault that people are too pussy to approach you (never mind that she's been mean-mugging them for the better part of the night). and if you do try to point out that she's been guarding you all night, she just shrugs and claims that if they were worth it, they'd grow a pair and approach anyways.

ex gf pitfighter!vi who still takes care of everything for you. who is still, unfortunately, the one you call when you need help with anything around your little flat or need someone to come pick you up from a night out of drinking. she always dutifully walks you home, let's you drunkenly chatter to her, and keeps her hands tucked respectfully in her pockets to try and crush the urges she has to reach out and snag you around the waist—or throw you over her shoulder, like she used to when you were dating and you got a little too drunk. regardless, you call for vi whenever you're in trouble, because you know she'll always be there for you.

ex gf pitfighter!vi who has a horrible possessive streak with you. one of her opponents tries to goad her about the fact that you're single now and she just—loses it for a few moments. like a bad dog, she attacks and doesn't let go. they call the round quickly but she doesn't let up, like she doesn't even hear them.

they have to pull her off the guy, still snarling, anger still vicious and hot and thrumming in her veins.

ex gf pitfigher!vi who sees you after the fight, knuckles all split and perhaps still a little wound up. you can tell something's wrong, sense it in the air, in the bunching of her shoulders.

"what the hell happened out there?" you ask her, leaning against the doorway of the med bay they have backstage of the fighting pit.

he said something about you, and i just saw red, she thinks. your name barely formed on his lips, and i just lost it. i hate the idea of anyone even looking at you like that. i hate the idea that i'm not yours anymore.

instead she bites out, "i don't know—adrenaline, or something."

"vi—" you say, "that wasn't just adrenaline. what's going on?"

and like a bad dog, she snaps, "what the hell do you even care?"

you look stricken when she says it, and she immediately regrets it, deflates a little.

"i'm not allowed to care about you anymore?" you ask.

"we're supposed to be broken up, sweetheart." she scoffs, finally moving to find the wrap in order to bandage up her bloody knuckles. you drift further into the room, passing the threshold of the doorway, and into her space. you take the gauze from her hands before she can begin to do it.

(you always used to bandage her up after her fights.)

"you don't really act like it." you retort gently, urging her to sit again and she goes easily. sits and lets you approach her. spreads her legs a little and though you drift nearer, you keep your distance. still, you take one of her hands in yours. palm to palm for a moment. she fights the urge to bear down on your hand, to close her hand around yours and pull you to her. pull you into her lap—

"how am i supposed to act?" she asks, leaning back a little to look up at you and—it's a good view, looking up at you like this. always has been.

carefully, you begin wrapping her hand with the gauze. your fingers are nimble, deft.

"you could stop calling me 'sweetheart', for starters." you say and she feels your fingers over the back of her hand, then back under her palm as you wind and wind the bandage around her. there's a ghost of a sad smile on your lips when she finds your face, when she watches your expression.

"you want me to stop?" she asks.

your face twists up a little; several emotions flicker across your face and you've always been so expressive. so open—her little crybaby, her emotional storm of a girl. in the end, the emotion that settles onto your face is some sort of regret or sadness. raw.

you tie off the gauze on one of her hands. you fiddle with the roll of it.

"no." you finally admit, lifting your eyes from your narrow focus on her hand to find hers.

your gaze clashes with hers.

heat sears through vi. an aching burns inside her chest, heart on fire.

ex gf pitfighter!vi who says fuck everything, and reaches out with her free hand to settle on your waist. who urges you closer to her. tugs a little and suddenly pulls you into her lap, makes room for you there with the flex of her hips.

the gauze slips from your hands and unravels across the floor.

"vi—" you warn, but it sounds just shy of desperate. her heart sings.

here you are, her baby, wanting for her so bad. trying to be so brave and strong and independent.

vi exhales, wrangling you into her arms, quelling your minor fussing with a little coo. she leans in a little, and says;

"tell me to stop."

you go still in her arms. caught. your breath hitches.

"this is a bad idea." you manage to get out.

"you want me to stop?" she murmurs, her now bandaged hand coming up to cradle your jaw, the nape of your neck. her thumb skims your bottom lip, your chin. she dips closer, nose nudging yours.

"tell me to stop, sweetheart."

a heartbeat. a breath later—

you shake your head, just fractionally, and mewl, "don't stop."

and who has vi ever been to deny you?

ex gf pitfighter!vi who doesn't stay your ex for very long ever. who always manages to pull you back in, hands all over you in the middle of the night, at the bars, after bad fights. who makes you furious, but also makes up for it tenfold.

ex gf pitfighter!vi who, like a bad dog, is always on your heels, who can't quite let you go when she's got you.

[monicfever]

Hey! I saw your latest hcs and it gave me an idea, so I wanted to ask if you could do something with the reader taking care of injuried DD & punisher characters. Maybe about taking care of when they're sick too?

Your blog is a delight. Here, for you 🌹

taking care of them 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher headcanons ( includes sick & injured hc’s )

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / muse / james wesley

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

he hates being seen like this. bruised, bloody, barely holding himself upright — matt’s first instinct is to hide it. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because it feels wrong to need help. he thinks he should be stronger than this. when you gently take his mask off and get to work cleaning him up, he can’t look at you. not at first. his voice is tight when he says, “you don’t have to do this.” but you’re already doing it, and something in him aches at the quiet intimacy of it. the embarrassment is real. he flinches when you see a particularly bad bruise. he gets stiff when you help him out of his shirt. he mumbles half-hearted protests like, “i’ve had worse.”

he apologizes too much. for the blood. for the bruises. for making you worry. for taking up your time. “sorry,” he mutters, over and over, until you finally stop him with a hand on his cheek and say, “stop apologizing.” and that’s when he finally breaks a little. just breathes out slow, lets his head fall against your shoulder. lets himself be held.

he secretly loves it. once the initial shame wears off, once he realizes you’re not disgusted or overwhelmed, he starts to relax. it kills him how much he likes it. your fingers in his hair. the way you wipe his forehead with a damp cloth. the way your voice goes soft when you talk to him like he’s something precious. it undoes him. every little gesture makes him fall harder.

he listens to your heartbeat. when you’re tending to him, especially if he’s in pain, he focuses on the sound of your heartbeat. smirks a little if it’s beating faster out of worry.

he can’t move much, so you help him change into one of his oldest, softest shirts. he winces, but lets you tug it over his shoulders with quiet, patient movements. “you’re lucky you’re hot when you’re miserable,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. and he laughs — low and a little breathless — and says, “you’re lucky i’m too beat up to flirt back properly.”

sick ;;

denial is the first symptom. he wakes up coughing, congested, clearly feverish… and insists he’s fine. he’ll drag himself out of bed like he’s perfectly healthy, wobble into the kitchen, knock over a glass with his elbow, and then insist that you not make a big deal out of it. he’s losing the fight against his own body but he’s not going down without being insufferable about it.

he HATES how everything feels. his skin hurts. the sheets are too scratchy. the pillow’s too soft. sounds are too loud but also too quiet. the tea is too hot and also not hot enough. it’s not even that he wants to complain, he’s just miserable and everything is overstimulating. he lies there scowling like a feral cat in a blanket burrito.

his voice is all gravel and rasp. he’s congested as hell and absolutely refuses to blow his nose in front of you. instead he’s all “i’m fine.” in the most pathetic, raspy, sniffly voice ever. it’s so sad and endearing that you have to tease him.“you sound like a dying jazz musician.” he glares, but also kind of melts when you bring him more tea and rub his chest with slow circles of your hand.

he refuses to stay in bed, because “being vertical helps drain congestion” (a lie). so he curls up in a massive, tangled blanket pile on the couch. he looks utterly defeated. he dozes off halfway through trying to listen to the news, and when you tuck another blanket over him, he instinctively turns toward you, half-asleep.

his sense of smell is completely off and he’s MAD about it. he is so personally offended by the betrayal of his own senses. you try to gently feed him something bland so it won’t overwhelm him, and he makes a face like he’s just tasted betrayal. “you gave me this when i’m dying?” but he still eats it. all of it.

he’s clingy in his sleep. when the fever breaks and he’s all sweaty and exhausted, that’s when he finally stops fighting you. he curls around you like a heat-seeking shadow, one arm thrown around your waist, breath shaky but slowing. if you try to get up, even just for a second, his fingers twitch and search for you in the sheets. “stay.” barely a whisper.

he insists on wearing cologne even though he can’t smell it. this is a little ridiculous but it’s so him. he feels gross and unbalanced, so he spritzes on a little cologne out of habit. it’s way too strong. you walk into the room and immediately go, “matt. babe. what did you do.” and he just shrugs miserably. “i didn’t want to smell like sick.” you have to open a window. he’s pouting under the blanket. you kiss his forehead anyway.

you keep feeding him honey and tea and he sighs dramatically like he’s enduring great hardship.

he’s awful at asking for help but melts when you give it anyway. he’ll never ask you to do anything. won’t ask for more water, or a blanket, or your company. but when you offer it, and do it without him asking? he’s so soft about it. he turns his face toward your hand when you brush his hair back. leans into your palm like a tired cat. he won’t say thank you, but you’ll catch the whisper of it, later, when you’re not even sure he��s awake.

you catch him halfway through putting on the suit. he’s pale, disoriented, swaying a little on his feet, and trying to get his gloves on with shaking hands. “matt.” / “i have to—there’s a lead—there’s a guy moving weapons and—” / “you can’t even hold up your own damn head right now.” he mumbles something about “responsibility” and “the city needs—” before you march over, put your hands on his burning chest, and physically push him back onto the bed. he doesn’t fight it. he can’t. he just coughs pathetically and mutters, “you’re so bossy when i’m dying.”

he tries to sneak out and fails miserably. you go into the other room for five minutes and come back to find the window open, the suit missing from the closet, and matt trying to climb out onto the fire escape like a dramatic, feverish bat. “matt. murdock.” he freezes. turns around slowly. hoodie pulled over his mask like an idiot.“…hi.”

you literally grab him by the back of the hoodie and drag him back inside. he coughs halfway through and nearly folds in half. “this is humiliating,” he mumbles. “good. maybe you’ll stay put this time.”

and the second he feels better? he pretends he was never sick. he gets up, showered, dresses in something sharp, and acts like he wasn’t wrapped in three blankets whining about soup 24 hours ago. “you were being dramatic,” you say. “you’re imagining things,” he smirks.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

he only comes to you when it’s bad. frank doesn’t want to bring blood into your space. he tries not to. but when it’s bad — when he’s staggering, hand pressed to his side, pale and barely standing — he shows up. always at night. always wordless. you open the door and there he is: soaked in rain and blood, eyes glassy.“didn’t know where else to go.”

you already have towels, the first aid kit, a basin of warm water. you were waiting. he insists on handling it himself. tries to brush you off, sit on the edge of your tub and stitch himself up like he always does. but his hands are shaking. he's lost too much blood.

you kneel in front of him, take the needle gently from his fingers. “frank. let me.” he stares at you, jaw locked, eyes dark. vulnerable. and then he nods. just once.

you cut the shirt off his body, soaked with blood and rain, bruises already forming, ribs swelling. he watches your face the whole time, trying to read your reaction, like he’s bracing for you to flinch, to leave. his eyes close and he exhales like he’s been holding it in for days. like you seeing him like this is worse than the pain itself.

he’s so still when you’re working. doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t wince. just clenches his jaw and grips the edge of the counter while you clean and stitch him. but you notice the way he grips the sink so hard his knuckles go white. the way his whole body flinches when your fingers brush too soft across his skin. he’s not afraid of pain. he’s afraid of your kindness.

you whisper to him while you work. not because he needs it, but because you do. little things. “almost done.” “you’re okay.” “i’ve got you.” he doesn’t answer. but his breathing evens out. like your voice is the only thing tethering him to earth.

when it’s over he almost collapses. you bandage him up, ease him back into bed, and suddenly all the fight goes out of him. he’s exhausted. sweating. tries to push himself up, say he should leave, but you put a hand on his chest and gently press him down.“you’re not going anywhere.” his whole body stills, and then relaxes completely.

you sleep in the same bed, hand on his chest. he doesn't really sleep — just drifts in and out. but every time he stirs, your hand is there. grounding him.

he remembers every second of it. even when he’s healed, even when the bruises fade. he remembers the way your brow furrowed. the way you held his wrist when he tried to leave. the way you saw him — hurt, bleeding — and didn’t look away. he doesn’t say it, but it lives in the way he looks at you now. softer. deeper. like you’re something holy.

he would die before letting anyone else take care of him. after that night, there’s only you. he won’t let another soul near his wounds. not curtis. not david. no one. when he’s bleeding, he comes to you. your hands don’t just fix him. they hold him. remind him he’s still human.

sick ;;

he hides it like a wounded animal. you don’t even know he’s sick at first because he’s so damn good at hiding it. goes about his business with bloodshot eyes and a sore throat, coughing into his arm like it’s just dust. but then you catch him sitting on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m., drenched in sweat, breathing shallow, and trying to convince himself he doesn’t have a fever.

you crouch down. touch his forehead. “frank. you’re burning up.” he closes his eyes and leans into your hand without meaning to. “i’m fine.” he rasps. he is not fine.

he tries to disappear for your sake. frank gets weirdly distant when he’s sick. not because he wants space — but because he doesn’t want you to see him like that. he’ll hole up in the garage or the basement or wherever he thinks he won’t be a burden. you find him shivering under a blanket he probably grabbed off the floor. “why are you hiding?” / “don’t wanna get you sick.” but you sit down beside him anyway. wrap your arms around his big, stubborn body. “tough. we’re doing this together.”

he’s the worst patient alive. he will not rest. will not sit down. will not take the medicine unless you physically make him. you hand him a thermometer and he looks at it like you just gave him a live grenade.

“just hold it under your tongue.”

“…that’s bullshit.”

“what, the concept of thermometers?”

he grumbles. takes it anyway. makes the most murderous face while doing it. you laugh, he scowls. he’s your problem now.

soup is sacred. frank doesn’t ask for anything. ever. but when you set a bowl of hot soup in front of him and say, “eat.” he obeys without a word. slow, methodical spoonfuls. quiet. a little pathetic. he won’t meet your eyes but he lets his knee bump yours under the table.

he sleeps hard when he finally gives in. once he lets himself rest, it’s like his body crashes. he sleeps harder than he has in weeks — snoring, twitching, breathing unevenly. he curls toward your side of the bed instinctively. tucks his head into your neck like he doesn’t know he’s doing it. you run your fingers through his sweaty hair and he sighs in his sleep.

he melts when you fuss. he’d die before admitting it, but he loves when you take care of him. fluffing the pillows, tucking the blanket around him, gently brushing your fingers across his forehead. he acts like it annoys him — grumbling, muttering, but he’s leaning into every touch. softening under your hands. falling asleep faster when you hum to him. he never got this before. not after maria. not from anyone, and now he needs it more than he knew.

he gets better and remembers everything. once he’s back on his feet, he doesn’t say much about it. starts being extra gentle. extra present. fixes something in the house you didn’t know was broken. touches you a little more carefully.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

he tries to brush it off at first. walks in with his arm cradled against his chest, limping just slightly, face tight with pain, and you know it’s worse than he’s letting on. “what happened?”

“just a little accident in court. tripped on justice.”

“foggy.”

he’s scared. not of the pain, but of you worrying. of you seeing him as fragile. he doesn’t want to sit still. you try to help him onto the couch and he’s all, “no no, i can get it, really.” but then he winces when he moves his shoulder and you’re done. “sit. down. now.” he finally listens. you’re so gentle with him it makes him feel like his ribs might crack for a different reason.

you touch him so carefully it makes his throat close. your fingers ghost over the bruises on his ribs, you help him out of his bloodied dress shirt, you hold his wrist steady while you check for swelling. he keeps his eyes on you, not the injury — like your face is the only thing keeping him grounded. “you’re not mad?” he whispers. you look up, confused. “mad? foggy—i’m just glad you’re here.” and he swallows hard. “okay. good.”

he’s way too polite about his pain. you’re patching up a nasty scrape and he keeps saying, “you don’t have to do this,” and “i can take it,” and “it’s not that bad.” but then you hit a spot that clearly hurts and his breath stutter.

he tries to keep it light until he can’t. he’s making little jokes like, “guess i’ll have a cool scar to show off at parties,” or “now you have to carry all the groceries.” but then he sees the look on your face while you’re bandaging his side, the worry. and he just goes quiet. “…i really scared you?” you nod. he kisses your knuckles. “i’m okay now. ‘cause of you.”

he falls asleep with your hand over his bandages. you’re sitting on the couch, curled close to him, your hand warm and steady over the clean gauze across his ribs. he keeps blinking slow, like he’s trying not to miss it. but eventually, his breathing evens out. and he sleeps. his fingers twitch for yours in his sleep, like his body’s still reaching for you even when his mind is at rest.

he doesn’t want to take the pain meds unless you say it’s okay. he’s weirdly shy about it, like taking them means he’s weak. you explain it’s to help him heal. he nods and lets you hand them to him. “only ‘cause you’re the boss,” he murmurs with a smile. (he always listens to you when it really matters.)

sick ;;

he insists he’s fine. always. stubbed his toe? “i’m good.” fever of 102? “i’ve had worse.” coughing like an old man? “just a little post-nasal vibe.”

he’s got that i-don’t-want-to-be-a-burden complex, and he tries to downplay everything because he doesn’t want to stress you out. but you can see how pale he is. you can hear the rasp in his voice. and eventually, you’re like, “foggy. babe. sit your ass down.” he listens. cutely.

he laughs through the discomfort. he’s got a headache, his nose is red, and he’s bundled up on the couch like a human tissue — but he still tries to crack jokes between coughs. “on a scale of one to dying, i’m probably a strong... five and a half.” you kiss his forehead, make him tea, and he looks at you like you’re his entire world.

he gets so clingy when he’s not feeling good. like yes, he’ll act like it’s “no big deal”, but the second you sit down next to him, he’s got his head in your lap, arms around your waist, refusing to let you go.

he’s a dramatic little baby when he’s really sick. you catch him texting matt things like “tell my story” and “delete my browser history.” you walk in and he looks up with teary eyes like, “babe. promise me… if i don’t make it… you’ll water the fern.” / “foggy. you have a cold.” he just sniffles and holds out his hand like he’s saying goodbye forever. you’re trying not to laugh, he knows it. he still wants you to kiss his forehead and call him brave.

he LOVES when you take care of him. loves it. it’s written all over his face. when you run your fingers through his hair, when you put a cool cloth on his forehead, when you make him soup or tuck him in, he melts. gets all soft and quiet. looks at you like you’re a miracle. “how did i get you?” he mumbles. you tell him he earned it. he grins, all pink-nosed and sleepy.

he’s the best sick-day partner ever. once he leans into it, foggy becomes the king of cozy. he sets up movies, gets the couch just right, grabs a stack of blankets, and lets you curl up next to him. he’ll hold your hand under the blankets, share snacks, fall asleep halfway through the movie with his head on your shoulder.

he keeps trying to help around the house anyway. you catch him trying to load the dishwasher while half-sweating and wheezing. he lets you drag him back to the couch. pouts. lets you put a blanket over him, smiles like he’s never been more in love.

he sends you sick selfies. if you have to leave the house, he sends dramatic pictures of himself in bed with captions like: “pray for me.”“death comes for us all.” “miss u. bring soup.”

you send him back a photo of the soup and he sends you 15 heart emojis in return.

he never forgets how good you were to him. when he’s better he’s constantly returning the favour. he brings you your favourite drink, tucks you in when you’re tired, checks your forehead for no reason and says, “just making sure you’re not dying like i was.”

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

she tries to walk it off. she’s bleeding, limping, hands shaking — but she insists she’s fine. “it’s not as bad as it looks.” you look at her shirt, dark and blooming with red. “karen. sit down.”she hesitates, but something in your voice makes her stop fighting. she sits, breath hitching, finally lets the pain show.

you kneel in front of her, and she can’t meet your eyes. not because she doesn’t trust you—but because this hurts. not just the wound, but being seen. you’re so careful, so gentle.

she apologizes. for bleeding, for needing help, for everything. “i should’ve been more careful.”she bites back tears, flinches when you clean the wound.

your touch is light, steady. your voice soft. you talk her through every step. and the whole time, she’s blinking fast. overwhelmed. “why are you so gentle with me?” she whispers. you press gauze to her side. “because you deserve it.” she laughs, a little broken. “that’s new.”

she trusts you with the pain. once the bandages are on and the worst is over, she leans into you. lets you hold her. doesn’t talk, just breathes. you feel her body start to relax. her guard drop, inch by inch.

she lets herself cry when she knows you won’t leave. the tears come slow, almost reluctant. you don’t ask questions, don’t push. just hold her tighter. and when she says “thank you” through a cracked voice, you kiss her hair and say, “always.”

you help her out of her ruined clothes, and it’s not about shame. you’re careful, slow. not clinical — tender. she shivers when you help her into clean clothes. not from cold, but from the realization that she’s being cared for. like someone thinks she’s worth saving.

she starts to smile again as she heals. they’re small, shy smiles at first. but you catch them. when you hand her coffee just the way she likes it. when you refill her meds before she has to ask. when you hold her close, careful of her bruises.

she looks at you like she’s finally allowed to hope again.

sick ;;

she tries to power through it. karen doesn’t like being sick. she’s not used to being vulnerable, so when she starts to feel under the weather, she pushes through it. you notice the sniffles, the way her voice cracks when she talks, but she’s still at work, still going full-speed, pretending she’s fine. “i’m just a little off today,” she’ll say, brushing it off.

she fights the idea of being taken care of. when you take her back to your place, she still fights it. doesn’t want to sit down, doesn’t want to admit she needs rest. “i can make soup myself.” she says hoarsely, trying to get up. you stop her, gently pressing her back down on the couch. “nope. not today, miss page.”

you speak softly, your hand on her forehead to check for fever. she sighs, defeated, but there’s a tenderness in her eyes.

she gets embarrassed by how much you’re doing for her. when you start taking care of the little things, getting her fluids, covering her with blankets, making sure she’s comfortable, she’s so embarrassed.

you sit beside her, brushing her hair out of her face, and it makes her melt. she’s not sure how to handle the fact that you’re taking care of her with no strings attached.

she’s exhausted, physically and emotionally. she tries to fight it, but eventually, her head drops against your shoulder as you sit together. you run your fingers through her hair and she relaxes into you. she’s too proud to ask for help, so you give it anyway.

when her fever spikes, you realize she’s not going to ask for help. you take the medicine into your hands and gently coax her to take it, even though she doesn’t feel like it. she protests, but you firmly place the glass in her hand.

you sit next to her, feeling her body shiver a little, and you pull her close to give her warmth. she doesn’t argue this time. she lets you hold her.

she leans into you when you feed her soup. you make her soup and feed her spoonful by spoonful, even though she’s still stubborn. “i can feed myself.” you smile softly, holding the spoon in front of her mouth anyway. “you need to eat. and i want to take care of you.”eventually, she just closes her eyes and lets you feed her, your presence grounding her in a way she never knew she needed.

her soft, grateful smiles when you check on her. whenever you leave her side to get something, a blanket, water, medicine, she looks up at you like she can’t believe someone’s really taking care of her. you come back to her on the couch, and her smile is small, but it hits your heart in a way she doesn’t realize.

eventually, she just lets go. she falls asleep with her head resting on your chest, her body warm but still fragile. you notice her sleeping more soundly now, the fever subsiding, the stress of the world easing off her shoulders.

she asks you to stay the night — just for her peace of mind. when she starts feeling a little better, you get ready to leave, but she looks at you with a bit of hesitation. “can you stay… just for a little longer?” it’s a small request, but it means everything to her. you stay the night, just sitting with her as she falls asleep in your arms. without question, you’re not going anywhere.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

she won’t admit it’s as bad as it is. elektra is always in control. when you find her, she tries to hide it — she’s good at that. “it’s nothing,” she’ll say, holding her side, a smirk on her lips. you know better. “don’t even try it,” you reply, guiding her to sit down. “you’re hurt, and you’re letting me help you.” she glares at you, but the intensity of her gaze softens just a little. “you’re annoying.”

she’ll be teasing — but also secretly appreciative of how careful you are. while you’re cleaning up a deep cut on her arm, she’s smirking. “you know, if you were trying to get my attention, there are easier ways.” you roll your eyes but keep your hands steady. “i’m just trying to keep you from bleeding out.” she raises an eyebrow. “oh, so you do care?” you shoot her a glare, and she laughs, but there’s something in her eyes — that softness she doesn’t let out often. “fine, fine.” she says, leaning back, her shoulders relaxed for once.

she’s so used to taking care of herself, it takes a while to let you in. she insists she’s fine, standing up too fast, wincing only a little when she moves. but you can see the subtle signs of pain she’s trying to hide. but when you start to clean up her cuts and bruises, she lets you. quietly, though, her usual fire replaced with something more vulnerable.

“you’re bossy.” she mumbles, but there’s no fight behind it.

when she’s wounded, she’s more open than usual. as you tend to her injuries, she’ll talk a little more than usual. there’s a vulnerability underneath the teasing. she hates being weak. she’s always the one in control.

even with a bullet wound in her side, she’s attempting to reach for her weapons. “i don’t need you babysitting me.”

she loves being spoiled. when you’re tucking her into bed, you get her a glass of water. she just looks at you, half-amused, half-embarrassed.

won’t let you leave her side. even though she pretends she doesn’t want anyone around, she makes sure you’re nearby. “i’m fine,” she insists, but when you start to walk away, she grabs your wrist, just enough to stop you. “where are you going?” she asks, voice just a little more vulnerable than usual. “just to grab a drink.” she’s quiet for a moment, but then says, “bring it back here.” — it’s not a request.

when she’s finally feeling a little better, she’s adorably grumpy about it. she’s been resting all day, and she’s finally feeling less woozy. when she tries to sit up, she huffs and rubs her eyes.“i’m bored.”

when you sit next to her, she leans into you, not as much in pain anymore but in need — for once, she’s letting herself rest with someone she trusts.

sick ;;

she insists on toughing it out. she’s always been the type to push through pain and discomfort, and sickness is no different. so when you try to give her a glass of water or make her rest, she brushes you off with a dismissive wave.

she’s stubborn about medication. when you get her some cold medicine, she eyes the bottle suspiciously. there’s a moment of silence as she glares at the bottle, considering refusing just to be difficult. but when she sneezes hard and immediately winces, you know you’ve won. reluctantly, she takes it. “this better work.”

she’ll tease you about being overprotective. even though she loves the attention (she’s just not used to admitting it), she can’t help but poke fun at you when you’re hovering a little too much.

she’ll start asking for extra things just to see you scramble. elektra can be very subtle about her need for care. one minute, she’s insisting she’s fine, the next, she’s letting you do little things for her.

she’ll nap, but only if you’re close. after a while, the fever starts to make her drowsy. her eyes flutter as you sit beside her, and she lets herself lean against you without saying anything. “you’re not going to leave, are you?” she mutters, too tired to hide her vulnerability. you let her sleep, keeping her hydrated, and check in on her every now and then.

she’s too proud to ask for help, but you catch her needing it anyway. when she wakes up with a dry throat, she tries to reach for the water, but her hands are shaky. you notice right away, grabbing the glass and gently bringing it to her lips.“don’t make that face,” she says when she notices the concerned look on your face. “you’re not as tough as you think.” she scowls, but doesn’t pull away from the water. “i don’t need to be babied.”

she will eventually fall asleep for hours. after more fluids, some rest, and probably a dozen more grumbled complaints, elektra finally gives in to sleep. she curls up on the couch, wrapped in the blanket you brought her, and you sit by her side, quietly watching over her.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

dex isn’t used to being physically vulnerable. the pain doesn’t even register at first, it’s the vulnerability he hates, the way he feels exposed when you take charge. but as you clean the blood off his face, bandage his new scars, there’s a strange peace that settles over him. he can’t help but let you. maybe it’s the way you move so gently, like you’re not just patching him up but stitching back something in him that he thought he could never let anyone see. when your hands are on him, he doesn’t resist, even though he’s never allowed anyone this close. it’s almost like he’s afraid to let go, but at the same time, he’s not sure he ever wants to.

each time you touch him, a little piece of his pride slips away. dex is proud — more proud than most people would realize — and he’s spent years convincing himself that he doesn’t need really anyone.

but when his injuries leave him vulnerable, helpless in a way he can’t control, he realizes just how much he’s been starving for this. for someone who isn’t afraid to see him in pieces. the slow pressure of your hands as you adjust his position, carefully lifting him so he doesn’t hurt himself more, makes him feel both exposed and cared for at the same time. he can’t help but melt into the sensation. he’s craving this softness.

the air between you two becomes charged, every touch heavier than normal. when you press a bandage into a gash on his side, there’s a tension that settles. he’s not used to someone being this close — being this gentle — so the simplest things feel intimate. when you meet his eyes, you see something in them he’s never shown before: trust, raw and unguarded. it’s not just the physical pain he’s dealing with, but the emotional weight of letting someone care for him in this way. and even though it’s not spoken, the way he looks at you is almost desperate, a silent plea for more of the care you’re offering.

you notice how he relaxes a little more each time you’re near him, how his body leans into yours as you help him sit up. when you press a cloth to his forehead, he doesn’t pull away. he doesn’t want to. there’s a hunger for your touch. he tries to be stoic, to maintain control, but his body betrays him. he stays still longer than necessary, savoring the way you care for him with obedience.

when you step out of the room for a moment, just to grab something or to check on the door, dex lets out a deep breath, as if the absence of your presence has left him feeling exposed again. it’s not that he doesn’t trust you, but your touch has anchored him in ways he didn’t realize he needed. when you return, he looks at you like he’s been waiting for your return.

throughout it all, dex is watching you.

it’s not just the physical care, it’s the emotional depth of it. he’s used to people using him, taking what they need from him. you’re not like them. when you care for him, it feels different. there’s no agenda. it’s just pure, simple care. the longer you stay, the more that glimmer of appreciation shows in his eyes.

by the end of it, dex isn’t just letting you take care of him — he’s accepting it. he’s letting go of the need to be strong, letting himself lean into the care you’re offering him.

sick ;;

dex is stubborn and doesn’t like being seen as vulnerable, but when he’s sick, it’s hard to hide it. at first, he’ll try to act like nothing’s wrong, but there’s a slight quiver to his voice and a flushed look on his face that makes it clear he’s not okay. you insist he rests, but he resists, trying to get up, even though it’s obvious he’s barely holding it together. “i’m fine.” he insists, though he winces when he tries to sit up. you place a hand gently on his shoulder, guiding him back down. “let me help, okay?” there’s a moment of hesitation, but then, he sinks into the bed with a soft sigh. “fine. but just for a bit.”

starts to enjoy the attention. at first, he’s awkward about the idea of being taken care of. he’s not used to this kind of attention, especially when he’s vulnerable. when you bring him tea or medicine, he takes it from you with a quiet thanks. when you press a cold cloth to his forehead, he sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. “i never get sick,” he mutters. “this is... embarrassing.” you just chuckle softly. “you don’t have to be embarrassed.” he grumbles, but when you adjust the blankets around him, he allows you to do it without protest, a small, content smile tugging at his lips.

gets way too comfortable with being spoiled. as the day goes on, dex stops protesting so much and starts relaxing into the care you’re giving him. he’ll lean into you when you’re sitting next to him, subtly seeking out your attention. he’s clearly not used to letting his guard down like this, but now that you’re there, it’s as if he doesn’t want to let go of the feeling of being cared for. you end up sitting close to him, rubbing his back or holding his hand, and he lets it happen without a single complaint. he might be too eager for your attention at this point.

he’ll keep asking for just one more thing. “can you bring me more water? my throat’s killing me.” / “can you adjust the blankets? i think i’m cold.” / “hey... i think i need more tea.”

each time, you just smile and do whatever he asks. it’s obvious he’s soaking it all in, and when you return with whatever he’s asked for, he looks almost smug. he’s enjoying being doted on.

“hey, stay close.”

he’ll let you do whatever it takes to make him feel better. you go out of your way to make sure he’s comfortable — adjusting pillows, offering him favorite snacks, ensuring the temperature is just right — and he doesn’t fight you on it. in fact, he starts to let you do even more, seeking you out for small comforts.

“can you grab my jacket? i’m cold.”

milks the attention longer than he should. even though he’s starting to feel better, dex still leans into the sick act, enjoying the extra care and affection you're giving him. he’s obviously pushing the limits, pretending to be more miserable than he really is, just so he can keep you close for a little longer.

he’ll use the smallest excuse to keep you close. he’s not even sick anymore, but he finds ways to need you. “i think i need more water... can you get it?” he asks, and even though he could get up himself, he doesn't. when you return with the water, he makes sure to sit up a little, just enough to let his body brush against yours.“thanks,” he says, taking the glass from you but not letting go of your hand. “you’re still sick, huh?” you tease, noticing his play for more attention. “mhm.” he hums, pulling you back to sit beside him.

starts to get more demanding, subtly asking for your attention and touch in ways that are almost too obvious. “i think i need another blanket. i’m cold.” you don’t question it, just draping the blanket over him, but as you do, he shifts his position, cuddling against you with his face pressed against your chest. “you okay?” you ask, but there’s a hint of a smirk on your lips. “yeah. just... it’s more comfortable this way.” he mutters, but there’s a faint blush creeping up his neck.

at this point, it’s clear dex is milking the whole situation for all the affection he can get. “can you give me more tea?” — you get up to make him another cup, but when you return, he’s acting like he can barely keep his eyes open, his body practically sprawling out on the couch as if he needs help sitting up.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

he’s stubborn about it, of course. billy won’t let you see how much pain he’s in. at first, he’ll insist he’s fine, but there’s an underlying tension in his jaw, a small wince when he moves, betraying him. he’s never liked being weak, but with you, he might let his guard down just a little.

despite being injured, he still tries to take care of you in small ways, like reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face or trying to make you laugh with a smirk even though he’s clearly in pain. it’s his way of showing that, even when he’s vulnerable, he’s still your protector. he just struggles with the idea of being dependent on anyone.

there’s a quiet intensity in the way he lets you care for him. he watches you with a mix of appreciation and reluctance, his pride tugging at him. you can tell it bothers him to have someone else take control, but the trust he places in you during these moments is something you’ve earned over time. it’s not easy for him to let go, but with each soft word you say or gentle touch you offer, he begins to settle. when he finally relaxes enough to close his eyes, there’s this peaceful, almost childlike quality to him that you don’t often see.

billy’s mind is always moving, always on alert, so even in his injured state his gaze doesn’t lose its sharpness. he’s still watching you, still trying to read every shift in your expression, even though he knows you’re just there to help.

his patience wears thin quickly. he’s snappy, his usual calm demeanor replaced with frustration. every little thing seems to set him off. maybe it’s because he’s not used to being in a position where he can’t control the situation. if you try to help him sit up, he might groan and mutter, “I can do it myself.” but his tone is sharp, as if he’s trying to hold on to whatever dignity he has left.

but then, just when you think he’s about to snap again, he’ll flash you that smirk. it’s crooked and a little cocky, like he’s amused by his own stubbornness. “didn’t think I’d let you do all the work, did you?” he’ll tease, the words dripping with his usual charm, even though you know he’s still hurting.

sometimes, he tries to play it off like it’s nothing. you’ll catch him pretending to stretch out a sore limb or walk a few steps as if he's not barely able to stand. his chest will puff up a little, that familiar arrogance creeping back in despite the pain. “im fine. just a couple of cuts. didn’t even faze me.” - but you can see the way he’s fighting to keep his composure. you can tell he’s testing his limits, trying to prove something to himself more than anyone else.

still, there’s a subtle charm in the way he interacts with you when he’s like this. even though he’s being difficult, there’s an undeniable magnetism to the way he looks at you — half-mischievous, half-vulnerable. it’s that same cocky confidence that makes him so irresistible, even when he’s at his weakest. “gonna take care of me? maybe I’ll let you.” he’ll say with a grin, like he’s giving you some kind of privilege.

his ego doesn’t disappear entirely, though. he still likes to make light of his injuries, tossing out sarcastic remarks to mask the discomfort. “im gonna need a massage after this. what do you think? I’d let you take care of me… if I was feeling generous.” he’ll tease, but you can tell by the way he looks at you — half playful, half serious — that he’s grateful. even if he won’t say it out loud, he trusts you to be there for him in a way he doesn’t trust anyone else.

when it’s time for him to sleep, you’ll notice the way his posture softens just a little. even when he’s trying to be cocky, there’s a shift in his demeanor. he’ll sigh, a little more worn out than he lets on, and that sharp edge will disappear for just a moment. his voice might be quieter, softer. “..you’re staying, right?” he’ll ask, his hand reaching for yours.

sick ;;

when billy’s sick, it’s a whole new level of dramatic. he hates being vulnerable, and every sniffle or cough feels like the end of the world to him. he’s the type to grumble and complain, his usual confidence replaced with whiny annoyance. “im not staying in bed. im fine.” he’ll huff, trying to sit up despite the way his body betrays him. “just give me some water and I’ll power through it. no need to coddle me.”

but, of course, he does need to be coddled, and he knows it. despite his protest, he leans into your care like a cat begging for attention. as soon as you bring him some tea or medicine, he’s dramatically sighing, “i swear, ive never been this sick in my life. you’re lucky you’re here.” there’s a strange mixture of annoyance and self-pity in his voice, like he can’t decide if he’s mad at you for babying him or if he’s secretly enjoying the pampering.

billy’s needy, it’s almost adorable how much he craves your attention when he’s unwell. he’ll drag himself under the blankets, looking absolutely pitiful, just to make sure you’re still close by. “I need another blanket.” he’ll demand, his voice hoarse, and when you pull one up to his chest, “no, higher — it has to cover my shoulders. do I look like I’m made of strength right now?”

when you try to leave the room for a moment, he becomes ridiculously clingy. “where do you think you're going?” he’ll say, voice dripping with that faux-dramatic tone, as though he’s just barely hanging on. he’ll pull at your hand like he’s holding onto a lifeline, only to give you a smirk when you roll your eyes at him. "come on. I know I’m a handful, but you like it."

he's annoyingly charming about it, though. in between his exaggerated complaints, he’ll throw in little winks or cheeky comments, like, “you’re really good at this. could get used to it, honestly.”

he’s like a child when he’s sick. billy will “accidentally” spill something on the couch or knock over his water, then give you the most innocent, pleading look. “whoops, guess I’m just too weak to do anything by myself,” he’ll say, batting his eyelashes. It’s all a game to him, and you’re just the one caught in the middle of his adorable (but infuriating) antics.

at one point, he’ll try to be tough again and downplay how miserable he feels, but you can see right through it. “you know i’ve been through way worse than this?” he’ll ask, trying to sit up straight but clearly wincing with every movement. “this is nothing... but I could really use some tea right about now.”

even when he’s sick, he can’t resist being the center of attention. he’ll joke around, flashing a sly grin as you tend to him. his eyes always betray him, glinting with the knowledge that he’s getting exactly what he wants: you, all to himself, for as long as he’s in this state.

as the day goes on, his mood might swing. he’ll go from snappy to needy to playful in the blink of an eye. "im freezing," he’ll complain dramatically, shivering under the covers, only for a second later to insist, “actually, im burning up. open a window, will you?” he’s impossible to please, but the more he shifts between being unbearably needy and adorably cocky, the more endearing it becomes.

when you finally sit down next to him, offering your hand or a little support, he’ll grab your wrist with a feigned groan, dragging you closer. “you don’t have to sit so far away, you know. im dying over here.” he’ll say with a teasing smirk, clearly enjoying the fact that you’re stuck by his side. as much as he pretends to be miserable, there’s a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, because, in the end, he does like being taken care of by you.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

dinah’s always been tough, and used to doing things on her own, so when she’s injured, she’ll fight you at first. she’ll try to stand up by herself, even though every movement makes her wince. “i’m alright,” she’ll insist, her voice rough but still holding onto that controlled edge, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you. she won’t want to admit she needs help, but there’s a quiet vulnerability in the way she looks at you when she realizes she can’t do it alone.

she won’t let you coddle her, but there’s something in the way she lets you take care of her that says she trusts you in a way she doesn’t with anyone else. when you help her sit down on the couch, she’ll let out a long breath and briefly close her eyes. “this isn’t exactly how i wanted to spend the day.” she’ll say, trying to make light of the situation with a small, wry smile. but it���s obvious how much she’s holding back, how much she doesn’t want to seem weak.

dinah’s pride doesn’t let her rest easily. when you offer to help her get something to drink, she’ll reach for the cup herself, her fingers shaking slightly. “i can handle it.” she’ll say, but you can see the fatigue in her eyes.

she might get snappy when she’s frustrated, snapping, “i don’t need to be treated like i’m fragile.” but you can tell it’s just a defense mechanism. deep down, she’s relieved when you reassure her and show her that it’s okay to be vulnerable. when you gently adjust the blankets around her or brush her hair back, she’ll close her eyes, momentarily losing that sharp edge, allowing herself to lean into the moment.

dinah still holds on to that stubborn strength, but she’ll let you pamper her in small ways. she’ll accept your help without fully acknowledging it, maybe with a soft sigh as you help her sit or when you pass her a glass of water. “thanks.” she’ll mutter, voice barely above a whisper, and it’s not much, but it’s enough for you to know she’s grateful, even if she doesn’t always show it.

sick ;;

she won’t let you baby her, but when you bring her a cup of tea or some medicine, there’s a soft sigh of relief in her that she tries to hide. “i’m not some damsel in distress.” she’ll joke, but there’s a faint smile that follows, one that’s only for you. she’ll roll her eyes.

when you sit next to her, she’ll complain about how much she hates being stuck in bed, how useless she feels. “this isn’t me,” she’ll say, voice hoarse. “i don’t do sick.” but even as she says it, she’ll lean closer to you.

there will be moments where she’ll get a little snappy, her patience wearing thin. “stop hovering.” she’ll say, but the words aren’t harsh, they’re just her way of pushing back against the discomfort. she’s not used to being on the receiving end of attention, and it takes her a moment to adjust. still, there’s a quiet relief when you respect her space, but you know when to step back in with something she needs; whether it’s a blanket, another drink, or just a simple reassurance.

you’ll find her leaning on you more than usual. when you bring her some soup or medicine, she’ll try to sit up on her own, but she can’t help but let herself rest against your side. “you’re not getting paid for this, are you?” she’ll dryly joke.

when she does finally settle down to sleep, she’s still a little restless, tossing and turning. she’ll reach out for you in the dark, hand brushing your arm, just to feel your presence close by. she won’t admit it, but she finds comfort in knowing you’re there, watching over her.

the next day, when she’s starting to feel a little better, she’ll try to get back to her usual self—fighting the weakness in her body. “i’ll be fine,” she’ll say, but there’s still a lingering tiredness in her voice, something that tells you she’s still not fully healed.

she’ll try to hide it, but you’ll catch her leaning on the wall or taking a breath before standing up straight again. and in those moments, you just know: she’s still the same strong, independent woman.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

he’ll be reluctant to let you help. wesley’s always been the one who’s in control, running things behind the scenes, so when he's injured, he’s at odds with himself. he’ll try to mask it, pushing through like he always does, even when every movement sends a jolt of discomfort through him.

he won’t ask for anything, but he’ll appreciate when you step in. if you gently help him sit up, or offer him a glass of water, he’ll hesitate for a moment, but then take it without a word. there’s a silent gratitude behind his eyes, even if he tries to downplay it.

wesley’s not great at being taken care of. he’s used to being the one who takes care of everyone else, but when he’s hurt, he’s almost embarrassed by how dependent he feels. if you try to help him stand, he’ll grumble, “i don’t need a nurse.” but there’s a subtle shift in his posture, a small, almost imperceptible relaxation when he leans against you.

when you try to get him to lie down and rest, he’ll fight it. “i can’t just lie here.” he’ll insist, voice a little strained, his usual calm lost to frustration. he doesn’t like being in a position where he has no control, where he’s forced to rely on someone. but when you gently guide him back onto the bed, the tension in his shoulders will slowly melt away. you’ll notice how his usually sharp eyes soften a little, the cool exterior cracking just enough for you to see how tired and worn down he really is.

there are moments when his usual cocky confidence slips, and you catch glimpses of a side of him that’s much more vulnerable. if you’re cleaning a wound or adjusting his bandages, he’ll flinch, and his hand might instinctively reach for yours.

despite his frustration with needing help, wesley will occasionally make sly remarks or try to lighten the mood. “maybe you should consider a career change.” — it’s his way of admitting that he likes the attention, even if he’s too proud to admit how much he’s relying on you. his words are playful, but there’s a sincerity to them that tells you he’s appreciating everything you’re doing, even if he won’t come out and say it directly.

when he finally falls asleep, his body still tense but exhausted, you’ll notice that he seems to have let go of some of the usual control he clings to. his breathing will even out, and for a moment, he’ll look completely at ease, vulnerable in a way he’s rarely allowed himself to be. and while he might not say it, you know that he trusts you more than anyone to be there when he’s at his most fragile.

sick ;;

he’ll try to push through, pacing around, pretending he doesn’t need rest. “just need some air.” he’ll say, as if standing up too fast won’t make him dizzy. but you know better. you know he’s trying to fight it, but it’s clear he’s not okay.

when you hand him some medicine or a cup of water, he’ll take it, but with that same snarky attitude. the way he grips the glass a little too tightly, though, betrays him. he wants the care, but he can’t quite admit it. instead, he’ll make some snide remark about how you're being too nice to him.

at some point, you’ll have to convince him to rest. “i’m not staying in bed all day.” he’ll say, trying to push the blankets off, but he’s sweating, pale, and his energy is practically gone. you’ll have to practically beg him to lie down. “wesley, you’re not fine,” you’ll insist gently, and his usual resistance will crumble. with a huff, he’ll let you tuck him in but not without a bit of sass. “this better not become a habit.”

the moments when he lets you in are subtle. at first, he’ll just let you bring him food or water, never making a fuss about it. but then, when you help him sit up, maybe prop him up with a pillow, he’ll lean into your touch just a little longer than necessary. he won’t say anything about it, but his body will relax in a way it normally doesn’t.

despite being sick, he still can’t help himself from trying to act cool. “there are worse things to experience.” he might act like it’s no big deal, and he might do a good job at it too if it weren’t for his sickly appearance.

there will be moments where he gets frustrated with himself. “i hate this,” he’ll mutter, his usual control slipping. “i don’t like being stuck in bed.” you’ll see the frustration in his eyes, the way he clenches his jaw, and you’ll know he’s not just mad about being sick — he’s mad about not being able to do things on his own.

as he finally drifts off, you’ll notice how much more at ease he is. his breathing will even out, and there’s a small, almost imperceptible smile on his lips. he won’t say thank you, but the way he lets you stay by his side, trusting you enough to let himself fall asleep while you watch over him, is his way of showing it.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

will try to be stoic about his injury. whether it's a gunshot wound or a deep gash, he’ll do everything he can to hide the extent of it. won’t show it outwardly, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his usually composed demeanor cracks ever so slightly.

you’ll probably have to push him to sit down, or at least let you tend to the injury. he won’t like it, but there’s a moment when you’re looking at him, softly urging him to let you care for him, that his usual defenses lower. “i can handle it,” he’ll say, but there’s no denying the exhaustion in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to maintain his composure. he’ll reluctantly let you clean the wound or patch him up, but he’ll make sure to cover his vulnerability with sharp, dismissive comments:

muse doesn’t like to be treated with tenderness. it feels too vulnerable to him, too human. he’d rather brush it off or power through it. but the moment you press the cool cloth to his forehead, or you gently hold his hand while helping him sit up, he’ll pause. he might not say anything, but there’s a flicker in his eyes — he’s letting you in, even if it’s uncomfortable for him.

when you try to get him to rest he’ll be stubborn, leaning against walls or trying to push himself up when he clearly needs to be lying down. he’ll snap, irritated that he can’t be his usual self. he might even close his eyes for a moment, allowing himself that tiny indulgence, though he won’t admit to being grateful.

by the time he starts to feel better, muse will try to get back to his feet, never wanting to admit how much he needed the rest. “i didn’t need you to do all that.”

sick ;;

he won’t admit that anything’s wrong. he’ll try to keep going, like nothing’s changed. you’ll see the way his usual composure starts to crack though, the way he rubs at his temples or coughs quietly when he thinks you’re not looking. it’s clear he’s already pushing himself too hard.

when you offer to help, he’ll brush you off. he hates the idea of being taken care of. there’s a certain bitterness in his voice when he denies it, like he’s offended by the very idea of being weak. “i don’t need tea.” he’ll mutter, but you’ll catch him eyeing the mug you brought him anyway. he’ll take it, but only after a little push, and when he does, there’s a reluctant satisfaction in the way he closes his eyes for a second, letting the warmth soothe him.

muse isn’t one to sit still for long, but when he’s sick, he’s forced to. you’ll catch him trying to get up, pace around, or even work despite his feverish state. you’ll have to insist that he rest, leading him to the couch or back to bed, and he’ll make a show of it. “this is ridiculous,” he’ll say, but his eyes are bloodshot, his energy drained. he knows he’s not going anywhere, but he’s too proud to admit it.

muse gets easily frustrated when he’s sick, especially with the way it renders him useless. he can’t help but feel annoyed by how dependent he is on you, and when you suggest something like taking medicine or drinking water, he’ll roll his eyes and try to avoid it. eventually he’ll give in, albeit begrudgingly.

in the quieter moments, when he’s too tired to fight or argue, he’ll finally let you be the one to care for him. maybe it’s when you adjust his blankets, or when you bring him something warm and place it next to him. “i’m not weak.” he’ll insist, though his voice is quieter, weaker than before. he’s trying to remind you that this is temporary, that he’ll get back to his usual self soon.

★ a / n : bwuhhh thank u for the rose .. flowers for you lovely anon 💐. hope this was to your standard !

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.28.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[crescenthistory]

hi there love! i hope you're doing well 🤍 if it's okay w/ u, i'd like to request a regulus fic (are we surprised? no-) with an animagus! reader. maybe reggie and reader got into a fight about something and reader's still holding a grudge. they refuse to change out of their cat (or any animal u choose!) form and regulus is trying everything to get them to change back. ending in fluff probably :D

~🍓

i'm quite alright darling, hope the same goes for you<3 this little drabble is written with the same cat!animagus!reader i've written for reggie so far in mind (whiskers, my love) since she's known to be petty...

Words: 1.3k

Warnings: fem!reader, minor fight (lighthearted), embarrassment, you're petty, regulus grovels, black brothers have poor people skills, make-up, background wolfstar and (judgemental) bsf!remus

"How long has she been like this?"

Sirius was eyeing Regulus funnily, seemingly drawn between wanting to laugh at him and wondering if maybe he should comfort him. Remus felt none of the latter sentiments and all of the former.

"Since our last class on Friday," Regulus replied miserably from where his face was buried in his hands, resting atop his knees. "She shifted immediately after."

"So... for over 24 hours," Sirius surmised.

That was apparently the wrong thing to say, based on how Regulus lifted his head from where he was practically bent in half, just to glare at his older brother. "Thanks for doing the maths, Sirius. Not the problem I needed solving, though." Throughout his sentence, his eyes increasingly narrowed at his brother as if his irritation grew with every word.

"No, your problem," Remus volleyed. "Is whatever the hell you've done."

Regulus groaned and buried his face once more.

Across the common room from the trio, a white and grey cat was pettily walking back and forth along whatever furniture it could reach. Its tail was standing up straight, whipping about in annoyance.

Remus poked Regulus in the ribs to get a response. "What'd you do, Baby Black?"

"I may or may not have corrected her in Potions in front of Slughorn, even though she may have been working on gaining his respect all term," Regulus murmured.

The chuckle that escaped Remus was finally one of understanding. "Ah," he said through a smile. "I believe that is what we in the business call a rookie mistake."

Regulus sat up with a jerk, hands moving emotively as he made his case to his brother and brother-in-law, where they were sat on top of each other in a plush chair. "But I've apologised! Profusely, and several times! I don't know what else to do?" The last sentence was voiced as a question, though it was not formulated as one. Perhaps the closest the younger Black brother could get to asking for help.

"Maybe you should give Slughorn a speech about how great she is."

Regulus quirked up at that, eyes zeroing in on Sirius. "You really think that would work?" Remus could have burst out laughing at the lack of sarcasm in the younger boy's voice.

"No," Remus said softly, while chidingly patting Sirius' knee. "Don't listen to him, you lot have the same amount of people skills. Do you know your girlfriend, Regulus?"

"Yes?" Regulus' voice was uncertain, looking between the boys with furrowed brows.

"What usually motivates her to hold a grudge?" Remus prompted then, ever patient.

He was quiet for a minute as he thought. "When she feels wronged. Like when Evan apologised for her 'interpretaion' of what he said instead of for him hurting her feelings, and she disliked him for three years."

Remus nodded solemnly. "And is there a reason she might still feel wronged by you now?"

Regulus' gaze finally fixated on the cat across the room, nodding too as the puzzle pieces slowly assembled in his mind. "I apologised for correcting her... but not embarrassing her. She probably feels like I was lording over her or something."

"Meaning..?" Gods, Remus was really laying it on thick here. The curse of the Black family.

"I should go tell her as much." Regulus nodded and moved to hurry over towards you, swinging around at the last minute to give the two boys an almost-smile. "Uh, thanks Sirius. Remus."

Then he was off.

Sirius turned his face into Remus' cheek. "No idea what he's thanking me for; you did all the talking."

Remus sighed, melting further into his boyfriend. "That's what I've been saying."

Regulus tenderly approached you, sitting down somewhat gingerly in a chair beside the table you were currently parading around. "Hi, amour," he said softly. "Can we talk?"

You just wagged your tail in response, in a fashion Regulus has come to learn means displeasure.

"Please love, I want to give you a proper apology. It would be best to do so face-to-face, no?" He reached his hand out towards you, an open invitation. You stopped for a moment to regard him, but then lightly slapped at his hand to get it out of your face. Regulus decided to take it as a victory that your claws were retracted at the very least – you weren't out for blood.

“Okay,” he said through a breath. “I guess I’ll just… talk to a kitten and look crazy.” Upon your quiet hiss, he amended, “Talk to a cat, sorry. Gods, I’m sputtering today, aren’t I?” That final part you seemed to agree upon at least.

“Amour, I am truly deeply sorry for embarrassing you like that. It was such a little thing, and Slughorn has been so unfair towards you this year. I didn't mean to set you back in your progression with him, though frankly, he is in the wrong there, not you. As am I. For someone who feels like he can go around correcting people, that was quite air-headed of me, yeah? The one person keeping me grounded is you, amour, please would you come back to me? You can give me a proper scolding if you’d like, I can take it.”

Regulus was pouring his heart out, and if he dared to hope, he thought your feline face might have softened. You walked closer to him, seemingly studying his face.

Then, you jumped off the table and ran away.

He sighed heavily, letting his forehead fall down to the table with a light thump. If you were going to keep giving him the furred shoulder, he might just stay here. It was hard work being a tosser who’s missing his girlfriend.

Before he could wallow further in his sorrows, he felt a soft hand be placed on his shoulder. A touch he would recognise anywhere.

His head flew up from the table to look up at you – standing above him, smiling softly and somewhat sheepishly. The hand on his shoulder grew bolder, squeezing, while the other came up to cup the side of his face. Regulus ignored any instinct to cower away and instead happily melted into your touch.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered, and he knew he was mostly forgiven.

Emboldened by this new development, he turned in his seat so that his body faced you, slotting you in between his thighs and letting his hands come to rest heavily at the top of your hip. “Hi amour,” he breathed out, reverent. “Thank you.”

“For what?” you laughed, and he knew you knew what. He indulged you anyway.

“Coming back to me.” His voice was murmured, eyes hooded as he stared up at you. “I miss you when you remain as Whiskers, you know?”

“I do know,” you teased. “That’s kind of the whole point, yeah? Make you think.”

He shook his head and leaned his forehead tentatively against your stomach. “A cruel punishment, but an understandable one. I truly am sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

Regulus sighed when your hand migrated to scratch through his hair. “I know, baby. I just wanted to hear you say it. And–” at this point he could hear the blush in your voice “– at some point it just became principle. Too late to back out.”

Laughing against the fabric of your shirt, he moved to rest his chin against you, gazing up at you at an angle that was slightly uncomfortable but definitely worth it. He let a small grin slip. “Stubborn minx,” he whispered.

“Oi!” you chided gently. “You’re in no position to levy such accusations, mister.”

“I can’t imagine loving you more,” he said through a sigh, not even thinking over the words. They were just right, and demanded to be brought up.

If the way your body melted against his was anything to go by, you didn’t mind.

A booming voice cut the moment short. “You two are painfully dramatic,” Sirius yelled from across the room, clearly having paid attention to the whole make-up conversation. “Please never fight again.”

“And that’s coming from Sirius Black,” Remus added solemnly, earning himself an indignant swat from his partner.

“He’s right,” Regulus whispered conspiratorially to you. “I cannot be the most dramatic Black brother, that would be blasphemy.”

“Then I suggest,” you said before giving him a light peck, “you be on your best behaviour from now on.

A grin. “Yes ma’am.”