#everything all of it. every word and every mention

[hangmanwrites]

freeze me, baby ━ johnny storm (part two)

gif not mine!! requested by: @voldyslostnose05 , @girlinterrupted1999 , @nanidice , @emilieboje word count: 4,667words pairing: johnny storm x fem!reader synopsis: johnny storm asks you to train with him and you accidentally give the human torch a cold after blasting him with too much ice, and now he’s sick, pathetic, wrapped in five blankets and begging you for a hug while you try very hard not to combust from secondhand embarrassment or feelings. content warnings: mentions of illness, mild body discomfort, sniffling and congestion, awkward physical contact, emotional vulnerability, light teasing and banter, i have not seen the fantastic four: first steps so some details might be inaccurate author's note: i had not expected part one to blow up the way it did, and a few of you asked for a part two so here we are, johnny is sick and ridiculous and i had way too much fun writing this, thank you so much for all the love ♡ part onemasterlist

“You’re heatstroke in human form, and I have work to do, so please go bother someone less emotionally stable.”

“You are so rude! I just wanted to help!”

“If this is you helping, I’d hate to see you sabotage someone.”

That’s been your life for the past three months, more or less. You babysit Franklin. Johnny babysits you.

That’s how it feels, anyway, because no matter where you go in this building, somehow he’s already there, waiting to annoy the life out of you with a smoothie in one hand and a half-baked training idea in the other. 

You’ll be on your way to the kitchen, and he’ll pop up from behind the fridge like it’s a sitcom. 

You’ll be trying to finish the daily log, and he’ll be leaning against the table talking about “synergy” like he knows what it means. 

It’s not even subtle. 

He’s always doing the opposite of what you ask, just to get a reaction, like that’s the whole goal, and he’s trying to see how close he can get before you snap and ice him to the floor.

And maybe you are close. 

You’re tired, frankly. Not just because of the babysitting, not because of him exactly, but  because he keeps pushing this training idea like it’s a favour, like he’s doing you a kindness by insisting you “unleash your potential,” when the truth is, you’ve barely let yourself go past frost. 

You use what you need. Enough to help. Enough to function. You haven’t tested your limits, haven’t wanted to, and he doesn’t get that. 

Of course he doesn’t! 

He’s fire. He explodes first and thinks later. He’s reckless in a way you can’t afford to be.

You’re careful. Not because you’re scared, but because you’ve seen what happens when you’re not. When things get too cold. When you let it spread. When you lose that thin thread of control and suddenly it’s not just your hands or the air around you, it’s the walls, the floors, the people in the room who didn’t sign up for a frostbite demonstration. 

So no, you’re not interested in pushing yourself to the edge just because Johnny Storm has the attention span of a golden retriever and thinks training is a form of flirting.

And maybe that’s the worst part, because he does flirt. All the time. Loud and bright and relentless, and it’s not even that you don’t notice, it’s that you do.

That you’re aware of it, that you’re aware of him, that every time he leans a little too close or calls you “ice queen” with that stupid grin, your stomach does something incredibly unhelpful. 

Which is ridiculous, objectively ridiculous. You shouldn’t be entertaining the idea of someone like him, someone who burns for fun, who touches everything like it won’t turn to ash.

You’ve spent your whole life trying not to melt things down, and he walks around like combustion is a personality trait.

So, no. You’re not testing anything. You’re not unlocking anything. You’re not letting some overgrown firework talk you into destroying half the training wing just so he can feel useful for once.

Back to the present, he’s using his stupid eyes again, wide and shiny like that’s going to do anything except make you want to slam the door in his face twice as hard, like you’re supposed to fall over in gratitude just because he showed up with his dumb grin and his arms crossed and that stupid tilt to his head that makes him look smug and wounded at the same time. 

And honestly, you’re starting to become more and more convinced that if past lives are real, he was definitely some kind of golden retriever, maybe one that never got trained properly, just loud and messy and permanently under the impression that your time belongs to him.

“I’m serious,” he says, and you roll your eyes so hard it’s practically a reflex now, like muscle memory, like your whole body has adapted to his presence by finding the most efficient way to express disdain without moving too much, “You need to train.”

“I’m trained,” you mutter, flat and clipped, already turning back toward your desk, because this is not a conversation you want to have again, not today, not with him, not when your gloves are still damp from freezing the pipes in the lower lab after they overheated again.

“You know that’s not what I mean.” He’s trailing after you now, as though you’ve given him a trail of snacks to follow even though all you’ve ever given him is a headache. “You’ve got powers, like, actual powers, not just cool party tricks or freezing someone’s soda as a passive-aggressive flex.”

You turn. The kind of turn that makes him take half a step back even though he tries to hide it with a smile.

“I use what I need,” you say, quiet but sharp, like a warning. “Enough to help. Enough to function. I haven’t tested my limits. I haven’t needed to.”

“But you should,” he insists, and there it is again, that Johnny voice, the one that thinks volume equals conviction, the one that thinks if he just keeps talking long enough, you’ll fold. “Because what if something happens? What if Franklin gets in trouble again? What if someone gets hurt and you can’t—”

“I’ve never not been able to help,” you snap, and it comes out colder than you mean it to, even for you, even with the way your voice always sounds like winter wrapped in sarcasm, and Johnny blinks, not because you startled him, but because he didn’t expect you to snap. 

He recovers quickly, of course he does, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to grin, because this is probably his favourite part, winding you up until you finally stop being neutral and start being something. Anything.

“I’m just saying,” he says, like that’s going to soften the blow, “maybe you’re a little scared to find out what you can actually do.”

You scoff, loud enough to make it known that you were disgusted. Then you walk past him like he’s nothing.

Which, of course, doesn’t stop him.

“It’s okay,” he calls after you, hands on his hips like a cartoon hero, “I’d be scared, too. If I had terrifying world-ending frost powers and the emotional availability of a toaster.”

“I hate you.”

“You say that, but you haven’t iced me yet, so I’m calling that progress.”

“Keep talking,” you mutter, cold and flat and dry as hell, because if he says one more word with that stupid voice and that infuriating little tilt to his head, you might actually lose it, you might snap for real, because he’s been following you around like a persistent golden retriever with ADHD and a fire hazard for a tail and you’re not entirely convinced he wasn’t a dog in his past life

“Ouch,” he says, hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him, like your voice alone has physically hurt him, “That was uncalled for.”

You glare. “Try me again.”

“I’m just saying,” he goes on, because of course he does, because he doesn’t know how to shut up, “You clearly don’t hate having me around. You haven’t killed me yet.”

“I’ve considered it,” you mutter, ice crawling at your fingertips now, subtle, small, controlled, a warning more than a threat, and he sees it, because his eyes go all wide.

“I knew it,” he grins, cocky and warm and horrible, “You’ve got a bite.”

“I’ve got death,” you shoot back, and maybe it’s a little dramatic, but so is he, and two can play that game, “And if you set one more thing on fire near me, I will personally bury you in a glacier.”

“God, you’re hot,” he says, which is entirely the wrong word and he knows it, the bastard, because he grins even wider when your eye twitches again.

“Do you want to die?”

“Nope,” he says brightly, and then flames burst into his palm like it’s nothing, like this is his version of cracking his knuckles, “But if I do, at least I’ll go out in style.”

“Put that out.”

“Make me.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment. That’s when your brain snaps in half and all your common sense spills out on the floor like shattered ice, and you’ve had enough, enough of him, enough of his mouth, enough of him hovering over your shoulder like he’s doing it out of love and not boredom

“Fine,” you hiss, sharp and cold and very close to unleashing something terrible, “You want to train? We’ll train. And I swear, Johnny, if you flirt with me while I’m trying not to murder you, I’ll freeze your tongue off.”

He gasps. “That’s so specific.”

“Try me.”

“You know what,” he says, clearly vibrating with smugness, “This is gonna be fun. I’ll bring cones. Do we have cones?”

“I will destroy every cone you own.”

And he’s grinning the whole way to the training floor, practically bouncing on his feet like it’s break time and not guaranteed elemental carnage, and he’s definitely thinking about cones again, probably already building a playlist in his head called Training With the Ice Queen, Vol 1.

And the thing is, he knows you’re going to wipe the floor with him, knows you’ll probably slam him into a wall of permafrost and embarrass him within five minutes, but god, he sort of hopes you don’t.

Not because he’s scared. Not because he can’t handle it.

But because if this actually works, if this whole training thing gets off the ground, if you start to trust him, if you stop flinching every time he walks into the room, then maybe, just maybe, he’ll get to stick around.

And for once, he really doesn’t want to mess that up.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.��� .* :☆ ･ ｡ﾟ───

Johnny messed it all up.

He absolutely, unequivocally, spectacularly messed it up, and it starts the second you walk into the training floor and the temperature in the room drops by at least five degrees just from you existing, which would be impressive if it wasn’t so completely out of your control.

You didn’t mean to frost the doorknob on your way in, it’s just that you’re trying really hard not to scream, and apparently your body interprets emotional regulation as “let’s ice over the light switches and see what happens.”

You’re trying. Really. You even wore your gloves. Thick, black, fireproof ones Reed gave you that look incredibly dramatic but mostly just make you feel like you’re about to inspect a nuclear core.

And Johnny, bless him or curse him or kill him gently, looks absolutely delighted.

“Did you frost the floor?” he says, skidding a little as he walks towards you, and for a second you consider pretending you don’t know what he’s talking about, but then he slips, catches himself with too much flair, and grins at you like it’s a performance. “Because I swear that wasn’t there yesterday.”

“Don’t fall,” you say, monotone. “I’m not helping you up.”

He puts a hand to his heart. “Wow. That’s cold.”

You blink. “That’s literally the problem.”

And the thing is, you were doing fine. You were holding it together. You were mentally preparing yourself to do this training session without incident, without damage, without having to see that look on someone’s face when they realise you’re not actually in control, that you’re not the calm, collected ice queen people keep calling you like it’s a compliment, when really, it’s just shorthand for emotionally unavailable and probably dangerous.

But then Johnny opens his mouth, and of course he opens his mouth, because why wouldn’t he, and he says—

“Alright, Ice Pop, gloves off. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

And the gloves are off, like literally, you take them off, mostly for the drama of it, but also because you can’t actually use your powers properly with them on, and you meant to make it look cool, you meant to flex, to be intimidating and elegant and mysterious, but your stupid fingers get caught in the lining and you have to yank one of them off with your teeth like a feral goblin. 

And you’re standing there with your hair already frizzing from the drop in pressure and your breath fogging up in the air and Johnny laughing at you like you’re adorable and not about to ice-punch him into next week.

He doesn’t even look scared. He looks gleeful.

“Are you laughing at me or with me?” you ask, eyes narrow.

“Is ‘both’ an option?” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet, fire curling around his hands already like this is a sparring match and not mutually-assured emotional destruction.

And that’s the moment it happens.

That’s when he messes it up.

Because your heart starts racing and your control starts slipping and the frost creeps down your arms faster than you can regulate it, and you can feel it happening, feel the pressure building behind your ribs like a storm, like your own body is saying don’t trust this, don’t do this, back out, shut it down, run.

Johnny doesn’t notice though because he’s too busy talking, too busy smirking, too busy spinning in little half-circles on the iced-over tile like this is a date and not a disaster waiting to happen.

“God, you’re fun when you’re moody,” he says.

“God, you’re flammable when you’re stupid,” you snap back, but your voice comes out sharper than you intended, and colder too, and it echoes a little too hard off the walls.

And he hears it. You know he hears it. His smirk twitches, falters for a second, not in fear, not in offence, but like maybe he finally clocked that this isn’t just fun for you, that this isn’t a warm-up or a game, that your body doesn’t exactly ask before it reacts.

You inhale too quickly and it fogs in the air between you, and you don’t know where to look, so you just look through him like he’s not even the problem, like he didn’t trigger whatever's crackling inside your ribs, like you’re not seconds from turning the entire room into a skating rink because your fingers are tingling and your palms are already cold and the tile beneath your boots creaks.

But Johnny takes a small step back, not away, just out of the immediate danger zone, like he’s not running, just... adjusting, and then he exhales and rolls his shoulders out, still bouncing a little like his body doesn’t know how to not be kinetic.

“Alright,” he says, voice a little lower now, more serious. “You’re not trying to freeze the room. You’re trying to focus. Don’t throw everything at me, yeah? Pick a target. Be intentional.”

You blink.

“Be intentional?” you echo, and it sounds ridiculous coming out of your mouth because nothing about this feels intentional, you feel like a soda can be left in a freezer too long and you're already fizzing over, but he nods like you’re not a lost cause, like he actually believes you can pull it back.

“Yea, iIntentional. Doesn’t have to be big. Doesn’t have to be perfect. Just start small.”

He lifts a hand and points to one of the foam training cones in the corner of the room. One of his cones. The ones he always insists on bringing in for “spatial awareness” or “setting the vibe” or some other absurd Johnny Storm reason.

You squint at it. “You want me to kill your cone?”

“I want you to aim at my cone,” he corrects, and then he grins again, cocky but not cruel, warm but not mocking. “You can kill it if you want. It’ll be an honourable death.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re breathing slower now, grounding a little, shifting your weight between your feet like maybe you can pull the panic back down where it belongs, like maybe this doesn’t have to end in another cracked wall or a frozen ceiling tile.

You glance at the cone. You flex your fingers.

And then, you hold your hand out.

The frost creeps slower this time, not yanked out of you like a reflex but drawn forward like you're reaching for something deliberately, like you're choosing it. 

The air cools, but it doesn’t snap. Your control flickers, and you hold it, and you feel it try to surge, but you don’t let it. You keep it level. You keep it small.

And the cone ices over with a thin, sharp sheet that glints in the overhead lights.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not powerful. It’s not cinematic or deadly, but it’s controlled.

Johnny whistles low under his breath. “Alright, Frostbite. Not bad.”

You exhale so hard it almost doubles you over. “Don’t call me that.”

“Too late, it’s catchy.”

He’s smiling again. You’re not.

Because you know what comes next.

You can feel it in your bones, literally, because your body’s still buzzing from that one small shot of control and now it wants more, like you gave it permission and now your fingers are aching to pull moisture from the air again, to twist it into something sharper, heavier, louder. 

And Johnny’s just standing there like a bloody invitation, heat rolling off him in waves, cocky and warm and reckless. He smells like burnt ozone and confidence. His hair is already a little singed at the edges. You hate that it suits him.

“Alright,” you say, trying to sound composed and mostly failing, “again.”

You stretch your hand out, slow this time, palm up like you're reaching for a snowflake and not about to weaponise the weather. You picture something small. Contained. A little frost spiral, maybe a clean sweep across the floor, something delicate, something you don’t have to apologise for later. Something that won’t make Reed run diagnostics on you for the next six hours. 

But the second you focus, the power lurches, like it's excited, like it's been waiting for this moment, and you jerk slightly as a wave of cold blasts out from your fingertips, not wild but not polite either, and it hits the floor in a flash freeze that stretches halfway to Johnny's boots.

He laughs. “Okay! Alright! There she is.”

“Shut up.”

And then suddenly, fire. Just suddenly, like no warning, no countdown, just whoosh and his whole arm lights up, flames curling around his wrist and trailing to his shoulder like a bloody torch, and your whole body seizes because that was not part of the plan, that was not the brief, and what the hell is he doing, this was supposed to be your training, your meltdown, your moment to maybe impress someone for once and not be the ticking time bomb in the corner of the room.

“What are you doing?” you snap, breath fogging again. “Why are you—why are you on fire?”

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink. Just shrugs, fire crackling down his arm like a very smug lava lamp. “Training.”

“This is my training.”

“Yeah. And now it’s realistic.”

You gape at him, because realistic? Is he insane? “Realistic?” you repeat, borderline unhinged. “It was realistic when I was freezing cones, not when you’re actively trying to flambé yourself.”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Do you think you’re going to get into a fight with someone who isn’t trying to kill you back? Do you think the bad guys are gonna stand there and politely let you practise?”

You open your mouth. You hate that he has a point. You hate that he’s making sense with his dumb face and his dumb fire and his dumb dramatic timing. 

You feel like your brain is short-circuiting and your bloodstream is liquid nitrogen and your ribcage is either about to explode or implode, you haven’t decided.

He grins, and it’s shit-eating and golden.

“You think you’ll get to say ‘hang on, this is just my session, I’m working on my core control today’ while someone’s throwing fireballs at your head?” His voice goes deeper, dramatic and mocking: “‘Sorry mate, I didn’t warm up my anxiety-frost this morning, can we reschedule the villain attack?’”

You hate him. You hate him.

Your heart’s pounding. Your fingers are tingling. And he’s still on fire. Like literally, still on fire. You can feel the heat from where you're standing and it makes the skin on your cheeks prickle uncomfortably. It’s wrong, elemental whiplash, your body screaming this isn’t safe, this isn’t right, fix it, freeze it, shut it down—

“I hate you,” you mutter.

“No, you don’t.”

“I do!”

“Freeze me, baby,” he says, deadly serious.

You blink. “What?”

His smile widens like he’s just invented humour. “C’mon, freeze me! Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Say what, like what?”

“Like it’s foreplay.”

“Oh, my God,” he says, laughing now, full-bodied and loud, “you wish it was foreplay!”

You hurl a snowball at his face without thinking. It splats into his flaming shoulder and sizzles like bacon in a frying pan.

And it’s on.

Like really on.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ ･ ｡ﾟ───

“Do you… want tea or something?”

You say it too quietly, and too weirdly, and it sounds stupid the second it leaves your mouth but it’s too late now, you’re already in the room and he’s already looking at you, or at least aiming his tired little furnace face in your direction, eyes half-lidded and nose all pink and tragic, wrapped up in approximately six blankets like someone forcefully extinguished him and then rolled him in wool for good measure.

He sniffles. Audibly. Wetly.

You flinch.

Not because it’s gross, though it kind of is, but because it reminds you, again, that you did this. You did this to him. You turned him into a humidifier with legs. You iced his stupid grinning face into a wall during training, and then you laughed about it, and then he kept fighting you anyway, and now he’s… this.

He coughs once. Sort of chirps, actually. Like a bird dying.

“Oh, my God,” you whisper under your breath, because he looks awful. His hair’s gone all flat and fluffy in a directionless way, like it tried to combust and gave up halfway, and his eyes are glassy and pathetic and somehow still golden and glowing like he refuses to turn that off even if his lungs are malfunctioning. 

He’s sweating a little. You think it might be steam, but you honestly don’t know anymore.

“You don’t have to look so worried,” he says weakly, shifting under the weight of his blankets like they’ve fused to him. “It’s just a sniffle.”

“Johnny, your fire sneezed earlier.”

“That was an accident!”

“You almost lit the throw pillows on fire.”

“I said, sorry.”

You hover near the side of the couch, arms crossed, gloved hands tucked awkwardly under your elbows because you don’t know what to do with them, because the last time your skin touched his he ended up thermally confused and visibly smoking, and now he’s radiating more suffering than heat, and you’re honestly not sure what’s worse.

He shifts again, slowly this time, sort of curling inward like someone pulled the plug on his ego and left him with just... this. Just quiet and damp and too many blankets and a cough that sounds suspiciously dramatic.

“You’re really bad at this,” he says eventually, and you look up sharply.

“At what?”

“Comfort.”

You blink. “I offered you tea.”

“You sound like you’re threatening me.”

You blink again. “I am literally being nice to you.”

“Yeah, I can tell. It’s horrifying.”

Your jaw twitches. You stare at the floor. Then at the kettle. Then at your gloved hands. You don’t know why you’re wearing them again. You do, obviously, you always do after you mess up, but they feel worse than usual now, like a confession, like a line drawn in the room.

You clear your throat. “You said you wanted to help me.”

He nods weakly, adjusting the blanket over his head like he’s becoming a very sick monk.

You swallow. “I don’t know how to help you.”

He looks at you. Really looks, finally. Eyes soft, not glowing now, just dark and kind of sleep-wet, and he blinks slowly like maybe it’s not your voice that’s making him dizzy. Like maybe he’s actually listening.

“I know,” he says, quieter now.

And for some reason that makes it worse.

You sit down beside him, careful not to touch anything, careful to keep your hands in your lap, careful not to let your knee brush his, and he doesn’t say anything else, just lets the silence settle while you both pretend this isn’t weird.

You glance at him again, at the tip of his nose, red and awful.

“…Do you want a tissue?”

He doesn’t answer. He just stares at you from under the blanket with these red-rimmed, watery eyes like you’ve just offered him a final meal on death row, and for a second you genuinely think he might cry. 

And then he sniffs, loudly and offensively, and says, in the most pitiful voice you have ever heard in your entire life, “Can I have a hug?”

And everything in your body just stops.

You don’t breathe. You don’t blink. Your brain short-circuits in ten different directions because what the hell is that supposed to mean, why is he looking at you like that, why is he asking like that, like you’re some kind of warm safe thing and not the reason his lungs are currently operating at sixty percent capacity, like you didn’t literally freeze him into next week forty-eight hours ago. 

He is swaddled. He is steaming. He is absolutely disgusting!

“No,” you say automatically, because it’s the only word that comes to you, because you don’t know how to deal with sick people and you definitely don’t know how to deal with Johnny Storm being miserable and needy and worse, soft.

“Please,” he croaks, and you don’t know what he’s doing with his face but it’s offensive. It’s manipulative. His lower lip is actually trembling. “I’m dying!”

“You are not dying,” you snap, but you’re already groaning, already turning away for half a second because you know how this ends, you already know you’re going to do it, you’re going to cave like an idiot. 

And so you yank your sleeves down and tug your hoodie all the way over your wrists and pull your gloves up to the edge and double check that there is not one single patch of skin exposed, because if he’s going to make this weird, if he’s going to beg for human contact like a sad little heat-sick child, you are going to survive it. 

With layers and with dignity.

“I swear to God,” you mutter as you sit down, still keeping at least six inches of personal space between you, “if you sneeze on me, I will freeze your entire face, Johnny.”

“I won’t,” he says, sniffling wetly, eyes hopeful and pathetic and gleaming with something awful.

You exhale slowly through your nose.

Then, you shuffle closer.

And you open your arms.

And he actually moans as he folds into you like he’s been waiting for this all his life, like your gloved arms are the cure to every miserable cell in his body, and he’s warm, too warm, even sick he’s still burning through the blanket layers and your hoodie and your sleeves and your gloves, and you hate him, you hate him, but you don’t pull away.

He sighs into your shoulder like a lovesick furnace and you swear you feel steam rising off the back of your neck.

“You’re cold,” he mumbles, sounding weirdly fond.

“And you’re gross,” you snap, but your voice isn’t that sharp, and your hands stay where they are.

Because somehow, despite everything, he doesn’t feel awful to hold.

[cherrygarcia-07]

And Still I Will Live Here // Spencer Reid💙

Synopsis: spencer finds himself struggling with his identity and autonomy after being released from millburn and it’s beginning to affect your relationship. you do everything you can to help him adjust, but the hurdle of shaving seems to be one he just can’t jump.

Pairing: post prison spencer x reader

Genre: angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 5.9k

Notes/Tags: READ WITH CARE!! sad spencer, they fight just a tad, spencer is snappy for a sec, spencer struggles like a lot, panic attacks/prison flashbacks, accidentally cutting while shaving, blood mention, talks of luis delgado & nadie ramos’ murder, references to spencer stabbing himself in prison, BUT READER HELPS HIM HES OK IN THE END !! title from I Will by Mitski :3

masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoy!! it helps promote the fic so so much !!

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To say it was difficult for Spencer to readjust to normal life would be a drastic understatement. Nothing quite felt as real as it did before nor as safe as it did before. Even moving through his own apartment felt like falling in a dream, that paralysing fear when you know it’s not real and you know you just need to wake up but for whatever reason you just can’t. The panic makes itself at home in your throat, squeezing the breath out of you as you rapidly try to chase after it, as you try to stop the fall but it’s hopeless. Eventually you wake up and think that everything should be okay now but it’s not, at least not for Spencer. It still feels like some kind of hazy trap to him, like he’s scared he’ll open his eyes and still be there.

Spencer tried to be his old self for your sake but you could tell that the walls had never fully crumbled down. He’d let you reach out for him, let you lace your fingers through his or let your arms wrap around him but you caught the way he’d flinch if you held too tight. You felt the way his body tensed, or the way he jerked like something in his gut was telling him to pull away. Logically, he knew he was safe with you but after months of sleeping with one eye open and obsessively checking over his shoulder his nerves had begun to lie to him. He’d engage when you spoke to him, but he would never start the conversation. There were no ramblings or fun facts, no casual conversations over breakfast or sweet whispers in your ear as you fell asleep. He’d smile at you the way he always used to, except now it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You thought having him back would feel different. Not that you weren’t grateful about it- God you prayed for this every single day, his name on repeat in your mind like a broken record- but it felt sometimes that all you’d gotten back was a body, a spectre, moving through your shared space like a puppet on strings. Seeing Spencer so fragile broke your heart more than you could have ever prepared for, and what was worse was you still had no idea what had happened to him in there to strip him of himself so cruelly. Occasionally you still caught glimpses of him; when his hand instinctively reached for you in his sleep before he woke up and hastily snatched it back, how his eyes lit up for just a second like a flame reignited when you called his name before it was snuffed out again, how for a second- just one small, blissful second- he allowed himself to lean into your touch before he stiffened and pulled away. The latter stung, you had to admit, the stab of rejection piercing through you with a sharpness that took your breath away, but you could see through him when the smoke cleared. In those short, serene moments before the walls shot back up you felt it. He was still in there somewhere- he was still your Spencer.

Shortly after his release you had woken up one night to use the bathroom, the bed cold beside you and the distance between you and Spencer feeling larger than usual. Shyly, you poked out a hand finding nothing but an empty mattress and crumpled sheets. A newly familiar feeling of panic clouded your mind like fog as you gently called his name into the darkness to no answer. You hopped out of bed, feet padding along the wooden floor and your heart sank as you slowly pushed open the bathroom door. There was Spencer, on the floor in the corner in a ghost-like state. His eyes were blank and his mouth was parted as he stared ahead into the shadows with his hands hovering near his head, like he had reached to grasp at his hair and malfunctioned halfway through the motion. Tears stung at your eyes, a wretched weight in your chest dragging you to the ground as you carefully crouched in front of him, your movements slow and tentative. He’d flinched when he spotted you and you bit so hard on your quivering lip you almost drew blood.

“T-the uh,” he began shakily, voice barely there at all, “the door closed.” His eyes squeezed shut as he swallowed his words, a heavy, shameful sigh leaving his lips.

His vacant eyes explained everything he couldn’t say. He’d felt trapped. In the darkness of the night the bathroom became a cell, every dreary drip from the sink’s tap had felt deafening as they echoed off of inescapable walls, the tiles were harsh and icy beneath his hands as he sunk to the floor and froze in place. He never spoke of it again, but after that night a nightlight was placed in every room, a doorstop in every doorway.

Since then you’d coaxed him out of the strict meal schedule he’s become accustomed to, a compulsion he still battled for a while after he was home. You’d put yourself in charge of cooking meals or ordering take-out to save him reaching for whatever was plain and simple as if he’d convinced himself he wasn’t worth the effort anymore. You even helped him pick his clothes out in the morning when you noticed he’d abandoned his colourful ties and patterned sweaters, realising he’d become overwhelmed by the choice after months of wearing the same thing- months of being the prison’s property.

Spencer was still avoiding talking about Millburn but you didn’t push or pry, rather you observed. You recognised what made him lash out, what made him shrink into himself without a word, you realised there were painful memories clinging to him like leeches wherever he went like his brain was never fully relaxed, interpreting everything around him as a threat. As much as you wanted- needed- him to open up to you, you were scared to push too hard and cause him to retreat entirely. And so you found silent ways to help him, a subtle hand on his shoulder to try and help him heal one day at a time, yet there was one thing you couldn’t quite figure out and that was why hasn’t he shaved yet?

Before Spencer had shaved almost obsessively, always complaining about the feeling of the stubble or the way it made him look. You’d assumed that he might struggle with that more than he already did after being made to grow it out but as time went by without it being touched you thought that maybe he’d just gotten used to it. However the way he itched and itched told you otherwise. The way he looked in the mirror like he didn’t even recognise himself told you otherwise.

“Spence?” You called gently from your spot on the armchair. Spencer was sat in the corner of the couch, tucking himself against the armrest like he was trying to take up as little space as possible while his hand absentmindedly made its way to his chin again.

“Yeah?” He responded, not looking up from his book. He hadn’t turned a page in 10 minutes.

You swallowed before you spoke, hesitant to bring it up again. “Why don’t you just shave it, honey?” You tried giving him a small smile but it didn’t help.

His brows furrowed as he lifted his head to meet your eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s bothering you.”

“It’s not.” He replied bluntly, coldly. “I already told you it’s not.”

About a week ago you’d had the same discussion. Spencer seemed to be in a better mood than usual, much to your relief- it felt like you were finally making real progress. The two of you were sitting together on the couch closer than you’d been since his release, you sitting with your knees propped by your chest and angled in a way so that they leaned over him. Something was on TV that you weren’t paying attention to, engrossed in a conversation he’d started about a book he’d read lately. Truthfully you weren’t saying much back as you were far too enamoured by the warm sound of his voice that you’d missed so much as it flowed, bright and lively with an excitement and passion that had been all too absent from him lately. At some point he began to itch, more and more often over time you’d noticed. It had been the kind of evening you’d dreamed of since having him home, huddled up together in the candlelight talking about nothing in particular just like before, but as soon as you suggested shaving his voice froze over. His expression dropped. Almost as soon as the words left your mouth the atmosphere shifted- instant and harsh. Spencer had deflected it, but there was a sharpness in his voice, one that sliced a gap between the two of you again and left you baffled.

“You keep scratching at it.” You pushed hesitantly as his hand dropped on cue as if to prove you wrong.

“My skin’s just dry.” He said, his eyes returning to that same page in his book. “I don’t know why you’re so fixated on this.”

“It’s just that you never liked growing your hair out before.” Before. You regretted the word as soon as it left your lips.

“Does that mean I’m not allowed to like it now?” He finally flipped the page with a crisp thwack that filled the air.

“Of course not, it’s just-“

“I’m capable of deciding what I do and don’t like.” He bit back. Somewhere inside of your heart you knew it wasn’t really directed at you, but that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.

“I know that, Spence. I’m just trying to help.” You sighed despite yourself, losing patience. You were understanding, of course. You’d been nothing but understanding- but elastic will only stretch so far before it snaps back.

Spencer’s eyes narrowed almost in offence but he kept them pointed downward. “Well you’re not.”

“Not what?” You asked louder than before, tilting your head as you blinked in surprise.

“Helping.” He answered, far too matter of factly for your liking.

With a bitter laugh you dragged your hands down your face in pure exhaustion and when they dropped back down to your lap you saw Spencer staring up at you in confusion like he wasn’t even aware of what he’d just said. “I’m not helping?” You echoed incredulously, your voice shaking slightly under the weight of everything you’d been holding in.

His lips parted and his expression dropped as his brain caught up and he promptly closed the book he’d been pretending to read. “I didn’t mean-“

“No, Spence” you began shaking your head, “I’ve done everything I possibly can to help you. My brain is working so hard trying to put the pieces together myself and figure out what you need so that I can help you because you still won’t tell me anything. You’re still shutting me out.” Biting your lip, you paused and blinked up at the ceiling before looking back at him. “I know I couldn’t possibly understand even a fraction of how you’re feeling and I know that it’s hard to talk about but we can’t keep pretending that everything’s okay. Why can’t you trust me with this, Spencer?”

He was silent for a moment as the cogs turned in his head, hands clenching and unclenching restlessly against the cushions of the couch. “I do trust you.” He almost whispered, though he didn’t even sound convinced.

“So talk to me.” You spoke back, voice gentler but cracking around the edges. “I am so grateful to have you back and I love you, Spence- so fucking much- but I don’t know what you expect me to do. How do you expect me to feel when I suggest something as simple as shaving and you shut down on me or lash out at me without telling me why?”

You waited. And waited. Like they were moving on their own your fingers began drumming against the armrest of the chair, their humble beat echoing in the otherwise empty room. You waited for the sound of his voice to join in, singing words of reassurance and comfort, but it never did. Instead he bowed his head, gazing at the floor like he was trying to hide from you entirely as he shrank even further into the couch- further away from you. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you took a deep breath before speaking again.

“Can we please talk about this?” The silence deafened you, ears ringing as you nodded solemnly and rose to your feet. “You know what, there’s only so much I can do by myself, Spencer. I know you’re struggling but this isn’t fair- you have to meet me halfway at some point. Until then I’m going to bed.”

In his head Spencer thought about calling after you, about saying goodnight as you walked away. He imagined getting up and following you, gently grabbing your wrist to stop you in your tracks so he could apologise and tell you that he’s just scared. He’s scared that you won’t see him the same way anymore, or scared that maybe you already do see him different, scared that you’ll think Millburn sent home a burden and not your boyfriend. He pictures telling you that he’s sorry and that he’s ready to let you in. But his brain and his body are not one anymore. While his mind screams at him to do something, imprisoned behind the bars of his own guilt, his body remains paralysed. No matter how hard he wills it too it simply will not move, rather it seems to fuse further into the course fabric of the couch, adamant on watching you leave.

Spencer didn’t know how long he sat there, unmoving except for the hand scratching at his face. He wasn’t even sure if he realised he was doing it, numb to the feeling of nails against skin as the compulsion took over like a parasite. Behind the closed bedroom door he could hear you getting ready to go to sleep, the sounds so familiar he could practically see himself in the room. As he listened to the rustling of fabric as you changed into your pyjamas he remembered how he used to sit on the edge of the bed, listening to you ramble about your day with a soft smile on his face. When he heard the creak of the mattress as you climbed into bed he thought about how you were climbing into bed alone, becoming all too accustomed to sleeping beside an empty space instead of next to him. He heard the click of the bedside lamp being shut off and his heart clenched with something bittersweet when he heard the nightlight on his side of the bed being switched on and when he turned his head tears flooded his waterline as it’s warm glow poured out under the doorway.

With a weighted sigh his hand fell to his lap, his face raw and stinging- not that he noticed. His head pounded. A chorus of voices bickered over one another, all sounding completely foreign to him despite sharing his voice. His hands shook in his lap as he bounced his knees obsessively and when his eyes dropped down his breath stopped. Blood. Buried beneath his nails. Clinging to his skin, dark and sinister. Perhaps the Spencer of before would’ve brushed it off as anxiety, recognising his body was simply kickstarting whatever self soothing behaviour it could think of to distract itself, but Spencer now only saw blood drawn from his own hands. And it scared him.

Raggedly running his hands through his hair he replayed the spat between the two of you over and over again in his head. Spencer had tried to convince himself that he liked the hair he’d grown, he tried to believe it made him look more mature. He recalled a throwaway comment someone had made about how he ‘looks like a real man now’ and had told himself it was a badge to be proud of. Spencer told himself that maybe people will finally start taking him more seriously now that he looks the part, that the years of being underestimated and dismissed would finally be behind him.

But in reality it drove him positively insane. It was like a piece of Millburn had left with him, keeping him rooted there no matter how far he distanced himself. It drove him crazy the way his image in the mirror morphed into his reflection in the prison glass, his blue inmate clothes growing over his skin like a disease no matter how much he clawed at his body or rubbed his eyes raw. He could barely recognise himself nor could he easily remember how he looked before. Maybe it was dramatic or self pitying but he felt well and truly alien. Millburn had took him in, chewed him up and spat out someone else entirely.

Deep down he knew that you were right. You had a talent for knowing him better than he knew himself most of the time. Logically, he knew he was shutting you out for no good reason other than the fact he’d reached a new, terrifying level of vulnerability he didn’t know how to share with you and so he shut down. Or worse, lashed out. Spencer had tried to shave on his own a couple of times but each time the fear racked through him like a wave, crashing over him ruthlessly and taking his breath away with it. It would always play out the same: he’d stare in the mirror, eyes glassy as he forced himself to move. The blade in his hand felt like it weighed tonnes, anchoring his hand to his side every time he tried and failed to lift it to the mask staring back at him. The first time he’d panicked and given up, the second time he’d cut himself. The blade had clattered to the floor, slipping from shaking hands as he tried to soothe his shuddering breath, his head spinning so fast he thought he might throw up. Spencer hadn’t so much as entertained the idea since.

Truthfully, he felt too embarrassed to let you in. He felt like he was regressing, like Millburn had made him inferior. In an unlikely turn of events Spencer found himself mourning who he was when he was younger. Growing up he’d always thought of himself as wimpy and weak, and he still felt that way even once he’d joined the FBI with him being both the youngest and an exception to the bureau’s typical rules. But that Spencer had survived torture, addiction, poisoning, grief and loss of inexplicable degrees and more. That Spencer raised himself while supporting his mother alone and worked himself to the bone to get to where he was. This Spencer couldn’t even shave his face. He couldn’t help but feel pathetic. He felt he quite literally was not the man he was before and he feared he may never be again- his identity and autonomy had been left behind in that cold, dark cell. As he stared blankly at the wall ahead of him, still sunken into the couch, he recalled a conversation with Emily years ago in which she’d thanked him for being himself and he’d said with gratitude that he didn’t know how to be anyone else. With a lump in his throat, Spencer realised he didn’t even know how to be that anymore.

Eventually, he pulled himself up from the couch and made his way to the bedroom. There you were, in his shirt, curled up on your side with your back to his side of the bed. Your fingers twitched against the pillow and your eyelids fluttered in your sleep, the soft sound of your steady breathing the only sound in the room. You looked peaceful on the surface, but Spencer could see deeper than that. He saw the dark purple beneath your eyes, no doubt the result of the sleepless nights he’d caused you. He noticed how you were sleeping facing away from his pillow where you always used to sleep curled into his side. The glow of the nightlight you’d still cared enough to leave on for him highlighted dried streaks down your cheeks, puffy and flushed from the silent tears you’d shed into your pillow. His throat tightened as he realised just how much you’d sheltered from him and he felt the guilt creeping up through his body. You’d been pleading with him all this time while hiding just how much you were struggling and he’d simply ignored you. Worse, he’d been isolating himself so much he didn’t even notice.

Unbeknownst to him his feet had carried him to the bathroom with a quiet determination that took him by surprise. Frankly, he was fed up with himself and he’d decided it was time. Once again, he found himself planted in front of the mirror, blade in hand, eyes glazed over as he fought with his reflection. Before he could give it a second thought, he watched as his hand came up to his face, felt the cold metal against his skin as he began. Tiny hairs fall to the sink below and the blade keeps moving, repetitive movements propelled by pure muscle memory as Spencer’s consciousness fails him. He is merely a spectator, watching as his limbs move of their own accord and his eyes remain unblinking. The limbs seem to find a rhythm, working out pressure and direction on their own as their host remains stuck in place. After a while Spencer begins to feel himself relax, his eyes water and shake as they regain their focus and his breathing starts to even out. He can feel the weight of the blade in his hand again as it moves and he feels a small twinge of pride, just a small victory, somewhere in his chest.

Just as the feeling began spreading throughout him his hand shook. Just once, but it was enough. He saw it. Thick, red, instant- blood. Spencer didn’t react at first, he simple froze as his eyes followed it trailing down his chin in one clean undeniable line. Slowly, he began to feel the sting in his skin as it grew stronger and stronger, screaming for his attention as he swallowed his pride. With his heartbeat pounding in his ears the world around him seemed muffled, the sounds of cars rushing by outside and voices beneath the window sounded drowned, tortured. His heartbeat travelled from his ears to his throat, from his throat to the tips of his fingers until it was drumming under his skin all over his body.

Almost in slow motion his eyes dropped to his hand, except now he saw a knife and not his razor. There’s a cut on his hand, or at least he thinks there is- he doesn’t remember doing it and he can’t seem to feel it the way he can on his face. Everything feels slow and hazy, blurred around the edges and swaying with every breath he takes. Out of the corner of his eye he thinks he sees something, a lump sprawled out on the tiles. It’s a body, a woman’s body, yet when he turns to face it it’s gone. Trembling, he rubs at his eyes hard, frantically trying to get the truth out of them but to no avail. With panic rising in his throat like bile he turns back towards the mirror, watching the sweat beading on his face mix with the blood and drag it down his neck.

In an instant he’s back there. The laundry room, Luis gasping on the floor behind his reflection. Spencer hears his voice calling for the guards, distant and echoing like it’s not even his, but his lips stay still in the mirror. A stabbing pain shoots through his arm, through his leg and suddenly he’s throwing the razor at the glass as his knees give out beneath him and hit the tiles below. His breath feels caught in his throat and he tugs desperately at the neckline of his shirt, the tear of the stitches cracking like thunder in the silence of the bathroom. A shaking hand moves of its own accord, running through his hair and sinking its fingers into the roots in frustration as Spencer’s eyes clamp shut. He can’t open his eyes, too afraid to face the blood now on his hands, but even the darkness behind his eyelids makes him feel trapped. Before he can stop it, a pained sob leaves his lips as his chest heaves.

Your eyes snap open and your ears prick up almost as fast as you rise to your feet. Not even fully awake yet, you automatically hurry to the bathroom, trying to peak through the gap the doorstop left but you can’t see anything. Carefully you pushed open the door and as your eyes land on him, crumpled in a corner half shaved and bleeding, you felt like your heart was being torn out of your chest. Tears pricked your eyes, fast and hot, but you blinked them back as you took in the scene.

“Spence?” You called out gently, trying to hide the wobble in your voice. He didn’t respond. He didn’t even look up. You try a couple more times, but he doesn’t even seem to hear you.

Taking a deep breath, you move further into the room. You didn’t need to ask. Without a word you pick the blade up off the floor, rinsing it and cleaning the sink before putting it away out of Spencer’s sight. Tentatively, you crouch down to his level, blocking his view of the rest of the room as he finally looks up at you with dazed eyes. You hold back from asking if he’s okay or from asking what happened, afraid of him shutting down again. Instead, you force a small smile, meeting his gaze with a warm expression.

“You didn’t come to bed.” You said softly, watching as he slowly blinked himself into focus.

“I didn’t think you’d want me to.” He croaked back, fingers twitching against his knees as he pulled them up to his chest.

You sighed, wanting to reach out for him but knowing to keep your distance. “Of course I wanted you to.”

He didn’t respond and you let the silence pass between you as you sat cross-legged on the floor opposite him. You watched as his breath deepened and his body stopped shaking. The blood had stopped atop his collar bone and was beginning to dry.

“Why don’t we get you cleaned up and ready for bed, huh?” You suggested lightly, half expecting him to protest but to your relief he nodded. “I’m going to stand up now but I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’m gonna be right here.”

Pushing yourself to your feet, you padded over to the sink and ran a washcloth under the tap. Sitting back down in front of Spencer, you cupped his face with a feather light touch, rubbing a circle over his skin with your thumb before lifting the cloth to his chin. You wiped slowly and gently, careful to keep the rag angled in a way that hid the blood from his view before cleaning his hands. Neither of you spoke, but his eyes fluttered shut with a peaceful sigh as he relaxed into your touch.

“I’m sorry.” Spencer whispered after a while, his voice small and drained.

“We don’t have to talk about it.” You placed the cloth on the floor, still keeping his face in your hands. “At least not right now.”

“We do.” He took your hands in his, lowering them to your lap before letting go. “We should.”

You nodded back at him, leaning back slightly and letting him take the lead. “Okay.”

His brows furrowed in thought as he took a moment to collect himself, staring at the wall over your shoulder. He fidgeted with his hands, wringing them in his lap before licking his lips and turning back to you.

“I was frustrated with myself.” Spencer began, dropping his gaze back to the floor. “I was fed up of having this connection to prison every time I look at myself and being too much of a coward to do anything about it. And I was fed up of taking it out on you. I thought I could handle it but when I cut myself I-“ he paused, “when I saw the blood it-“

“It brought everything back.” You finished for him.

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Everything that happened in Mexico, the things that happened to Luis because of me, the things I did to protect myself. Everything” He swallowed as his voice began to quiver. “And I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said and about how much you were struggling without me even realising. I was spiralling so much that I-“ he cut himself off again, dragging his hands down his face as his voice threatened to break. “I didn’t even realise.”

“Spencer, it’s okay.” You soothed, but he shook his head.

“No, no it’s not.” He lifted his eyes to meet yours. “I shut you out because I was ashamed. I didn’t think I was good enough for you anymore, I didn’t think I was safe for you anymore. I was so scared to touch you, to look at you wrong, to talk to you wrong. I didn’t feel like the man you fell in love with and I was terrified that if I let you in you would realise it too. There was part of me that didn’t want to let you in because I thought you’d leave me, but I think a bigger part of me thought I deserved to be left.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks, matching the ones that had poured down your own. Your heart ached with every word that left his mouth. Hesitantly you reached out a hand, pulling it back for a second before stretching it out again and resting it on his knee, and he let you. You wanted to jump in, you wanted to protest and tell him how wrong he was but you decided to let him continue.

“I just don’t understand why you stayed. I don’t understand why you still went to so much effort for me.” He whispered, recalling everything: the nightlights; the doorstops; the meals, everything you’d done in the shadows to help him adjust.

“Spencer, listen to me.” You said firmly, taking his hands in yours. “I could never regret taking care of you. I want to take care of you.”

He sighed deeply, tilting his head as his brows furrowed in genuine confusion that threatened to pull more tears from your eyes. “Why?”

“Because I love you.” You shrugged, plain and simple. “It’s not transactional. Whether we’re fine or whether we’re fighting, if we’re together or apart- I’m still going to take care of you. I’m still going to love you. Yes I’ve been frustrated and upset but I’m not going to turn my back on you when you’re struggling. Not now, not ever.”

“I don’t feel like I deserve it anymore.” Spencer tries to pull his hands away but you don’t let him.

You flash a tiny smirk at him, bringing one of his hands up to your lips and placing a gentle kiss to it. “Unfortunately that’s not for you to decide.”

“I’m not even sure I know who I am anymore.” He says, voice barely audible.

“Well, I do.” You respond, ducking your head to meet his eyes where they had dropped once again. “You’re Spencer Reid. My Spencer Reid. You’re the man who walked me home from every date even though I lived in the complete opposite direction to you because you wanted me to be safe. You’re the man who gave up your favourite sweater to me and pretended not to care because I said it was cosy.” You paused for a moment, laughing fondly before continuing. “You’re the man who hand picks all the tomatoes out of my instant noodle cups before boiling them just because I don’t like them. You are the single most loving, caring, doting man I have ever met, Spencer.”

“I just-“ He started, trying to keep his voice even. “It’s hard to believe I still am.”

“Hmm.” You hummed, cupping his face and leaning in to stare into his eyes as if you were scanning them. “I still see him in there. We just have to get to him, and I’m going to make sure we do, okay?”

“Okay.” He agreed shyly. “Thank you. So much.”

With a reassuring smile you moved your hand along his face, running it over the shaved half before switching to the stubble that still sat on his chin.

“Do I look ridiculous?” Spencer asked, the corners of his lips finally tugging upwards.

“Handsome as ever.” You giggled back. “Do you want me to help you finish it?”

As soon as you ask you noticed the way he shrank into himself, still unsure. He drew his lips into a line, breath hitching with hesitation at the thought of the razor touching his face again.

“I’ll be careful, I promise.” You push gently. “You can keep your eyes on me the whole time.”

Wordlessly, he agreed with the slightest nod of his head, gingerly rising to his feet as you followed suit. You led him over to the sink, lightly guiding him to sit on its edge with his back to the mirror. You grabbed the razor and some shaving balms from the cabinet before returning to stand between his legs. Like you were holding something fragile you took his face in your hands again, pressing a kiss to the shaved side of his face.

“Are you ready?” You asked quietly.

His hands found your waist, fingers bunching in your shirt as if to ground himself. “Yes.”

Spencer’s eyes never left your face as you worked, never drifted to the blade in your hand that now seemed so much more insignificant than it did in his. You moved delicately and precisely, taking the utmost care all the while murmuring words of reassurance between strokes. You felt his breath against your neck as he exhaled all his worries, his posture relaxing under the warmth of your skin on his. Soon after, like it was nothing, you were finished.

“You wanna take a look, handsome?” You asked, resting your hands on his shoulders.

“I um,” he began, grip tightening on your waist momentarily. “I think I’ll take your word for it for now.”

“Of course.” You nodded in understanding, helping him up with a smile. “Can you please come to bed now? It was lonely in there without my favourite pillow.”

With a breathy laugh, Spencer took your hand and followed you into the bedroom. That night you fell asleep side by side, curled into one another as if made from matching moulds just the way you used to. Of course this was just one bump in the road, the path to readjustment was unfortunately never going to be so simple. But as you fell asleep with his arm wrapped around you, his nose buried in your hair as he held you blissfully tight, you knew it would be the last bump he faced alone.

-

[imhalfplastic]

kai i can’t stop thinking about inexperienced loser!vernon who is pussy drunk and keeps asking for praise with everything he does for you in bed

omggggg ok, you got me thinking about that too! i thought about it so much i ended up writing a little something about it hehehehehe thank u for the inspo!

study break

⊹ overview — pairing: vernon x f!reader genre: academic crush · college au · fluff with tension themes: study sessions, playful tension, soft boy vernon, emotional first time cw: sexual content (MDNI), praise kink, academic stress, light cursing, mild virginity mention, unprotected sex.

minors do not interact!

you didn’t really expect him to say yes. you’d waited until the end of class, heart racing, palms sweaty, practically on the verge of begging. and he didn’t even hesitate.

“yeah, i can help you study. whenever you want.”

just like that. like it was no big deal.

except it was. to you, at least.

because vernon was the kind of guy who always knew what was going on in class. he never raised his hand. never showed off but he always had the answers. smart in that quiet, lowkey way that was kind of annoying and kind of hot.

he wore the same three hoodies every week, chewed on his pen caps, smiled a little too wide when someone laughed at his jokes. you weren’t exactly close but he always talked to you. always saved you a seat, even when you were late.

you’d been skating by on half-effort and charm for most of the semester but now, two weeks from finals, the numbers were clear: you were fucked.

so here you are. in your room on a friday evening, surrounded by notebooks, flashcards, and the terrifying realization that you remember absolutely nothing from the past three months.

vernon’s sitting cross-legged on your bed, flipping through a color-coded study guide he made himself. he’s wearing his glasses and one of those faded hoodies, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. you’re trying not to stare.

“so if the variable shifts...” he starts, pointing at the page.

you groan and flop back onto the pillows. “i hate everything.”

he glances at you over his glasses. “okay, that’s a little dramatic.”

“you don’t get it. my brain physically cannot do this right now.”

“then let’s take a break,” he offers, like it’s no big deal. “we’ll come back to it.”

“and do what?” you mutter, half-buried in the blanket. “kiss each other?”

the words slip out before you can think. more dramatic than anything, a joke almost. except your voice comes out too soft, too honest, and he freezes.

slowly, he looks up. “what?”

you blink. “nothing. ignore me. i’m delirious from all the... statistics.”

“no, hold on...” he’s blushing, but he doesn’t look away. “you... did you mean that?”

you open your mouth, then close it again. “maybe?”

vernon stares for a second longer. then, in the quietest voice imaginable:

“i wouldn’t mind.”

the air shifts. your heart jumps. he licks his lips, nervous. and when you crawl across the bed toward him, he doesn’t move. just watches, frozen, like he can’t believe this is happening.

you kiss him gently. his lips are soft, and he tastes like mint gum. he lets out this tiny noise. a surprised, breathy hum that goes straight to your stomach.

he kisses back slow, unsure. like he’s still waiting for the punchline. his hand comes up to your waist, hesitates, then settles there, feather-light.

you pull back a little. “you okay?”

he nods too fast. “yeah. i just.. i haven’t done this much. like... at all.”

you blink. “at all?”

he shrugs, cheeks red. “not really. nothing serious.”

you feel something flutter low in your chest. you kiss him again, softer this time, hands sliding under the hem of his hoodie.

he gasps when your fingers brush his skin.

“do you want this?” you murmur.

he nods again, smaller this time. “yeah. but... i don’t know if i’ll be good at it.”

you smile, tugging the hoodie over his head. “lucky for you, i’m a great teacher.”

he laughs, breathless, and you push him gently back onto the bed.

you start slow. easing down onto him with your hands on his chest, and he looks up at you like he can’t believe this is real. like he might wake up any second.

he’s gripping the sheets. breathing hard. his lips are parted, and his eyes keep flicking from your face to where your bodies meet, like he can’t decide what’s more overwhelming.

“fuck...” he breathes. “are you... is this okay? am i... hurting you?”

you lean down and kiss him, soft and lingering, and he melts under you like sugar in heat.

“you’re perfect” you whisper. “just like this.”

he moans against your lips. hands trembling on your thighs.

“was that okay?” he asks again, voice thin. “when i... when i touched you like that?”

you nod, rocking your hips slow, and his breath stutters.

“you like that?” he asks, desperate now.

“i love it.” you murmur, watching his eyes flutter shut.

“can you... can you say it again?”

you lower your mouth to his ear, your voice a warm hum.

“you’re doing so good for me. you feel so fucking good.”

he chokes out a sound. a half-sob, half-moan, and arches up into you.

“oh my god...”

you guide his hands to your hips and let him move you. just a little. just enough.

he’s hesitant at first, like he doesn’t trust himself. but when you whisper “that’s it, babe. just like that” he grips tighter and thrusts up once, shallow and shaky.

you gasp, and his eyes snap open.

“did i... was that good?”

“yes” you breathe. “do it again.”

he does. a little harder this time.

you moan, and his whole body jolts like he’s been shocked.

“you’re so warm...” he says, voice breaking. “i didn’t know it would feel like this.”

you kiss his temple, hands sliding down his sides.

“you’re making me feel amazing.” you whisper. “you’re such a good boy...”

he whimpers, brow furrowed, overwhelmed.

“i wanna be good” he mumbles. “i wanna be everything you want.”

you grind down against him, slow and deliberate, and he gasps again, hands flying to your waist.

“don’t worry...” you say. “you’re doing perfect, babe.”

he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, head buried in your shoulder, whispering broken things against your skin. “please don’t stop.” “i can’t believe this is real.” “i wanna make you come.” over and over.

when you slide a hand between your bodies, fingers rubbing where you need it most, his mouth drops open in awe.

“wait... you’re doing that... while i’m...? fuck.”

“you wanna help me?”

he nods frantically. “tell me what to do. please. i’ll do anything.”

you guide his hand. show him how to touch you. he’s clumsy but eager. murmuring, “like this? is that okay? am i... am i making you feel good?”

you moan his name, and he nearly loses it.

“again... say it again, please” he begs.

you ride him harder now, and he’s falling apart beneath you, trembling, eyes wide and wet and dazed.

“god, you’re gonna make me...” he gasps. “i can’t... please, tell me... can i?”

“yes, babe...” you whisper. “come for me.”

that’s all it takes.

he lets out the softest, most broken moan you’ve ever heard. your name, tangled in thank yous and curses. and comes with his hands fisting the sheets and his body shaking under yours.

you both lie there for a long moment. then, barely above a whisper:

“can i see you again?”  

“yeah” you say, without hesitation. “you can come over whenever.”

he hums, lips brushing your shoulder.  

“even if i don’t bring flashcards?”

you smile.  

“especially if you don’t.”

he laughs quietly, and for the first time since he walked into your room, you feel him fully relax. safe, wanted, held.

you think about the way he asked if he was doing okay. over and over. and how you’re already dying to tell him yes again. and again. and again.

[fiastomatocheek]

EVERYTHING OR NOTHING AT ALL

pairing: quinn hughes x fem!reader

genre: romance, fluff, light angst.

warnings: emotional honesty, slight angst, mentions of past relationships, soft fluff, long-term relationship themes. ends with comfort, clarity, and love.

summary: you’ve never dated a hockey player before… until quinn hughes. almost a year in, you know exactly what you want with quinn was marriage, a family, a real future. so over a quiet dinner, you finally lay it all on the table. it’s everything… or nothing at all.

fia’s note: this idea was inspired by a tiktok video of nara smith talking on a podcast. at first, i thought about using jack for this concept, but then i figured why not quinn? but if you’d like to read a jack hughes version of this idea, just let me know!

tagging team fia ! — @fallinallincurls @dancerbailey3 @falsehood-03 @mashmashi @hopefulsuitcasemoneyzonk @kell9rs @alwaysclassyeagle @nokiaholland @macka @smiley-roos @silvenyy @bd147ms @voidvannie @itsonlyaddi @ruinix @when-im-with-you @puckinghughes @definitelynotdomanique

fia’s masterlist | join fia’s taglist | yap & fic

You’d never thought you’d date a hockey player.

It wasn’t that you had anything against them… well, maybe just a little. There was something about the stories that always floated around like locker room talk, groupies in hotel lobbies, girlfriends crying over canceled plans and DMs that weren’t meant to be seen.

That just wasn’t the life you envisioned for yourself. You were a ‘quiet weekends, home-cooked meals, sleepy Sunday mornings’ kind of girl. You’d always known your biggest dream wasn’t flashing lights or fame, it was family. Kids. Stability. Something real. Something that would last.

So no, dating a professional athlete had never been on your bingo card.

But then Quinn Hughes came.

Soft-spoken. Observant. The kind of guy who remembered your coffee order after one date and never forgot it again. The kind of guy who would text your mother happy birthday without being reminded. The kind of guy who would get quiet when he was overwhelmed, not out of distance but because he was trying to find the right words.

You met him through a mutual friend, and you almost didn’t go that night. You’d had a long week, and you didn’t expect to talk to anyone, let alone him. But there he was, tucked into a corner of the bar, wearing a backwards hat and you swear your world tilted just slightly.

It was supposed to be casual. Maybe even temporary.

And yet, here you were ten months later, his favorite hoodie in your laundry basket, his toothbrush in your bathroom, his voice the one you wanted to hear last before bed.

But lately, you’d been thinking about the future a lot. Not in a dreamy, far-off kind of way. In a very real, very ticking clock kind of way.

You weren’t trying to rush anything. You weren’t that girl. But you were also honest with him and with yourself. You weren’t dating just to pass the time. You weren’t trying this out just for fun. You were in. You had fallen hard for this boy with soft hands and tired eyes and a heart far too big for the world he lived in.

And you needed to know if he felt the same.

You’d invited him over for dinner. Just a regular Tuesday night. You made pasta with garlic, olive oil, some chicken. Quinn sat at the counter while you cooked, legs stretched out, scrolling on his phone and occasionally glancing up just to smile at you.

He looked good. He kept calling you ‘chef’ every time you stirred the pot, and once when you dropped a fork, he leaned over and said.

“That’s minus ten points for presentation, but I’ll let it slide since you’re cute.”

You laughed. You always laughed with him.

But your stomach twisted anyway.

Because after dinner, you knew you were going to have the talk.

You sat across from eachother at your tiny dining table. Plates empty. Glasses of water half-full. He was talking about something from practice, how one of the rookies tripped trying to hop the boards but you weren’t listening, not really.

You were watching him.

And wondering if he had any idea just how much of your heart he held.

“Quinn,” you said softly.

He paused. “Yeah?”

“I have something to tell you.”

His expression changed immediately, his posture straightened, his phone went face-down, and he turned fully toward you, concern in his eyes.

“Anything, babe.”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to ruin the night. But this had been sitting on your chest for weeks, and it was getting harder to breathe around it.

“You know I take our relationship really seriously,” you said, fingers tracing the edge of your napkin.

“I know you do,” he said gently, not blinking.

You nodded slowly, trying to find the courage.

“So… I just need to say this out loud. It’s either this ends in marriage… or we end it now.”

He blinked once. Then again. His lips parted slightly.

You pushed forward.

“I’m not saying I expect a ring tomorrow. I’m just… I’m not going to keep investing my time and energy if this isn’t going somewhere. Like really somewhere. I’ve always known I wanted a family. Kids. That kind of life. I don’t want to be with someone who sees this as just… temporary.”

There. It was out.

Your throat burned. Your heart beat loud in your ears.

You couldn’t look at him.

Until suddenly, his voice broke the quiet.

“You think I don’t already see forever with you?”

Your head snapped up.

He was still sitting there, still facing you, only now his eyes looked glassy, like your words had shaken something loose inside him.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever dated who actually makes me want to slow down and stay,” he said.

“Like really stay. I’ve done the whole… superficial thing. And yeah, I’ve dated girls who looked good in pictures, but none of that ever felt real. You feel real. This, us, feels like the only thing in my life that doesn’t disappear when the season ends.”

You said nothing.

He stood up then, walked around the table, and knelt next to your chair, resting his hands on your thighs.

“I want what you want,” he whispered.

“I want to build something. A house. A family. I want your name on the mailbox and your shoes by the door. I want you pregnant and laughing and pissed at me for forgetting the diapers. I want all of it with you.”

You burst into tears.

Ugly, relieved, overwhelmed tears. You didn’t even mean to but his arms were around you the second your face crumpled, his hand smoothing down your back as you buried your face in his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

“Don’t be,” he whispered.

“Thank you for telling me. I needed to hear it.”

“You scared me a little,” he admitted quietly.

“Good,” you said, lips against his neck.

“You’re lucky I didn’t have a PowerPoint.”

He laughed, a low rumble you felt in your bones.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he said suddenly.

Your heart paused.

“What?”

“I’m not saying when,” he murmured.

“But I am. One day. I’ll ask you. And you’re gonna say yes. And we’re gonna do all of it.”

This wasn’t just a moment of reassurance. It was a promise. You didn’t need a ring on your finger that night. You had something better.

His word.

And Quinn Hughes had never broken a promise in his life.

[writesvani]

dear me | 13

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TWs: mental health struggles, intrusive thoughts, emotional distress, identity crisis, implied trauma, existential themes, dissociation, self-neglect, alcoholism (past), parental neglect (implied), mentions of financial instability, subtle childhood trauma, emotional vulnerability, light cursing, anxiety, family issues, intrusive thoughts, mentions of loneliness, complex family dynamics, implied dysfunctional household, emotional repression, mentions of miscarriage, grief, angst, self-doubt

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 5,9k // date: 30th of July 2025

CHAPTER THIRTEEN — LEFT UNSAID happy reading my gummies...

AN: wassup everyone!! dear me is back, who's excited? (the correct answer is all of you. even if you're crying. especially if you're crying.) anyways, i wanna thank everyone who chose to stick with this fic and i want to thank you for your kindness and enormous support i've received after all the hate. y’all really said “we ride at dawn” and i’m forever grateful for it.

second of all… drumroll please… whew. new character introduced?? plus a new character lurking in the shadows of my google docs ready to make their entrance?? yes. yes indeed. i've planned this arc since dinosaurs roamed the earth so i'm not gonna spoil anything but just know: chaos is coming. and tears. but like sexy emotional tears.

anyway, note goal for this chapter is 530 notes!! let’s see if we can reach it (we're unhinged and insane, i know we can. manifest with me. scream with me. sob in the tags and asks with me.)

You think that when grief comes — real grief, the kind that fractures time itself — the world will stop. That the sky will split open, that the ground will crack beneath your feet. That traffic will pause mid-intersection, that people will freeze mid-conversation, sensing something sacred and unbearable has occurred. But nothing stops.

The world, cruelly, keeps spinning.

You still brush your teeth. Answer emails. Pour your morning coffee. You laugh at something stupid on the internet and hate yourself for it. The ache doesn’t announce itself with sirens — it seeps in slowly, through cracks you didn’t know you had.

You think of Nina and Jungkook. The weight they carry. The loss that hollowed them out. Not loudly, not all at once — but in pieces, day by day, until even joy began to taste bitter. And though it isn’t your pain, it lingers in you like smoke. It presses on your chest when you remember how his voice broke when he said the word miscarriage. It tightens around your ribs when you see the forced steadiness in her eyes — the kind of steadiness only people who’ve known loss learn to wear.

You want to wrap them in something warm. Something impenetrable. Shield them from the world and all its cruelties. But you can’t. It’s not your burden to carry, and even if it were — you wouldn’t know how.

So the world keeps turning. The clock keeps ticking. You keep moving. They do, too.

Quietly, painfully, bravely.

But the sad, little fact is — grief has a way of making things clearer. Sharper. It peels back the layers. And standing there, watching the weight of loss curve Jungkook’s spine and hollow out his eyes, you felt it. Not only sympathy. Not even just helplessness. You felt distance. A chasm you didn’t know existed until that moment — wide, cold, final.

It wasn’t the kind of moment that made you ask “what's going on?” No, it was crueler than that. It was the kind of moment that froze you mid-step, like a sudden downpour in the dead of winter. You were drenched before you even realized it — soaked in something heavy and unnameable.

You know how this sounds. How selfish it is to look at someone else's pain and make it about you. You know that Jungkook doesn’t owe you softness. He doesn’t owe you clarity or closure. And yet, part of you — the part that still dreams in stolen glances and unfinished sentences — had hoped.

A quiet, desperate kind of hope. The one that blooms in silence and hides in the dark. The kind you never admit out loud because naming it makes it real. The kind that makes your heart leap when he remembers the smallest things, or says your name like it means something.

But now, standing on the outside of their tragedy, you see it for what it is. The shape of the truth is jagged, but unmistakable. Jungkook loved her. Loves her. Maybe not in the way people write songs about — maybe deeper than that.

In a way that lingers.

In a way that survives.

And you… you were never a contender. You were a side character in a story already written, a footnote in a fate that had no space for you. That kind of love — the soul-bending, universe-stopping kind — it was never meant for you. It was always hers.

And somehow, you understand.

You even admire it.

But God, it still breaks you.

Yet here you are, cooking lunch for Ms. Kim. The same lasagnas she’s adored for years, layered with the spices you could measure out blindfolded, with hands that move from memory rather than thought. And as the sauce simmers, as the smell of basil curls into the air, you wonder — truly, achingly wonder:

Outside of Jungkook, outside of work… who are you?

Because your life has always lived in two neat halves.

One: Jungkook and you — always together, always best friends, two halves of a shared language.

And after that:

Two: Your work, where your hands do what your mind can’t — create, feel, breathe.

And when Jungkook and you reconciled, it was a mix of both.

But there’s nothing in the spaces between.

No great love — not even Chris, not even when he tried, not even when you swore he might be it — could make you feel it all at once.

No remarkable friendships — except Yoongi, but he was less a new discovery and more a thread that’s just been there, quietly holding everything together.

No thrilling strangers.

No accidental passions for a while.

Not since you discovered how cooking makes you feel.

No spark of a new hobby that makes you feel more alive than tired.

So who are you, really? Are you even a whole person — or just a reflection, a supporting role? A silhouette molded by proximity?

Because it’s always someone else, isn’t it?

Vicky’s sister.

Jungkook’s best friend.

Yoongi’s secret-keeper.

Taehyung’s late-night call, warm body, nothing more.

Always someone’s something — but never your own.

What if you’ve only ever existed in relation to others?

What if no one’s ever looked at you and thought ‘mine’ the way you crave to be claimed?

What if you’re just a ghost moving through other people’s stories, haunting pages that were never written for you?

And what if that’s all you’ll ever be?

But you can’t find peace in that. Not really. Because you’re tired of being no one. Or someone’s something.

Isn’t it the same thing in the end?

You hate how pathetic it feels — this quiet, humiliating hope you nursed during all those years of silence. The way you still believed, even after everything, that the two of you might find your way back to each other. That maybe, somehow, he'd reach for you.

And he did reach for you again — just not in the way your younger self prayed for.

And you hate it even more — how much of your world has revolved around him. How you’ve let your edges blur until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. As if you don’t begin unless he’s there.

But you do. You have to.

Because if you don’t step outside of this — this aching, stunted version of a life — you’ll never get to live one that’s yours.

Discovering the depth of Jungkook and Nina’s grief showed you something you hadn’t fully understood before: life doesn’t wait. It crashes in, uninvited, and it takes. It always takes. And if you keep standing still, it’ll take the things you haven’t even dared to reach for yet.

So now you know — you have to move. You have to live. Not just for others. Not just to orbit someone else. But for you.

You close your eyes and inhale the scent of mixed spices curling in the warm kitchen air. Your heartbeat slows just a touch. For a moment — a single, fleeting second — everything fades. The noise in your mind, the gnawing thoughts that haven’t let you rest in days, all of it slips away.

Then you hear it.

It starts quiet — the soft scrape of slippers against the wooden floor, a few sleepy mutters slipping out as Ms. Kim shuffles down the hallway, pulled too soon from her afternoon nap by the sharp chime of the doorbell. You don’t stop what you’re doing — you keep stuffing the lasagna shells with sauce, hands moving on instinct. Probably a delivery. Or someone trying to sell something. You don’t think much of it.

Until you hear her voice.

“Oh my God!” Ms. Kim’s words ring through the apartment, bright and bubbling with joy. “Haeun!” she calls out, and something shifts in your chest — realization blooming.

Her daughter’s home.

“Surprise, Mom,” comes the reply, soft and teasing, and you can picture the exact moment — Ms. Kim throwing her arms around her daughter, laughter echoing off the walls.

You’ve never met Haeun.

You’ve cooked for her brother a few times, exchanged polite small talk at Ms. Kim's place. But Haeun was always the distant one, the rare visitor. So your paths never crossed.

Still, the smile that tugs at your lips feels genuine. Ms. Kim talks about her constantly — the kind of love that fills rooms even when the person isn’t there. She misses her all the time.

And now, for once, she doesn’t have to.

Something about that warms you.

It doesn’t take long before you hear the familiar shuffle of footsteps again — this time faster, more urgent. The sound of Ms. Kim’s slippers echo against the hallway tiles, but it’s different now, lighter somehow, hurried with excitement. You glance up from the tray just as she bursts into the kitchen, practically towing someone behind her.

A girl — younger, pretty, dressed in one of those oversized sweaters that make it hard to tell whether she’s just visiting from somewhere colder or simply hiding in something soft. Her dark hair is pulled half-up, her cheeks tinged with the faintest flush from the sudden heat or maybe from the way her mother is dragging her around like an old teddy bear rediscovered in an attic.

“Come, come, you have to meet my amazing chef!” Ms. Kim exclaims, her voice as bright as the kitchen lights she always forgets to turn off. She gestures toward you like you’re some kind of secret ingredient she’s been saving to impress guests with — her pride clear in the way she says it, in the urgency of her hand waving toward you.

You blink, pausing for a beat, before offering the girl a smile — polite but warm, the kind you give someone you know you’ll be seeing again. Haeun’s eyes land on yours, and there’s a flicker of something — recognition, curiosity, a trace of surprise that you’re not quite sure what to do with. Still, she smiles back, and it’s enough to soften the edges of your instinctive caution.

She steps forward, slower than her mother, more reserved. She’s not shy, not exactly, but she carries herself with the kind of grace that comes from being slightly out of place, the way visitors do in houses that used to be theirs but feel like someone else’s now. Haeun steps forward, brushing windblown strands of hair behind her ear. “Hi,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m Haeun.”

“Y/N,” you return, giving her a quick shake before wiping your fingers on a nearby dish towel. “Nice to meet you. You really caught us off guard.”

“I was going for the full effect,” Haeun admits with a small grin, casting a look at her mother. “I’m staying here for a while. Figured it’d be nice to surprise her. Though I didn’t think I’d get ambushed in a kitchen on day one.”

“You chose the most dangerous battlefield,” you tease lightly, gesturing to the flour-dusted counter and half-finished lasagna. “It’s war in here from four to seven.”

“She’s not joking,” Ms. Kim mutters dramatically as she begins rifling through the cabinet for plates. “This one runs a tighter ship than anyone who has worked for me. But she’s a genius, so I let it slide.”

Haeun’s eyes light up with curiosity as she leans closer to examine the dish. “Is that lasagna?”

“Kind of,” you say, glancing at the slightly experimental layer of roasted vegetables beneath the cheese. “I’ve been messing around with the recipe. Your mom likes it when I go off-script.”

“She sends me photos sometimes,” Haeun confesses. “Usually around lunch when I’m stuck eating convenience store food at my desk.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tactical guilt-tripping. That’s very her.”

“Right?” Haeun chuckles, clearly amused. “So I guess I owe you a thanks. You’ve apparently kept her from starving.”

You smile, a little softer now. There’s something calm about her energy — present, but not overwhelming. She feels easy to talk to, like someone who notices more than she says. “Dinner’s almost done. You have to try it!”

“Of course she's gonna try it," Ms. Kim says before Haeun can answer, already reaching for silverware with a decisive nod.

“I’d love to,” Haeun says, still looking at you. And this time, there’s something steadier in her voice. “If it’s okay with you.”

You nod, your grin returning. “Of course. Anyone who eats without complaining earns bonus points.”

She laughs, and somehow, just like that, it doesn’t feel like a first meeting anymore.

Haeun settles onto a kitchen stool, watching you as you work at the counter, carefully layering the lasagna. Ms. Kim moves around nearby, humming softly, clearly delighted by her daughter’s unexpected arrival.

“So, you’re here for a while?” you ask, breaking the comfortable silence.

Haeun nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, I wanted to surprise my mom. Needed a break from everything back home.”

Ms. Kim beams at her daughter, her eyes shining with joy. “Well, this is the best surprise of my life.”

You laugh. “You’ve definitely made your mom super happy.”

Haeun shrugs, looking around the kitchen with a hint of admiration. “This place feels like home already. Feels different than my apartment — quieter, but in a good way.”

You nod, flipping a tray into the oven. “That’s the thing about this house — it holds a lot of memories. Good ones, mostly.”

Ms. Kim comes over to the counter, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Y/N’s been taking good care of me. You’re lucky she’s here.”

Haeun smiles warmly. “I can see why. It smells amazing in here.”

You grin, shrugging modestly. “It’s my job to keep the house fed.”

Haeun’s eyes meet yours, a flicker of something like gratitude or connection passing between you.

“So,” you say, “what do you usually do when you need to escape all the noise?”

She thinks for a moment. “I guess… I just disappear. Leave my phone off, stay off social media. Go for long walks. It helps me clear my head.”

You smile, “Walking can be pretty therapeutic.”

Ms. Kim calls from across the room, “Dinner will be ready soon! You two keep talking, I’ll just set the table.”

The three of you settle into an easy rhythm — you cooking, them chatting — and in this quiet domestic bubble, a gentle friendship begins to bloom.

When you finally come home, you don’t feel tired anymore. Not really. There’s a lightness in your chest that hasn’t been there in weeks, maybe months — the kind that doesn’t come from rest or sleep or even peace, but from something simpler. Today was a good day. Uneventful, in the best kind of way. And maybe that shouldn’t feel so novel, but it does.

You met someone new — and for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel exhausting. No expectations, no history weighing down your shoulders, no need to explain yourself or brace for questions you don’t know how to answer. Just two strangers making conversation, finding common ground in silence and shared space.

It wasn’t profound. But maybe that’s exactly why it mattered. Talking to someone who doesn’t already know all the wrong things about you — it felt… safe. Honest. Like a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding finally released. There were no conversations tiptoeing around heartbreak, no sharp turns into grief or guilt. Just a moment. A quiet one. And you didn’t even realize how much you needed it.

You almost don’t think about Jungkook. Almost. About how off things have been lately. How every conversation with him feels like you’re both performing a version of yourselves from before. Before you knew about Nina’s miscarriage. Before everything started to slip. He won’t talk about it anymore, and you haven’t pressed him, because you understand. Or at least, you tell yourself that you do. But the silence between you both keeps growing, and now it’s starting to feel like even the smallest things are being swallowed by it.

That’s why today felt different. Being around someone new — someone without all the memories, all the weight — it reminded you of what it’s like to just be. And it didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t feel like betrayal.

It felt like breathing.

It felt like you made a new friend.

So, you let the remnants of the day settle into your bones like dust—slow, quiet, inescapable. The sleeves of your hoodie are still damp from dishwater, your hair smells faintly like garlic and thyme, and your feet ache from standing too long in one place. You collapse onto the couch like your body’s been waiting for this all day—sprawled out, boneless, exhausted in that oddly satisfying kind of way.

The apartment hums with low light and comfort. You click on Ginny and Georgia, something mindless and familiar, the kind of show that feels like white noise for your thoughts. Your laptop warms your thighs, your fingers moving without urgency as you open your inbox. Just routine. Just the usual.

Until you see it.

There it is. Bolded. Titled like a slap.

The email.

Same sender. Same subject line format. Same exact minute, same day of the week, like clockwork. You could recite the timing in your sleep. It’s been two months now. And yet every time, it still punches the air from your lungs in that subtle, sickening way.

You grit your teeth. Sip your lukewarm green tea even though it tastes like nothing. You tell yourself not to care—just delete it, just close it, it’s not that deep—but you’re already leaning closer, already reaching for it. Your heart clenches, your stomach dips. And still, you click.

Every single week, you hope this one won’t hurt. That it’ll be light. Some dumb memory from high school. A fight with Vicky and Leah over the last pancake. A night out with Nina where someone got a nosebleed and no one remembers why. Something stupid.

But that hope is thin.

And the second the subject line loads, your heart sinks.

Because you already know this one isn’t stupid.

It’s not light.

It’s not harmless.

It’s the day something almost happened.

“Dear me,

WHAT THE FUUUCK??”

You exhale a laugh through your nose. Of course. Of course she’d start like this. You already know you’re in for it.

“NO BECAUSE WHY DID I THINK HE WAS GOING TO KISS ME?????? WHAT IN THE TWILIGHT-ESQUE MAIN CHARACTER SYNDROME AM I ON. But also like… he almost did?? I think?? Did he??? WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT LOOK. WHAT WAS THAT TENSION. I’m going INSANE.”

You pause, blinking slowly at the screen. You remember the night. You remember the heat of it, the closeness, the way the world had gone quiet around the two of you, like it was holding its breath. He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t move forward either. And you… you didn’t push. You didn’t ask. Because you weren’t sure.

Not then.

Not ever.

“We were watching Friends — and the IRONY, because apparently that show makes people fall in love or whatever. I was in my ugliest pajama pants and I had literally just cried like an hour ago?? But then there we were. On the couch. Shoulder to shoulder. Breathing the same air. Laughing at the dumbest shit. AND THEN HE LOOKED AT ME. LIKE LOOKED. AT. ME. With that look.”

You wince. It’s embarrassing. Not the pajama pants or the crying. But how clear it all still is. You remember the episode that was playing. You remember what it felt like, to be seen by someone like that — or at least to think you were. But you also remember how your chest tightened with doubt, how it all felt just one degree off. Like you were playing pretend.

“AND THEN I LOOKED BACK. BECAUSE I’M STUPID AND HOPELESS AND I THOUGHT SOMETHING WAS GONNA HAPPEN. AND HE DIDN’T MOVE. AND I DIDN’T MOVE. AND IT WAS SO QUIET. Like so quiet. I could hear the fucking fridge humming. Our knees were touching. And he just… sat there.”

You close your eyes for a second. You remember telling yourself it was nothing. Just a close moment between friends. Nothing worth dissecting.

But then why did you have to write about it?

“I THINK HE WANTED TO. I DEFINITELY WANTED HIM TO. BUT ALSO WHAT IF I’M WRONG AND I’M JUST DELULU????? What if he didn’t want that at all and I was about to ruin everything??”

You inhale deeply. The question echoes louder now than it did then. Because things did change. Not from that night, maybe — not only because of that night — but the shift began somewhere. And sometimes, you wonder if it began with silence.

With a kiss that never happened.

With the things you were too scared to ask.

“God I’m never telling ANYONE about this ever. I’m going to bury it in my mind forever and if anyone brings it up I’ll just start screaming and running in the other direction. Not even Nina gets to know. This is going with me to the GRAVE.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh. Too late, sweetheart. You just hit send. And here you are, a decade and more later, reading it like a ghost story. Like a secret that still smells like mint tea and late night reruns and almosts.

You close your laptop with a bitter chuckle, the glow from the screen flickering like a memory you wish you could forget. That scared, desperate girl from years ago — she’s still here, trapped in the corners of your mind, screaming with all the “what ifs” and “almosts” that never turned into anything real.

God, that night. The way your heart slammed against your ribs, the silence that screamed louder than words, and the question that never got asked — did he want it, or was it just you hoping? You almost crossed the line, but you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because sometimes wanting isn’t enough, and sometimes the fear of ruining what you had was louder than the desire to risk it all.

It hurts. It still hurts to think about that almost. But you know—deep down—that it’s nothing but a shadow now. A ghost that needs to stay in the past where it belongs, buried under layers of time and silence.

You’re not that girl anymore. And maybe that’s the hardest part — accepting that some parts of you will always ache, but they can’t dictate who you are now.

The past is a wound that doesn’t always heal cleanly, but it doesn’t have to bleed forever. It’s okay to carry it without letting it drag you down.

You set your jaw, swallow the lump in your throat, and whisper to yourself, “It’s over. Let it stay over.”

Because some stories aren’t meant to be rewritten — they’re just meant to be survived.

You lean back, the weight of the years settling around your shoulders like a heavy coat you’ve worn too long. The past doesn’t just fade away; it lingers in the quiet moments, in the spaces between words, in the corners of your mind where you thought you’d locked it up tight.

But maybe that’s okay. Maybe holding onto the ache in small doses means you’re still alive, still human.

You tell yourself that you don’t regret that night — because regret would mean wishing you did something different, but you didn’t. You respected the unspoken boundary, the hesitation.

Sometimes love isn’t about what happens, but about what you don’t force.

And so you breathe out the tension you’ve held for so long, letting it go piece by piece, like leaves falling in slow motion.

The past is a chapter you’ve read enough times to know by heart. Now it’s time to write the next one — not with the shadows of “what if,” but with the quiet strength of someone who’s still here.

You close your eyes, feeling the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, peace is waiting for you right on the other side of that letting go.

You sit there for a moment longer, letting the quiet settle around you like a balm. Just as you begin to close your laptop, your phone buzzes sharply against the coffee table, jolting you from your thoughts.

You stare at the screen for a few seconds, the unfamiliar number blinking back at you like a tiny interrogation. Who even calls these days? You don’t hand out your number like candy, so this definitely wasn’t some random. For a moment, you debate ignoring it — maybe it’s a telemarketer or some weird spam. But then, a tiny voice in your brain — the one that likes to stir the pot — nudges you: Answer it. See what happens.

You swipe and answer.

“Hi?” you say cautiously.

The voice on the other end sounds almost familiar but also kind of nervous. “Uh, hey, it’s Haeun.”

“Haeun?” You blink. “Wait, how do you have my number?”

There’s a little chuckle. “I got it from my mom. Yeah, I know, kind of weird, right?”

You smirk, already liking this girl’s straightforward vibe.

“No, not weird at all. Totally normal... I guess?”

She laughs. “Phew, thought I’d be the weird stalker or something. So, I was kinda debating whether to call or text because texting feels so impersonal, but calling feels like too much pressure. So here we are.”

You grin, leaning back against your couch. “I get that. Texting’s like sending a note in a bottle. Calling is more like, ‘Hey, I’m here, please don’t make this awkward.’”

“Exactly!” Her voice is light, like you’re both sharing a secret. “So, I was wondering... would you want to go shopping with me tomorrow? I mean, I don’t really have any friends here yet, and shopping is a good excuse to avoid being a responsible adult for a bit.”

You laugh out loud. “Shopping to avoid adulting? That’s basically my life motto.”

She giggles. “Okay, great, you’re officially my partner in crime.”

You roll your eyes, though it feels good to say that out loud. “Alright, partner. Where and when are we doing this?”

“Mid-morning? Before your work. I figure we can caffeinate first. And if you’re lucky, I’ll maybe let you pick the playlist... Okay, that’s a lie, I need to pick the music.”

You smirk. “Is it gonna be pop or ’80s rock?”

“Oh, it’s a surprise. Could be both. Could be neither. I’m a mystery wrapped in a salad.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Salad, huh? Healthy choice.”

She laughs, and there’s a pause, like she’s gathering courage for something.

“Oh, and my brother’s coming into town tomorrow morning,” she says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Namjoon?”

Her voice perks up. “Wait, you know him?”

“Yeah, I met him when he came to visit your mom. Really chill dude. Kinda a big softie underneath all that brainiac energy.”

She laughs. “That’s him. Honestly, he’s kind of a loner. Would it be weird if he tagged along? I think he could use some company, and he likes quiet, low-key stuff.”

You think about it, picturing Namjoon awkwardly lurking in the background during your shopping spree.

“Nah, he’s totally welcome. The more the merrier. As long as he promises not to judge my questionable snack choices.”

She snorts. “Deal! He’ll love you.”

You grin to yourself, warmth bubbling up in your chest. Maybe this shopping trip isn’t just about killing time. Maybe it’s the start of something good.

“You’re seriously cool for this, by the way,” Haeun says after a small pause. “I mean, we literally met like six hours ago, and I’m already asking you to hang out like a clingy NPC in a roleplaying game.”

You laugh, surprised at how easy she is to talk to. “Honestly, I respect that. I wish I had the guts to ask people to hang out that fast. I usually wait until I’ve overanalyzed every interaction and rehearsed how I’ll ask for like, a week minimum.”

She hums. “Yeah, no, see—I don’t believe in internal monologues. Everything just… comes out.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t also say the wrong thing out loud and then spend six hours apologizing for it in my head.”

“Okay, so we are the same,” she says. “But no judgment. I once apologized to a door for bumping into it and then thanked it for not judging me.”

You let out a choked laugh. “You thanked the door?”

“I panicked!”

You’re grinning now. “This is gonna be fun.”

“I hope so,” she says genuinely. “I haven’t really had… girl friends in a while. Like actual ‘go to the store and talk shit about weird packaging’ kind of friends.”

“I got you. Tomorrow, we slander every brand that puts glitter in lip gloss and calls it ‘hydrating.’”

“Yay! You’re officially the best.”

“I mean, I try,” you joke, even though something in your stomach flips slightly when you remember you’ll be hanging out with Namjoon as well tomorrow. Not in a bad way—just… unexpected.

“Okay,” she chirps, “See you tomorrow then! I’ll text you the details. Also, if I forget to show up, I either overslept or spontaneously combusted from social anxiety.”

“Same. I’ll bring snacks in case of emotional emergencies.”

“Perfect. You’re hired as my emotional support human.”

“Can’t wait. Goodnight, Haeun.”

“Night!”

You hang up and stare at your screen for a beat too long, then sigh—half-laughing at yourself, half-weirdly nervous. This wasn’t supposed to be anything. But now it feels like maybe, just maybe, it could be the start of something.

Even if it’s just slandering overpriced skincare with a near-stranger and her mysterious, introverted brother.

And suddenly, you’re not even thinking about the email. Or at least… not that much. Your mind isn’t spinning with worst-case scenarios or playing back every word like a broken tape. Instead, it’s already wandered off to tomorrow — to plans and possibilities and something that feels almost like excitement. Finally, you feel… lighter. Like you can breathe a little.

So, you shower.

When you step out, you’re wearing your oversized grey hoodie, sleeves swallowing your hands, and a pair of those soft, cottony grey jorts you only wear when no one’s watching. Your slippers shuffle against the floor as you move through your apartment in lazy zigzags — rinsing out your mug, pushing the scattered chaos of your day back into something that resembles order. You don’t even mind the mess tonight.

You’re just getting everything ready for tomorrow.

And everything tomorrow might bring.

You're about to turn off the last light when your phone starts buzzing on the kitchen counter. Again. You almost chuckle, thinking it must be Haeun with some wild last minute idea.

It’s not.

Instead, it’s Jungkook.

Your thumb hovers over the screen for a second. Not because you don’t want to pick up — but because it’s late, and you weren’t expecting him. You blink a few times, then swipe.

“Hey,” you say, voice low and a little hoarse from the hour.

“Hey,” he echoes, softer. “Did I wake you?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. I had a weird day and I didn’t really want to go to sleep without hearing your voice.”

Your chest tightens — just a little. You’re not sure what to say to that, so you walk slowly toward the couch, curling into the corner like you always do when you talk to him like this.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says, and then quieter, “Just missed you.”

You chew on your bottom lip. “You always get sentimental after 11 p.m.”

“You always pretend like you don’t like it.”

“You wish. Anyways, you almost missed me though. I was just about to go to bed. Like… two seconds away from aggressively cocooning myself into oblivion.”

He chuckles. “Aggressively cocooning. Sounds serious.”

“It is. No mercy.”

There’s a pause. Comfortable.

You can hear him shuffling on the other end.“I couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe hearing your voice would help.”

You snort. “What am I, a lullaby?”

“Something like that,” he says, quieter now.

And it’s weird. The way that sentence knots something in your chest. So you try to untangle it with humor. "So? You gonna start crying and ask me to sing you 'Twinkle Twinkle' or...?"

“I’d rather die.”

“Fair.”

Silence again. But this one feels more delicate.

“So, what’s up? I assume this isn’t a random call to remind me you’re still alive?”

He snorts. “I’m pretty sure Nina would be the first to inform you if I wasn’t.”

“Fair.” You laugh softly, feeling the tension of the day start to melt a bit. You try to push away the heaviness still sitting on your chest, the weight of unspoken things between you two. “So why now? You suddenly feel like chatting with the queen of delayed bedtime routines?”

“Guilty,” he admits. “Nina fell asleep on the couch like a sack of potatoes, and I had to carry her upstairs. Almost got kicked in the ribs for my trouble.”

You chuckle. Of course. Suddenly, your heart breaks for them all over again. You almost say something, but hold back. You don’t want to make things awkward. Or painful. “Serves you right for pretending you’re invincible.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m twenty-six, not twenty-six hundred.”

“You act like you’re still ten most days.”

“Touché.” His laugh is quieter now, fading into a softer sound. And you realize you miss hearing it, more than you want to admit.

Then, just as the playfulness settles, his voice dips into something quieter, heavier. Your stomach tightens. You know this part is coming — the weight you both try to avoid.

“I’m not ten anymore. Maybe that’s why sometimes I forget how much this place still smells like him.”

Your heart clenches without warning. You want to say something comforting, but the words get stuck.

“Not like cologne or anything,” he continues. “More like… the mess he left behind. The scars you can’t see but still feel.”

You don’t interrupt. You wait, sensing he needs to say more, even if it hurts you to hear.

“There’s this scratch on the front door from when he was drunk, trying to get in. Shoved the lock open with his keys. It’s still there.”

You bite your lip, imagining the scene — the desperation, the chaos. How many nights did he stand in that doorway, fighting demons no one else saw?

“Nina’s been trying to fix things—paint over cracks, seal old windows. Like that’ll change how everything feels.”

He breathes out slowly, a sound full of exhaustion. “But I remember where he slammed doors, which cabinets he broke. It’s like the house carries him, even if he’s not around anymore.”

Your throat tightens. You want to say something to fix it, but words don’t come. What could you possibly say to that?

“I used to hate nights like this,” he says after a while.

You shift in your spot, the hoodie now warm from your body heat. “What kind of night is it?”

“Too quiet. You know? Like the kind where even the fridge humming pisses you off because it reminds you you’re not actually alone. You just… feel like it.”

You don’t say anything yet. You’ve never known loneliness in the way he says it. Not quite. Not the version that’s haunted.

"When I was a kid," he continues, "I used to hide under my bed when it got like that. Pretend the creaks upstairs were... I don’t know. The house stretching. Or the wind. Not what they actually were."

You feel your grip tighten on the phone.

He doesn’t clarify. He doesn’t have to.

“I’d lie there with my headphones in, playing some dumb song over and over like it could drown it all out. It never worked, though. I knew what was going on. And if I was lucky, I’d just run over to your place.”

You swallow. “And now?”

“Now I just call you, I guess. Kinda same as before.”

taglist pt. 1: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97 @gukieater @themwordsblog @whatevevrerr @amarawayne @tititania @guwol @reallygenerouskoala @bgfdcvbnjk @kyljjk @whoa-jo @taekritimin123 @minimoninini @upo1313 @polnaraffsrack @tatzzz-25 @orphicepiphany @coletaehyung @bjoriis @epiphany-n @kimyishin @eegyo @dearmyfavoritepeople-bts @parkinglot-nights @mar-lo-pap @evrsncenewyork @jjeonjjk7 @minghaosimp @cerulean1riz @anumita-2007 @vantelover1306 @vynmin @nadzzzblog @jnghs @lachimolalajeon @joonwater @choijay-07 @notsevenwithyou @mononoaware16 @sky-23s-world

[ggclarissa]

kiddo pt. 2 | clark kent

pt. 1

fandom: dcu

pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader

content: reader is in her early 20’s, clark is older and unfortunately hot about it, mild age gap, established relationship but barely, office gossip ruins everything, insecure clark, confused reader, lois lane mention, miscommunication, hurt/comfort.

summary: in which your newly blossomed relationship with clark kent seems perfect — until he begins to pull away, and you’re left to wonder what’s changed.

tags: @itsjusta-prank-han

You never thought the hardest part would come after everything felt perfect.

After that late Wednesday night, when Clark had confessed — quietly, tenderly, in that impossibly earnest way of his — the depth of his feelings for you. That the nickname, kiddo, had merely been a facade. That what existed between you hadn’t been imagined or one-sided.

It had been real all along.

Loving him had come easily — effortlessly, even. It was holding onto that feeling, keeping steady, that proved more difficult than you could have ever imagined. But perhaps that was simply the cost of loving a man like Clark Kent.

A man who was soft-spoken and devastatingly kind. Who moved through a world of cynics with a quiet determination to prove that gentleness was not a flaw but a strength. Who chose his words carefully, meant every one of them, and loved as if he feared breaking the very things he cherished most.

You had been together for a month, and you hadn’t stopped smiling since.

At least — not until recently. Not until he stopped.

It began subtly. Small absences.

His hand slipped from yours a little sooner. The texts that once brightened your afternoons dwindled until their absence felt louder than their presence ever had. And then one night, he didn’t walk you home — a ritual he’d kept since the night he confessed. He claimed he was drowning in work, needed to stay late. But he left you without a kiss, no backward glance to cling to, and the emptiness of it settled over you like a weight you couldn’t shake, lingering well into the morning.

You told yourself not to spiral. One off day didn’t constitute disaster.

But then it was two. Then four. Then nearly two weeks of hollow smiles, vague reassurances, and a tenderness that felt less like devotion and more like a prelude to goodbye.

Clark wasn’t deliberately pulling away — not exactly. Yet each time he caught a smirk half-hidden behind a coffee mug, each time the air shifted and the conversation stilled as he entered the break room, it seeped into him slowly — like water through a hairline crack, inevitable and inescapable.

It wasn’t shame. He had never, not once, felt ashamed of you.

On the contrary, he remained quietly astonished by your effect on him — how your laughter could ease the tension from his shoulders before he even noticed it, how your voice could transform the chaos of the bullpen into something bearable. How your gaze never once marked him as strange or ill-suited for the world, but simply as a man striving to do his best.

But he couldn’t shake the whispers.

Clark had been weaving through the bullpen, balancing two mugs in his hands — one meant for you — when he heard it.

He hadn’t intended to eavesdrop; he never did. Super-hearing was, more often than not, a curse as much as it was a blessing. But the moment your name surfaced, he went still.

“—(Y/N) and Kent. They’re definitely a thing.”

“She’s what, twenty-one?”

“Yeah. She was still a freshmen when he was already writing op-eds. I mean, what do they even talk about? Mortgage rates?”

His stomach turned.

Another voice joined in, laced with jest. “Maybe she’s into the whole ‘older guy’ thing. You know — mature, emotionally stable, good credit score…”

A laugh followed. “Sure, but still. You’d think someone like him would go for a woman his own age. Not someone barely old enough to rent a car.”

“Guess Kent likes ‘em young.”

Clark hadn’t stayed to hear the rest — if there had even been more to hear.

He pivoted sharply, dumped your coffee into the nearest sink, and disappeared into an empty conference room — where he sat for twenty long minutes, head buried in his hands, utterly still.

Because the comments hadn’t just been cruel — they’d validated his deepest fear: that he had, in fact, crossed a line by pursuing you. That maybe everyone at the Daily Planet had been silently condemning your relationship from the very start.

And you felt the shift the moment that realization took root in him.

That same day, there was no coffee on your desk. No easy stop by your corner of the newsroom. Not even a flicker of his gaze meeting yours.

You told yourself he was just busy.

But he wasn’t.

He was retreating — one clipped word, one abandoned ritual, one disappearance at a time.

And you noticed.

God, you noticed.

Eventually, you broke and confided in Lois over lunch. Your voice barely carried as you pushed your fork through an untouched salad, the weight of your fears finally slipping past your lips.

“Clark’s been distant,” You admitted lowly. “And I don’t know why. I keep wondering if it’s me. If I’m too young. If maybe he just…lost interest.”

Lois’s eyes snapped to yours over the rim of her mug. “‘Lost interest?’ Are you serious?”

Your shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. “He called me ‘kiddo’ before we were together, and I thought that meant I didn’t stand a chance. What if he actually thinks that now? That I’m too young? Too inexperienced. That I’m not…enough.”

Lois set her mug down and leaned forward, her gaze sharp. “Okay, first of all — Clark doesn’t do anything casually. If he’s pulling away, it’s not because he stopped caring. It’s because he cares too much. Trust me. I’ve known him a long time.”

You raised your gaze, uncertain. “But what if—?”

Lois’s voice was gentle but unwavering. “(Y/N). If you want answers, go to him. Clark won’t lie — not to you.”

So you did.

It was a quiet Thursday evening when you found him — alone in the copy room, the last of the golden light slanting through the windows and pooling across the tiles. Clark stood over the printer, shoulders tense as he wrestled with a stubborn printer jam.

You waited until the machine hummed back to life before clearing your throat.

He turned at once, startled. “Hey.”

You closed the door behind you, soft but deliberate.

The change in his demeanor was instantaneous — his shoulders snapped upright, his expression guarded. “Everything alright?”

You shook your head. “No, Clark. We need to talk.”

He stilled.

“I know something’s been wrong for weeks,” You said, your voice steady even as your chest constricted. “I’ve given you space. I’ve tried to be patient. But I can’t keep pretending nothing’s changed.”

His jaw clenched, though he remained silent.

You drew a steady breath, forcing the words out. “If you don’t want to be with me anymore, just — please. Be honest. I can take it. I just need to know the truth.”

“What?” His expression shattered then, the answer fierce and immediate. “No. God, no — that’s not it at all.”

“Then what is it?” Your voice cracked despite yourself. “Because it feels like you’re already halfway out the door.”

He looked like the words were pulling him apart at the seams.

“I overheard people,” He admitted finally, voice low and fraying at the edges. “Talking about us. About you. About the age difference, how it looks. And I started wondering if they were right — if I really did cross a line.”

You stared at him, disbelieving. “And you believed them?”

“I didn’t want to,” He whispered, “But the doubt got into my head. I kept thinking…what if people stopped taking you seriously because of me? What if I’m making things harder for you without even realizing it?”

Your eyes flashed, cutting through his words. “That’s not your call to make. You don’t get to decide what’s best for me without even talking to me.”

He looked gutted, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of it all. “I just didn’t want to be the reason people judged you.”

“They already judge me,” You said softly, each word deliberate. “Because I’m new. Because I’m young. Because I’m a woman. I fight those battles every day. But being with you…it made it easier.”

You stepped closer, your voice fracturing. “But then you pulled away. And that hurt more than anything they could’ve said about me.”

Clark’s blue eyes shone with barely restrained tears. “I’m so sorry. I thought I was protecting you.”

Closing the distance, you laid a hand against his chest, grounding him. “Don’t protect me from you. I never asked for that.”

A prolonged silence settled between you.

And then, in a voice barely above a breath, he said, “I love you.”

You let out a trembling breath. It was the first time those words had ever left his lips — for you.

“Then stop acting like you’re a burden. You’re the best part of my day, Clark Kent.”

Something in him cracked open at that — some insurmountable barrier finally giving way.

And when he kissed you — God, when he kissed you — it was everything he’d kept buried. Raw, breathless, and unrestrained. It was apology and longing, regret and hope, all folded into one desperate, beautiful moment.

When you finally drew back, he leaned in, gently resting his forehead against yours.

“I won’t do that again,” He murmured. “I’m done letting their opinions get in my head.”

You smiled, even as emotion tightened your throat. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere.”

You left the copy room with your fingers laced together. And when someone in the bullpen glanced up and whispered?

Clark didn’t falter. He held your hand like it was a statement — and he didn’t let go.

Not for a second.

[twitsid]

glitter and hearts

david corenswet!Clark Kent x female reporter!reader

word count: 1.2k words

warnings: Soft!Clark Kent, fem!reader, mentions of crying, heavy comfort/fluff, one very love-struck reporter (or maybe two 🤭), brief mention of lost work/editorial, reader is super girly but has a heart of gold.

summary: She writes about fashion. He writes about corruption and crime. She wears gloss, heels, and loves animals. He wears glasses, stammers when he talks to her, and is secretly Superman. A minor screw-up at work makes her cry, but Clark shows up to comfort her… and ends up getting asked out to dinner.

a/n: Hello hello, here's a little one shot about my beloved nerdy boyfriend: Clark Kent. I've been a little (a lot) obsessed with him since I saw the movie last week, it gave me back the desire to be happy and enjoy my life lol. English is not my first language, so I apologize if you find any spelling mistakes I missed, I do my best 💕. Enjoy your reading.

──xoxo, madds ᡣ𐭩

The Daily Planet newsroom was pure chaos—keyboards clicking, espresso machines hissing, people chasing deadlines like their lives depended on it. But in the middle of all that, there was always one little pocket of sparkle and grace: you.

You, with your perfectly done pastel pink nails, your silky blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, nude heels clicking on the floor like music, and that kind smile you gave everyone—from the security guy downstairs to freaking Lois Lane. You wrote the fashion column for the biggest paper in Metropolis. And yeah, people sometimes whispered about your “fluffy” articles, but nobody could ever deny your talent.

And then… there was Clark Kent.

Tall. Kinda awkward. Those glasses barely hid the ridiculously blue eyes and that jawline that looked straight-up sculpted by angels. He wrote about justice and hard-hitting news. You wrote about trends, seasonal palettes, and the comeback of glossy lips. Basically? Opposite vibes.

But every time Clark saw you, his brain short-circuited.

“Good—Good morning,” he stammered as you passed his desk, folders in hand, wearing a lilac dress that matched your lipstick.

“Morning, Clark!” you grinned. “Did you sleep okay? Or did the night call the knight away?”

He scratched the back of his neck, chuckling softly.

“Something like that... Just a few last-minute calls.”

What you didn’t know was that those “calls” were actual cries for help… from the other side of the planet. But what you did know was that Clark had something special about him. He listened. Like, really listened. Even when you rambled for twenty minutes about the difference between blush pink and dusty rose.

And he loved listening to you. He memorized the way you talked, the way you smiled when you handed him a cookie, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about cruelty-free lipstick.

That afternoon, you were checking the photo proofs for your latest editorial: a sustainable fashion spread. You’d spent weeks organizing it—working with vegan designers, scheduling shoots, interviewing stylists. It wasn’t just fluff. It meant something.

Even Lois had told you it was solid work.

Then it happened.

One rookie intern. One stupid mistake. And poof—the whole damn folder was gone. Photos, notes, edits. All of it.

You froze. Then ran to IT. They tried to recover it. Nada.

Next thing you knew, you were curled up in a dark, empty conference room with your hands over your face and a single tear sliding down your cheek, ruining your (very expensive) waterproof mascara.

“This was my biggest project...” you whispered shakily. “It was gonna be my first double spread... and now it’s all gone.”

Clark found you not long after. He’d noticed you were missing and, like the sweetheart he was, went looking for you. Not as Superman—just as Clark.

“Hey... you okay?” he said softly, poking his head through the door.

Then he saw you crying. And bam, heart shattered.

“Oh—oh no, no, no—” he hurried over, kneeling beside you. “What happened?”

“Clark... everything’s gone... the whole editorial,” you sniffled. “I know it’s not a crime story or a political scandal or whatever... but I worked so hard on it. It was for the animals. For the planet. For... everything.”

He pulled out a crumpled tissue from his coat pocket and handed it to you with the gentleness of a golden retriever in a thunderstorm.

“Hey, don’t say that,” he said quietly. “Your column is amazing. You make people think. You make them buy smarter, shop kinder, care a little more. What you do matters. You matter.”

You blinked at him. That voice—warm, honest, deep—hit you right in the chest.

“You’re so sweet, Clark...” you smiled a little through your tears.

And just like that, his whole face turned beet red.

“I—uh—I’m just telling the truth.”

He helped you up, his big hands steady on your back and arm, and walked you to his desk. What you didn’t know was that he’d already started drafting an email to the editors suggesting a full do-over… and even offered to shoot the photos himself.

“You know what?” you said, regaining your composure. “I do wanna redo it. And maybe... include a little behind-the-scenes feature. A male perspective on ethical fashion.”

Clark’s eyes widened.

“You want me to... be in it?”

“Why not?” you teased, giving him a playful wink. “You always notice what I’m wearing. Like yesterday—you said my blouse brought out my eyes. That’s very specific for someone who claims not to know fashion.”

He blinked. Guilty.

“Okay... maybe I read your column. Like... every day.”

“You do?”

“Religiously.”

You laughed—bright, delighted, and just a little flirty.

“Clark Kent... are you flirting with me?”

He clutched his chest, mock offended.

“Was it that obvious?”

“Just a little.” You grinned. “But I like it.”

The air got thick. Like one of those moments where the whole room pauses and waits to see who’s gonna make the next move.

And that someone... was you.

“You wanna... grab dinner this week? As a thank-you. And because, well... you’re cute. I mean—really cute.”

Clark short-circuited. For three seconds. Maybe four.

Then he smiled—really smiled—and nodded like a golden retriever being offered a treat.

“Yes! I mean—yeah, I’d love to. Thursday?”

“Thursday’s perfect.”

You picked up your purse, heels tapping against the floor like music again, and walked away like you were walking a damn runway.

Right before you turned the corner, you glanced back and blew him a kiss.

Clark legit stumbled.

And up in the sky, for once, Superman didn’t need to fly.

Because his heart was already floating.

[em1i2a3]

Sweet Dreams Of Otherness

Pairing: John Walker (U.S. Agent) x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Walker are sent on a mission to recover some tech at an abandoned HYDRA facility that’s buried deep in the Sonoran Desert. The two of you absolutely despise each other and can’t stand being in the same room together, but when a dire situation comes up, all things must be pushed aside to help your fellow teammate, whether you like it or not.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Variation of a Sex Pollen Trope (pollen isn’t in a flower, it’s in fruit), Smut, Enemies to Reluctant Lovers (at first at least), Some Fluff, Reader is typically at Walkers’ throat (Walker tries his best to not let that get to him, but he slips a lot), Mentions of throwing up

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (yeah yeah, I know.), Rough Sex, Hair Pulling, Fingering, Fingers Sucking, Biting, Scratching, Putting Hands Over Mouths, Is It A Bit Awkward At First? Yep, but just go with it lol, Rubbing through clothes, I don’t think I missed anything.

Author’s Note: Jeeeeez, first John Walker Fic and I’ve been indoctrinated by the system lol. I loved writing this, and it was really different to write a totally different character. Anyways, hope y’all enjoy my first stab at writing Walker. <3

Word Count: 11,380

You hated John Walker.

That wasn’t an exaggeration. It wasn’t some mild annoyance you brushed off during missions or a tolerable personality clash you could wave away with professionalism. No. You hated him.

Maybe it was the knock-off Captain America suit–stitched to mimic valor but worn by a man who had never earned the weight behind the star that Steve wore. It was too clean. Too polished. And too fake. Like it was a whole PR stunt to make people forget about what Steve had foraged while wearing the suit. Or maybe it was the way he always had to be the one leading the charge, barking orders with that square jaw clenched beneath his helmet like he was still playing soldier on a stage meant for legends.

He never listened, and always thought he had the answer to everything–every intel breach, every tactical glitch, and every goddamn conversation during debrief that didn’t go his way. His confidence wasn’t earned; it was manufactured, inflated by ego and absolute delusion, straining at the seams of his self-importance.

And the worst part was that he returned your disdain in equal measure.

Walker was the type who matched other people’s energy with force–sarcasm for sarcasm, sharp glances for sharp words. You couldn’t stand him, and he couldn’t stand you, and that dynamic never changed. Not through group missions or close calls, not even through the quiet tension of mandatory team-building exercises. Not once.

So when you were told that the two of you were being paired up–alone–for a mission in the goddamn Sonoran Desert, your blood pressure practically spiked through the roof. No one else was available, and you couldn’t refuse the assignment. There was HYDRA tech that was reportedly hidden at a facility so deep in the desert it didn’t even exist on updated satellite maps, and they needed the two of you to go and scavenge the place.

——————

The HYDRA compound revealed itself slowly, half-sunken in the sand like a ruin the earth itself had tried to erase. The midday heat shimmered off rusted steel and scorched cement, and the sunlight was unrelenting as it bled into the sky–everything was a haze of orange, white, and bone-dry heat. Thorny mesquite curled around collapsed fencing, and weather-worn “NO TRESSPASSING” signs flapped weakly against the chain-links like the building was attempting to hide something while being a beacon of suspicion.

The facility itself was carved into the side of a low mesa, it was concrete and reinforced with steel paneling that had long since warped and peeled. Faded HYDRA insignias were barely visible on the corroded doors–faded off from the sun and from the time that had passed between being abandoned and rediscovered. There were old roots that crept over shattered vents, and every inch of the space reeked of disuse staleness, expired chemicals, and ozone.

Walker cracked the heavy steel door open with a loud creak, the hinges shrieking in protest after years of sunbaked neglect. His body shifted as he used his weight to hold it steady, his muscles flexing in his suit, rippling with the effort as he glanced back at you with a silent tilt of his head that said, Well?

You stepped past him without a word, ducking through the partially jammed frame and brushing your shoulder against the wall’s blistered edge. You felt rust bite at the tactical gear that lined your suit, scraping against the skin tight fabric, as you slipped into the shadows beyond. He followed a beat later, wedging the door wider with his taco-shaped shield so he could slide in behind you–because he knew damn well you weren’t about to stand there and hold it open for him.

The second the door slammed shut behind you, the desert heat that had been clinching to your skin like a wet blanket vanished.

Cool, climate-controlled air kissed the back of your neck and seeped into your sleeves. It smelled of filtered metal and aged antiseptic, a sterile coldness preserved in time. The hallway ahead sloped downward, the lights overhead flickering under layers of desert dust and age. You both unholstered your sidearms and moved wordlessly, your boots making muffled thuds against the concrete floor.

You didn’t hear any machinery humming, or any additional footsteps, it was just pure silence. The stairs that led down to the lab were cracked and slick with sand that had blown through the broken ventilation panels, and when you reached the bottom, the space opened up before you like the aftermath of a storm.

It was chaos–frozen in amber.

The lab was wide and low-ceilinged, lined with shattered containment chambers, broken glass, and desks covered in forgotten paperwork. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly in uneven intervals, painting the space in pulses of cold white light that caught the jagged edges of shattered beakers and tools.

Tables were overturned. Lockers were pried open and left gaping like rib cages. One wall had been half-blasted through, the steel reinforcement melted into curls like scorched ribbon. Chemical residue stained the floor beneath cracked Bunsen burners and mangled containment vats. And despite the years of abandonment, some of the terminals still flickered faintly–screens frozen on half-written formulas, the final lines of code interrupted mid-command.

Whoever had been here last hadn’t packed up. They hadn’t even tried to clean.

They had fled.

With a sharp glance between you, you and Walker instinctively split directions, guns raised and shoulders tense. You swept left, hugging the shadows along a row of overturned shelves while he cut a path along the right, stepping over debris like he’d done this a thousand times. You checked corners. Cleared doorways. Searched for movement in the stillness.

After a few minutes, the two of you circled back toward the main lab space and gave each other a nod. Weapons were returned to their holsters.

“You stay on your side. I’ll stay on mine,” You instructed, already turning your attention to a nearby filing cabinet.

You crouched beside it, the metal warped with heat but still intact enough to pull open. The drawers resisted with a groan, but gave way to reveal yellowed documents and rough-edged folders thick with dust. You flipped through them with gloved fingers, scanning for anything tagged with keywords–biotech, neurochemistry, mutagenic flora.

Across the room, Walker exhaled with a put-upon sigh and dragged his helmet off his head. His short, sweat-damp blond hair fell forward, a few stubborn strands sticking to his forehead before he ran a hand through them in frustration.

“Whatever you say,” He muttered under his breath.

You didn’t bother responding.

He moved toward the far wall of lab stations, setting his shield down against a broken chair and picking through scattered tools and abandoned datapads. The lab lights flickered again, casting long shadows over his broad shoulders and the deep furrow in his brow. You watched out of the corner of your eye as he moved slowly, his body flexing in the uniform, shaking his head like he was trying to exude some of the adrenaline that coursed through his veins, letting out a little huff.

The silence stretched.

You turned back to the drawer, pulling out a thick folder marked with a Hydra insignia that had bled into the paper with age. Its contents were more scientific than you expected–botanical diagrams, field notes in Russian and English, chemical breakdowns that included bizarre hormone pathways and neural reaction patterns. One particular document made your eyes narrow.

“Reactional pheromonal stimuli observed within 7-10 minutes of exposure. Compounds trigger sensory hypersensitivity, behavioural fixation, glandular spike in oxytocin and dopamine receptors. The subject displays signs of heightened arousal, increased aggression, and intense desire to imprint on the nearest organic source of stimulus. Compound variant D-324. Extracted from hybrid flora found near contaminated grounds. USE WITH CAUTION.”

You were just about to flip to the next page when a sharp crash split through the silence like a bullet.

Glass shattered and metal clanged.

You flinched, body tensing on instinct as your hand went to your holster–but it was just Walker. You snapped your head up and locked eyes with him from across the lab. You could’ve shot him right then and there and wrote in the mission reports that it was an accident, but you withheld your frustration.

He stood frozen in front of a tilted shelving unit, jagged-edged beakers and shattered Petri dishes in glittering ruin at his feet. One of the heavier drawers from the workstation had slipped off entirely, landing with a loud thud that echoed through the steel-and-concrete space.

Your hands curled into fists.

”Jesus Christ, Walker,” You barked, rising to your feet, “Will you be careful for fuck’s sake? Are you a child? Do I need to tell you to keep your hands to yourself?!” He raised one hand in exaggerated surrender, while bracing the other lazily against the edge of his tactical belt.

”For god’s sake,” He muttered, clearly annoyed, “You don’t have to snap at me like I did it on purpose. It was a fucking accident. Ever heard of them?” The lab lights buzzed overhead, casting cold strobing shadows across his face. He was flushed from the heat, his jaw tight with irritation, sweat collecting at his temple just beneath the mess of damp blond hair.

You shot him a glare so sharp it felt like your eyes were burning holes into his skull.

”Go do a perimeter sweep outside. I can handle this myself.” Walker scoffed, pushing off the bench as he reached down to snatch his shield from where it leaned against the broken chair. He slipped the strap over his arm with practiced ease, flexing his forearm as it locked into place.

“Gladly. Hopefully your hot head will be cooled down by the time I get back,” He commented as he turned and stalked toward the hallway. Your jaw clenched so tight your molars ached. You resisted the urge to hurl a paperweight at the back of his skull and instead stood perfectly still, watching him disappear around the corner, his boots crunching softly over debris until the sound faded into silence.

Only once he was gone did you exhale sharply through your nose and turn your attention back to the folder in your hands, then you flipped the page to look at more chemical diagrams. Your gaze caught on a series of rough sketches–floral structures, seed pods, and bulbous, ocular fruits. The rendering was hand-drawn but detailed, each vein and spine delicately inked in colour with obsessive precision. It looked like a prickly pear cactus–but wrong. A little more rounded, with the outer flesh marked with pale orange freckles. From the diagram the person who drew and coloured it made it seem like there was a golden sheen on the skin, like it was supposed to attract people to pluck one and eat it. There was a note paper clipped to the drawings.

“Variant D-324. Unstable. Field tested on rodents. Significant behavioural alteration. Strong bonding behaviour. Reproductive fixation. Terminal trial recommended after Stage III symptoms manifest. Effects vary by subject physiology. Cross-species transmission likely via ingestion. Tested Subject killed mate.”

Your eyes trailed back to the drawn cross section of the fruit. Inside, the pulp was a deep reddish purple–smooth and glossy like syrup–surrounded by a fibrous membrane and glistening orange seeds.

”What kind of mad scientist bullshit is this?” You muttered under your breath. It wasn’t even a question to answer. Just an exhausted observation at the absurdity of what you were holding–botanical aphrodisiacs with cross-species imprinting behaviour? HYDRA had clearly never gotten tired of playing god. You flipped through another few pages, scanning the margins for legible notes. There were little scribbles in different inks–some frantic, some neat, one simply read “FAILED–DO NOT INGEST” next to a blood-stained fingerprint. The file practically radiated do not touch, which of course made it all the more dangerous, and all the more important.

You closed the folder and set it carefully on the nearest metal counter, brushing a layer of dust off the surface before placing it down flat. You would be bringing that back to the compound for sure. Even if it wasn’t related to the mission objectives, this was the kind of file that needed deeper analysis–and the team back home would want to know exactly what had been left behind out there in the half-rotted tomb of a lab, especially Bucky.

Turning away from the counter, you made your way further into the heart of the facility.

The containment area was cooler, and darker. The light there was more finicky, flickering overhead like it was on the brink of dying out. You moved past cracked display cases and sealed cabinets. Most were empty, their contents long removed or destroyed. A few still had test vials filled with discolored liquids that clung to the glass like they were alive, shifting slowly with gravity as you passed.

You rifled through drawers. Pulled at rusted handles. Tugged open sample trays and flipped through brittle paperwork. You found coded USB drives, decayed documentation, even an old lab coat still hanging from a hook that was burned at the bottom. Your curiosity got the better of you–you were in your element, entirely focused on the hunt. The quiet hum of machinery under your fingertips as you attempted to reboot a terminal. The delicate turn of a dial on an old refrigeration unit. The satisfying clack of a drawer sliding open to reveal its secrets.

You were so focused, in fact, that you didn’t hear the footsteps returning. Didn’t hear the approach behind you or the shift in air pressure. Nor did you catch the scent of something faintly sweet–like a juicy type of citrus and pepper–until a voice cut clean through the silence and made your heart jerk.

”Want a cactus berry?” You jolted violently, head snapping over your shoulder as adrenaline surged through your chest. Walker was standing behind you. Relaxed. His stance was easy, almost boyish in the set of his shoulders–except there was something in the way he looked at you that made your gut clench. His lips were stained a faint, dusty pink. Barely noticeable unless you were looking. But your eyes were looking–tracking every detail with sniper-like precision now.

There were a few drops of juice tangled in the hairs of his beard, catching the lab light in a soft shimmer. His tongue darted out to swipe the corner of his mouth as he lifted one of the small, alien-looking fruits toward you–half-sliced, its interior gleaming a vibrant, syrupy purple. The missing section was clearly in his stomach now. He held up a second one like a peace offering, his eyes trying to settle somewhere between your mouth and your expression.

A little smile pulled at his lips–hesitant, but there. Almost sheepish. Almost…Apologetic. Like this was his version of saying sorry. Like this was an olive branch wrapped in thorns.

You didn’t reach for it, you just stared at him, before your eyes dropped to the fruit. The pulp. The orange freckles…

The skin of the fruit gleamed faintly–just like the drawing in the file. A golden sheen, too perfect to be natural. Almost seductive in how ripe and rich it looked.

“Walker…” You said slowly, your voice losing all the heat you were going to meet him with, “Where did you get those?” He glanced down at them like he hadn’t realized they were significant. Then, with zero sense of urgency, he brought the half-eaten slice back to his mouth and shoved another juicy wedge between his teeth, chewing loudly.

”From outside,” He replied around the bite, his voice muffled and wet. Juice trickled over his lip and down his chin, catching in the hairs of his beard, “Few clicks past the perimeter. There was a whole cluster of them. Nice and ripe. Way better than the shit you find in stores.” He continued, with absolutely no sense of awareness of what was going on.

Your mouth opened–but no words came out.

Because what could you even say?

You had just read a declassified Hydra file about that exact fruit. About its neurochemical effects. Its impact on bonding behavior. Its ability to override basic inhibition. Its tendency to push reproductive drives to the forefront of cognition.

And here this idiot was, standing in front of you, cheeks flushed, pupils wide, tongue stained pink with chemical poison, acting like he’d found a damn trail snack.

You took one step back, your mind whirring, trying to calculate how long it had been since his first bite. Seven minutes? Eight?

“Walker…” You started, firmer this time. “You need to stop eating that right now. Spit it out. Wash your mouth. I’m serious. That’s not safe. That’s–” He looked at you like you were overreacting. That familiar smug edge crept back into his tone.

“Relax…It’s just a cactus berry, not a HYDRA bomb. I’ve eaten worse in the field.” He licked the juice from his fingers like it was honey, lips shining faintly under the lab’s sickly flickering lights. The sound of each indulgent pop of his fingertips leaving his mouth echoed through the cavernous stillness like a slap.

And then he swallowed the wedge you had just told him to spit out. You stared at him, stunned, a sound of pure exasperation tearing from your chest like it was dragged from the deepest part of your lungs.

“For the love of god, why can’t you just listen to me for once?” You snapped, stepped forward without hesitation now, “They’re not cactus berries, John, you idiot!” You didn’t wait for his response. You stormed across the space, closed the distance between you in three sharp strides, and smacked the other fruit clean out of his hand. It hit the ground with a wet thud, rolling beneath a scorched lab table and leaving a dark purple smear across the cracked tile.

Walker blinked in shock both still parted slightly, juice clinging to his lips like a bruise. You didn’t give him time to argue. Your hand found the crevasse of his shield–right where the taco formed– and you yanked him with you, dragging him toward the workstation where you’d left the folder, flipping it open.

”Read it, you dumbass.” You said, slamming your palm down beside the open file for emphasis. Walker leaned over, brows furrowed, still panting a little from the sudden movement. His hair, slightly damp with sweat, had started to fall loose again from where he’d slicked it back–tufts falling forward over his forehead as he squinted at the pages.

His blue eyes darted back and forth for a few moments.

You could practically see the exact moment his brain caught up to reality. His jaw ticked, then slowly dropped slack.

“Oh…Fuck.” He muttered under his breath, like it hurt to say aloud. He stepped back from the workstation like the file had burned him.

And then, without another word, he rushed over to one of the lab sinks–nearly slipping on a broken clipboard in his path-and shoved the old, rust-speckled tap on full blast.

The water came out brown at first, then clear, and he didn’t hesitate. He bent low and shoved his mouth directly beneath the flow, spluttering as the cold stream smacked his face. He cupped his hand around the flow so it went into his mouth, swished it hard, spat into the deep metal basin, then repeated the motion twice more–his shoulders heaving.

”Should’ve fucking known it was too good to be true,” He hissed out, voice rough, lips pink and wet now as he looked around the room in frantic desperation. “I need a trash bin–I’m gonna try to throw it up.” You were already moving, grabbing the one closest to the bench with the file, fixing the inner bag and handing the whole bin to him with one sharp motion. His eyes flicked up toward yours for half a second–less gratitude, more raw panic–before he dug his teeth into his gloves and slipped them off, turning his back to you quickly.

You heard the gag reflex almost immediately when he shoved his fingers into his mouth. A sharp, wet retch.

The sound of his knuckles forcing his throat to convulse.

He choked again–and this time, you heard the sickening splash of liquid filling the liner of the bin. Bitter-smelling fruit, stomach acid, and bile hit the air almost instantly.

You winced. Not from disgust–though it was disgusting–but from the growing realization that it might not matter if he made himself throw up, because if the timing was remotely accurate in the file…He had missed his opportunity. You heard him spit again–harsh and wet–the sound accompanied by another low gag that scraped out of his chest like he was trying to exorcise it. More liquid hit the bag with a slap, and a few raged breaths followed. His boots scuffed against the tile as he lowered the trash bin to the ground and shoved his face beneath the running stream once more, gasping as the cold water hit him again.

He spat hard–twice–before panting between swishes.

“Fuck…”

His voice was raspy, bordering on hoarse.

“Fuck’s sake.”

You stayed rooted where you were, back near the workstation, still watching him cautiously from across the room, eyes narrowed. You didn’t move. You weren’t sure if you should.

“Are you feeling anything?” You asked, voice firm but low, trying not to betray the knot tightening in your throat from the nerves that plagued you. Walker’s head snapped up from the stream. He shook it almost immediately, droplets of water flying from his damp hair and beading across the sink’s edge.

“No…No, not yet.” He swallowed thickly, “But I don’t think it’s gonna stay that way.” He pushed himself upright, wiping a slick hand down his face as he turned toward you–and that’s when you saw it.

The first sign.

His skin. It was already flushing.

Not just at the cheeks or the neck from exertion–but spreading low, beneath the collar of his uniform. It was a warm, creeping pink that suggested something deeper than physical strain. You weren’t sure if it was from the vomiting or from the fruit–yet–but you didn’t like the odds either way. You crossed your arms and leaned your hip against the workstation, watching him cautiously.

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to eat random fruit around abandoned Hydra facilities?” You asked, tone dry, bitter with disbelief and slight amusement. He groaned audibly, dragging both hands down his face.

“Please don’t fucking start with me.” The sound of his shield hitting the floor echoed hard and metallic–he’d unstrapped it from his forearm and tossed it aside with a thunk that made the overhead lights tremble. The bounce echoed in the cavernous quiet. “Now is not the fucking time.” He added, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. You stepped back automatically, hands lifting in passive surrender.

“Sorry,” You mumbled, though it barely felt necessary. He was already unraveling. Walker stood there, shoulders heaving like his lungs couldn’t quite keep up. His forehead glistened beneath the mess of damp blond hair now curling slightly at the edges. He rubbed the sweat away, dragging his palm across his temple and then freezing–staring at the beads of moisture that pooled on his skin.

Then, slowly, with barely concealed discomfort, he began to unbuckle his gear.

You didn’t say anything. You just…Watched. Quietly. Carefully. In small, stolen glances, as if acknowledging it too directly might escalate something you couldn’t walk back. He moved methodically.

Snapped open a buckle. Loosened a strap. Peeled back a thick shoulder pad that clattered against the bench.

Another groan, this one deeper, vibrating through his throat as he reached for his chest rig and began unclipping the front latch.

His breathing was getting heavier.

You could hear it now–ragged, uneven, pulling in short through his nose and puffed out through parted lips. Like he was hot from the inside out, trapped in a body that was slowly catching fire.

He ripped the velcro at his side and slipped out of the gear, the stiff bulk of it landing with a heavy drop on the floor. One hand found the back of his neck, fingers curling against the muscle there, pressing like he could rub the tension out–but you could see it wasn’t helping.

”Shit…” He muttered to himself, rubbing harder now. You saw the muscles in his back shift beneath the fabric of his training shirt. Every motion was more urgent now. Like he was being driven forward by instinct, rather than reason.

“You need to find something to tie me up with,” Walker rasped, voice low and strained, the words pushed between clenched teeth like he was holding back more than speech. “Or a room to lock me in. I can’t be walking around freely–this doesn’t feel right…” He let out a harsh breath, his chest rising and falling beneath the damp stretch of his training shirt. It clung to him now, soaked with sweat–darkened along his collarbones, down the deep line between his pecs, and beneath the sharp angles of his arms where the fabric stuck like a second skin. He dragged one palm across his jaw, then fanned himself with it in a feeble attempt to cool off, jaw ticking as another wave of internal heat rolled through him.

You looked around the lab, scanning for anything that could act as a restraint, heart kicking up speed despite your attempt to stay calm. Your eyes skipped over overturned chairs, scorched equipment, loose wires–and then caught on the lab coat. The one still hanging, burned at the bottom hem but structurally intact.

“Give me a second,” You said quickly. Walker grunted in response, the sound halfway between pained and resigned. He bent forward with a groan, bracing his palms on his knees as if just standing upright had become too much.

“Okay,” He panted. “Okay, just…Hurry.” You darted to the coat, fingers fumbling as you yanked it off the hook. The scent of char and chemical dust puffed into the air, but the sleeves were intact. Strong enough. You moved fast, crossing the distance back to him. Your boots clicked across the tile and skidded slightly on some scattered glass, but you didn’t slow down.

Walker had dropped to his knees now, his back pressed to the cool tile wall, close to one of the thick, metal pipes that ran along the base of the sink. He looked up at you with a flash of something wild behind his eyes–dilated pupils swallowing the color, jaw clenched so hard you thought he might shatter a molar.

“Sit over there,” you said firmly, motioning toward the pipe.

Without argument–without a single smartass comment–he crawled over on his hands and knees, shoulders hitching with each breath, and slumped back against the wall. The movement was almost desperate. Animalistic even.

You moved to him quickly, folding the sleeves of the lab coat into twisted restraints. His arms were thick, warm beneath your fingers. Radiating heat. You could feel his pulse hammering at his wrists as you wrapped the sleeves around them and tied him to the pipe behind him–tight and secure, double-knotting it despite the way your hands trembled.

He let out a groan that curled somewhere between agony and pleasure in your gut.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” He hissed, his head dropping back against the wall with a soft thud. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, throat flexing with a swallow so hard it looked painful. “You have to get away from me.” You stepped back a little, breathing hard despite yourself.

“I’m trying to do what you told me to, Walker. You said to tie you up.”

“I know,” He gritted out, nostrils flaring. “Yes. I know. But…Fuck.” His hips shifted slightly, knees spreading as he tried to stretch out, panting hard through his nose. “Are you…Wearing perfume or something?”

You blinked. “No.” He exhaled sharply, eyes opening–and the look in them made your stomach knot. It was raw. Frantic.

“You…” He started, then stopped himself, sucking in another shallow breath. His voice dropped to a whisper, hoarse with restraint. “Oh Jesus Christ, get away from me, Y/N.” His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t commanding. It was pleading.

You backed away instinctively, giving him space, stepping behind the perimeter of an overturned lab bench. Your pulse was roaring in your ears now–hot and fast and heavy–and your skin buzzed with adrenaline as you leaned one hand on the cool steel counter, trying to center yourself.

From across the room, you heard the thunk-thunk-thunk of his head as it gently bumped back against the pipe behind him.

“I can feel it kicking in,” He muttered, more to himself than to you. “I can feel it.”

Your gaze snapped to him.

You gulped a bit, your throat working around the dry tightness that had taken hold there, as if your body was instinctively reacting to the heat bleeding off him in waves. You could see the strain in his posture, the way the veins in his forearms bulged beneath the restraint of the lab coat, every muscle pulled taut like a bowstring on the verge of snapping. His chest heaved, each breath dragged in through gritted teeth, sweat slicking his brow and darkening the fabric of his shirt in a way that made it cling to the ridges of his torso.

“Are you in pain?” You asked, voice soft but edged with urgency, stepping just a little closer. His eyes snapped to yours, pupils nearly blown, and you could feel the answer in the way his gaze raked over you before he even opened his mouth.

“Of course I’m in pain,” He bit out, his voice raw and fraying at the edges. “I feel like I’m going to break out of my fucking skin.” His head tipped back with a soft thunk against the pipe again, like he was trying to ground himself, like the cold metal might be enough to anchor him to cool him down–but it didn’t. Not even close. You watched his throat bob with another swallow, the tendons straining as he let out a whimper–quiet, involuntary, and more desperate than anything you’d ever heard from him before. It lodged something tight and uneasy in your chest.

“How long is this going to last?” He asked, his voice breaking on the tail end, like the question physically hurt to speak. His fingers twitched, curling against the binds as though some part of him was still fighting the instincts flooding his system. You hesitated, your eyes darting back to the file, then to him again. His jaw was flexing, his knees shifting restlessly. The look on his face was enough to send a chill down your spine–part agony, part something else entirely. Something hungrier.

“You want me to check?” You said, carefully, trying to confirm. He hummed, eyes slamming shut again like the act of keeping them open was too much.

“Yes…Oh fuck,” He groaned, the sound drawn up from his gut, laced with a rasp that sounded far too much like want. You grabbed the folder with trembling fingers, flipping back through the pages, skimming for anything that might give you a definitive timeframe. The diagrams blurred for a moment–your hands were shaking, your mind running a mile a minute.

“Reactional pheromonal stimuli observed within 7-10 minutes… Symptoms persist for 4-6 hours depending on physiology…”You swallowed audibly.

“Well?” He barked, voice cracking, his body visibly shaking, “How long?”

“Four to six hours,” You said quietly, the words hitting the air like a death sentence. A strained laugh–short, bitter, disbelieving–escaped him.

“It’s probably going to be longer than that…” He rasped. His body flexed suddenly, jerking hard against the restraints. The fabric of the lab coat sleeves dug into his wrists, and his biceps swelled under the strain. He let out a guttural grunt, one that vibrated all the way up your spine. His head tipped forward, damp strands of blond hair falling over his brow as he sucked in a shaky breath through his teeth, “The Super Soldier Serum is going to make it worse…” He added, voice shredded and barely coherent, like every word was dragged through gravel.

”My heart is fucking beating so hard out of my chest I think it’s…It’s going to explode…I think I’m gonna die.” He groaned again, and this time the sound came from somewhere deep, primal. His body jerked once more against the restraints, and you heard it–clear as day.

The creak of the metal pipe bolted to the wall behind him.

It whined beneath the force of his flexed arms, the strain of his super-soldier-enhanced body tightening like a loaded spring. His biceps bulged, sweat running in rivers down his face, and his legs kicked slightly as if resisting the instinct to crawl forward toward you, to reach. You watched his jaw tremble, eyes squeezed shut, chest shuddering under the weight of whatever hell he was trying to hold inside.

It wasn’t going to be long now.

Your breath hitched as you realized it–Walker wasn’t just fighting off heat or confusion anymore. His whole system was boiling over. His skin glowed pink with fever. His hands twitched, aching to grab. His spine arched like his bones themselves were begging to act. And once that pipe gave way–and it would–you were going to be the closest living thing in range.

The primary target.

You bit your bottom lip hard, trying to focus, to breathe through the way your pulse was thundering in your ears. Your eyes fluttered shut for a second, searching for clarity in the blur of adrenaline and dread. And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you said it.

“I have a solution,” You started, voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s not going to be fun for either of us.” For a moment, all you could hear was the stuttering sound of his breath–then a low, hoarse gasp.

“What’s the solution?” He breathed out, his voice breaking in two like it hurt to even speak. His eyes opened, glassy and blown wide, and locked on you. There was no trace of smugness or arrogance in them now–only sheer agony. He looked absolutely wrecked. You hesitated, swallowing thickly. Then slowly, carefully, you stepped out from behind the lab bench, folder still clutched in your hand.

“The cactus berries are basically…Aphrodisiacs on crack,” You explained, each word leaving your mouth heavier than the last. “It seems like they wanted to use them for reproductive purposes–at least, that’s where it looks like the research was going before they bailed. Rapid hormone flooding, biological imprinting, instinctive bonding. It’s…Extreme.” Walker’s breath was ragged, his body trembling with strain as he yanked against the restraints again–harder this time. The pipe behind him screamed.

“Just get to the fucking point, Y/N,” He growled through clenched teeth. “What do I have to do to stop this?” You let out a huff, sharp and shaky, then met his eyes.

“You need to have sex,” You said flatly, like pulling a trigger. “Your body is in reproductive overdrive. That’s why you’re in pain. That’s why–”

“That’s why I can smell you through your tactical suit?” He snapped, voice strained, cutting you off before you could finish. You froze. Just for a second. Then looked away, heart hammering in your chest.

“…Yeah,” You murmured, voice low, almost ashamed. “Yeah, pretty much.” Walker groaned, letting his head thunk back against the pipe with a dull, defeated sound. He exhaled through his nose like a bull, nostrils flaring, the heat radiating off him in waves so strong you could feel it from across the room. He didn’t say anything for a moment–just let the suggestion settle like smoke between you, thick and suffocating.

Then–quietly, hoarsely–he rasped, “I’m not going to ask you to do that for me.” You looked at him, blinking, brows furrowed. “I’m serious,” He added, struggling to lift his head again, his jaw flexing like it was taking everything he had just to hold himself together. “I’m not gonna ask. I might be a lot of things, but I’m not crossing that line.” You stood still for a moment, spine taut, before taking in a breath.

“If you get out of those restraints…” You began, voice cool and even, “I’m the only thing here that can actually provide relief. So it’ll happen either way.” He flinched like the words hit him square in the chest, and then he thrashed against the pipe. The metal shrieked. The sleeves pulled tight around his wrists. His shoulders rolled forward like he was trying to physically crawl out of his skin.

“Y/N–” He gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of something feral just beneath the surface. “We fucking hate each other, I–”

“I may hate you, Walker,” You interrupted, your voice sharp enough to cut through the haze that clouded him, “But I don’t want to watch you die in some rotting lab in the middle of the goddamn desert.” He fell silent. Breathing like he’d just run a marathon. Sweat poured down his temples, soaking the front of his shirt. His body shook–with effort, with need, with the unbearable weight of what you’d just laid out.

“I also don’t want to have to explain how it happened. Because we both know the team will blame me first.” You added bitterly. Walker closed his eyes. Tensed his jaw. And breathed–slow and harsh and uneven. You could see the war going on inside him. The battle between pride and survival. Hatred and heat. You and him. The sharp lines between enemies, blurring. There was a long, heavy silence. The kind that stretched out between heartbeats, between decisions you couldn’t take back. His breathing was a raw, uneven rasp–his chest rising and falling like he was drowning in the air around him. His hands strained in the bindings, knuckles flexing, arms trembling. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Not until you saw the faintest tremble in his jaw…And then his voice, low and broken, barely audible over the hum of the flickering fluorescents:

“…Are you sure?” You stared at him. Watched the war behind his eyes. Watched the sweat trickle down his temple, the tension in his arms, the split-second flashes of something vulnerable flickering beneath the pain. His body was betraying him–flooded with chemicals he couldn’t fight–and the worst part was that he knew it. You bit the inside of your cheek. Hard.

“If I was in your position,” You started slowly, your voice steady despite the whirlwind in your chest, “I’m sure you’d help me.”

His eyes locked onto yours, sharp and wide. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t blink. Knowing the look said it all.

“So I’m sure,” You added firmly, tugging at the hem of your gear.

“But we will never talk about this.” You punctuated each word like a promise, like a threat, like a sacred rule of survival. “Ever again. You understand me, Walker?”

He swallowed, his throat bobbing visibly. His eyes flicked down for a heartbeat, then dragged back up to your face as he rasped, “I understand.” Your fingers moved quickly, unbuckling the clasps of your tactical vest and shrugging it off your shoulders. It hit the ground with a thud beside his discarded shield and gear. You peeled the long-sleeved top over your head, revealing the sweat-slicked cling of your black training tank beneath.

You could feel him watching you.

His gaze followed every movement–heavy, desperate, hungry in spite of itself. But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t dare breathe too loud.

You reached for the belt at your waist and undid it with a swift twist of your fingers, the metal clinking as it came loose. You shimmied out of your cargo pants slowly, pushing them down your legs and letting them pool at your feet before taking off your boots and kicking the pants aside, leaving you in your black panties. The lab air was cool on your thighs, brushing against your skin like ghost fingers. His eyes trailed up the exposed skin, seeing scars and old battle wounds scattered around on the surface.

You moved toward him, slow and deliberate, the concrete cool beneath your bare feet. Every step closed the distance between you and the raw, trembling thing he’d become. You crouched down in front of him, your knees brushing against the dark tile, and you saw it–the way he flinched now that you were in his space. His entire body recoiled and leaned forward at once, caught between wanting to run and wanting to lunge.

And from this angle, from this proximity, you finally noticed it.

His cock was straining hard against the fabric of his pants, pressing tight against the zipper like it had no more room left to give. The outline was unmistakable, painfully prominent, the fabric darkened slightly with what you assumed was pre-cum. Your breath caught–just for a moment–and his let out a low, wounded groan at your reaction, his eyes flickering shut like just being seen like this was too much.

He didn’t say anything as you climbed over his lap.

You moved slow, careful not to jostle him too hard as you straddled the thick muscles of his thighs. His body was hot beneath yours, pulsing with tension, every part of him vibrating just under the skin. You leaned in, close enough for his forehead to tip forward and press against your bare shoulder with a tremble. His breath hit your skin–wet, hot, and desperate–and he inhaled deeply like he couldn’t help himself, taking in your scent now that you were so close to him.

“I’m gonna untie you…” You whispered, your voice soft but unwavering. Walker nodded once against your shoulder, and the movement was sharp, frantic, like holding still was getting harder by the second. His nose brushed your collarbone as he breathed in again, longer this time, and you heard the soft, broken exhale that followed. You hesitated–just for a beat.

“Control yourself,” You warned, voice firm despite the undeniable heat building between you.

His hands didn’t twitch, but you felt the tension in them as you reached back. Slowly, methodically, you untied the makeshift restraints, your fingers working the lab coat sleeves loose. First one wrist. Then the other. They were red, and raw from straining–hot to the touch and trembling as they dropped to the floor, free. He didn’t move right away, didn’t reach for you like some part of him still remembered what was coursing through his body.

You leaned back just slightly to look at him, and his eyes met yours. Blue. Blown wide and shimmering, drunk on the haze from the cactus fruit. He was breathing heavily, keeping eye contact.

And then he surged forward.

His mouth crashed into yours with a heat that knocked the breath out of your lungs. You let out a muffled groan at the first contact, startled but not resisting–his lips were warm, slick from spit and sweat, his beard scraping roughly against your chin as his hands found your waist. They clutched you like he needed to anchor himself or he’d float right out of his skin. You responded without hesitation, resting your hands on his shoulders, gripping tight, grounding both of you.

The kiss was awkward at first.

It was all teeth and too much pressure–his lips crashing into yours like he was trying to win a fight instead of sharing a breath. It was messy, desperate, driven by the chemical storm brewing in his veins. He was battling you for dominance, kissing like it was the only way he could stave off the fire beneath his skin, and your mouth struggled to match the frantic rhythm. Your lips were softer, more searching–trying to navigate the overwhelming force behind his desperation, trying to find a place where tension didn’t have to mean violence.

His nose bumped yours. Your teeth clicked once. His beard scraped hard across your chin and jaw, leaving a burn in its wake. But neither of you stopped.

He groaned into your mouth, low and broken, like the taste of you was making it worse, not better. His hands gripped your waist tighter, fingers pressing into the flesh–like your body was the only real thing in a world that had dissolved into hunger and heat. His hips jerked once beneath you, like instinct was already pulling the strings.

Then–something shifted.

The frantic edge dulled just enough for your mouths to meet at a better angle. He eased back slightly, panting against your lips for half a second before his mouth found yours again–slower this time, fuller. His lips dragged against yours with heat but less pressure, like he was learning your shape now, giving you room to answer. Your tongue slipped forward to meet his, testing, brushing–searching for rhythm. He groaned again, deeper this time, and responded by sucking your bottom lip between his teeth. It was sloppy still, yes–but it was working. His hands flexed at your waist as he pulled you tighter into his lap, pressing you flush to the hardened line of his cock beneath his pants.

The groan that tore from his throat was almost feral.

You felt it before you heard it–the tremble of his chest as it rattled through him, and the way his whole body tensed as he pulled back from your lips, panting like he’d just run miles.

“Don’t think I’ll be able to control myself, Y/N…” He rasped, his voice hoarse and soaked in restraint, like it was physically painful to hold back. His pupils were blown wide, his cheeks flushed, lips swollen from the kiss and glistening with your spit. He looked wrecked. And he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

You didn’t get a chance to reply.

His hand left your waist, the fingers trailing a path up your body with the kind of reverence that felt violently out of place in the middle of so much urgency. He brought them to your face, calloused pads brushing your cheek before they moved lower. Two fingers dragged along your bottom lip, gently, almost tenderly.

“Open,” He breathed, his voice guttural, tight with need. His jaw clenched, like he was barely holding back a snarl. “Let me get my fingers wet…So I can at least do something for you before I lose my mind.” Your heart stuttered in your chest at the contradiction laced in his voice–that brutal, aching desperation colliding with the unexpected gentleness in his request. Even now, even wired with synthetic hunger and burning from the inside out, he was thinking about you. Your pleasure. Your comfort.

Not just what he needed.

You lifted your eyes to his, and something in you softened–just enough to take the edge off the fear thrumming through your body like static. He looked so wrecked. Pupils blown wide, sweat slicking his hairline, jaw clenched tight like he was chewing on every shred of restraint he had left. But his hand trembled where it hovered near your face, fingers open in quiet request rather than demand.

So you leaned forward and took his fingers into your mouth.

Warm and solid against your tongue, the pads of them rough with calluses and scar tissue. You sucked them deep, hollowing your cheeks as your lips sealed around them, saliva slicking the digits in slow, deliberate strokes. You could feel the tremor run down his spine at the sensation–heard the sharp hiss of breath he dragged through his teeth, the flex of his thighs beneath you as his cock twitched against the inside of your leg.

“Fuck…” He groaned, voice breaking against your shoulder. “That’s not helping, sweetheart.” You hummed around his fingers, dragging your tongue over the creases of his knuckles, your eyes locked to his until finally he pulled them from your mouth with a slick pop. And then you felt it–his hand slipping down, knuckles dragging along your stomach until they dipped beneath the waistband of your panties.

You adjusted without thinking, shifting your hips forward, parting your thighs over his lap to give him better access. And when his fingers reached your core–hot, swollen, slick with arousal–it was like all the air left his lungs.

“Oh my god…” He whispered, like a confession, “You’re wet…” He said it like he was shocked. You bit your bottom lip, but it didn’t stop the little gasp that escaped when the pads of his fingers glided through your folds–his saliva mixing with your arousal in a perfect, messy cocktail that let him slide easily through the heat of you.

He groaned again. Sharper. Desperate.

And then–without warning–his other hand left your waist and gripped the back of your neck, not hard, not rough, but with a kind of trembling urgency as he pulled you down and kissed you again.

It was filthy this time.

Sloppy and fast, his tongue slipping between your lips before they even met fully. His mouth was hot and insistent, panting into yours, lips parted like he was drinking you in. His fingers pressed more firmly between your thighs, finding your clit with almost surgical precision, and when he started to rub tight, aching circles, your hips jerked forward into his hand.

Your moan caught in his mouth–raw and breathy.

And then your hand dropped between you, fumbling for the heavy bulge straining in his pants. The fabric was damp and sticky with his pre-cum, and you could feel the sheer size of him beneath your palm as you cupped him fully, pressing the heel of your hand into the length of his cock. He bucked up into your touch so hard it knocked your chest into his. The kiss faltered for a second–just enough for him to let out a muffled, feral groan into your mouth.

His fingers immediately mirrored the pace you set on his cock–rubbing your clit faster, harder, like your touch lit a fuse in him.

“Jesus–” He gasped, his lips breaking from yours for half a second to suck in air, “–gonna lose it if you keep doing that.”

You didn’t stop. You palmed him again, dragging your hand along the ridge of his cock through the damp fabric, and he whined against your lips.

His breath was hot against your cheek as he pressed his face into the curve of your jaw, rutting up into your hand with quick, desperate thrusts while his fingers danced between your folds. Each flick against your clit felt more precise, more hungry, like he was attuned to every tremble in your thighs, every stutter in your breath. He slipped two fingers inside you without warning, and your breath hitched–shallow and sharp–right against the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck,” You whispered, the word barely more than a gasp as your thighs instinctively tightened around his lap. His fingers were thick and warm, coated in slick and spit, curling as they sank deeper into you. The sound of it was obscene–wet and rhythmic as he began thrusting them with sharp, practiced movements, dragging against the spot inside you that made your vision blur.

“Jesus Christ,” Walker hissed, like the feel of you around his fingers was short-circuiting his brain. You could barely focus–your hand still palmed the heat of his cock through the fabric of his pants, and the pressure of him rutting up into your palm made the friction even filthier, desperate, hot. You pressed your other hand to his shoulder, then tangled your fingers into his sweat-damp blond hair, tugging hard enough to make him grunt.

He bucked into your hand again, shameless now, grinding up into your palm like he didn’t give a shit about control anymore.

And then he bit your collarbone.

His teeth sank into the soft flesh where your neck met your shoulder–not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark. Your entire body jolted at the sensation, a strangled moan slipping free as your walls fluttered around his fingers.

You could feel the sweat dripping off his face now, beading where your bodies met, sliding between your ribs and over the curve of your chest. He was panting, shaking, his fingers working you fast, relentless, and soaked.

“Oh god, Walker–” You moaned, your breath hitching again as your thighs started to tremble. He growled into your skin, licking where he’d bitten, his stubble scraping over your flushed flesh.

“Come on, sweetheart,” He rasped. “Soak my fucking fingers. I can feel how close you are…Don’t hold it.”

You let out a whimper as your stomach clenched and the pressure burst—your orgasm crashing over you in a wave that ripped through every inch of your body. Your hips jerked, thighs quaking around his, as your core pulsed around his fingers and your panties grew damp with the spill of your release. His fingers didn’t stop, working you through every second of it, stroking and curling and milking every twitch from you until you were gasping into his shoulder.

“Shit…John–” You cried out, your voice cracking.

You yanked at his hair as it happened–your grip tight, near vicious, as the climax wracked through you. His head tipped back with a groan, and then he surged forward and kissed you again, mouth hot and slick and panting against yours.

“I really need to fuck you now,” He breathed against your lips, voice ragged and hoarse, “because I feel like I’m being edged over here.” You let out a laugh–breathy, dazed, still twitching from the aftershocks.

“Driving you crazy?” He shook his head, jaw tightening, cheeks flushed.

“In any other situation, I honestly would’ve finished in my pants just from you doing that to me…” His tone was deadly serious, but then he added, with a breathless huff: “Don’t let that get to your head by the way.” You rolled your eyes, still breathless, and reached for the waistband of his pants, snapping the damp fabric against his hip with a sharp flick.

“Don’t worry,” You teased, voice low and wicked. “I know you haven’t gotten any since the incident.” His breath caught–and you felt it, sharp and full in his chest, like you’d punched through the last bit of his restraint.

He exhaled slowly, bitterly. “Not a good time to bring up my ex-wife, Y/N.”

“I’ll admit,” You muttered, breath still shaky as you braced a palm on his chest, “That one was a little below the belt… Sorry.” Walker let out a breathless laugh–half grunt, half exhale, the corner of his mouth twitching despite the strain in his eyes.

“It’s fine…Now can you sit up a bit so I can take these stupid fucking pants off before my cock breaks in half.” You let out a huffed laugh–half in disbelief, half because the image he painted was a little too vivid. You pushed yourself upright, your thighs still trembling faintly from the aftershocks, and watched as he worked quickly to undo his fly, movements urgent, frantic with need.

The second the button popped and zipper came down, his cock sprang free–angry red and leaking heavily, the flushed head smearing a wet line across the front of his shirt as it slapped up against his stomach. Your breath caught in your throat.

He was thick. Veiny. Long enough that you could see the throb in him, the pulse of desperation rippling under his skin like it had a heartbeat of its own. And fuck, he looked pained–like every second he wasn’t inside you was another mile stretched across a desert with no water. His jaw clenched as he looked down between your bodies.

“Jesus Christ,” You muttered under your breath, unable to stop yourself. His eyes flicked up to yours, sharp and glazed with lust.

“You see what you fucking did to me?” He ground out, his hands already moving–one dragging your soaked panties to the side, the other wrapping around the base of his cock to guide himself through the slick heat between your folds. You shifted instinctively, rolling your hips just enough to coat him in your wetness, the head of his cock catching on your clit and making both of you flinch. You bit your lip. He hissed through his teeth.

“Don’t fucking tease me right now, Y/N.” His voice was fraying at the seams.

“Then stop talking and do something about it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

His hand found your hip, fingers bruising as he gripped tight–and then he pushed you down. Hard. The head of his cock breached you with a stretch that bordered on too much, but the slide was fast, brutal, and so fucking deep. You both cried out–separate, messy sounds of relief and overload that echoed through the hollow lab space like some primal duet.

Your head dropped forward with a whimper. “Oh my god–”

“Fuck–” he bit out, his hands digging into your hips now, pulling you fully down onto him, burying every inch until your thighs were flush against his and your cunt was fluttering around his cock like it couldn’t decide if it wanted more or less. “You’re so fucking tight, Jesus–how are you this fucking tight?”

You couldn’t answer.

Couldn��t think past the burn and stretch and the way he throbbed inside you like a live wire. He was so deep it felt like he was in your fucking stomach.

He leaned his forehead against your collarbone, shuddering violently, his body twitching beneath you like he was trying to hold back from just railing you into the tile right then and there. You felt him grit his teeth.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” He whispered, his voice soaked with strain, with heat, with that cracked desperation that came from having no choice but to fuck or die. “I’m gonna ruin this smart mouth of yours. Gonna make you forget how to insult me. Gonna fuck you so hard the only thing you’ll remember is my name in your throat.”

You inhaled sharply at the sound of it–at the pure, unfiltered possession dripping from his words.

And then you slapped your hand over his mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” You panted, eyes wild as you looked down at him. “You talk too much.”

His eyes went wide, but his cock twitched violently inside you like the shame turned him on harder. He let out a growl behind your palm and then snapped his hips up into you with such force your breath stuttered.

You didn’t remove your hand. You just held it firm over his mouth, pressing his head back against the pipe, riding him now with slow, grinding movements–circling your hips, letting him feel every flutter and pulse inside your core as it clenched around him, dragging tight and wet along the thick length of him. His eyes rolled back for a second.

“See?” You whispered, voice dark and shaking, your other hand pressing into his chest. “You’re better like this. Mouth shut. With nothing to fucking say.” He groaned against your palm, biting at your skin but not hard enough to break it. His hands gripped your hips like vices, guiding your movements now, pushing you down harder, faster–trying to get deeper, even though he was already bottomed out.

The rhythm built fast. Frantic. His hips snapped up to meet every roll of yours, filthy slaps echoing in the sterile room. You bounced on him harder, sweat dripping between your breasts, thighs burning from the pace–but you didn’t stop.

You were both panting. Sweating. Grinding into each other like the world had collapsed and this was the only thing left. There was nothing tender about it–but there was something desperate. Intimate in its violence. Two enemies finding solace in each other’s destruction.

He slipped his palms under the hem of your tank top, dragging them up along your sides with a rough edge that made you shiver. His fingers were hot and trembling as they scratched the bare skin of your hips, nails digging in hard enough to leave angry crescents in your flesh. His mouth was still covered by your hand, but the grunt that rattled in his throat was pure feral. He bit you again–this time harder–sinking his teeth into your palm like he was trying to brand you.

“Shit–” You hissed, yanking your hand away. “Jesus Christ, Walker!”

He looked up at you through dark lashes, chest heaving, and smirked.

“Told you I was gonna ruin you,” He rasped, his voice low and wrecked with heat, “But fuck, sweetheart…You already feel so good around my cock, I might just fucking die right here.”

You let out a breathy, incredulous laugh, half-moan, half-disbelief, “Don’t worry, if you don’t die here, I’ll kill you after this.” he groaned, grabbing your hips and slamming you down onto him again with a strength that made your spine arch and your head fall back.

Your thighs quivered with the force of it.

“Fuck…John–” You gasped, the name torn from your throat like it didn’t belong there.

His hands left your hips only long enough to shove beneath the waistband of your panties, gripping your ass so tight it made you jerk. His fingers were everywhere–digging, spreading, grabbing at you like he didn’t care what he got as long as it was skin. He gave one cheek a sharp slap, and the wet sound of palm against flesh cracked through the lab like thunder.

You choked on a moan. “Oh my god.”

“You like that?” He growled, biting at your jaw now, dragging his stubble down your neck as he thrust up into you again. “God, I knew you were a fucking brat under all that tactical shit. Always mouthing off to me, acting like you don’t want this dick. Bet you think about it when we fight, don’t you? Fucking bet you do.”

You whimpered–sharp and high–and he did it again. Another slap. Rougher. Meaner.

“Say it,” He snapped, one hand gripping the meat of your ass while the other shoved your tank top up over your chest. “Say you wanted it.” You dug your nails into the thick muscle of his chest, dragging downward hard enough to make him hiss, then leaned up just enough to slam your hips down onto him harder, matching his thrusts.

“I wanted it,” you spat. “I fucking hate you, but I wanted it.”

His eyes rolled back like that was the hottest thing you could’ve said.

“Jesus fuck, you’re unreal,” he groaned, then gripped your hips with bruising force and started rutting up into you like a man possessed. “Take it. You take every fucking inch, sweetheart. You’re so fucking wet for me—so goddamn warm—”

Your body was melting around him, your thighs trembling from the brutal pace, sweat glistening on your skin as your moans pitched louder. The slap of your bodies echoed in time with each guttural grunt from him—fast, sharp, relentless. It wasn’t even sex anymore. It was war.

And then you felt him twitch inside you.

“Y/N…Fuck…I’m gonna cum–” He growled, voice broken and desperate. “Shit…Shit, I’m gonna–” He grabbed you hard and slammed you down onto him one last time, burying himself to the hilt. His hips jerked once, then twice, and the heat of his release hit you so hard it nearly stole your breath.

You gasped–whimpered–as you felt him fill you. The sudden warmth of it spread through your core, thick and hot and raw. He groaned low and deep, like it was being torn out of him, his head pressed to your collarbone as his cock pulsed inside you, ropes of cum spilling against your fluttering walls.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he panted, still holding you tight. “You’re squeezing me so goddamn good…Fuck.”

Your nails dug into his arms, anchoring yourself as he thrust up into you a few more times, slower now, each one drawn out and shaky, like he couldn’t bear to stop yet. His breath was ragged against your skin, his hands still cradling your ass as he rocked his hips up, pushing his cum deeper inside you.

You were both trembling. Gasping. Slick with sweat and breathless from the crash.

And he didn’t let go.

He kept you seated fully on his cock, his forehead pressed against the side of your neck, his fingers twitching slightly as you both tried to catch your breath in the silence that followed. His cum was seeping out of you slowly, slick and hot, and the only thing you could do was hold onto his shoulders as your body pulsed around him in the afterglow.

After a long, quiet beat, he murmured against your neck:

“Still hate your guts by the way…But…Thank you for doing this…I don’t feel like I’m going to fucking die of horniness anymore.” It was almost said like an afterthought. But it wasn’t cruel. It was dry. Tired. Honest. There was even the faintest trace of amusement buried under the exhaustion in his tone. Your fingers twitched where they curled against his neck.

”Well…That’s a relief. Cause I still hate you too…” You hesitated just a second longer–then added under your breath, barely above a whisper, “And I hope we never have to do this again.” The words hung heavy for a moment. But the silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t even fully honest. And he heard it. You felt the way his breath caught. The subtle way his fingers twitched against your back like he’d noticed the tonal shift. Like he heard what you hadn’t said. He let out a quiet exhale.

”…I mean…We don’t have to write it off completely, though.” He murmured near your ear. Your brows furrowed slightly, confused. His hand brushed your lower back, featherlight now, not rough or demanding. Just…Resting there. Casual. Like he wasn’t feeling like the end of the world was coming anymore.

“We could arrange a hate fuck here and there, couldn’t we?” He added, a faint smirk curling into the words, like he was testing you. Testing the boundary. Poking at the embers to see if they were still warm.

You lifted your head and leaned back, just enough to look him in the eye.

His hair was damp and sticking up in unruly angles, his cheeks still flushed, lips swollen and pink from your teeth, from your spit, from everything you’d done to each other in the span of minutes that would never exist again in normal daylight. His pupils were still wide, but less feral now. More…Grounded. Curious.

You stared at him for a long moment. Letting the weight of the suggestion settle.

Then your lips curved–just barely.

“Maybe,” You said, voice low, eyes gleaming. You slid a hand down his sweat-slicked chest, over the wrecked tactical shirt still bunched beneath you.

“We’ll see.”

And just like that, the truce was drawn.

Fragile. Tense. Unspoken.

But it was there.

Right there between your thighs, and somewhere deeper than either of you were willing to admit.

[somuchforahobby]

a shrike

Summary: you and morpheus have a past none of you dare to mention, yet he tries to be there for you as you struggle Words: 1k Warnings: none i think writer's notes: this story has been told before in this blog🤓 and will probably find new ways to tell it because its my trauma and my blog lol hope you enjoy it love you bye. also it was so fun to think of all the places you could summon the endless GIFS belong to @thisgameissonintendo

You tried to sleep during the day—never more than forty-five minutes. Just enough to keep exhaustion at bay, but not enough to dream. Especially not to dream of him. Some humans had spoken to you about medication that dulled the senses so heavily it erased dreams entirely, but with your Fae ancestry, you doubted any of it would work as intended. It never did.

Back in your realm, sleep had been simple, safe. Protected by the veil between worlds, you could rest freely. But on Earth, the rules were different. Here, not only had your magic faded—along with the last vestiges of your Fae body—but so had your ancestral protection against the Endless and other beings that once flinched from your aura.

So you became meticulous in your avoidance. You never stepped foot in churches, temples, or synagogues. You kept away from mosques, ashrams, gurdwaras, and hillside shrines where forgotten gods still whispered to those who dared listen. You avoided cathedrals echoing with hymns to Destiny and circled wide around the Dreaming Gate said to appear under a moonless sky in the ruins of Belarus. Hospitals made your skin crawl. So did morgues, orphanages, and battlefields—Despair and Destruction had a taste for all of them. You would not enter cemeteries, crypts, ossuaries, or even libraries that dripped too heavily with stories—those belonged to Death and Delirium alike.

You wouldn’t touch freshly printed money, coated in the unseen pheromones of Desire. You shunned pyramids and sphinxes—ancient nodes pulsing with lingering pacts—and coliseums that still thrummed with bloodlust. You avoided statues: saints with empty eyes, forgotten gods with outstretched hands, and the modern ones too smooth, too knowing. Mirror halls. Carnival tents. Abandoned theaters where the air shimmered with madness. And above all else, above everything else, you avoided sleep.

But your body grew tired. Time on Earth wore you down like wind on stone. You still wielded some power, yes—but you were no longer the almighty Fae you once were. The waking world chipped away at you, coaxing you into indulgences you had once considered beneath you: food, alcohol, human warmth. Rest. Sleep.

Eventually, desperation led you to a witch in the West. She gave you an artifact—small, delicate, almost mocking in its simplicity. It would keep the dreams away, she claimed. The good, the bad... and him. So you hung the charm above your bed, drank half a bottle of something old and potent, fucked until your limbs went slack, and—just in case—popped a few of those sleeping pills you swore didn’t work.

But he was almighty after all.

Your eyes snapped open with a sharp gasp. Pulling the sheets over your bare body, you turned, carefully peeling your partner’s hand from your hip.

His energy lingered in the room—dense, unmistakable. You felt it in every chilled inch of your skin.

“Morpheus,” you said, greeting him with practiced neutrality.

The tall, shadowed figure in the corner inclined his head.

“Did you expect a show?” you asked.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “I wouldn’t search for one here.”

You propped yourself up on one elbow, watching him carefully. “Then what are you searching for?”

He leaned against the wall, his gaze drifting away from you, unfocused—distant and yet unbearably present.

“To help you.”

“I’m quite alright, thank you.”

He huffed quietly. “Intoxicating yourself and sleeping around isn’t ‘alright.’”

“‘Alive’ is the most ‘alright’ anyone from my realm gets,” you replied dryly. “So I’ll take it.”

His eyes settled on you again, full of shadowed worry. “You’re still in danger.”

“No, Dream. I look human now,” you said, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “See?”

“Any entity will feel your power—just as I did. And they will find you just as easily.”

He stepped closer.

“Come with me to the Dreaming,” he said softly. “You’ll be safe there.”

A hand slid across your waist—your companion, half-asleep, unconcerned by the tension in the room. You smirked and met Morpheus’s eyes again.

“I can’t indulge in carnal pleasures in the Dreaming now, can I?” you asked sweetly. “So I’ll have to decline your generous offer.”

He turned his head aside, jaw tight.

“Your pleasure has never gone unattended in my realm.”

“Which is exactly why I wouldn’t make you watch.”

“I wouldn’t try.”

You grinned. “Oh, you’d just wait until I’m finished and then brood in the corner? Like you did today?”

His lips twitched, barely. “Oh, but you didn’t finish... did you?”

Now that made you blush. You sighed, sinking back into the pillows, suddenly tired all over again.

“Goodnight, Morpheus,” you murmured, eyes closing.

His voice—soft, impossibly close—curled into your ear as he departed.

“Good night, princess.”

——————

BEFORE 

You set the edge of the parchment to flame, watching it curl and blacken in the fireplace. Kneeling before the hearth, you whispered his name.

Morpheus appeared in your bedroom in an instant, dark and quiet as starlight.

“You summoned me,” he said, voice low and curious.

“I did,” you replied, looking up at him with a grin tugging at your lips.

“It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding,” he murmured, a rare smirk playing at his mouth.

“Love,” you breathed, the pet name reserved for him alone. Rising to your feet, you wrapped your arms around his neck. “Would you help me sleep?”

He kissed your temple gently, his arms curling around your waist as he guided you toward the bed. He lay down beside you without a word, drawing you into the comfort of his eternal presence.

“What troubles your sleep, my dove?” he asked softly.

You exhaled, the words catching behind your teeth. “I’m… afraid.”

His hold on you tightened, anchoring you, waiting without pressure.

“I’ve read my brother’s letters,” you finally whispered. “The war is going badly. We’re losing ground every day. I fear he’ll be cornered. That our kingdom will see its final dawn—or worse, he will.”

“Our alliance will end this war,” Morpheus said with quiet certainty, pressing another kiss to your brow. “Your family will endure. Don’t worry about it.”

You looked up at him, your fear softening slightly beneath the calm of his conviction.

He brushed his fingers gently over your eyelids, and with a touch of his magic—fine as star-dust, soft as ash—your body began to surrender.

“Rest now, my dove,” he whispered, voice melting into the hush of the room. “Goodnight, princess.”

[winterswift]

can you see right trough me?

pairing: robert reynolds x f!reader.

summary: you didn't think you'd ever love again, but you found a man who infiltrated every crevice of your wounded heart and made it a home once again.

word count: 10,3 k.

tags: post!thunderbolts, sentry is known as an avenger, bob can control his powers better, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, nightmares, pining, books, mentions of y/n, reader is heartbroken, bob is the sweetest person in the world, too many feelings, too many references to the sun (sorry, i had to do it).

a/n: english is not my first language so there might be grammatical mistakes. this fic got so looong, so I hope you like it :).

Someone once said that love wasn’t for girls like you.

Girls who loved too much and fell in love too fast. That their hearts weighed more than they did.

But you didn’t listen, because you were never one to back down from a challenge.

Love was never easy for you. You longed for it, yes, but it always ended up hurting you. Each scar, a stark reminder of the times you loved with every part of you, proved it wasn’t enough. That you weren’t enough.

Then you found a man, the one you truly believed would stay with you for the rest of your life, but he didn’t feel the same way.

You tried, you poured your entire being into that relationship, doing everything in your power to make him stay. But he wasn’t yours, and he never would be.

And when he left, he stripped you of everything: your hope, your dreams, your confidence. He took a part of you that you may never get back.

He left you in ruins, destroying something that had once been sacred. He left you bleeding over the scars he had once kissed.

He left behind the shell of what had once been a woman brimming with life.

He broke your heart, but this time, it wasn’t a deep wound; it was a terminal one. You didn’t think it could ever be repaired.

You didn’t scream, you didn’t cry, but the dull pain numbed you and extinguished the light inside you. You didn’t know how to cope with his absence.

It was no longer just about missing him, but about being in someone’s constant presence, about feeling seen, about coming home and knowing that someone was waiting for you. The extra cup of coffee on the table, the emptiness in your bed where someone used to lie beside you, having someone to talk to about your life. All that was gone.

Loneliness had invaded every corner of your home, becoming a silent companion you couldn’t get rid of.

You learned to accept it, to carry it with you like another burden. Soon, the devastating silence that invaded your home became a comforting presence. It became a refuge, a suit of armor; in solitude, no one could hurt you.

You had accepted that love, after all, wasn’t for you.

Not as an overstated declaration, but as someone seeking protection after having been terribly hurt. You sealed your heart, not to repair it, but to protect it. And perhaps, in this way, what little remained of it would heal.

Love ceased to be a reality for you; it became an idea, a memory of what you once had and lost. What you had most longed for, and paradoxically, what destroyed you the most.

You left it behind, promising yourself that you would never give yourself so completely to another person again, that you would never again be vulnerable to being broken.

To cope with the weight of a broken heart, you needed a new purpose. So, you devoted yourself entirely to your work. The overtime no one else dared to accept, the weekends, the impossible projects, you accepted them all to silence the noise of your own thoughts.

Amidst the chaos of organizing schedules, attending to customers and dealing with overly strict bosses, you found your place: you were in complete control. Your personal life disappeared, even if only for a few hours.

You quickly found yourself climbing the ladder, becoming the perfect professional. The one who always had everything ready, always arrived on time, and never complained when asked to do more than was expected.

You built such a perfect facade that no one could glimpse the broken woman underneath. And you didn’t let anyone see her.

You smiled when necessary, exchanged small talk with your colleagues, but never let them get too close. They saw you as a successful professional, perhaps too reserved, but never broken.

You built a wall between yourself and the rest of the world, for safety, out of fear. The wall became your fortress, loneliness your armour, and indifference your weapon. It was the only way you found to survive.

And so you ended up here, with a smile too forced to be real and a dress that wrapped uncomfortably around your skin. Another charity gala, full of people you would never see again, lights too bright and murmurs too loud. The perfect place to slip into the skin of the person you pretended to be.

Your boss, a whirlwind of demands, had finally freed you from your duties. A sigh escaped your lips, releasing all the tension you’d built up during the night.

You approached the bar, your throat dry and your lips trembling from all the smiles you’d faked. You ordered a drink, not for the alcohol, but for the simple fact of having something in your hands, a distraction. You sat in the corner where the shadows were more prominent and the world a little more distant.

You savored the champagne on your tongue, letting the liquid take effect and relax your muscles. You allowed yourself to relax the mask you’d so carefully constructed, not too much, but enough for the tired, sad woman underneath to breathe.

────・:✧∙✦∙✧:・────

Gala events and social gatherings were never Bob Reynolds’ thing. The crowds and deafening noise had always overwhelmed him, but since acquiring his powers, it had become almost unbearable.

His amplified senses picked up everything: every breath, every overly loud laugh, every clinking of glasses. He heard it all, a constant assault on his nerves, one that threatened to fray the already fragile edges of his self-control.

And he hated it.

He tried to avoid such events, but there were times, like tonight, when he couldn’t refuse. Valentina had forced the whole team to attend; the Thunderbolts needed to be seen, they needed to win the people’s affection.

And there he was, wearing a suit too stiff to be comfortable, surrounded by people who weren’t interested in him or his past, but rather in the influence someone with his power could wield.

He’d distanced himself from the team, from the people, seeking a moment of peace, the calm in the eye of the storm. Then a chill ran through his body, as if something were telling him to look up.

And there he saw her.

Her solitary figure stood out like a flame in the darkness, and he felt drawn to her. She was sitting in a corner of the bar; an aura of stillness surrounded her, completely oblivious to the lively atmosphere. Loneliness seemed to envelop her like a second skin. The melancholy expression on her face moved him, because he knew it all too well.

It wasn’t visible at first glance; it was hidden in her tense shoulders, in her eyes clouded by memories too painful to bear, in the weariness that showed through her fake smiles, the ones that said “I’m fine,” but it never was.

Someone approached her, and she smiled, straightening up with focused, attentive eyes. The image of the melancholic woman vanished in an instant, replaced by someone who seemed to dominate the place with just a glance.

Bob saw himself reflected in that woman. He knew (probably better than anyone else) what it was like to build a facade that hid inner demons, endless sadness, the weight of memories.

He felt, deep down, the desire to approach her. He didn’t know what he would say to her, whether his words or his presence would make any difference, but the need was there. Because he too had been alone and had needed someone to remind him that all was not lost.

He didn’t dare approach her, but his eyes didn’t leave her for the rest of the night. And even after the event was over, after taking refuge in his room, he was still thinking about her.

────・:✧∙✦∙✧:・────

Bookshops had become a safe place for you, a sanctuary; a place where the weight of the world became a little lighter. You lost yourself among the shelves full of stories, in the phrases that resonated so deeply with you, in the soft music and the unmistakable smell of paper.

You caressed the spines of the books affectionately when you saw him. He entered silently, like someone used to going unnoticed, but you did notice him. The way his shoulders slumped, the weariness on his face, that weariness that lingers over time.

Something about him caught your attention; your eyes followed him as he approached the poetry section, the book in your hands forgotten. You watched his broad, tense back and wondered what his story might be.

────・:✧∙✦∙✧:・────

Bob entered the bookshop with a sigh. He’d escaped from the tower, from Valentina’s constant surveillance. He needed a break; he was still overwhelmed by the previous night’s sensory overload.

He was still thinking about her.

As he wandered around looking for a book, he felt someone staring at his back. He’d grown accustomed to it; people always looked at him as if trying to figure out who he was. But this time something felt different, and even before he saw her, he knew: it was the same woman from the gala.

He pretended not to notice her, continuing to look at the books even though her gaze burned into him. Her curiosity about him was almost palpable. He wondered what she thought of him, what she perceived. It was a delicate game. He knew she was watching him, and that thought gave him a strange feeling in his stomach.

It wasn’t discomfort; it was calm. Being observed without prejudice.

After a moment that seemed like an eternity, he looked up. Their eyes met, and the world around them seemed to fade away. It wasn’t an explosion of fireworks or a cosmic encounter; it was a silent connection. An invisible thread connecting two souls recognizing each other for the first time.

A small smile, one of those involuntary ones, formed on his face. Her warm, bright eyes looked at him curiously before looking away, as if she were afraid he would see more than she was showing him.

They didn’t speak; it wasn’t necessary. Bob didn’t insist; aware of the fragility of the moment, he went back to looking for a book. He continued smiling even after she left, the memory of her gaze still fresh in his mind.

He wasn’t sure why, but something deep in his heart told him that it wouldn’t be the last time he’d see her.

────・:✧∙✦∙✧:・────

One week turned into two, but the image of that man in the bookshop remained etched in your memory. You thought about him more often than you’d like to admit: the deep blue of his eyes, the curve of his smile, the intimacy of that brief moment when your eyes met.

It was a curiosity that wouldn’t go away; in moments of quiet, you thought back to that encounter. You thought about his tired face, the strange calm his smile gave you, how, for once in years, you felt that someone had truly seen you: the woman hiding beneath all the pain.

And it scared you. You weren’t used to someone seeing through your defenses. Ironically, that made you even more intrigued by him, by his story, by that melancholy that seemed to accompany him.

Like you, he seemed to be someone struggling with the weight of the world. And you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

So you did what you always did: you lost yourself in your work again. Answering calls, replying to emails, attending meetings; a carefully constructed routine. But your boss had other plans.

He had partnered with Valentina De Fontaine, whom he was helping with her political campaign, which meant more work for you. That day, he had specifically assigned you to deliver some confidential files to the old Avengers Tower.

The building where you worked wasn’t far from the tower, so you decided to walk. The sound of your heels against the pavement calmed your nerves. You knew what kind of woman Valentina was, and her presence made you deeply uneasy, but you had to keep your composure. It was your job, and you couldn’t afford to fail.

The Watchtower towered above you. The building that once belonged to Tony Stark, a symbol of power and heroism, now looked cold and dark.

But you didn’t stop to think about it too much. You moved through the tower’s endless floors; at such a height, the world seemed a little quieter. An assistant showed you where the meeting room was where you were to deliver the documents.

Valentina herself opened the door for you. She had a smile on her face, just as forced as yours. You greeted her cordially and handed her the documents along with your boss’s instructions; the process took no more than a couple of minutes.

At last, you were free to leave that place. Just as the elevator doors were about to close, a man hurried in.

At first, you didn’t pay him any attention, too busy answering emails, but then you felt his gaze burning into you. You turned to look at him and discovered why.

It was him, the man from the bookshop, the one who had been on your mind for weeks.

His brown hair had small golden highlights that shone in the artificial light; his eyes analyzed you with the same precision as the last time, making you feel vulnerable. His smile, however, remained warm.

The realization unsettled you: you had seen him once on television, a memory too fleeting to last, but now, standing in front of you, you couldn’t deny it.

He wasn’t just a man whose melancholy had caught your attention. He was Sentry, an Avenger.

A man who wielded more power than you could ever imagine.

And he was smiling at you as if you weren’t just a passing presence in his life, looking at you with the familiarity that only someone who recognizes the pain and weight of the past could have.

Too nervous to say anything, you could only avoid his gaze. But it seemed that he wasn’t going to let you escape without saying something. When the elevator indicated that it was about to reach the ground floor, his voice prevented you from fleeing.

“Excuse me,” his deep voice made your skin tingle. He smiled, a smile that tried to appear casual but betrayed his nervousness. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Robert Reynolds.”

He pronounced his name with a strange firmness that even surprised him. He always asked to be called Bob, a simpler, less imposing nickname. But for her, he wanted to be Robert, perhaps so she wouldn't take Sentry into account. Even so, she never mentioned him, even when he was sure she recognized him.

He extended his hand, and she shook it with a light but firm touch. He trusted his powers enough to know that a simple handshake wouldn’t trigger her worst memories.

“I’m Y/N,” she replied, her curious eyes watching him closely.

There was an awkward pause, the silence in the elevator made heavy by the unresolved tension. Bob scratched the back of his neck, trying to find something to say, but the words stuck in his throat. Finally, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“You work here, right?”

She nodded. “Yes, my boss works with Valentina on her political campaign; I’m his assistant.”

“I see,” he said, not daring to mention that her job would bring her back to the tower, giving him the opportunity to meet her again.

The lift reached the ground floor and opened its doors with a mechanical hiss. She moved to exit, but before she could, his voice stopped her again.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Y/N.”

“Likewise, Robert,” she said, a hesitant smile on her face. She gave him one last look, a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty, before disappearing into the crowd.

“I hope to see you soon,” he added, but she didn’t hear him.

He didn’t expect her to.

────・:✧∙✦∙✧:・────

Despite your initial reluctance, visits to the Tower became a regular part of your routine. Weeks turned into months. Your boss seemed particularly pleased with your efficiency, and soon you found yourself taking on more tasks that brought you back to the Avengers’ headquarters. You had encountered all of them at least once; to say it was unusual would be an understatement.

But the one you saw most often was Robert. You didn’t always talk. Sometimes it was a nod and a small smile as you walked down the hallways. Other times, a shared silence in the elevator. You grew accustomed to his deep eyes watching you. You memorized the deep marks of fatigue on his face.

That day you had a meeting at the Tower. Your boss was meeting with Valentina to discuss some important matters, and you had to be there to take notes. You arrived early, nodded briefly to Valentina’s assistant, and made your way to the waiting room—an area filled with armchairs, tables with a few magazines, and the aroma of coffee.

You were a little disappointed not to see Robert, but you knew it was unusual for him to be in that area. So you decided to sit down in one of the comfortable armchairs and kill some time by finishing organizing your boss’s schedule.

While you waited, something on the coffee table caught your eye. Among the worn magazines, there was a carefully wrapped package, as if someone had left it there for you. You looked around, hoping to find something, someone, but you found yourself completely alone.

You dared to pick it up; the paper crumbled easily between your fingers. You were surprised to see a familiar title, a book of poetry you had seen a few months ago but didn’t dare to buy because of the familiarity of its words.

There was a small note stuck to the cover.

“I thought you might like it.

Robert.”

How did he know? You didn’t remember mentioning it; you talked about books, yes, but not that one in particular.

Once again, it seemed that he had managed to see through your defenses.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice the watchful eyes observing you. Bob had made sure to leave the book in a place where you would see it. He had hidden himself in a safe place, too afraid that his actions might scare you.

He remembered perfectly the book you had in your hands when he found you the day after the gala. You had looked at it with interest, but as soon as you started reading it, you had put it down and picked up another one. He had bought it on impulse, because he wanted to know what had intrigued you, and he thought it would be a good way to show you that he saw you, that he saw through the mask.

He watched you take the book, anxiety tensing every muscle in his body. He absorbed every detail: the way you looked for someone else in the room; the curiosity that shone in your eyes; how you took the book as if it were something fragile; the delicacy with which you traced your fingers over its casual lettering.

A warm wave of affection washed over him when he saw the smile spread across your face, and he found himself smiling too at your pure, unfiltered reaction. That was what he wanted to achieve, after all.

It wasn’t about the book, the paper, and the ink, but the feeling of knowing that someone saw you, that you mattered to someone. He had decided to give you something personal and meaningful because he knew you would like it. Even if you didn’t tell him, he didn’t need to. Your expression was worth more than anything you could say to him.

With his heart racing, Bob realized how much he liked your smile. And that the connection he had with you was the most real thing he had felt in a long time.

────・:✧∙✦∙✧:・────

You memorized every stroke of his handwriting; the note was written with the delicacy of someone who knows they are dealing with something meaningful. 'I thought you might like it.' Of course he knew, because somehow this man had the ability to see you as no one else could.

The need to thank him overwhelmed you, with words you dared not say stuck in your throat. You had to know why—why he had taken such an interest in you, why he was so selfless with you. Why he seemed so determined to reach your heart.

You looked for him: the familiar glint of his brown curls, his quiet, calm figure, but you couldn’t find him anywhere. You even dared to ask Valentina’s assistant, Mel, if she had seen him.

You were disheartened when she replied with a polite, “I’m sorry, I haven’t seen him today.” It seemed that you would have to save your gratitude for another time.

You felt the weight of the book in your bag for the rest of the day. Even when you should have been focused on your work, your mind kept returning to that note, to the book, to him. And without meaning to, you found yourself smiling at the memory.

When the day ended and you could finally relax in the tranquillity of your flat, you looked at the book again. You lost yourself in its pages, in the words that touched your heart, leaving a trail of tears on them. It was as if he knew exactly what you needed to hear, and perhaps he did.

The mere thought made your heart race, but it had been so long since anyone had genuinely cared about you that you couldn’t be scared. Instead, you felt grateful for Robert Reynolds’ presence in your life.

Lost in words, you didn’t realize that the sun was beginning to rise until it was too late.

────・:✧∙✦∙✧:・────

You didn’t see Robert again for two weeks. At first you thought he might be avoiding you, but you soon realized it was something else. You didn’t dare ask, but Mel kindly told you that he had been sent on a mission.

It gave you enough time to read the book over and over again; you clung to it like an anchor in a storm. You marked the paragraphs you liked. The spine began to crack from being opened so many times, and the pages began to bend at the corners. You had brought it to life, and you were surprised to find yourself waiting to talk to him about it.

The note was still intact; you had left it on your desk, too afraid to ruin it. Every morning, before going to work, you reread it.

You missed his presence, more than you’d like to admit. You missed that brief moment of calm in your day. Robert, for you, was like the rays of sunshine that appeared after the storm: warm, bright, and hopeful.

The two weeks turned into three. His absence was a constant reminder of how much his presence had changed your daily life. You were back to square one: an empty shell, a woman who preferred to live working rather than face the reality of her sad life.

You clung even more tightly to the book, to the memory of your encounters, desperate not to let that part of you that felt alive again disappear.

And then, after another stressful meeting where you could barely pay attention, he burst into the elevator that was about to close, just like the first time.

He looked different, his eyes darkened by fatigue. His hair was a little longer, falling over his forehead as if he had run his hand through it too many times. But his smile, the one you were beginning to believe was reserved just for you, remained the same.

His body relaxed when his eyes met yours; his gaze softened when he saw you. You knew without him saying it: he had missed you as much as you had missed him.

Your heart raced with a new urgency. He was there. And you, for the first time in weeks, felt like the sun had come out again.

“Hello,” he said breathlessly.

“Hello, Robert,” you replied with a smile, at this point impossible to contain.

There was an awkward pause, where both of you seemed to be thinking about what to say.

“I read the book.”

“You read the book?” they both said in unison, then let out a nervous laugh.

“I… uh… yes, I read it,” you fiddled with the straps of your bag. “I wanted to thank you, really. You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s nothing,” his voice was barely a whisper, but it was still clear to you. “Do you have a free moment? I was wondering if… if you’d like to have a coffee. Only if you want to, you can say no, totally.”

It was the first time he had invited you to do something outside the Tower. At another time, you might have refused, but after weeks of not seeing him, you were eager to talk to him.

“I’d love to,” you managed to say, your stomach churning with nervousness.

He smiled at you with that genuine smile you were beginning to enjoy. He led you to a café just a couple of streets away from the Tower; your skin tingled at the touch of his hand as you walked together.

They ordered their coffees and sat down in a secluded spot, letting the silence settle between them. Robert was the first to break it.

“Did you like the book?” he asked hesitantly, as if afraid of your answer.

You decided it was best to show him. You took the book out of your bag, its spine worn and its pages dog-eared from reading it so many times over the past few weeks. You placed it in front of him so he could see it.

“I loved it,” your voice trembled a little at first, but the warmth in his gaze gave you courage. “I… I don’t know what to say, it’s perfect, I can’t stop reading it. I don’t know how you knew I would like it, but thank you.”

You saw the relief cross his face; his eyes returned to the book, looking at it with something akin to affection.

“I saw you pick it up at the bookshop,” he confessed. “You didn’t buy it, but I thought you might give it a second chance, I thought you might like it. I wanted… I wanted you to know that I see you.”

His honesty hit you like a bolt of lightning and completely disarmed you. When was the last time someone had shown so much interest in you? You couldn’t remember.

His words, sincere and full of understanding, had touched your heart. You blinked, trying not to let him notice the moisture that had formed in your eyes.

“Thank you, Robert,” you said, your voice heavy with emotion. “Really, no one has ever noticed me like this before.”

A small, sad smile formed on his lips.

“I know,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on the book. “Me neither.”

And with that sentence, you understood why he could see right through you.

The conversation flowed easily after that. You returned to the book, you showed him the verses you liked, and in return, he showed you his. The coffee grew cold as you continued talking for what seemed like endless hours.

Thus, under the dim lights and in that small, confined space where only the two of you seemed to exist, the walls you had built around yourself began to fall, brick by brick, with every word shared.

────・:✧∙✦∙✧:・────

Things began to change after that, a slow and silent process. In those small moments, away from prying eyes, they shared smiles laden with unspoken words. They stopped walking so cautiously around each other. Robert began to wait for you at the entrance to the building, accompanying you whenever you had a free moment.

Having coffee after work became a habit; they talked for hours, often being the last to leave, with the employees giving them dirty looks from behind the counter. They discovered they had much more in common than they thought: they talked about their passions, about books. Sometimes you complained about how tedious it was to work for your boss, and he told you what it felt like to be an Avenger and carry so much responsibility on his shoulders.

They laid the foundations for a friendship that continued to flourish against all odds. They exchanged messages frequently, sent each other photos of their days, and you found yourself smiling more often. You laughed at his silly jokes, the silence in your house was replaced by loud, cheerful music, the kind that made you nod your head to the beat.

Every day you saw him, every day you spent time with him, you returned home a little happier. You learned more about him: about his struggles, his sensitivity, his sarcasm at just the right moments. He was a sweet, attentive man who knew how to listen, who knew when you needed to laugh and when you just needed someone to stay by your side.

It felt like a monumental step for you. With every cup of coffee, every message, every shared book that reminded you of each other, you were letting him in. Correction: he was infiltrating your heart, and there was no way to stop him. There was no turning back.

You discovered that even with the caution that pain leaves behind, you still wanted him to stay with you. You opened the doors of your heart to him, and he, with his presence, began to illuminate the darkest corners of your life.

And that feeling no longer scared you as much as it used to.

Soon, afternoons at the café weren’t enough, and you started inviting him to your house. You made him homemade food, the kind made with love. You couldn’t remember the last time you set two plates for dinner instead of one.

Robert was excited about the idea. He hadn’t had a real meal in a long time either. None of the Avengers were good cooks, so most of the time they ordered takeout. Sometimes you gave him the leftovers to take to his teammates, and each time he thanked you profusely.

Other times, he would stay up late watching films with you. The experiments they had done on him had taken away most of his memories, so you decided to reintroduce him to classic films: your favorites and those you thought he might like.

The nights grew longer between you; the conversations became deeper. You told him about your life, your aspirations, even things you didn’t share with anyone else. There was something about him that inspired trust: his eyes never judged you; he just listened and was there for you.

He also talked to you. He told you about his past—not everything, but enough. He told you about the few happy memories from his childhood, he told you about his powers, about the constant struggle to control them. And you listened to him, without pressure, just with patience and understanding.

One night, as you were enjoying a film curled up on the sofa, you asked him something that had been on your mind for the last few days:

“Bob,” you called him, your gaze lost on the protagonists kissing after an emotional confession. “Have you ever been in love?”

He sat up straight on the sofa, sensing the change in your voice. You never called him Bob; to you, he was always Robert.

“Not really,” he replied, his eyes fixed on you. “With the kind of life I had, I could never… I just couldn’t devote myself to one person, not completely. Yes, I’ve liked other people, but love? I don’t think I’ve ever felt it.”

Your heart ached when you heard his words. You knew he’d had a difficult past, but hearing it from him made you finally understand how hard his life had been. You wished he hadn’t had to go through all that, but otherwise, you would never have met him.

“I used to fall in love easily,” you said with a bitter laugh. You felt Bob’s gaze on your face, but you didn’t dare look at him. “I was in love with love. I believed that one day I would find that person, you know? The one who is made for you.”

“And what happened?” he asked softly.

“For a moment, I thought I had truly found him. I fell deeply in love; I loved him with every part of me,” you lost yourself in memories. “He was perfect, or at least I thought so; he was everything I had ever wanted in a partner. And then it all fell apart: he fell in love with someone else. He decided that what I gave him wasn’t enough, that I wasn’t enough for him.”

Your voice faltered. The wound, however old it was, still hurt. Robert reached out his hand and cautiously placed it on yours. He gently caressed your knuckles, a silent comfort.

“Y/N… you don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to,” he said; his understanding always managed to move you.

“It’s okay, I want to tell you this,” you replied, forcefully wiping away the tears that threatened to escape from your eyes. “He left me and for a long time made me think there was something wrong with me. What did she have that I didn’t? He made me believe I didn’t deserve to be loved. So I promised myself I would never be so vulnerable again; I shut myself off and became what I am today. And I hate it, because I miss how I used to be, but I can’t go back to being that person anymore, I just can’t.”

With those words, you finally broke down. Tears began to fall down your cheeks, first silently and then turning into sobs you couldn’t hold back. You were embarrassed for Robert to see you like this, but you knew he wouldn’t judge you.

His blue eyes looked at you with shared sadness, not pity, but with the pain of knowing that someone had hurt you and that there was nothing he could do to reverse it.

He gently pulled you towards him, his arms lovingly enveloping your body. He let you cry as you melted into the warmth of his body, focusing on the steady beat of his heart and the comfort it gave you. It was a completely selfless gesture on his part.

In his arms, you found a sense of security that you thought you had lost forever.

Bob wasn’t a balm for your wounds, nor did he pretend to be. He didn’t try to fix you because there was nothing to fix. He simply understood you better than anyone else. By his side, the weight of your pain seemed easier to bear. He reminded you that you weren’t alone in facing your problems.

Finally, you gathered enough strength to pull away from him. Bob held your face in his hands, frowning as he wiped away the tears that had stained your skin.

“Better?” he asked. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw the molten gold that had intertwined with the blue of his eyes, but you didn’t dare tell him.

You nodded, too weak to speak.

He sighed, a little more relaxed, before coming back to you. You curled up next to him, completely exhausted.

You didn’t even notice the silent struggle Robert was facing. He was equal parts sad and angry. He didn’t get angry often, but there was something about seeing the people he cared about hurt that ignited the protective instinct within him.

He wanted to know who had hurt you so badly, who had extinguished that light that sometimes, even when hidden, still shone within you. He clenched his jaw, aware that the last thing you needed at that moment was for him to lose control.

He decided to focus on the gentle movement of your chest with each breath; only then did he realize that you had fallen asleep on him. A small smile formed on his face, happy that you trusted him enough to allow yourself that vulnerability.

Careful not to wake you, he placed a blanket over your body and watched over you as you slept for the rest of the night.

Even when his phone was full of missed calls from the team the next morning, Bob didn’t care.

Taking care of you was worth it.

────・:✧∙✦∙✧:・────

You were right to trust him.

You knew it the next morning when you woke up wrapped in blankets carefully placed around your body. You knew it when you found him in the kitchen, with the sunlight illuminating every feature of his face and that kind smile that always touched your heart.

Despite all his responsibilities, he had stayed. He didn’t pressure you, he didn’t ask if you were okay, he just stayed by your side.

He made sure you had breakfast, washed the dishes they had used the night before so you wouldn’t have to, left you a glass of water and a headache pill, and left with the promise to return later.

And you, with a cup of hot coffee in your hands (one he had prepared), had never felt more loved.

Robert returned the following night, and the night after that.

By letting go of the weight of that confession, you were finally able to speak freely with him. You no longer felt so afraid to talk to him about your feelings, not when he had seen you at your most vulnerable and still decided to stay.

You allowed yourself to enjoy his conversations and encounters more. And you reached a point where you no longer remembered what your life was like before he came along.

Your friendship solidified. Afternoons spent drinking coffee became an unbreakable bond, dinners became more and more frequent, and movie nights became a tradition.

You incorporated him into your life: you looked for new recipes and prepared them for him, hoping he would like them, and you started buying boxes of his favorite tea to keep at home. You even put a photo of the two of you in your living room, and from the smile on Bob’s face every time he saw it, you knew he liked it.

You spent a lot of time together, perhaps more than expected. But it wasn’t about attachment, or feeling lonely; it was that you genuinely enjoyed his company.

Bob encouraged you to come out of your shell, to smile a little more, to talk to those colleagues who had tried so many times to befriend you. Your life didn’t stop when he wasn’t around; he made you happy, but you didn’t need him to be happy. He wanted to be your support so that you could be the version of yourself that you liked best.

And that, for you, meant everything.

But between the trust and friendship they shared, something else was beginning to develop. Something you hadn’t yet dared to name.

You don’t know when you first began to notice the electricity that ran through your body every time his hands brushed against yours, the warmth of his palms when they touched your lower back to guide you somewhere. The sound of his voice, hoarse and deep, and how your skin tingled every time he spoke to you.

You began to be hyper-aware of each of your reactions: how your heart raced every time you saw him, the warmth in your cheeks when he smiled at you, how you lost yourself in the blue of his eyes. Your laughter had become more genuine around him, the kind you couldn’t contain.

You found yourself thinking about him more often, eagerly awaiting your encounters, smiling every time he sent you a message. You missed him when he had to go on a mission, the days seeming endless without any news from him.

One night, while watching a film, curled up on the sofa as usual, you turned your head to whisper a comment to him. You hadn’t realized how close you were; his eyes were already fixed on you, the dim light from the television casting shadows across his face. Your breath caught in your throat; the intensity with which his eyes were watching you, with that hint of molten gold that always mesmerized you, made you blush.

The closeness, the warmth of his body, the electrifying tension; it was no longer just friendship, they both knew that.

They didn’t talk about that moment, but it lingered in their memories, the tension didn’t dissipate, it transformed into an acute awareness of everything they could be if they ever dared to take the first step.

────・:✧∙✦∙✧:・────

Bob didn’t know what to do. His friendship with you had become a beacon of light guiding him through the darkness. From the moment he first saw you, he knew you were different. You understood him like no one else did; you weren’t afraid of him, you didn’t shy away from his problems. You faced them with a smile, because you, too, knew what it meant to carry that weight.

They had forged a real, strong bond that was turning into something more. A palpable tension that both terrified and fascinated him in equal measure.

One he could no longer ignore, not when his eyes were lost in the movement of your lips, in the way your hair fell across your face and his desire to tuck it behind your ears, the warmth of your body against his. How you always fell asleep with your face pressed against his shoulder, how he avoided moving so as not to wake you. How his heart raced every time you smiled at him.

It was a kind of longing he had never felt before.

But he didn’t dare make a move, not when he knew how much love had hurt you. Bob was afraid of hurting you, not only with Void, who always lurked in the darkest corners of his mind, but with the intensity of his feelings.

Could a man like him, with his fragmented past and unstable power, afford to love someone like you? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

────・:✧∙✦∙✧:・────

Of course, the team noticed. No matter how hard Bob tried to fool them, he would never succeed. They had been trained as spies, soldiers, assassins; of course, they were going to notice his absence. No one failed to notice Bob’s increasingly frequent smiles, the endless hours he would disappear for only to return with a happy expression on his face, his apparent attachment to his phone, and how he always seemed to be sending messages to someone.

Yelena, as the closest to him, was the first to see it. But no one wanted to say anything to him. He was happier than they had ever seen him, and they didn’t want to ruin whatever was happening there.

However, she was also very curious and wanted to know who the woman was who had won her friend’s heart (she already knew who you were; she just wanted to hear it from him).

So after a few months, she decided to approach him. It was one of the few afternoons that Bob wasn’t spending outside the complex. She found him in the kitchen trying to make a sandwich, without much success. Yelena leaned casually against the doorframe, watching him with an amused smile.

“So, our Bob has fallen in love,” she blurted out, getting straight to the point.

Bob almost choked on his bread; the tips of his ears began to turn red.

“What? No! What are you talking about?” He tried to sound confused, but his shaky voice gave him away.

Yelena raised an eyebrow, and that was enough for Bob to collapse, dropping his shoulders with a resigned sigh.

“How long have you known?” he asked. He knew there was no point in trying to fool the former Black Widow; she was too sharp, too intelligent.

“For months now, you’ve been disappearing for hours and coming back smiling, practically floating on air,” she said, sounding overly amused. “You bring us homemade food, Bob. Didn’t you think we’d wonder who makes it?”

Bob scratched the back of his neck, not knowing what to say. Clearly, he hadn’t thought that detail through; he was just excited to share your amazing meals with his colleagues.

“It’s… complicated,” he finally said.

“Love is always complicated, Bob,” she said, her voice full of empathy. “So? How do you feel about her?”

He smiled, with a sparkle in his eyes that she had never seen before.

“She is… light. She is one of those people who lights up a room when she walks in, even if she doesn’t think she does. She’s warm and kind, but she also knows how to stand up for herself; she’s lively and very brave. She has a big heart and has suffered a lot, but she keeps getting up every morning, keeps trying, because that’s who she is.”

He paused, searching for the words. “She makes me feel seen, not for my powers, not for my past, but for who I am underneath it all. She’s not afraid of me, she doesn’t make me feel like a lost cause, she smiles at me as if she doesn’t care about all the bad things I’ve done.” His eyes met hers, filled with sincerity. “I fell in love with her, with her smile, with her way of seeing the world, and it’s probably the most real thing I’ve felt in a long time.”

Yelena blinked, moved. She hadn’t expected such an emotional confession; she hadn’t expected Bob to be so in love.

“Wow,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You really love her.”

A shy smile formed on his lips. “I do.”

“Well,” he nodded slowly. “Don’t let her get away, she seems like a good one.”

Bob let out a stifled laugh, a mixture of relief and joy that was beginning to blossom in his chest. The conversation with Yelena had helped him realize how much he loved you; he had finally been able to verbalise his feelings.

Now he just had to pluck up the courage to tell you.

────・:✧∙✦∙✧:・────

The tension had become unbearable, almost suffocating. Every glance, every word, every shared silence had taken on a new meaning, one that neither dared to mention.

One afternoon, Robert accompanied you to your flat after a long day at work and a coffee that felt more like an exchange of prolonged glances than spoken words.

They arrived at your door and the silence, once comfortable, was now heavy with feelings that neither of you expressed. You fiddled with your keys, avoiding his gaze. He stood at a respectful distance, but you could still feel his presence, his warmth enveloping you like a blanket.

Both of you stood motionless in your places, not knowing what to expect.

“Y/N,” his voice was barely a whisper, uncertain. He took a step closer to you, then stopped.

You looked up; his eyes met yours. You lost yourself in the depth of his gaze, in the blue that reminded you of the ocean and the gold that shone like the rays of the sun. You saw through him: the fear, the uncertainty, the longing.

“Bob” his name escaped your lips like a prayer.

He took another step, closing the distance between you until he was standing right in front of you. You could smell his cologne, a scent you had come to associate with safety; the electricity that ran through your body every time he came near. Your heart was beating hard against your ribs, expectant, full of tension.

Robert cautiously raised a hand, his fingers caressing your cheek, soft, a touch that made you close your eyes for a moment. When you opened them, his gaze was already fixed on your lips, then he flickered back to your eyes, asking for permission without words.

He was so close you could feel his warm breath on your face. Your eyes fell to his lips and desire tightened your chest. You wanted, you longed for him to kiss you. But fear, familiar and paralyzing, prevented you.

You remembered the pain, every tear you shed, the deep longing to be loved. That promise you made to yourself and the sweet, lovestruck girl you had to leave behind to keep it. And you couldn’t.

You didn’t have to tell him, he had noticed: how you tensed up in his arms, the change in your gaze. Your heart ached when you saw his disappointed face; you wanted to apologize, you wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but he stopped you.

His hand moved away from your cheek and you immediately missed its warmth. He kissed you on the forehead before pulling away, a kiss that said, 'I know, I don't blame you'.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, his voice a little hoarser than usual, but firm.

You nodded, clutching the keys tightly in your hands, not knowing what to say. You watched him leave, the weight of your decision weighing heavily on your heart.

You knew it was for the best, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

The door to your flat slammed shut, and you leaned against it, breathing erratically. You were sure of one thing: you were hopelessly in love with Robert Reynolds. And the fear you felt in admitting it was almost as great as your love for him.

On the way to the Tower, Robert ran a hand over his face, frustration and fear still present. He had been so close, but then he saw you—saw the hesitation in your eyes. He saw your fear of being hurt again, and he knew he couldn’t be the one to hurt you.

His insecurities, his own fears resurfaced; he could feel Void mocking him in his mind, letting him know that he would never be worthy of your love. That he would only destroy you, because that was the only thing Bob knew how to do.

Good things never lasted long in his life.

Why would you?

────・:✧∙✦∙✧:・────

Despite seeing each other for the rest of the week, things were no longer the same. Glances lingered, silence became uncomfortable, every movement became calculated. The nights became more difficult.

You couldn't sleep, not when every time you closed your eyes you thought of him: his sad eyes, the curve of his smile, the ghost of his lips on your forehead.

You fell asleep thinking about what it would have been like to be kissed by him and woke up knowing that the tension that had built up between you was your fault.

But you didn't know what else to do.

You had let him in, but was that enough? Could you let him love you?

You had spent so much time alone that you forgot what it was like: having someone by your side, the smiles, the butterflies in your stomach. You had forgotten how to be loved.

And you wanted, God, you wanted with all your might to be able to love him back. But fear attacked you, even if he was someone important to you, and you didn't know how to stop it.

Bob wasn't much better off than you.

He had noticed how his eyes had darkened, how his dark circles had deepened. He hadn't been able to sleep in a week; every night was torture for him.

Void was taking advantage of his weakness, mixing memories with nightmares, pressing until he broke his will. And the worst part was that he was starting to believe it, every word.

Every time he reminded him that he was nobody, every time he reminded him that he would never be anything more than a broken man, every time he told him that you would never settle for him. He believed it.

But he hadn't done anything about it, not until that night.

The nightmare dragged him into the darkness, into the part of himself that he tried so hard to keep hidden. However, he was not alone. In the midst of his painful memories, of his fear, there you were. He saw you enveloped in darkness, your eyes filled with tears, screaming his name, begging for help.

And he could only watch as Void destroyed the light he had learned to love, saw you scream as darkness consumed you. Your eyes watched him, hurt, betrayed, and he could do nothing; he was paralyzed.

He had ruined you, and he couldn't do anything to stop it.

He woke up with a start, drenched in cold sweat, his heart pounding against his ribs. He knew at that moment that he had to see you, had to make sure you were okay, that he hadn't hurt you.

He left the Tower in a whirlwind of emotions, walking to your flat lost in his memories. He thought again about your face, how you begged for help, how he had let Void play with his mind to terrify him.

He couldn't let it happen again; Bob couldn't lose you. Not when you were one of the few good things he had in his life. You weren't a superhero, you hadn't been trained as an assassin or a soldier, but you understood him, you listened to him. You loved him without expecting anything in return.

He arrived at your building in the middle of the night, not thinking about the time, how late it was, only caring about you. He knocked on your door with an impatience he rarely showed. He knocked once, twice, three times, until his insistence interrupted your sleep.

You opened the door, your mind still clouded by sleep, your pajamas rumpled and your hair tousled. The dim light in the hallway revealed Robert's figure, his pale face, his wide eyes shining with that familiar golden color. You had never seen him like this before.

"Bob," you whispered, filled with concern. You took his hand, helping him into your flat. His body was shaking, and you could feel how sweaty his palms were. "What happened?"

At that moment, he collapsed, and you barely managed to catch him in your arms as you curled up on the floor together. He hugged you as if he were afraid you would disappear, as if he wanted to make sure you were real, that you were really there with him.

You returned his hug with a heavy heart, gently stroking the curls at the nape of his neck. His face was hidden in the crook of your neck, and you could feel his tears wet the fabric of your pajamas, but you didn't care. You just wanted to make sure he was okay.

"It's okay, I'm here," you said, trying to calm him down. "Talk to me, Bob."

His eyes met yours, filled with anguish. "I had a nightmare, I dreamed about the Void; I dreamed... I dreamed that I hurt you. It was horrible. I had to see you, I had to know that you were okay."

Your gaze softened, you reached out to caress his cheek, he leaned into your touch, closing his eyes.

"I'm here, Bob," you assured him. "You didn't hurt me, you're not going to lose me."

"How can you be sure?"

"I'm not, but I trust you, and that's a start."

And with those words, you showed him how important he was to you. You gave him your trust, something you treasured, and you knew you were making the right decision in doing so.

He pulled you close, cradling you in his arms. Then you heard his voice:

"You don't know how important you are to me. You accepted me, you let me into your life, you made me feel human again; not like a hero, not like Void, just Bob. And I can never thank you enough for that." His voice trembled, heavy with emotion. "I love you, and maybe it's not what you wanted to hear, but I needed to tell you."

His hands caressed your face, and this time he spoke to you, looking into your eyes. "You bring color to my life, you bring me calm, and it scares me because I'm not used to feeling this way. It scares me to hurt you, it terrifies me to lose you. But what I feel for you is real, and not even my deepest fears can change that."

Your heart sank, but not out of fear, but out of understanding. Because you, like him, were scared, and the fact that he opened his heart to you, allowing you to see that vulnerability, changed everything.

Driven by the love you felt for him, which you didn't know how to express, you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn't soft or sweet. It was a kiss full of desperation, expressing the anguish of months of longing for each other. Full of hope, fear of hurting each other, pure and real affection.

You melted into him, into his warm arms, his gentle hands and his soft lips. You let yourself be carried away by that kiss, by the electric current that ran through your body every time he touched you. And you clung to him even tighter.

Bob kissed you as if your lips were a temple he wanted to worship. And you let him.

They kissed like two souls finally finding their way to each other.

They parted with a gasp, their limbs trembling and their cheeks burning. You smiled at him, your eyes shining.

Bob caressed your cheek tenderly, without loosening his grip on you. "Are you okay?"

You nodded, resting your forehead on his shoulder. "Just... hold me," you asked.

The moonlight shone on their embracing bodies, and you relaxed to the sound of his rapid heartbeat.

They didn't speak again; it wasn't necessary. The connection between you said more than words ever could.

────・:✧∙✦∙✧:・────

They couldn't sleep, not after a night like that. They decided to go out and watch the sunrise on the terrace of your flat. They sat together as the warm sunlight began to illuminate their features.

You moved closer to him, resting your cheek on his shoulder as you intertwined your hand with his. One of his arms wrapped around you, gently caressing your arm.

"Bob," you whispered, looking up into his eyes. "I'm scared, but... I want this to work. I really do."

"Me too," his gaze softened. "But as long as we have each other, I think it will work. We can learn together."

You smiled, leaving a kiss on his shoulder blade. "Thank you for not giving up on me," you said, your voice trembling. "I know I haven't made it easy for you, but you never stopped trying, and you don't know how much that means to me. You saw through me, when no one else had in a long time, and you loved me even after seeing my worst parts."

“That's because I love you on your good days and your bad days. I love you when you're fed up with the world and just want to cry yourself to sleep, I love you when you laugh out loud and when you hum a song thinking no one is listening. I love every part of you.”

Your eyes filled with tears, moved by so much affection. You didn't know what you had done to find a man like him.

"I love you, Bob. Thank you for being my light in the darkness, for making me feel alive again."

He smiled at you, a small, genuine smile. He leaned in and kissed you, gently, full of tenderness.

You had fallen deeply in love, without thinking about the risk. And that thought no longer frightened you, not like before.

Because the pain hadn't gone away, not completely, but the wound was beginning to heal. You had allowed yourself to cry, you had allowed yourself to feel, and you had learned to let go of what hurt you.

You had found someone who didn't see your scars as marks of your failures, but as reminders that you had tried, that you had loved, and even though it didn't always work out, it was real. He drew stars over your scars and made you feel proud of them.

And you loved that about him. You loved him because he had the kindest heart you had ever seen, because with his shy smiles and his gentleness he had given you back something you thought you had lost long ago.

His blue eyes looked at you, deep and sincere, as if he were aware of what you were thinking. You moved closer to him, closing your eyes as the sunlight shone down on you.

In that moment, everything else faded away, as if the universe belonged only to the two of you. There were no superpowers, no broken hearts, no painful pasts. Just two souls who had learned to love each other despite the burdens they carried, who had found peace and comfort in each other.

It was an unspoken promise that, no matter what the world threw at them, they would always have that sanctuary in each other. They would always have each other.

You thought with a smile that they were right: love wasn't for you, but Bob was. He was made for you.

thanks for reading!

[ihaznoclue]

Caught Red-Handed | MDNI 18+

feat. Jinu, Abby Saja, Romance Saja, Mystery Saja, Baby Saja

a/n; This maybe took a while or not, also this is going to be in parts

Warnings - Praise kink, voyeurism, fingering, self masturbation, teasing, p in v, mate press, missionary, Over-stimulation, jealousy, getting caught, biting, size kink, pinning, flirting, pet name, poly relationship, marking, mention of back scratching

Part 1

It wasn't fair at all..

You knew that the Saja Boys were famous and all but god you needed them right now, even though they are currently at a fan greet and meet

And here you were, in the bedroom laying on the bed going through your phone to get your mind off.. well everything

But it also wasn't fair that they continued to tease you and leave you completely flustered to the point you were getting sexually frustrated and they were enjoying it.. every single bit

So you decided to do things your own way, looking at the time as you only got 10 minutes until they come back so you decided to pleasure yourself

The ache between your legs was unbearable, placing your phone to the side as you began to pull your pants down and your undergarments

Tossing them on the floor beside the bed

Comfortably wriggling down as you laid your head on the pillow behind you as you hesitated at first but then shook your thoughts away

Opening your legs only slightly as you placed a hand as you gently started to rub yourself making you moaned, burying your head into the pillow

Then slowly inserting a finger as you winced but slowly turned into a whimper as you mumbled "Stupid - ah~ Stupid, saja boyys - Fuck.."

Meanwhile, the Saja boys finished quick early as they were already at the apartment, getting into the elevator as they talked to each other while heading to the door of their room

"I hope we didn't take too long that Name started to feel lonely" Romance spoke

"Speaking of Name, where is she?" Jinu asked, looking around not seeing you at the couch watching TV as you usually do when waiting for them to come back form fan meetings

"Fuck!~ - pleaseee" They suddenly heard something from the master bedroom

"I think I know where she is~" Baby smirked, walking towards the door that you were behind

"Did we really make her desperate with all the teasing we did?" Abby questioned as he heard a moan behind the door "Yep guess we did" He smirked

Meanwhile with Mystery he didn't say a word

He felt a little bit jealous that you were pleasuring yourself without him there, he was getting impatient

He wanted to see you already, he wanted to see you naked, laying there all wreaked with sweat sliding down your forehead as you panted heavily beneath him

"Let's give her a visit~" Romance sang out, reaching a hand to turn the knob as the door opened

There you were, laying so beautifully on the bed with your back towards them, not noticing they were there

You were so deep into pleasuring yourself you didn't even realise they have caught you

Baby was the first one to approach as the others followed behind, all faces glued with a smirk on their face

He decided to give you a little surprise, leaning down to whisper in your ear "Couldn't wait for us to come back huh baby?~" A slight tease in his voice

"Ah!" You yelped out as you turned your head to the voice to see Baby and the others surrounding you, all sitting on the big bed making you flustered and red

Trying to grab for the blanket for only Baby to pin your hands down making you whine "Ah uh- no hiding from us now, we want to help you"

Baby then looked at Abby who was beside your head

"Pin her hands down while I eat her out" Baby demanded, Abby looked a little surprised on how forward Baby was but he knew he meant business

You just looked confused and incredibly flustered as you closed your eyes as you felt your head being lifted up first to only be placed on Abby's lap while he pinned your hands down making you small

Shuffling was heard as you opened your eyes as you felt hands on your thighs as they then opened causing you to gasp out

Baby hummed "God I always wanted to do this, wanted to break you just by my very own tongue" He spoke keeping eye contact as he leaned down

Then a slow lick was felt making you whimper, your legs trying to close but was re-opened "Keep your legs open" He hissed, biting your inner thigh

"Hey!" You shouted but baby paid no mind as he went back to eating you out making you arch your back off the bed

"mh! - Fuck -" You hissed, your hand in babys hair as he groaned out as you slightly pulled his hair causing vibrations through your pussy

"ah- baby - please" You moaned out

"What do you want baby to do baby? hm?" Abby caressed your cheek with his thumb, he could see your chest heaving up and down with everything breath you took

"I'm so - close - ah!" You gasped out loudly, Baby was now fingering you as well as eating you out making it more harder to focus

Drool was slowly trailing down from your mouth as Abby kept your hands down, your body slightly squirming around from being too overwhelmed

"Fuck! I'm so close!"

"Cum for us baby" Jinu called out from somewhere in the room

You whimpers and sobs causing all of them to be turned on, Baby was rutting against the mattress to get some friction as you were close

"Ah-!" You screamed out as you came, your legs shaking under baby gentle touches as he lifted his head

Licking the drool and saliva from his mouth as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he smirked, looking down at you to see you already wreak

"Good girl~ Being so obedient for us, but it's not over just yet~" Romance purred

-A<3

- REBLOG, LIKES, COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED! -

[he4rken]

Can you do Mafioso (along with 2 other characters of your choice) x reader who's an excellent singer, like they have such a soothing voice that it can lull you to sleep, sometimes quite literally.

LISTEN TO MY VOICE, YOU SHOULD HEAR ME NOW | singer reader

— Woah anon... You really put me on the spot! So I did what's best and I spun a wheel, congratulate Taph and Dusekkar for getting picked!

I might've accidentally written this differently than how you wished anon, still included just not necessarily focused on that specifically, I sincerely apologize!

WARNINGS: none to be found!

MAFIOSO

— Honestly I think he's most likely to encourage you, big fan of whatever you have going on! Your voice is music to his ears and that's quite literally too.

— I mean it when I say big fan, if you were a performer, per say, he'd be there every time. Front row? He's right there, back row? He's right there, anywhere in the middle? He's right there. (cue to that one audio that's currently trending)

— And if you weren't, that's no problem! Can't turn down a free performance from his beloved, right? Whether or not you're humming a tune or actually have a musical number going on, he's surely there to praise you! In his opinion you have the best voice he's ever heard and that's definitely not cause he's biased, no, definitely not.

— 50/50 if he actually has mentioned to anybody that he has a beloved that sings well, they don't necessarily have to know but neither is it really a secret. If you're really proud of your singing voice he definitely does mention it! Otherwise he just pops in a "oh yeah my beloved can sing :)" randomly into the conversation when he thinks about you.

— Out of all three in this, Mafioso is the last person to get knocked out if you lulled him to sleep, intentionally or not, he's not falling asleep. Best you can get out of him is that he feels a bit sleepy, never really voices that thought and instead tells you that your voice is really soothing, thinks it's a bonus overall too.

— He'd encourage that too, actually. Do continue do to so, he likes your voice! Even if he has better things to do than listen to his beloved sing and Mafioso doesn't care, what's a little slacking off right? Okay fine he doesn't necessarily slack off since he's immediately getting back to what he was doing but he certainly will make time for you!

��� Overall, Mafioso is just simply swayed, who wouldn't be if that's their beloved? Either way he'd still be biased and think you're the best of everything.

TAPH

— Taph really, really means well. He's a man of not many words, do give him a bit of credit for attempting to express it fully how much he actually does adore the fact you can sing quite well.

— While all he can give is enthusiastic thumbs up when you're done with your musical numbers, perhaps even some forming a heart with both of his hands, he does try to showcase it to the maximum. Of course writing down his opinion on a piece of paper also does the trick but I don't think that's necessarily his sort of thing to do without it coming off condescending, which he obviously does not want to come off as.

— Absolutely encourages you to actually be loud, be noisy! Hum a tune! Perhaps even go all out! Taph might be a big fan of noise anyway, so who is he to turn you down from doing what you're talented at?

— Aside from the occasional explosions he has caused majority of his time, all he does ultimately have on his own is silence, so every noise is a wave of fresh air, yours most definitely included.

— Unfortunately or fortunately with how you personally want to see it, Taph does fall asleep when you do lull him to sleep, perhaps after 30 seconds and he's knocked out cold. At the start he waves his hand as a way to say "he most definitely isn't gonna fall asleep", obviously he gets proven wrong and won't bring it up at all either.

— Thing is that if you don't offer he's practically kindly asking (more like begging) for you to lull to him. Taph kinda sees it like a daily occurrence, perhaps more preferably when neither of you are getting chased down during a round even with how relaxing it is, rather when everyone gets a break without much concern. He does suck it up when you turn it down, that's fine for him! Maybe next time you will.

— Okay well not necessarily since the moment he's alone he does become that one breakdown GIF, but again, it's fine! Better luck next time. He's fine with already hearing you hum during the day, he doesn't need your soothing voice. Yeah, most definitely does not....

— Taph is just overall likes your soothing voice the most. It's kind of the sign he can relax and let his guard down, hence why he does get knocked out almost immediately. I'd say he could listen to it all day but he might actually fall into eternal slumber all together.

DUSEKKAR

— A man of many, long, strong and poetic words, even he manages to be swayed by a voice that belongs to somebody he holds oh so dearly.

— But Dusekkar isn't necessarily gonna comment much on it either. While he does give you praise occasionally he doesn't have that much of a big opinion on you being able to sing well.

— In a way he does find it admirable. You have a voice so strong that can change into so many different tones depending how much you change your voice! And Dusekkar for one isn't a singer either, so, again it's just admirable for him.

— Dusekkar actually has the most normal reaction overall anyway, when you're humming a tune he doesn't pay no mind to it. But when it comes to a full blown musical number it's as if the words he even wanted to say we're completely forgotten. Of course this could mean he was rendered speechless, but no, he's right back at his feet by saying something that can be translated into "you sing very well!"

— When it comes to lulling him to sleep, it's sometimes actually effective. I mean it when I say sometimes, either he is fully knocked out or he wakes up maybe after a good three minutes. By that fact alone Dusekkar himself is a bit taken aback, all things considered I don't think anybody ever is relaxed in the Forsaken realm, so genuinely getting knocked out is kinda a bit uncomfortable for him.

— It's not like he necessarily advices against it, your voice can be very soothing, don't get him wrong! But you making him fall asleep is one he personally doesn't want, maybe when neither of you have bigger concerns awaiting you for who knows how long then he would probably not mind as much.

— But still, Dusekkar almost always looks like he's at the brick of falling asleep when your tone of voice is in fact soothing. Fights a lot of urges and most definitely says sentences longer than he has ever spoken to not fall into slumber.

— Overall he just doesn't have much to say to you having a great voice, Dusekkar does hold admiration as said before but it stops there. Either way it's a great talent you have! And he's certainly not gonna prove you otherwise either, he's no liar.

[amorwrld]

something more - clark kent.

-> summary: months after breaking up, new temptations rise after the two of you find yourselves together in the same workplace. despite loving him, is worth the same circle of events and feelings?

-> word count: 2.k! wanted to write some tension and angst for mr. clark kent, more specifically exes to lovers with him...

-> tags and warnings: mentions of y/n, mild cursing, mild violence, jealous clark, reader knows about his secret, some talks about insecurities with both characters. lmk if i missed any, please reblog and comment, us authors appreciate it! mwuh! ❤️💙

if clark knew coming out here tonight, would lead him to see his current scene. he would’ve never stepped foot outside. to make matters worse, he couldn’t get drunk to avoid the pang in his chest. the hurt and knot building in his throat, just watching you with him. 

maybe it was serious, maybe it wasn’t. but it didn’t change the fact that despite it all, his feelings for you hadn’t changed, they grew and grew more, more intense. for months, he continuously thought of you. it wasn’t anything specific, just you as a whole. and yet despite knowing how he felt, it didn’t get better, and the sun wouldn’t be able to heal the ache in his heart.  

“is this a new thing?” he yelled over, pushing his glasses up with his finger while holding the glass. “i guess it is? this is the first time we’ve seen her like this. gotta say that guy doesn’t give me good vibes,” jimmy shrugged, dancing along to the house music that played in the background. 

clark knew you were watching him. with his crazed eyes, not being able to tear away from you the moment he walked in. he had to push away the urge to slit the throat of every man who laid eyes on you. he could only just push away the jealousy and pretend. pretend it didn’t hurt him. pretend you didn’t know each other. pretend you were strangers. 

but you were far from strangers. 

“when did she start with you guys?” clark asked, leaning against the bar. “two months ago, she came all the way from texas,” jimmy yelled loudly. “she’s a amazing journalist and she has so much potential, but it seems like something or someone from her past haunts her,” he continued. 

clark stood quiet, knowing he was the reason for that being. 

that night still haunted him. in his wake and sleep. how he left you thinking he didn't love you. watching tears run down your cheek as you found the correct words to yell at him. maybe a part of you knew clark was lying, but it didn't help the ache and burn inside you when you heard him say it. 

you felt naive and in a daze, believing a man like clark, would be capable to love you. to cherish you. it felt like everything surrounding you was crashing apart, and it hurt so much you couldn't control the fury and despair you discerned. not only did it feel like clark lied to you, you felt used. 

when you saw him again two weeks ago, you laughed so hard at how fate and the universe worked. you ignored him. the glances. his attempts to talk. his stupid coffee and notes he left for you. his attempts to get you alone to try and talk. how he whispered to jimmy and asking small details. you wanted nothing to do with him, just like he didn't with you.  

perhaps you were an evil person, but you wanted to feel the exact pain he felt, watching his world come apart. 

nevertheless, the temptation was so excruciating. it was pure and raw. and it would quickly break at any given moment. 

“maybe that’s enough?” clark leaned down to whisper coming back up to see your the outraged look on you. “you don’t decide when is enough for me,  i’ll say when it's enough,” you ignore him, pecking the guys cheek before walking away to the bar. you felt tipsy but not drunk to where you would blackout. 

“what games are you trying to play here huh? getting drunk and fuck the first guy you meet at the club tonight?” clark said pissed off, his voice and tone laced with pure rage and jealousy. “i don't remember asking if it was any of your business. last time i remembered, i'm single and i can kiss, fuck, marry whoever i want. you won't be able to stop or control that,” you replied with the same tone. 

why the hell did he have to look so good like this. his curly hair in the perfect mess. his skin glowing and glistening with a small layer of sweat. his cheeks are slightly flushed. his black button-up fitting correctly in all the right places. the stupid sluttly glasses on his eyes. those damn blue eyes that made you feel like you were under a spell. 

“i promise i'm only trying to look out and protect you,” you laugh at his words. “protect me? i don't need your protection, you tried to do it once, and look where that got us. you can't pretend to actually care when you did what you did? feel the need to look out for me, when you're the person who hurt me the most. take that bullshit far away from me, because i'm done with your games.”

clark grows quiet. he was thinking carefully about what to say. his chest heaved, nose slightly flared, trying to bite back the jealousy that still ran through him. he knew you were right, that he had once promised the world but did the opposite and hurt you. but that was far from the truth. clark would never stop loving you, and he wouldn’t move on from what you had. 

if he lied, it was to protect you. he just wished it wouldn't hurt this bad, in his being and his soul. being superman came with a price, he loved being able to protect and help, but it also had its downfalls to where he had to make decisions like life or death to fend those he loved.

you scoffed and turned away, playing with the straw in your cup, swirling around the ice before hearing an unrecognizable voice behind you speak. “still up for that dance gorgeous?” you offered a small smile, ready to decline because you were getting tired, but were cut off by the 6’4 man behind you, “she's not interested bud, fuck off.”

“who are you talking to?” the man quickly tried to make himself look stronger and taller. 

“you. now turn around and go back to wherever you were at. leave us alone,” clark replied back, feeling your small hands in attempts to push him back to avoid further conflict. clark could hold his temper, but when he was tested and compelled, he would show his true colors. especially when it came to something that was his, and his only. 

“maybe not tonight, but i have your number on standby, and i can call you for a next time offer?” you attempted to calm the situation, clark laughed in disbelief, scratching his temple not believing what he was hearing. “sounds good darling, i'll be waiting,” he winked before walking off. 

“give me your phone,” clark said dismissively. 

“what? no.”

you didn't know how you ended up tripping, but all you saw was clark’s face inches away from yours, and before you knew it, the temptation broke, closing the gap by kissing him with urgency. tasting the mint and whiskey on his lips, hearing the heavy breaths and groans he let out, feeling the soft licks of his tongue on yours, and the tight grip on your waist from his hands. 

you needed and wanted more. you were a madwoman, and the least of your worries right now was the past. the sole focus right now was how big his hands felt as he kneaded your ass walking into his apartment, kissing every crevice and inch of your skin as he slowly took your clothes off, hearing how bad he needed you. just one good night, and you could go back to pretending like he never happened or existed. 

───〃★ ───

your muscles ached, your hair was probably a mess, and don't get started on your makeup. you rose up, checking the time in the unknown room, a little after seven. you turned around to see a familiar back facing you, drawing the dots, and realizing you were in his apartment. clark’s apartment. 

a hand went to your forehead, feeling the pain and shivers of a hangover, covering yourself with his blanket as you muttered a quick ‘shit’. you quietly got up, checking your back every other second to make sure he wouldn't wake up as you found and changed into one of his loungewear sets. 

you didn't think twice before grabbing your dead phone and black purse, walking out, and back to your apartment. ignoring how your heart twinged, and the regret creeping up on you. 

you kept yourself busy the entire weekend, ignoring everyone's calls and texts after telling them you were safe and alive, including the random number you figured was clark, who called and called the whole weekend. you deep-cleaned your entire apartment, finished up research deadlines, including getting started on your rough draft, and did some retail shopping. 

you walked in monday morning to the daily planet as if nothing had happened. you played off with jokes and smiles to everyone who came up to you. clark watched as you fell back to the same person you were before friday. it was like it had no effect on you whatsoever. that what happened between you and him was just a casual hookup, nothing meaningful. 

the more clark began to think, the more his urgency grew and grew to get you alone. to finally tell you the truth. 

clark felt on a mile high, feeling your lips once again on his, not being able to resist your soft touches and whimpers, your pleas to fuck you, and the neediness. when clark woke up that saturday, he expected you to still be there, but was met with a cold and empty bed. just traces of your sweet scent and your shoes you left behind. no note, no other belonging, just the quiet air and space for what had happened.

“miss y/n can i talk to you about your article, it seems like there is a small confusion,” clark interrupted the small conversation you were having with lois and rachel. you refused to look at him, giving him your back as you spoke, “i’m sure the article is fine, we’re currently discussing that-”

“miss y/n, those weren't my orders. they’re perry’s, and he insisted on helping you out… so shall we?” he waved one hand, directing the way you would walk. you forced a fake chuckle, whispering a small ‘i’ll be back’, twisting clark suit and dragging him. “what the hell are you doing? you can’t meddle with my work clark,” you declared. 

“you gave me no other choice! we need to talk about what happened and what changed. you can’t continue to ignore and pretend, i’m done with those games,” clark expressed, closing the door with a smal thud and locking it. he wasn’t going to leave until he finally heard answers. 

“nothing changed clark! we’re still broken up. newsflash, exes can still have sex and it can mean nothing-” 

“you and i know that’s pure bluff, you’re the only one telling yourself that. i have been trying to talk to you. like a mature and normal adult, but you keep running away,” clark distressed, removing his glasses. you almost forgot how much of a difference it made. small but very much distinct. “clark, you did this to us. you told me you no longer loved me. what could’ve possibly changed that you need to tell me,” you reminded him. 

“i’m done hurting you and me. i can’t take it anymore. i can't stand how you can’t even look at me, direct a word, or just be in the same room. i know i fucked up. I was stupid and said stuff i regret and don’t mean. If only you know how much i’ve also suffered, how much i miss you. you deserve the right to know the truth, and i’m going to tell you,” clark exposed, his voice full with sincerity and seriousness. 

“what truth, clark? i can’t take any more heartbreaks, my heart can’t handle one more, especially from you…” clark takes a step closer, cupping your face with his hands. His pupil widened staring at your gaze, at your teary eyes blinking away. noting the small hesitation on you. 

“do you trust me?” he asks once. and for some reason, that temptation breaks again. if he was being honest as he claimed, you were intrigued to find out the truth. it would finally put some peace in your head, no matter how brutal or nice it was. 

“yes. what truth are talking about, clark?”

───〃★ ───

[hhhwnr]

ꨄHands on my heart, hands on my wound — S.R (18+)

fem!bau!reader x Spencer Reid

The blood is still drying. The fear hasn’t faded. But home is quiet, and he’s here, and for a moment, that’s enough. Until it hurts too much to keep pretending.

word count: 1625.

warnings & tags: established relationship, post case injuries, wound care, mentions of blood, suggestive emotional and physical intimacy (not explicit).

author’s note: I’m not okay after writing this… I’m glad this fic was requested, I enjoyed writing it so much! There is no explicit sexual content, but includes heavy emotional and physical intimacy — MDNI to be safe. As always, feedback is love, reblogs are magic, and respectful suggestions are always welcome!

The flashing lights have started to feel distant.

You’re sitting on the edge of the ambulance bumper, the reflective metal cool against the backs of your legs, hands braced at your sides to keep from swaying. The night air stings against your skin, though you’re not sure if it’s from wind or blood loss or just the way adrenaline burns off and leaves you hollow.

You hear your name before you see him. Spencer’s voice is soft but sharp — cutting through the chaos like it always does, made of worry and way too much knowing.

He rushes toward you with that familiar mix of restraint and panic, curls mussed, tie half loosened, and eyes sweeping over you like he’s trying to scan every inch at once. He crouches in front of you, palms hovering just short of your knees, not touching, but ready.

“Hey—hey, are you okay? What happened?”

You blink down at him. “Just my arm,” you say automatically, lifting your sleeve just enough to show where the tear in your jacket ends in red. “Got scraped during the takedown. It’s not deep.”

His eyes flick there, narrow slightly, then scan your face.

You know what he sees. Dirt, sweat, a thin scratch on your cheekbone where the edge of a broken crate grazed you. Nothing fatal. You make sure of that. You trained yourself to look “fine.”

Spencer doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. Not here, not yet.

“You scared me,” he says instead, voice low. “You weren’t answering your radio for a solid three minutes.”

“I dropped it,” you lie, and it’s almost easy. “I was fine. I had cover.”

His jaw clenches, just slightly, and he nods. “Okay, okay.”

Behind him, two paramedics approach. You can feel their presence before you see them: clipboards, gloves and soft, efficient questions.

Spencer stands, but not all the way. He steps back just enough to give them access, but doesn’t stray more than a few feet. You feel his eyes on you even as he pretends to be distracted, turning slightly like he’s scanning the scene, but his body stays angled in your direction.

The medic starts asking questions. “Any dizziness? Vision blurred? Any sharp pain anywhere?”

You answer them on autopilot. “No dizziness. Vision’s fine. Just my arm. Cheek too, maybe. Everything else is fine.”

Lying feels strange when it’s not to an unsub. But if you mention the ribs—if you say that breathing pulls at your side like something deep and tearing, if you tell them that you’re certain there’s blood you haven’t looked at yet—they’ll send you to a hospital. They’ll call it in. They’ll make Spencer come. He’ll sit beside you, panicking in his quiet way, and you’ll have to see the look on his face.

You can’t handle the look on his face. So you lie. Just a little.

Just enough.

The medic starts bandaging your arm, cleaning the surface wound, taping gauze like muscle memory. Your cheek is swabbed with something that smells sharp and stings even sharper, and still, you say nothing about the deep, pulling ache in your ribs. The bloom of pain behind your sternum that’s growing darker by the minute.

You keep your jaw tight. You keep your breathing shallow. You keep your eyes on Spencer, who hasn’t stopped watching.

The house is quiet when you finally get home.

The kind of quiet that holds weight. No police radios crackling. No shouted commands or bullet ricochets. Just the soft hum of the fridge and the warm creak of floorboards beneath your feet.

It smells like home. A little like books and cedar and the lavender laundry detergent Spencer insists on using. The lights are low, everything golden and familiar. You drop your bag by the door, toe off your shoes. He helps you out of your jacket without a word, careful hands brushing your arm, and then kisses your temple, just a quick press before guiding you to the couch.

Neither of you talks much. You don’t need to. You both know the case is still clinging to your skin.

Spencer picks a movie without asking, something silly and quiet that you’ve seen a hundred times before. The two of you curl up together, your body pressed into his side, his arm curled loosely around your shoulders. You rest your cheek against his chest, listen to the slow beat of his heart under his shirt. It’s steady, still yours, and most importantly? Alive.

That alone almost makes you cry.

At first, you stay still. It’s enough, just this — his hand stroking your arm, his breath warm against your hair. But then he tilts your chin up and kisses you.

It starts soft. Familiar. A touch that says I’m here and I need you. But then it deepens, slowly, then all at once.

His fingers slide along your jaw, gentle but deliberate, like he’s tracing something he missed. Your hand fists in his shirt. You pull him closer because you need to. Because the fear’s still there, under your skin. The echo of what could’ve happened.

He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the taste of now. Not with lust, but with aching relief. With reverence. With that kind of heat that comes from love, not want.

Every time a case goes bad — every time one of you walks a little too close to the line — it ends like this. Tangled up. Holding on. Making out like teenagers just to feel something tender in the wreckage.

And you want to keep going. You really do. But then he shifts.

Spencer slides a hand to your waist, fingers curling slightly to tug you closer, and he guides you up from the couch with one gentle pull—

You cry out. Sharper than you mean to. It rips from you, fast and real.

He stills immediately. “What’s wrong?”

You freeze. The pain sears down your side. You can feel blood again — fresh, warm, slick against the band of your jeans.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You stammer. “I—I didn’t—Spence, I—”

He’s already furrowing his brow, soft concern bleeding into something firmer. “Hey. Look at me.” His voice stays calm, low, but not soft. Not right now. “Tell me what hurts.”

You close your eyes. You can’t lie to him. Not now. Not when he’s this close. Not when he’s kissing you like he wants to keep you.

“I didn’t say anything at the scene,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to go to the hospital. They would’ve made you worry. I didn’t—” Your voice cracks. “It’s my side. My ribs.”

Spencer exhales, the kind of breath that sounds like it hurts to let go of. His eyes flick down toward where your hand is gripping your side, the dark red spreading beneath the hem of your shirt.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just takes in the sight. Then he swallows hard, his mouth tightening.

“Arms up, come on.” His tone leaves no room to argue. It’s not sharp or mean. But it’s final.

You lift your arms, slow and careful as he peels your shirt off like he’s unwrapping something fragile. And then he sees it.

The gash is angry and red, crusted with blood, still oozing from the reopened tear. Bruising already blooms around it, deep and ugly along your ribs. Spencer’s jaw tightens, and he shakes his head, just once, like he can’t believe you kept this from him.

He doesn’t scold you. Doesn’t snap. Instead, he presses a kiss to your forehead, then nudges you gently back down onto the couch.

“Lie down,” he says, quiet but firm. “I’ve got it.”

He moves quickly, efficiently. Medical kit already halfway unpacked from earlier, hands gloved before you can even argue. You watch him in silence, your pulse stuttering in your chest.

You hate this look on his face. The worry. The hyper focus. Like he’s building a wall between himself and how afraid he really is.

He presses gauze gently to the wound. Cleans it with practiced hands. His eyes flick up every few seconds to make sure you’re still breathing steadily.

“You should’ve said something, you know,” he whispered more to himself at this point, but you still caught it, and your throat tightened.

“I didn’t want to go to the hospital,” you whisper. “I just… I wanted to come home. With you. That’s all I could think about. I didn’t want to lose that to some cold exam room or fluorescent lights or—”

Spencer lets out a soft, tired sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh — and reaches up to shush you gently, his fingers brushing your cheek. “You’re not losing anything,” he says. “I’ve got you. You’re here.”

Then, without a word, he shifts. He settles on the floor at your feet, knees bent, elbows resting against the edge of the couch. One arm wraps around your calf loosely, not gripping, just holding. Then he lays his head sideways, cheek pressed against your thigh, eyes fluttering closed like being this close is the only thing that can slow his heart back down.

You thread your fingers into his hair on instinct, brushing it back from his forehead. He hums quietly, almost a purr, and leans into the touch like he’s trying to memorize the feel of your skin against his scalp.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

He shakes his head against you. “Don’t be.”

“But I lied.”

“You panicked,” he corrects softly. “You were scared. So was I. I’m still scared. But you’re here. That’s all I care about.”

You look down at him, cradled against your leg like he’s found the only safe place in the world. His arms wrap tighter around you like he knows you’re still hurting, but also like he needs the reassurance too.

[quietbluetune]

A Case of You — B.R.

bob reynolds x reader

synopsis: taking a liking to you was supposed to mean nothing, supposed to be harmless. it’s only comfort— until it isn’t anymore.

or, bob reynolds realizes he’s far past liking you.

warnings: none! very fluffy little one shot, bob is down bad, reader isn’t really described so this is technically gender neutral, brief mention of a sweatshirt being oversized, bob’s grandmother is described as someone who was comforting for him :( so possibly ooc

word count: 1.4k — ao3, my other work

author’s note: i have nothing to say for once— i just hope you enjoy bob being head over heels and oblivious to it <3 oh, the title is the joni mitchell song i adore (specifically the aaron tveit cover… go listen to it). this blurb explores a lot of sensory detail, so drinking a case of you was fitting as hell. (look at that i did have smth to say after all lol)

He tells himself it’s just because it’s familiar. 

Your scent hangs loosely around your body— In your room, in the air when you’d walk past. In the books you lent him and the laundry freshly folded on the sofa. 

It envelops him, something soft and comforting, like a whisper of a memory made but never kept. Boundless, like something he knew in a different lifetime and has followed him to now. 

It’s unique— Earthy and grounded, a faint thread of spice under a gentle kind of sweet that feels like a whisper instead of something that makes you sick. It’s holy and real, the quiet kind of smell of sandalwood and lavender and something he’s never quite had the privilege of knowing. 

It smells like his grandmother. It’s not old or worn, but something tranquil and patient. The scent of kindness, the only piece of it he’s ever known. The scent of relief— A reminder he was safe, even if just for a little while. 

She was the one person in his life who ever felt like home, like an exhale in the choking anguish of his childhood. Like an extra beat in the cadence of his heart that, remarkably, still ticked. 

And that’s why he tells himself it’s nothing when the scent of you knocks him off his feet. It’s not lust, it’s not a crush— It’s not complicated feelings he can’t name or an ache that keeps him up at night. It’s just the faint reminder of stability that grounds him when you walk by. When you smile or you laugh, or you tuck your hair behind your ear or let your fingers linger on his shoulder when you move around him in the kitchen glow. 

It’s just a memory disguised. 

He tells himself that in everything you do— In every moment, every second that passes and his heart threatens to convince him otherwise. It’s only because it’s familiar. 

He tells himself that when he smells it dancing between the sliver of space fighting to bloom between you on the subway back from the library, your shoulder ghosting over his silently in the wake of a dwindling crowd. The car clears, but you stay put, an eclipse as the city slips by behind you. The perfect honey of your smell sticks to his senses with no remorse. Unforgiving.

He tells himself that when he hears you laugh, each noise peppered with something sweeter than candy and more earnest than religious vows. It swells over him in the quiet of the Watchtower, the tepid stillness fluttering every time you let your light voice soar through, not afraid of who or what it might disturb because you laughed at his jokes like it was the last thing you’d do— Unmoving, relentlessly. Every single time. 

He tells himself that when he feels your finger, a steady pulse drumming in his hand and calling out to him as he wraps a bandage around your cut, reverent and slow. It doesn’t mean anything here— The cool of your skin bathed in the delicate glow of the infirmary, simmering around your silhouette, your body, still wrapped in him even after he’s finished his good work. You let your fingers linger along his before enveloping them in a tentative squeeze— A thank you, like you truly had no idea he’d always take care of you. That he’d do anything for you. 

He tells himself that when he tastes the sweet peppermint of your chapstick tingling across his lips, a knowing smile etched into your features as you swipe the pad of your fingertip against his mouth to put it on him. He has chapstick, sure—scattered somewhere around the Watchtower, of course—but he liked yours better. Liked how it stings in all the right ways, liked how it felt like it was alive when it touched him. Liked how you’d offer it silently, already knowing, not even a look or a glance his way— Just a steady hand holding it out to him like a rope in a swirling sea. He liked how every time he accepted it he could sit and think of what it would be like to feel it on his lips coming from yours instead of the tube or your finger. 

He tells himself that when he watches you through the bathroom door left cracked open, lounging on your bed like it was made to hold him too. Your body, draped in a baggy sweatshirt of his you keep forgetting to return, long legs, bare and glowing, disappearing in the hem that clung to your thighs. Your hair, still damp and tangled from your shower and still, somehow, absolutely perfect. Steam lingers in the air, warm and faint, just like the pull of you— Impossible to ignore. How was he expected not to watch when you were around? When that door was pushed open wider all like it was this natural, unspoken thing for you to always be close— Like even a door of separation was too much.

The page of the book he swore he’d be done with ten minutes ago is still pressed against his thumb, words waiting against his skin, pages draped and half-closed over his knuckles as he stared at you like a fool. How was he expected not to watch when you were so distracting— Buzzing from a novelty New Avengers singing toothbrush Alexei gave you from a sample of team merchandise that never made it to the shelves. 

Alexei did that a lot. The rest of the team learned not to fight it and would take whatever it was graciously— Act like they loved it, but would never actually use it. Abandon it to be lost in the dulling dust of their rooms. 

But not you. Never you. 

You took it and used it, you made it feel valued. You made your teammate feel good about the gifts— Would use them and love them even if you didn’t. It didn’t matter, because you’d always make it feel like you did. 

Just like you did with him. 

Like how you’d feed his wild ambitions, a yearning ache for you. How you’d smile at him or touch him— Awakening something that tried to stay tame in the hollows of his soul. How your stare would settle on his skin like it’s stitched together by a language of devotion and desire. How you’d share your music on the subway just so you could rest your head along his shoulder or care about the books he read so you could point out your favorite lines, the silk of your finger brushing against his. Always. You fed what he fought, in the stagnant silver of the city or the basking glow of a warm stove light until the tea kettle sang for your attention to be on it instead of him. 

You were there. 

And you were telling him this wasn’t just familiar. This wasn’t just him clinging onto something he once felt comfort in or attached himself to because he needed hope— Because he needed something to believe in, or rather, someone. 

This was something entirely different— Entirely yours, entirely his. 

The smell of you drifts past him always, flooding his senses and drowning him in the hunger he’s let starve. It hangs against the walls of his room, against his pillow case, freshly washed and crisp on his warm skin. It’s threaded between the fabric of his clothes and pressed between the pages of every book he reads and every line he feels you in. In every stamp of ink and drag of pen to paper. It’s in the throb of his heart when you won’t leave his mind, the same beat shaking his soul every night when he falls asleep like clockwork. 

It carries him through his day— Through his nights and through his dreams. It carries through the vessel of his desires and in the veins of a city that pulses to life just by having you in it. 

It is remarkable, this new feeling that cracks something open in him when he can smell your skin, your hair, your scent across the room like it was made for him to crave. 

It is undoubtedly, unequivocally, impossibly new. 

It is love.

please note no ai was used, or will ever be used in my work. this piece is written by me and you don’t have permission to steal, repost, or put it into any ai models. i hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading!

[jkwrites-m]

Ghosts Can’t Be Dads

Drabble - Daddy Kookie

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes, parents au, idol au, angst,

Word Count: 2k

Summary: One year gone. One love untouched. One heart waiting.

Setting: This drabble takes place 1–1.5 years post-ghosting. Y/N and baby Eun Ae live in America. Jungkook’s in Seoul prepping for BTS’s first mini-tour, unaware he has a daughter.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, angst, childhood lovers, abandonment, young (teenage) pregnancy, single parent, post-break up (ghosting) emotions, anger, depression, heartbreak, yearning, mutual pining, journals, unspoken feelings, grief, self-blame, mention of idol life pressure, some postpartum, references to the emotional cheating, no happy ending (yet obvi)

A/N: here’s a drabble (it was already written, it was originally in a later chapter but i wanted to give this to y’all) bc of all the love i’ve received these last couple days 🫶 srry for it being so sad 😭

Note: regular text is y/n’s pov, bold is jungkook’s (minus titles)

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1 year after ghosting -

I don’t know when the numbness turned to pain.

Maybe it was the morning I found her sock in my hoodie pocket. Pink, small. Barely there. I don’t even know how it got there- maybe she’d tucked her feet into my lap one night, like she always used to, and it slipped off without either of us noticing. I held it for a long time that day. Didn’t cry. Couldn’t. Just stared at it like it might explain something.

It didn’t.

Nothing does.

It’s been over a year since I blocked her. A year since I let fear, shame, and cowardice dictate every decision I made. A year since I let someone else get too close because I thought we could work it out.

It didn’t.

That girl- God, I can’t even remember her name now. She was loud. Pretty. Flirty in a way that made me feel wanted and sick at the same time. I let it happen. Let her talk to me every night after rehearsal. Let her laugh at my jokes, brush my hand with hers. Let her believe I was someone she could keep.

But I was never hers.

Not even for a second.

The messages stopped after a month. I couldn’t do it. Every time I typed something back, I saw Y/N’s face. Her eyes when she was tired. The way she’d curl into me at night, mumbled dreams pressed against my throat.

I never physically cheated.

But emotionally? I was gone long before I disappeared.

And I never apologized.

Not once. Not to her. Not to myself.

There are nights I can’t sleep because I swear I hear her voice in my head. Soft. Hurt. Asking why. I never had an answer. Still don’t. Just excuses and shame.

Tonight’s one of those nights.

So I do what I always do.

I pull out my journal. The one Namjoon gave me. Said it might help me start being honest.

And I write. 

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JOURNAL ENTRY - Jungkook

I still miss her.

I don’t care how much time passes. I don’t care how much I try to fake healing.

I miss her.

I miss her mouth when she argued with me. Her hands when she made tea. The way she said my name like it meant something more.

I wonder if she ever cries over me. I wonder if she tells her friends I died just so she doesn’t have to explain the truth.

I wonder if she moved on.

God, I hope she’s okay.

Even if she hates me.

Even if she never forgives me.

I just hope she’s safe. Loved. Whole.

Because I’m not.

Not even close.

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5 months postpartum -

I promised myself I wouldn’t write to him again.

That I wouldn’t keep a record of a man who abandoned me, who tore something sacred out of me and never once looked back. But some days… some days I still look for his name in my inbox like a fool.

He’s not there.

He hasn’t been there for over a year.

So I write instead.

To no one. To him. To the version of him I loved. To the version that loved me back.

═══════

JOURNAL ENTRY - Y/N

It’s been five months since I gave birth.

Eun Ae is… everything.

She giggles now. Real giggles. Sometimes when I feed her, she stares up at me and makes this face- this exact Jungkook face- and it makes me want to scream and cry all at once. How is it possible that someone so small can carry all of his mannerisms?

She babbles like she’s telling secrets. She sleeps with her hands balled under her chin like he used to. And her hair’s getting long. Thick. Dark.

She’s him.

She’s me.

She’s ours.

And he’ll never know.

Part of me used to hope he’d reach out. That he’d apologize. That I’d open my email one day and see some long, gut-spilling message with the subject line: I’m sorry.

But he didn’t.

So I stopped hoping.

I don’t hate him the way I used to. That’s the worst part. I want to hate him. I deserve to.

But I just… I just feel empty where he used to be.

I wonder what he’s doing. If he thinks of me. If he thinks of the way I used to tuck his hair behind his ears when he was too tired to hold his own head up.

I hate that I still love him.

I love that he gave me her.

I hate that he never gave her him.

═══════

I almost texted her today.

Just to say something.

Anything.

But what do you even say to the woman you abandoned and emotionally cheated on?

“Hey. Sorry I ghosted you. How’s life?”

I close my eyes and think of what she’d look like now.

I think of all the milestones I missed. Her birthday. Holidays. The way she probably learned how to be strong without me.

I wonder what kind of music she plays in the car now.

I wonder if she sings to someone else.

I wonder if she ever lets herself miss me.

═══════

I didn’t mean to get mad.

It wasn’t like he did anything wrong.

He was nice. Polite. He held the door for me during my lunch break and said something like, “You’ve got the kind of smile that makes a man forget what day it is.” I laughed- just out of shock and told him I wasn’t interested.

He backed off right away. Even apologized. And I told him it was fine. That it wasn’t him.

It was me.

I walked back to the break room in a daze, my chest twisting the whole time.

Because for one second- I forgot what it felt like to be wanted.

And the first person who popped into my head?

Him.

Of course it was him.

Jeon fucking Jungkook.

The man who smiled like summer storms. Who used to call me baby with that low, teasing voice like he had a secret. The man who ghosted me, blocked me, replaced me with silence and nothing else. The man who told me I was his everything… and then walked away like I was nothing.

I threw away my lunch. Didn’t eat the rest of the day. Just paced the back room and tried to scrub his name from my brain like it was something you could unlearn.

Later that night, after Eun Ae went to bed, I sat on the floor with my knees pulled to my chest, and I wrote.

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JOURNAL ENTRY - Y/N

A stranger called me beautiful today.

And all I could think was, “You haven’t seen him.”

You haven’t seen the boy who kissed my collarbone like it was a prayer. Who cried into my hair the night he received his trainee contract. Who slept on the floor next to me when I was sick because he didn’t want me to feel alone.

You haven’t seen him.

So don’t tell me I’m beautiful.

Don’t tell me I could have anyone I want.

Because I had him.

And he left.

And I’m still trying to find all the pieces of myself he took with him.

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Later that week, I got a text from a number I hadn’t seen in a year or so.

Hanni: “YO- look who I saw downtown!”

Attached was a blurry photo of a glowing billboard.

“BTS TOUR – SOLD OUT”

His face was massive. Centered. Laughing.

I stared at it for a long time. The way his hair was styled now. How much broader he looked. How bright his smile still was.

He didn’t look like someone who missed me.

Didn’t look like someone who wrote secret journal entries or whispered apologies into empty rooms.

He looked happy.

And for some reason… that hurt more than anything.

I deleted the message.

Didn’t reply. Didn’t cry.

Just stood there, in my kitchen with cold tea and an aching heart, and felt everything settle into something sharp and final.

I didn’t get the happy ending.

I got a baby and a memory.

So that night, I opened my journal again and I wrote the last thing I’d ever write to him.

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JOURNAL ENTRY - Y/N

You’ll never read this.

You’ll never know the weight I carried or the fire I walked through.

But I need to let this go. For real this time.

You don’t get to be her dad. You don’t get to be my past or my future.

You’re just a lesson now.

And I’m done bleeding for it.

So goodbye, Jungkook.

In every way.

I hope you’re okay.

But I hope I never see you again. 

Because I can’t care anymore.

Not for you. Not for us.

Never again.

═══════

I closed the notebook.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream or tear anything up.

I just… sat there.

The silence wrapped around me like static, humming against my skin. The lamp buzzed quietly in the corner. The baby monitor crackled once and went still again.

Eun Ae was asleep.

I should’ve been too. But I couldn’t stop looking at the notebook. Even closed, it felt like it was staring back at me.

Like it knew what I’d done.

That I’d buried him. That I’d stopped waiting. That I’d chosen to live.

And maybe that was supposed to feel empowering.

But all it felt like was grief.

A different kind of grief.

The kind where no one sends flowers. No one holds your hand. No one says, “I’m sorry you lost the love of your life while he was still alive.” No one says that.

But it’s true.

I brushed my fingers across the cover. Just once. Just enough.

And then I got up. Walked to the kitchen. Poured myself a glass of water. Sat on the floor with my back against the cabinet and stared at nothing.

My heart didn’t hurt like it used to. It didn’t ache and break and twist.

It just felt… hollow.

Like a house someone moved out of. Like something echoing.

And somewhere, in the dark part of me that still dared to believe in things- I hoped he was listening.

That he could feel it. That he’d missed me too.

But wishing only ever left bruises.

So I stopped.

And I sat.

And I let it be quiet.

Because there’s nothing left to say when someone doesn’t come back.

Not even goodbye.

═══════

I stare at my phone long after the screen goes black.

Not because I’m waiting for it to light up.

Not because I think she’ll reach out first.

Just because it’s the closest thing I have to her now.

This screen.

This silence.

This stupid rectangle that held everything once—her name, her voice, her heart.

Now it’s just… blank.

And so am I.

I’ve drafted messages. So many.

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“I miss you.”

Dozens. Hundreds.

Some that rambled.

Some that said nothing at all.

But I never hit send.

Because how do you apologize for disappearing?

For ghosting someone who would’ve walked through fire for you?

How do you explain that you let go, not because you stopped loving them, but because you didn’t know how to hold on while your world was spinning too fast?

You don’t.

You just… don’t.

I’m never going to reach out.Not because I don’t want to.

God, I want to.

But I don’t deserve her anymore.

I let fear decide.

And I waited too long.

And whatever we had? Whatever I shattered between the silence and the selfishness?

It’s gone now.

I closed my own door and now I have to live on the other side of it.

But every time I scroll too far and see a photo from then- 

Us.

Young.

Laughing.

Undone by nothing and everything- it kills me all over again.

Because no matter how much I try to convince myself that time heals, or that we both moved on, or that she’s better off- 

The truth is simple.

I still love her.

I think I always will.

But I hope she’s happy.

Wherever she is.

And I hope she doesn’t look back because I’d never forgive myself for pulling her under again.

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♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

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Posted: 07/31/2025

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