#its hard to be soft when everyone expects me to be...this

[cheftsunoda]

Okay hear me out: we have a Leclerc reader who is a teenage (15 or 16) and she's always struggled with mental health with the pressure of school and being charles's little sister so she thinks she has to be up to his level and he finds out? like he see's the I am sober app on her phone or see's the s-h scars on her wrists??

i got you— cl16

charles leclerc x !younger sister reader

written blurbs

being charles leclerc’s little sister was never easy. not because he made it hard — he never did. charles loved you like the sun loved the sea—endlessly, naturally, without question. but the world… the world had its expectations. and they pressed down on you like gravity. at sixteen, you were already tired. of school, of whispers, of always being almost enough. the grief for your father sat heavy in your chest, a quiet echo no one talked about anymore. and while charles raced across continents, worshipped by millions, you were quietly falling apart. this is the story of how he came home. how you broke. and how, piece by piece, he helped you find your way back. not to perfection. not to the old you. but to something softer. something true. to the version of yourself that still wanted to live.

(a/n) : hi my love. i hope you are doing okay. if anyone out there is struggling, just know that you are not alone. i am here and as long as i am here — each and everyone of you will have someone who loves and cares for you. reach out if you need, my messages are always open:)

obvious warnings of sh (not explicit), grief and depression.

—

You knew the moment you stepped into school this morning that it was going to be a hard day. You could feel it in the way your limbs dragged, like gravity had grown stronger overnight just to pull you under. The halls felt too loud, every laugh a little too sharp, every glance a little too lingering. You kept your head down.

It’s always the same, isn’t it? You walk through the corridors like a ghost, existing more in other people’s whispers than in your own skin.

“Charles Leclerc’s sister.”

“Bet she thinks she’s better than everyone.”

“You’d think she’d be prettier. Or smarter.”

They don’t even try to be quiet anymore. You’re used to the weight of expectation — not just theirs, but your own. The constant, impossible pressure to be enough. To live up to a name that feels too big for you. You’re sixteen and already tired of trying to be someone you’re not sure you ever could be.

You get a math test back in second period. 72%. The number circles your mind like a shark. You can barely focus on the rest of the class because all you can hear is the dull throb of failure. You should have done better. You should always do better. Because if you don’t, then who are you, really?

Not him. Not Charles. He wins Grand Prix. He speaks five languages. He makes people cry with national anthems and overtakes. You just… exist. Quietly. An echo of someone more important.

By the time you make it home, the house is too silent. It’s always silent lately. Maman is keeping her salon open late. Arthur’s busy. Charles is—well, he’s somewhere on the other side of the world, racing. Smiling for cameras. Waving to crowds. And you want to be happy for him, you really do, but sometimes you wish he’d see you.

Just once. See how much you’re slipping.

You drop your backpack at the door and collapse onto the couch for a moment before dragging yourself to your room. You sit at your desk and pull out your journal. It’s the one Charles gave you when you turned fifteen, with soft leather and your initials stamped into the cover. He said you had too many thoughts to keep inside. Said writing might help. You try. You write a sentence. Then cross it out. Then another. Rip out the page.

You can’t get it right. The words won’t come the way you feel them, and even your sadness feels like a failure.

The walls start to press in, then.

A thick kind of loneliness settles over you — the kind that feels like it could swallow you whole and no one would even notice. You press your hands into your lap, try to breathe. Try to be strong.

But you don’t feel strong. You feel like glass. You get up quietly, like you’re underwater. Like you already know where this is going. The drawer slides open with a soft hiss. You hesitate. Just for a second.

But then the noise in your mind wins out.

You just want it to stop — the pressure, the noise, the constant sense that no matter what you do, it’s not enough. You’re not enough. You’re the girl behind the driver, the afterthought, the kid sister who smiles in photos and disappears afterward.

It’s not about pain. It’s about silence. About needing something real to remind yourself that you’re still here. That you’re not completely invisible.

Afterward, you sit curled on the bathroom floor, your sleeves pulled back down, your journal beside you like a witness you never wanted.

You want to tell someone. You want someone to see you. But you don’t know how to ask. So instead, you cry quietly into the crook of your arm, trying not to make a sound. As if even now, you’re trying not to be a burden. And outside your window, the sun sets softly over Monaco, like it doesn’t even know you’re breaking.

—

You must have fallen asleep at some point, head resting against the wall, the journal open but blank on your lap. But when the door clicks open downstairs, your heart stutters. Maman.

You wipe your face quickly, instinctively, as if you haven’t been crying for the past hour in silence. As if she won’t know the moment she sees you. You’ve always been soft in her hands — too transparent to hide anything for long.

You hear her heels on the floorboards, her purse dropping onto the kitchen counter, keys jangling against the door. Then quiet. You hold your breath. But then, soft footsteps on the stairs. Not rushed. Not loud. Just… steady. Measured. Like she knows.

Your door opens without a knock. And she stands there — tired eyes, hair pinned back messily. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes flick over you quickly. The red around your eyes. The tremble in your shoulders. The way you’re still trying to pretend you’re fine.

“Ma chérie,” she says, voice a whisper.

You look away. Your throat burns. It would be easier if she was angry. If she demanded answers or told you you were being dramatic. But she doesn’t. She just kneels beside your bed and reaches out.

You let her take your hand.

“I didn’t mean to—” you start, but your voice breaks, and the tears come again — hot and slow, running down your cheeks like they’ve been waiting for this moment to fall.

“I know,” she says gently, brushing hair back from your face. “You don’t have to explain right now.”

She guides you up with a soft tug, and you follow her without thinking. The hallway is dark, the house quiet. You pass Charles’ empty room — the door still open from the last time he stayed — and then you’re in her bedroom.

She helps you into bed like she did when you were little, like you were six years old with a fever and needed her there just to breathe right. She doesn’t ask about the journal. She doesn’t ask why your sleeves are so long. She just lies down beside you, pulling you close with one arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders.

Her heartbeat becomes your rhythm. Steady. Unmoving.

“You don’t have to be anything more than who you are,” she whispers against your hair. “And you are enough, ma petite. Even when it doesn’t feel like it.”

You don’t answer, but your hand curls into the fabric of her blouse, clutching it like a lifeline.There’s a silence between you, but it’s not heavy this time. Not full of guilt or shame. Just quiet. Gentle. And after a while, your breathing slows. Your muscles ease. The tears stop.

You fall asleep to the sound of her humming a lullaby you haven’t heard in years — something she used to sing to Charles when he couldn’t sleep before races. Tonight, it’s for you. And for the first time in days, you don’t feel so alone.

—

The light filters in through the pale curtains, casting a soft glow over your mother’s bedroom. For a moment, you’re not sure where you are. You blink up at the ceiling, unfamiliar and familiar all at once — the scent of lavender, the quiet hum of traffic outside, the weight of warmth beside you.

Then you feel it. Fingers in your hair. Gentle, looping around strands and brushing them back.

You turn your head slowly and find Arthur lying on top of the covers next to you, sideways, his cheek resting on a pillow, his hand still tangled in your hair.

He offers a crooked little smile. His eyes are tired too, but kind. Always kind.

“Maman had some errands,” he murmurs. “She asked me to stay with you. So I did.”

You swallow, throat dry, blinking the sleep from your eyes. Your body feels heavy, like it’s been fighting all night in your dreams.

Arthur lets his fingers fall away, folding his hands beneath his chin.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks gently.

You nod before you can stop yourself. “Yeah. Fine.”

His brows lift just slightly, the way they always do when he knows you’re not being honest.

“Really?”

You force a smile. “I’m just tired. That’s all.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just watches you for a long moment, his eyes searching your face. He’s always been quiet, always the observer — the one who notices even when you think no one’s looking. Maybe it’s a Leclerc thing, you think. The ability to see too much.

“You don’t have to say you’re fine if you’re not,” he says softly. “Not to me.”

Your chest tightens. You look up at the ceiling again, the morning light suddenly feeling too bright.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You hear the slight shift of the mattress as he turns onto his back, lying beside you the way he did when you were younger and afraid of thunderstorms. He doesn’t push.

Instead, he says quietly, “I used to lie too, you know. When I was your age. When Papa died.”

You blink hard.

“I told everyone I was okay because Charles was already holding too much. And Maman cried every night. I thought if I just smiled through it, maybe it would go away.”

Your breath catches.

“It doesn’t,” he continues. “But it gets lighter when you let someone carry it with you.”

You turn your head to face him again. His eyes are on the ceiling now, fingers resting between you, not quite touching but close enough that all you’d have to do is reach.

“I’m scared,” you whisper, before you can take it back. It slips out like a secret that’s been clawing at your throat for days.

Arthur finally looks at you again. “I know.”

He doesn’t ask what you’re scared of. He doesn’t need to. He just shifts closer and tugs the blanket higher over both of you. Then he links your pinkies together under the covers, like a silent promise.

“I’ll stay as long as you need,” he murmurs.

And for the first time that morning, you let yourself breathe.

—

You hear the front door open before you even leave your room. The unmistakable thump of Charles’ suitcase being dragged inside, the jingle of keys, and then his voice — soft, lighter than usual.

“Bonjour?” he calls out into the quiet house.

Your heart lurches.

You haven’t seen him in almost three weeks. Three weeks of pretending you were okay through texts and rushed phone calls, of sending him little thumbs-up emojis when he asked how school was going. Of telling him you were “tired” and “just busy.” Of lying — not because you wanted to, but because you didn’t know how to let him see the truth.

Now he’s here. And suddenly, you don’t know where to put your hands.

You step out into the hallway slowly, pulling the sleeves of your jumper down further even though the air in the apartment is warm. Too warm. Your palms feel damp.

Charles rounds the corner just as you reach the top of the stairs, a soft smile already on his face. He opens his arms immediately.

“Ma petite.”

You let him hug you, burying your face into his shoulder. He smells like travel — cologne and airport air — but under it is something familiar. Something safe.

He holds you for longer than usual.

“I missed you,” he says into your hair, voice low.

You nod against him. You don’t trust your voice not to crack.

When he finally pulls back, he holds you at arm’s length. His eyes scan your face — the quiet exhaustion around your eyes, the stiffness in your shoulders. You’re still smiling. You think it looks convincing enough. It usually is.

But his gaze flickers down to your sleeves.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not yet.

Instead, he gives you a soft nudge toward the kitchen. “Come on. I brought croissants. The good kind. Not the sad airport ones.”

You follow him, trying to push down the anxiety bubbling in your chest.

The kitchen smells like orange peel and sunlight, like Maman had been burning a candle again. Arthur’s gone — probably out running errands or giving you space. Charles sets the bag of pastries on the counter and opens the fridge.

“Want juice?” he asks casually.

You nod.

He pours two glasses, then hands you one and leans against the counter across from you. For a moment, you both just eat in silence. The kind of silence that feels full — not awkward, not rushed. But you know Charles. You know when he’s watching.

When you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

“You’re quiet,” he says gently.

You shrug. “Just tired.”

He nods. But his eyes don’t leave yours. There’s something different in them now. Something cautious. Careful. Like he’s trying not to startle you.

“I saw Maman this morning,” he says. “She looked worried.”

You take another bite of croissant to avoid responding. Your hands tremble slightly as you set it down.

“She didn’t say much,” he continues. “Just asked me to spend time with you today. Said you could use your big brother.”

He’s fishing — but gently. Not accusing. Not pushing.

You offer a small smile. “I always need my big brother.”

Charles smiles back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s quiet for a long moment before speaking again, voice low.

“You know I’ll always be here, right?” he says. “Even if I’m not always… here.”

Your chest tightens. The words are too kind. Too understanding.

“I know,” you whisper.

His eyes flicker once more to your sleeves, but he still doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches out, gently resting a hand over yours on the table.

“I’m not going anywhere today,” he says. “Just you and me.”

And for the first time in a while, you feel like maybe you don’t have to hold it all in forever.

—

third person pov

Charles closes the door to his apartment with a quiet click, exhaling slowly as he drops his keys in the bowl near the entryway. The weight of the day settles into his shoulders — not from the flight, or the media duties, or the late night debriefs from earlier in the week, but from something heavier. Something more complicated.

Something he doesn’t yet know how to name.

“Mon cœur?” Alexandra’s voice calls from the living room, light and expectant.

He finds her curled up on the couch with a blanket over her legs, glasses perched on her nose and a book open in her lap. Her face softens when she sees him. She sets the book down immediately.

“You’re back early,” she says, rising to her feet. “Everything okay?”

Charles nods, but the gesture lacks conviction. He steps forward and wraps his arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“I saw her,” he says quietly.

Alexandra’s hands move to his chest instinctively. She doesn’t need to ask who he means. “How is she?”

Charles exhales again — slower this time. “I don’t know.”

He pulls away slightly, just enough to look her in the eye. His voice drops, heavy with something tight and aching.

“She’s not herself. Quiet. Closed off. Wearing long sleeves even though it’s twenty-six degrees.” He runs a hand through his hair. “She smiled, but it didn’t feel real. You know when someone’s smiling just so you won’t ask questions?”

Alexandra nods, the crease between her brows deepening.

“I offered her croissants,” he continues, trying to chuckle but failing. “She barely ate half of one. She kept looking at the table like she didn’t want to be there.”

Alexandra leans against the arm of the couch, crossing her arms over her chest. “She’s been distant with me too,” she admits quietly. “I thought maybe it was just me. I texted her a few days ago to come shopping — you know, our usual little girls’ day — and she turned me down.”

Charles looks up sharply. “She never turns you down.”

“I know.” Alexandra swallows, her voice suddenly softer. “She said she wasn’t feeling well. That she had schoolwork. But it didn’t sound like her. She didn’t even use emojis.”

Charles lets out a low breath, sinking onto the couch beside her. “I hate this.”

“She loves you, Charles,” Alexandra says gently. “She’s just hurting. And whatever it is… she doesn’t know how to bring it to you yet.”

He nods slowly, staring ahead at nothing. “I keep thinking—what if I missed something earlier? What if she’s been like this for months and I’ve been too busy giving interviews and chasing podiums to notice?”

“You’re doing your best,” Alexandra says firmly, reaching for his hand. “You’ve always loved her more than anything. That’s never been the problem.”

Charles finally looks at her, eyes a little glassy now. “She’s my little sister. I’m supposed to protect her.”

“And you still can,” Alexandra whispers. “You still will. But you can’t fix something she hasn’t shown you yet. You just need to keep showing up.”

Charles swallows hard and nods, squeezing her hand.

“I’ll try,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep trying until she lets me in.”

And Alexandra leans her head on his shoulder, heart breaking a little — for him, for YN, for the weight she’s carrying in silence.

They sit there quietly, wrapped in the kind of love that doesn’t fix things right away — but waits patiently outside the door, hoping it will be opened.

—

back to 2nd

It’s just past noon when your name is called over the classroom speaker. Heads turn. You keep yours down as you pack your bag, already bracing for the whispers and stares. Your stomach twists — no one said you were being picked up early. No one tells you why. You step out into the sun and blink against the brightness. And then you see her.

Leaning against the school’s front gate, sunglasses perched in her hair, arms crossed casually — Alexandra. Smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Hi, love,” she says, voice soft, like she already knows to be gentle with you. “Hope I’m not pulling you out of anything too thrilling.”

You blink in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “I called Maman this morning. Got permission to borrow you for the afternoon. Thought we could use a little break.”

Her eyes scan you quickly. Noticing the sleeves. The weight in your shoulders.

“Nails?” she offers. “And pastries after?”

You almost say no. The idea of trying to hold a conversation, of pretending you’re okay for hours — it feels like too much. But then there’s something in her face. Something quiet and kind. She’s not asking for smiles. She’s just… here.

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

The nail salon she takes you to is tucked into a quiet side street. It smells like citrus and lavender and something clean. The chairs are soft and the lights are warm and low, not too harsh.

Alexandra picks a pale lavender shade for herself. You scan the shelves and choose a soft, muted blue. Something calm.

“Good choice,” she says. “It reminds me of that cardigan you wore in Milan. You remember? The one Charles hated because it had tiny clouds on the buttons?”

You almost smile. Almost.

You sit side by side in silence while the technicians begin. She talks a little — about one of her heels snapping mid paddock walk, about a stray cat that keeps showing up on her terrace, about how Charles nearly fell asleep standing up at a media day.

She doesn’t ask anything heavy. Just lets the air fill with soft things. You don’t say much, but you don’t pull away either. Your shoulders loosen, barely, and you rest your hands in the warm water when she motions for you to relax.

It’s not peace, but it’s close.

Afterward, she drives you to a little patisserie near the harbor. You’ve been here before, but today it feels different — quieter, like the world has been turned down a few notches just for you.

You choose a raspberry tart. Alexandra gets two madeleines and a tiny espresso. You sit by the window, watching people pass with their sunglasses and shopping bags and lives that seem light.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just breaks off a piece of her pastry and nudges the plate toward you, even though you have your own.

Then, finally, her voice comes — soft, like it doesn’t want to spook whatever part of you is barely holding it together.

“You doing okay, sweetheart?”

You stare at the spoon in your hand. You want to lie — it’s easier. You’ve done it a hundred times already. But the way she says it — sweetheart — makes your chest ache.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She hums, stirring her espresso with one of those tiny spoons you’ve always liked. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t prod. She just lets the silence be soft.

“I miss you,” she says, after a moment. “The real you. Haven’t seen her in a little while.”

You swallow hard. Your eyes sting a little, but you blink it away.

“I’m still here,” you whisper.

“I know,” she replies. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And you believe her. Even if you don’t say everything — even if the hurt is still sitting heavy in your chest — for a little while, sitting across from her with raspberry on your tongue and sunlight on your hands, you feel like maybe you’re still reachable. Like maybe someone is holding a light for you. Just until you can find your way back.

—

The air is too heavy in your bedroom. Too still.

Even with the window cracked and your favorite playlist humming quietly in the background, the walls feel like they’re pressing in, like they know all your secrets and they’re tired of holding them.

So you slip on your sneakers, grab a hoodie, and step outside without telling anyone.

Monaco at night is quieter than people expect — empty streets lit by golden lamps, a kind of soft glamour lingering in the rain-washed pavement. You walk without thinking. Past shuttered cafés and quiet fountains, past the old bookstore where Charles used to buy your Christmas gifts. Your sleeves are pulled over your hands, head down. The hood shadows your face.

It starts to rain slowly. First just mist, then light droplets that cling to your eyelashes and dampen your sweater. You don’t turn back.

Some part of you thinks: Maybe this is what I deserve.

Another part whispers: No. You’re just tired.

The sky is dark, the kind of navy that swallows stars. A car turns the corner down the street — quiet, expensive, too familiar.

You barely glance up until the headlights flicker, and then a familiar voice cuts through the silence.

“YN?”

You freeze.

The car pulls over fast. The window rolls down. It’s Charles.

He’s in a hoodie, hair messy like he’s been running his hand through it, worry written all over his face. His eyes are wide when they meet yours.

“What are you doing?” he says — not harsh, not angry. Just… scared.

You don’t answer. You don’t know how to. The rain picks up, drizzling down the back of your neck, cold against your skin. You feel your breath hitch, your throat tighten.

Charles is already out of the car.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t scold.

He just moves to you, quick but careful, and holds his hand out. Palm up. Open.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s go home.”

You stand there for a second, rain dripping off your sleeves, chest full of something tangled and aching. But then — you take his hand.

He wraps his arm around your shoulders instantly, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t hold on.

The passenger door swings open and you slide inside, shivering.

Back behind the wheel, Charles glances at you. The rain is tapping on the windshield, steady and slow.

“I couldn’t find you earlier,” he says quietly. “Maman said you went for a walk. But it was dark. I just… I had this feeling.”

You stare down at your hands.

“I wasn’t running away,” you whisper. “I just needed to breathe.”

He nods slowly. “I get that.”

Neither of you says anything for a long time. The sound of the engine hums beneath the storm, the city lights painting golden streaks across the wet roads.

Then, just before he pulls back onto the street, Charles speaks again — barely louder than the rain.

“You can always come to me, you know.”

You don’t respond. But you reach over, just slightly, and your pinky brushes against his on the center console. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say another word — but he lets it stay there. And somehow, even in silence, you feel like you’re not so alone anymore.

—

By the time Charles pulls into the underground garage, the rain has slowed to a mist. It still clings to your sleeves, your hair, the corners of your thoughts. You don’t say much as he walks beside you, but he keeps a hand lightly on your back — not to push, not to control. Just to remind you…I’m here.

You expected him to take you home. But instead, he swipes his key card and leads you into his building.

“I thought… maybe a change of scenery would help,” he says, voice hesitant. “Somewhere quieter. Somewhere safe.”

You blink at him, unsure of what to say, but you nod. You’re too tired to protest. Too tired to fight the softness he’s offering you. When the elevator doors open, the smell of cinnamon and chamomile greets you first.

Then Alexandra — standing just inside the apartment, barefoot in one of Charles’ hoodies, her hair tied loosely back. The moment she sees you, something in her face melts with quiet relief.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she says gently, stepping forward.

You shift awkwardly, rain still dripping off your sleeves, chilled to the bone — but she doesn’t hesitate. She wraps her arms around you, warm and steady.

“I made you some tea,” she murmurs against your damp shoulder. “And I laid out some clothes for you. I didn’t know what you’d want, so I put options.”

Her kindness wraps around you like the blanket you didn’t know you needed.

You nod into her. “Thank you.”

Charles disappears into the kitchen, giving the two of you space as Alexandra guides you down the hallway, her hand gentle at the small of your back.

“I put everything in the guest room,” she says, her voice light but careful. “You can shower, or just change if you want. No pressure.”

The room smells like lavender and clean cotton. On the bed lies an oversized sweater, a pair of leggings, fuzzy socks, and a folded towel. Your favorite tea sits on the nightstand, still steaming.

You swallow the lump in your throat.

“Take your time,” Alexandra says. “We’re just out here. No questions, okay?”

You nod again. And this time, you mean it. When you re-emerge twenty minutes later, dry and warm and tucked into her clothes, you find them both on the couch. Alexandra looks up first and smiles. She pats the space between her and Charles. You sit. Not quite leaning into him. Not quite pulling away.

“Better?” he asks softly.

You give the smallest shrug.

“Different.”

He smiles faintly. “Different is a start.”

Alexandra tucks her legs beneath her, watching you both with eyes full of something quiet and protective.

“We can just sit,” she says. “You don’t have to talk. Not unless you want to.”

And so you sit. The tea is warm. The lights are low. Charles stays close enough that you can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing beside you, and Alexandra’s hand rests near yours on the blanket — not touching, just there. And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you don’t have to carry everything alone. Just for tonight, it’s okay to rest.

—

The next night, Charles wakes you gently just after dinner, voice quiet and warm.

“Come with me,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

You don’t ask where. You just nod, pull on a hoodie and sneakers, and follow him out into the Monaco evening. The rain has passed, leaving the streets damp and glimmering beneath the streetlights. The air smells like salt and stone.

You drive for a while in silence. He plays soft music — nothing distracting, just background to the hum of the tires and the thoughts neither of you say out loud. When he turns off onto an old road near the cliffs, you know where you’re going before he even parks.

You haven’t been here in years.

The overlook isn’t anything special to anyone else — just a narrow gravel path with a wooden bench, half-overgrown with ivy. But to you and Charles, it’s sacred. The place Papa used to take you both on Sunday mornings. Where he’d sit with a thermos of coffee and hum old songs, pointing out boats and clouds and the kinds of things that don’t matter to most people but meant everything to him.

And to you.

Charles kills the engine. He doesn’t move to get out right away.

“I come here sometimes,” he says, still staring out the windshield. “When I feel like I’m losing him.”

You look at him — really look at him — and something in your chest cracks.

“I feel like he’s already gone,” you whisper. “More and more every year. Like I forget what he sounded like. Or how his hands felt.”

Charles doesn’t say anything. He just reaches for your hand.

You sit on the bench together, wind cool on your face. The sea stretches endlessly below, dark and alive. Monaco twinkles behind you, but it feels far away here. Safe. Still.

“I’m not okay,” you say suddenly, voice sharp in the quiet.

He turns toward you, brows drawing together — not in confusion, but readiness. He’s been waiting for this. Letting you come to it yourself. You take a shaky breath.

“I miss him so much, Charles. I still can’t believe he’s gone. I think about him all the time and no one talks about it anymore, and I’m still stuck there. I feel like I’ve been frozen since he died.”

Tears start to fall, quiet at first.

“And then there’s you,” you go on, a sob catching in your throat. “You’re so good. Everyone loves you. Everyone expects you to win, and you do. You’re everything they want, and I’m just—”

You stop. Gasp a breath. The words press harder now, rising to your lips like they’ve waited long enough.

“I hurt myself,” you say suddenly. “I didn’t even mean for it to happen at first. I just… I needed something. Something I could control.”

Charles stills. His entire body goes quiet beside you, like the wind itself has paused to listen. But his hand doesn’t let go of yours. He just tightens his grip.

“I thought maybe if I could feel something else, I could stop feeling everything,” you whisper. “It’s not… it’s not a cry for attention. I don’t even want anyone to see. That’s why I hide it. I hate that I even did it.”

Your voice breaks. “But I did. I did. And I hate myself for it.”

Charles doesn’t speak for a moment. You think maybe he’s frozen. Maybe you’ve ruined everything. But then— He pulls you into his arms. And you break.

You scream into his chest. Loud, guttural, the kind of sound that doesn’t care who hears. It’s not graceful or controlled. It’s rage and grief and heartbreak. You feel your whole body shake, your fists gripping his hoodie like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth. He holds you tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers over and over again. “Let it out. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You don’t know how long you cry. It feels endless. Like years of pain pouring out of you, all at once. Your throat is raw, your lungs burn, your hands ache from clenching. And still — Charles holds you.

When you finally go quiet, chest hiccupping with shallow breaths, he leans back just enough to brush your hair out of your eyes. His own are shining with tears, but he doesn’t let them fall.

“You are not a failure,” he says firmly. “And you are not ruining anything. Do you hear me?”

You nod, barely.

“You’re allowed to feel this way. You’re allowed to grieve. You’re allowed to not have it all figured out. You’re sixteen, YN. You don’t have to be perfect.”

You look at him through blurry eyes. “But everyone expects me to be.”

“Well,” he says, voice soft and sure, “they’re wrong.”

He rests his forehead against yours. “You’re the bravest person I know. And you don’t have to carry this alone anymore. Not the grief. Not the pain. Not the scars.”

You shake your head, tears falling again, softer now. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “You just have to let us help.”

And in that moment — on a quiet cliffside, above the sleeping sea and under a wide-open sky — you believe him. For the first time in a long time, you believe him.

—

It still feels strange, sometimes — walking into that softly lit room, sitting on the couch with the box of tissues always slightly too close, and knowing you’re supposed to talk about the hardest parts of yourself. But lately… it’s been getting easier. You don’t cry every time. You don’t flinch when you speak your truth. You don’t hide your hands anymore.

The weight’s still there, but it doesn’t crush you the way it used to. It sits beside you now. Familiar, but manageable. And that — that’s progress.

Today, you arrive a little early. You know Charles will call in any minute. Even with it being a race weekend, even with his schedule bursting at the seams, he hasn’t missed a single session since you asked him to come.

The first time you whispered, “Will you be there?” he said yes so fast it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

And he’s kept that promise every single time. Your therapist smiles at you gently as she sets her notepad down, just as the screen of her tablet lights up.

Your heart softens at the sight of it.

When his face appears, he’s wearing his race suit, zipped down just a little, his hair damp like he’s just come from a meeting or a track walk. His background is chaotic — PR people walking behind him, someone calling his name — but his eyes are only on you.

“Salut, ma fille,” he says, that gentle voice that always feels like home. “You okay?”

You nod, tucking your legs up on the couch. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He smiles — a real one. The kind that reaches all the way to his eyes.

Your therapist asks how the past week has been, and you talk. Not because you feel like you have to, but because you want to. Because little by little, you’re starting to understand yourself. Starting to forgive yourself. Starting to heal.

You talk about sleeping better. About journaling again. About the day Alexandra took you shopping and you didn’t feel like a burden. About how you caught yourself smiling in the mirror and didn’t immediately look away.

Charles doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, his image flickering a little on the screen but his focus never shifting.

When the session ends, your therapist thanks you both and signs off, but Charles stays on for a moment longer.

“You’re doing so well,” he says softly. “I’m so proud of you, YN.”

You swallow hard, blinking back tears — the good kind, the kind that come from being seen.

“I’m starting to feel better,” you whisper. “Not all the way. But… I don’t hate being here anymore. I don’t hate being me so much.”

Charles presses a hand to his heart on the screen.

“I’ve missed you,” he says. “Not just being around you. You. The real you.”

And you smile — small, a little shaky, but real. “She’s coming back.”

He nods, eyes a little glassy now. “Tell her I said welcome home.”

You laugh under your breath, and for the first time in months, you believe the worst may truly be behind you.

—

You haven’t been to a race weekend since before everything broke. Back when you were still pretending well enough for it to fool people. Before the long sleeves. Before the silence. Before the weight in your chest made the world feel like it was closing in.

But now—now it’s different. It’s not perfect. You’re not cured, or whatever people like to think when the crying stops. But your feet feel steadier. Your breath comes easier. Your thoughts are quieter.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you want to show up for someone else. You want to show up for him.

So when Alexandra asks gently, “Would you want to come with me to Austria this weekend?” you don’t hesitate.

You say yes. Not because you owe him anything. But because you remember the way he held you at the cliff. The way he sat through every therapy session — even if he was halfway across the world, squeezed into a media pen with earbuds tucked beneath his race suit. The way he never once made you feel like you were too much.

He was there. Always. And now, you want to be too.

The paddock is loud, alive with color and movement. Engines rumble in the distance. Journalists, engineers, VIPs — all buzzing around like clockwork. You grip Alexandra’s hand a little tighter as you walk through the gates, your badge swinging gently from your lanyard.

No one really notices you — you’ve made sure of that. Hat low, hoodie up, sleeves pushed up now without fear. You didn’t want the cameras, the noise. Just him. Just Charles. He doesn’t know you’re here.

You’re tucked behind one of the hospitality walls when he walks by — completely in race mode, jaw set, focused. Alexandra nudges you gently.

“Go,” she whispers. “He’s going to lose his mind.”

Your heart pounds. You take a few steps forward, just past the edge of the McLaren garage, and call out —

“Charles?”

He turns immediately. And freezes. His face goes still in a way that almost breaks you. His eyes widen, disbelieving. He doesn’t move for a second, like he’s afraid he imagined you. Then he’s running. Straight to you.

He pulls you into a hug so tight you almost lose your breath, your face buried into his chest, his hands trembling slightly where they hold the back of your head.

“You’re here,” he says, voice already thick with emotion. “You’re really here.”

You nod, tears already burning behind your eyes. “I wanted to surprise you. And to say… thank you. For everything.”

He pulls back, but only just — enough to look you in the face, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

“I didn’t do anything,” he whispers.

“Yes, you did,” you breathe. “You stayed. You listened. You held me when I couldn’t hold myself. You sat through every session, even when you were in a different country. You never made me feel like I was a burden. You made me believe I could come back.”

His eyes shimmer. He’s not trying to hide it.

“I meant it,” he says. “Every word. I’d do it all again.”

You manage a shaky smile. “I’m doing better. I promise.”

He hugs you again, even tighter. “You’re not just doing better. You’re incredible.”

You laugh against him. “You’re going to mess up your suit before quali.”

“I don’t care,” he says immediately. “Let it wrinkle. Let them fine me. This—” He pulls back to look at you again. “This is everything.”

Alexandra snaps a quiet photo behind you — the two of you wrapped up in each other, tears on your cheeks, Charles’ smile cracked wide with love and pride. Later, after qualifying, he’ll post it. And the world will love it. But this moment — this one right now — is just for you. For the sibling who never stopped loving you, even when you couldn’t love yourself. For the girl who almost didn’t make it — and now stands, whole and healing, at the edge of the grid.

—

[onlyangel4]

surely not. gunther. smau.

gunther x sunshine!reader

synopsis: when wwe star gunther surprises the world by hard-launching his marriage during a promo — revealing that he’s been secretly married for three years, the internet loses its mind. it doesn’t take long before fans and gossip pages track down his elusive wife and they’re collectively shook. you are soft-spoken, warm-hearted, always smiling — the human embodiment of a warm cup of tea. sweet, sunshiney, and seemingly worlds apart from gunther’s stone-faced, dominant ring persona. No one would have ever guessed you'd be together and yet, somehow, it just works.

faceclaim: jasmine cephas jones

wweupdates

liked by user1, user2, user3 and 84,393 others

wweupdates: so that was insane! during that promo gunther dropped a bomb no one was expecting, "well tonight you may notice that i have a new ring. jey that is to remind you that i have a beautiful wife to go back to if you end up winning and you have no one"

view all 5,688 comments

user1: say what you want about gunther but that was such a good way to announce he was married

user2: the way i screamed

user3: i know i shouldn't care but i am so desperate to know who he is married to

gunther_wwe posted a story

written: spoiling my beautiful wife

y/ninsta posted a story

written: the prettiest city

y/ninsta posted a story

written: woke up this morning with so many notifications that didn't take long. hi wwe universe!

gunther_wwe posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: stop calling my wife hot on twitter. she would never touch you.

y/ninsta posted a story

written: back home means back to work and that means 5am alarms

y/ninsta posted a story tagging tiffanywwe. gunther_wwe. wwe_kaiser.

written: tiffy just sent me this, glad to see my husband has a work wife

y/ninsta

liked by gunther_wwe, tiffanywwe, wwe_kaiser and 45,938 others

y/ninsta: busy busy busy (yes i laid at the top of the stairs with tofu for 30 minutes after a bad shift)

view all 4,558 comments

gunther_wwe: glad tofu is there to comfort you when i'm not there

y/ninsta: he is sick of me, wants his dad yet

user4: gunther being a dog dad never would've been on my bingo card

user5: omg i didn't know you were in the medical field, what do you do?

y/ninsta: i am a labour and delivery nurse! this year will be my 15th

user6: gunther's wife being a nurse is actually so cute

user7: the more i learn about y/n the more i question how the hell gunther managed to charm her

y/ninsta posted a story tagging gunther_wwe

written: i think the delivery guys thought i was a sugar baby when i opened the door in my scrubs

gunther_wwe replied to this story: you always look expensive

y/ninsta: babe this followed a 12 hour shift, i was ready to pass tf out

gunther_wwe posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: today is national nurse's day and i just wanted to say that i am so proud of my girl. she doesn't do this job because she has to, she does it because she wants to.

y/ninsta

liked by gunther_wwe, tiffanywwe, wwe_kaiser and 59,938 others

tagged: gunther_wwe

y/ninsta: four years ago i married the calm to my chaos, the safe place in every storm, and the man who somehow loves me even when i talk through movies. i love doing life with you, always.

view all 9,722 comments

gunther_wwe: the best four years of my life

tiffanywwe: parents

wwe_kaiser: i still remember the wedding

user8: everyone always talks about how lucky gunther is to have y/n but i think he gives y/n exactly what she needs

user9: i am so obsessed with them

user10: the most unexpected couple have become the cutest

[sunsetdesire]

been sick for a few days and i'm reaching my breaking point, wanna be cuddled and allowed to be a sick puppy so i don't have to think anymore.

[saymio]

In Ho headcanons | (NSFW)

Pairing: Hwang In-ho (player 001/the front man) x Fem!reader

Genre: headcanons, smut

Warning: dead dove do not eat, manipulation, dub/noncon, age gap, might be more but im too lazy to write it down

A/N: not proof read. thanos story in the works rn!! I have writers block so to help a little I'm making some hcs 4 this baddie (prob ooc)

hwang inho, the man that protected you from Thanos and his stupid friend during the first day of the games. he shoo'ed them away. stopping their harassment and took you with him with the rest of the group

hwang inho, the man that gives you his milk. reassuring you every time that its okay for you to have it, and it'll help you get stronger.

hwang inho, the man that checks up on you throughout the night. standing over you to make sure you're getting your nights rests. making sure no creeps try touching your delicate skin.

hwang inho, the man that lets touches linger a little longer than they should, whether its on your hands, thighs, waist..his touches feel more than platonic

hwang inho, the man that tells the guards to make sure you stay safe, to kill a player that hasn't broken the rules if they had to. anything to make sure you stay safe.

hwang inho, the man that would excuse himself to the bathroom just to touch himself to the thought of you. whether its your calm voice or plush hands that feel so soft and delicate...he just couldn't help it.

hwang inho, the man that squeezes your thighs when no ones looking...and when you express discomfort he used his past generosity as an excuse for it.

hwang inho, the man that will kiss you in the middle of the night with no warning. telling you to be quiet and take the kiss because if it were any other man it would've been worse.

hwang inho, the man that will find the perfect timing to sneak away from everyone else with you. he'll make you strip for him in the bathroom. savoring every inch of your body before he sends you away, leaving him in there alone to masturbate.

hwang inho, the man that wont let you sleep. he'll grope and squeeze your thighs, tits and ass. feeling you up while you hold in tears.

hwang inho, the man that reminds you this is your fault when you cry to him during a bathroom strip session. expressing how uncomfortable this makes you and how you don't want it anymore.

hwang inho, the man that will tell you nothing in the world is free. and your body will be the payment he receives for being so generous with you.

hwang inho, the man that gets hard thinking about your age gap. how youre only 19 and he's in his 40's..he loves it.

hwang inho, the man that slips his fingers inside of you when the lights are off, fingering you aggressively. reminding you once again that it'd be so much worse if he wasn't such a nice man.

hwang inho, the man that captures you during the raid against the guards. forcing you to stare into the eyes of your past friends as he kills them.

hwang inho, the man that keeps you as his pet after the games end. reminding you you're lucky because he spoils you with money.

hwang inho, the man that doesn't let you socialize with anyone after he's gotten his grip on you.

Another not: this one is pretty short compared to my last fic, this was to just try n get me out of writers block. expect a Thanos fic to pop up tmr. sorry if this sucked/was ooc, I tried my best T T~~

[hellfirebarnes]

A Touch Of You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!thunderbolts!reader

Contains: Angst, touch-starved Bucky, fluff, slow-burn, platonic Bob-reader, your hair is described to be long enough to braid and it's also descibed as silk once

Sum: Physical affection and touch comes easy for you, and it's making Bucky wish for the ability to be more like you

10k+ words (I went overboard with this shit)

I have a serious obsession with slow-burns and platonic Bobxreader being clingy besties, sue me.

(I cannot find who created the divider, if you know please tag them so they get credit)

NOT PROOFREAD

Enjoy :)

The Thunderbolts Tower was rarely quiet.

Not because of the chaos; although Alexei belting out 80s Russian rock in the kitchen or Yelena wrestling John over breakfast cereal certainly didn't help - but because it was full of life. People laughing, living, healing. A kind of noise Bucky didn't mind.

He sat in his usual chair on the far end of the room, worn leather, tucked into the shadows like a spectator watching a play where everyone else knew their lines.

And there you were again. Center stage. Sunshine incarnate.

You were cross-legged on the couch, giggling so hard your nose scrunched and your eyes nearly disappeared in the crinkles of happiness. Bob was beside you and you were leaning up against him without a second thought; arms wrapped loosely around one of his, your cheek resting on his bicep.

Bucky watched. He always watched.

It wasn't creepy, he told himself. Not in a leering way. It was just... fascination. You moved through the world like the rules didn't apply to you. You touched people like they were meant to be touched - casually, kindly freely. No tension or hesitation. No fear.

You tousled John's hair like he was your annoying little brother, clung to Ava's arm when you were bored, made faces at Alexei during movie nights, and once kissed Yelena on the cheek for winning at Uno. You were always smiling, always glowing, always warm.

But never him. Not out of avoidance. No, you were never unkind to Bucky. You greeted him with the same energy as everyone else, your laugh just as sincere, your banter just as quick. But it always stopped just short of a touch. A hand wave instead of a hug, a wink instead of a squeeze to the shoulder.

And now, as he sat in his quiet corner, watching Bob shift a little so you could get even more comfortable against his side, something hollow twisted behind Bucky's ribs.

It wasn't jealousy. Not really. Bob was a friend, a soft-spoken powerhouse who loved puzzles and kittens. And it wasn't like Bucky wanted you to lean on him like that. Except...maybe he did.

What he wanted- no, what he missed, was that kind of affection without expectation. Touch that wasn't calculated or careful. No mission, no seduction, no pity. Just... closeness.

He blinked. You were laughing again, eyes shining, and Bob had just placed a hand on your head in that absent-minded, affectionate way people pet their dog without even realizing it. And you leaned into it. Let it happen like touch was a language you spoke fluently and everyone else just stuttered through.

Bucky hadn't been touched like that in... He didn't know. He really didn't.

The realization hit like a whisper, cruel in its softness. It wasn't that you hadn't touched him like that. It was that no one had, not in a long, long time. He could still remember how it felt, though. A hand through his hair, a lazy cuddle on a rainy afternoon. Arms slung around his shoulders, not for protection, but for comfort.  But now people touched him like he was either a weapon or a wound.

He shifted in his seat, the leather creaking softly. Ava glanced over at the sound but didn't say anything. She was on the floor, legs stretched out, balancing a tablet on her knees. Your laughter trailed off slowly, and you looked up just in time to catch his eyes across the room.

You smiled. He didn't. Not because he didn't want to, but because he wasn't sure how. You had a thousand-watt smile, the kind that could make flowers grow in winter. His was more... dusty. Like an old light switch that hadn't been flipped in years.

But you didn't flinch, didn't falter. You just gave him that same warm look you gave everyone else. Like he belonged in this room, in this team, in this strange, patchwork little family. And then you turned back to Bob, reaching for a blanket and tossing it over both your legs. Cozy and casual, like touch was no more complicated than breathing.

God, he wanted that. Not even you, not like that. He just wanted someone to lean against him like that. Wanted to be touched without flinching. Wanted to relax against another body without wondering if it would be the last time he ever did.

Later, when most of the team had filtered out, Bucky was still sitting there. Alone in his corner. You passed by with a yawn, blanket still draped over your shoulders.

''You should sleep,' you murmured as you walked past. ''Or at least stop brooding. You'll get forehead wrinkles.''

He didn't answer. Just raised an eyebrow in response.

You paused at that, eyes flickering to his. Something unreadable danced across your face for a second. Concern, maybe? Or understanding? But then, with the gentlest flick of your fingers, you reached out with just a brush of knuckles on his vibranium arm, Barely there. Like asking a question without saying a word.

''Goodnight, Bucky.''

And just like that, you were gone. He stared at the spot where your hand had been, no more than a ghost of contact, and felt something tight and quiet unfurl inside him.

Bucky was a student of war. Tactics. Movement. Survival. But lately, he'd started studying something entirely different: affection.

More specifically - how people touched you.

It started small. A passing observation. The way Ava brushed your arm when she walked by, Yelena leaned into you on the couch like it was second nature, how Alexei let you play with the ends of his beard while he grumbled but never pulled away.

But mostly it was Bob. Always Bob. It was effortless how you two fit together. How you moved around him like you were in your own orbit. How his hand would rest lightly on your shoulder during conversations, how you'd slide under his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. He gave you piggyback rides in the hall, and you played with his fingers absentmindedly while reading on the couch. You were close in a way that made Bucky ache.

Because he wanted that. And he didn't know how to ask. So, he watched. He watched the patterns, the rhythm, the openings.

He noticed that Bob always smiled first, open and unguarded, and you responded like it was an invitation. He noticed the pauses too, the way you always gave people the space to say no, the flick of your eyes that asked ''is this okay?'' before leaning in.

Bucky started mentally rehearsing those small things. Little touches. A guiding hand to the lower back, a light graze on the wrist when handing you a mug. Not big things, not all at once. Just something.

But he couldn't do it. He'd get close. He'd raise his hand, and then his brain would flood with every warning it had ever learned. Not you. Not yet. Not like this. You'll mess it up. You don't know how. So he'd shove his hands back in his pockets and let the moment pass. Because you deserved better than someone who needed to rehearse basic closeness like a goddamn speech.

So he watched some more.

You first noticed being watched when Bob teased you at dinner. Something about the way Bucky looked up from his plate. Not irritated, not amused, just watchful. Your elbow had been pressed into Bob's side as you leaned over his tablet, your laughter easy and loud. And when you leaned back again, a flash of something flickered in Bucky's eyes. A breath too long, a blink too slow.

He looked like someone trying to memorize the moment. Just... what it looked like. What it felt like, to see it.

You weren't oblivious. You just didn't push. Didn't ask. Bucky wasn't the kind of man you cornered with feelings he hadn't invited yet. He operated like a tide - pulling away before he let anything close.

So you waited. And you watched, just like he did.

The mission was rough. Nothing catastrophic, just... messy.

Bucky took the brunt of it, as he usually did. No complaints, no calls for backup, just relentless movement until the job was done. You admired him for it. Always had. But you also hated it - how he treated his body like it was still someone else's to throw into war zones.

He slipped away afterward, as expected. No one really noticed. John was patching up his arm with Ava's help, Alexei was bragging about his kill count, and Yelena was already raiding the fridge. But you noticed. So, you gave it a few minutes, just enough time for him to think he'd gotten away with, before you padded into the lounge, barefoot and quiet.

And there he was. Facing away from you, shirt off, arms raised as he tried to stretch the tension from his back and shoulders. You could see it - all of it. The stiffness, the tightness, the way his body moved like an old machine that hadn't been oiled in years. He didn't hear you right away.

You stood in the doorway for a second longer than you meant to. Not staring, not quite. Just... seeing. The way he rolled his shoulder with a grimace, the muscles twitching under scarred skin, the metal arm glinting in the low light like something out of mythology. He was strong, yes, but he looked so tired.

''Bucky.''

He turned a little too fast, like he thought you'd caught him doing something shameful. You saw the flicker in his expression - the mask dropping into place. That same unreadable look he wore like armor. You didn't comment on it.

''You okay?'' you asked softly, stepping further in.

He gave a grunt that wasn't quite a yes.

You tilted your head, arms crossed loosely over your chest. ''You look like you lost a wrestling match with a garbage truck.''

''I won,'' he said, deadpan.

Your lips twitched. ''Barely.''

He huffed. Maybe a laugh, maybe just air. You moved a little closer, enough to notice the fine sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. The tension in his shoulders was visible, like tight ropes drawn too hard.

''Sit,'' you said.

He blinked at you. ''What?''

''Sit,'' you repeated, nudging the back of the couch with your foot. ''I'm giving you a shoulder massage.''

He hesitated. A long beat of silence passed. You could practically hear the war happening in his mind. The part that didn't trust comfort, the part that didn't know how to accept it.

''I'm not gonna charge you for it,'' you teased gently. ''And it's not a trap. I'm just not a monster and I hate seeing you look like you've been folded in half and left in the sun to dry.''

That got the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. And he sat. Stiffly, cautiously. Like the couch might bite him.

You stepped behind him, already rubbing your hands together for warmth. But you didn't start right away, gave him that last window to change his mind. He didn't move. Just exhaled slowly, like he'd decided to let the tide roll in. Your hands touched his shoulders and God. You felt the jolt before he even reacted. Like the contact itself was something he hadn't expected to feel. Not like that. Not innocent. Not kind.

You didn't speak. Just worked quietly. Gently. Your fingers kneading into muscle and scar tissue, slow and careful, no agenda, no teasing. Just... touch.

Bucky's jaw clenched. His eyes were closed now, head tilted ever so slightly forward. You could still feel the effort it took him to stay still, to not flinch. Like every cell in his body was trying to not run away.

But you kept going. You worked over one knot at a time. One shoulder. Then the other. Your thumbs dug into the curve of his traps and you felt the smallest, tiniest exhale escaped his lips. Relief, or surrender, or maybe both.

''You don't have to be made of steel all the time,'' you whispered. Still not pushing. Just offering.

His voice, when it came, was rough. ''It's not about being steel. It's just...hard.''

''I know.''

He shifted slightly, just enough to lean a little more into your hands, and it felt like trust. It felt like an entire chapter unwritten. And you didn't need him to explain it. You already understood. And even though he hadn't said a word, it was all there.

You pressed your palm flat against his shoulder blades, heat seeping into him. ''You're allowed to want this, you know,'' you murmured. ''To be held. Even without reason.''

He didn't answer. But his hands unclenched in his lap. And that was enough.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. When you finally stepped away, you did it slowly. Gave him space to rise again, if he needed to. But he didn't move. Just sat there, like the couch had claimed him.

You didn't ask if he was okay. Didn't need to.

''Get some sleep,'' you said gently.

He nodded. Still quiet.

You turned to leave, but just before you crossed the threshold, his voice caught you.

''Thank you.''

And when you looked back, his eyes met yours; unguarded. Just for a second. The door cracking open and the warmth finally starting to seep in.

Movie night was always a disaster. Loud, chaotic, half the team arguing about genre and popcorn flavors, and Bucky stuck in the corner, pretending to mind the noise when secretly he didn't. Not at all.

Tonight was no different. You were already curled up on the couch, head in Bob's lap, your legs stretched across Yelena's. Ava was on the floor beside you, leaning back against the couch. Alexei was dramatically recounting the story of the time you once braided his beard into a Viking pattern, and Bucky had to bite back a smile when you proudly confirmed it, already digging through a box of hair ties and clips.

And that was how it started. First, Alexei. You pulled him in front of you, knees to your chest, and with your tongue poking out in concentration, you began weaving his beard with surprising speed. He looked like a grumpy Norse god by the time you were done.

Then Bob. ''Ohhh it's your turn, you big beautiful labradoodle,'' you sang, tugging him down by the hand.

He didn't protest. Just sat cross-legged in front of you with the dopey smile of someone being completely adored. You started working small braids into his hair, murmuring nonsense as your fingers moved expertly, occasionally swatting his shoulder when he moved too much.

Bucky watched from his usual spot. Quiet, still, fascinated. You weren't just touching, you were focusing. You were being deliberate. This wasn't just casual affection - this was attention. Care. The kind that said: I want to do something just for you.  He wanted that. Badly. Desperately. Not even for what it would lead to, but just for that. To be someone you focused on. Someone you chose, even just for five minutes, to pour softness into.

You finished with a flourish, tied off the last braid in Bob's hair, sat back with a pleased grin, and then - without fanfare - you pointed across the room. Right at him.

''Your turn, Barnes.''

The room went dead silent. All eyes turned to him.

You didn't flinch. Your smile didn't even waver. You just tilted your head and gave him that same sunlit warmth you always carried, like it had never once occurred to you that he'd say no.

Bucky blinked. What. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He gestured vaguely to himself like he didn't understand the language you were speaking.

''You've got hair,'' you said, as if it was obvious. ''You've got a good head for braids. Longish, soft, a little tragic. I can work with that.''

''Tragic?'' he muttered before he could stop himself.

''Emotionally,'' you replied, already patting the floor in front of you. ''Now come on, don't make me beg. I'm on a roll.''

Bucky hesitated again. Not because he didn't want it But because the moment was so fragile. So bizarrely, heartbreakingly normal. Like if he moved wrong, it would shatter and you'd realize what you were asking. For him, not just some teammate, not just a body in the room, and you'd take it back.

But you didn't. You just kept smiling. So slowly, he stood up. Crossed the room, sat down, back straight and stiff as a board.

''Relax,'' you whispered behind him. ''I won't break you.''

You ran your fingers through his hair once, and he nearly forgot how to breathe. It wasn't just the sensation. It was the care, the softness, the quiet focus. You smoothed his hair gently, like it was worth something. Like he was worth something. And then your fingers started moving. Slow, practiced, weaving warmth into every inch of him.

The room around him faded. It was just your touch. Your hum under your breath, the warmth of your knees and either side of his back, the way you occasionally brushed a thumb over his scalp to settle a strand.

You didn't tease, you didn't rush, you just touched.

And Bucky sat perfectly still, his eyes closed, letting the door inside him creak open just a little more.

He wasn't in love with you. But in that moment, with your hands in his hair and his heart so soft it almost hurt, he thought: maybe I could be.

Bucky wasn't a man who touched first. He could take a punch without blinking, disarm a bomb with minutes to spare, and walk into a firefight like it was a coffee run. But reaching out to you? Terrifying.

Especially now that you'd touched him. Really touched him. Not on a battlefield, not in passing. But on purpose. With care.

You'd braided his hair like he was something worth decorating, worth sitting with, worth smiling at. And for the first time in years, he hadn't wanted to move. Hadn't wanted to retreat. He'd just wanted... more.

He thought about that moment for days. The warmth of your fingers, the way your voice softened near his ear, the lack of expectation. You hadn't asked for anything. You hadn't tried to pull him out of himself. You'd just sat with him, and for Bucky, that was almost more intimate than anything else.

So now he watched you even closer. Not just to learn - though, yes, he was still studying you like he might someday earn a master's in ''How To Be Near You Without Dying'', but because now... he was looking for openings. Tiny ones. Like the way you greeted Bob with a forehead bump and a grin, or how you'd slip your fingers into Yelena's sleeve when she was anxious. You didn't cling to people. You anchored them, And God, did Bucky want to be anchored.

So he tried. Tiny experiments. He started holding the door for you. At first, it was mechanical, just something to do, but you'd always smile and touch his shoulder on the way past. Every time. Like a thank you, like a secret handshake.

Next, he started handing you things. If you were sitting and someone tossed you a water bottle or remote or snack, Bucky would intercept it. And instead of just tossing it to you, he'd hand it. Palms brushing a second too long. Once, your fingers lingered. Just a beat. It nearly leveled him.

He started sitting on the couch instead of in his corner. Not next to you, not yet, but closer. Close enough to hear your breathing change when you laughed. Close enough to hand you the blanket when you curled up.

But what really broke him, what cracked something clean open, was when you fell asleep on Bob's chest again.

Movie night, a lazy rom-com. You'd started upright and within fifteen minutes had curled up under Bob's arm, your cheek pressed against his chest like you belonged there.

And Bucky? He didn't even feel jealous. He just felt cold. Not bitter or angry. Just... cold. Because now he knew what that felt like; your hands in his hair, your voice at his back, and he was starving for more.

He decided to try after the next mission.

Something low-risk. A simple retrieval, in and and out. You were paired with him this, which was rare, and he tried not to let it mean anything, but it felt like the universe had handed him a cheat code.

The mission went fine. A couple of close calls. You handled yourself like usual - confident, lethal, laughing through it all. And he admired the hell out of you for it. On the way back to the jet, you reached out instinctively and grabbed his wrist to yank him behind cover.

That one moment. That touch. He felt it in his teeth.

Once back in the tower, you peeled off first, stretching and yawning, calling goodnight over your shoulder with a lazy smile.

Bucky stood there in the hallway, still half-armored, heart thundering. Try now.

He walked to the kitchen and found the snack you always reached for after missions - those weird, spicy chips you claimed tasted like ''victory and regret''. You never bought them for yourself, said they were a ''reward food'', but you always lit up when someone remembered. So he took a bag. Bribery. Weak, but a start. Then he walked to your room.

He stood outside the door for at least a full minute. What am I doing? What if she's asleep? What if I look insane? But he made himself knock. Softly.

''...Come in!''

He stepped in like he was walking into a temple.

You were on the floor, stretching, dressed in soft shorts and an oversized hoodie he tried not to notice was Bob's. You grinned when you saw him.

''Well, hey Barnes. What's up?''

He held up the chip bag like it was evidence. You blinked, then beamed.

''Holy crap, you got the good ones!''

He nodded. ''Figured you earned it.''

You sat back, crossing your legs, tearing the bag open with a happy hum. ''You wanna stay?''

His brain short-circuited. ''If- yeah. If that's okay.''

''Duh,'' you said, patting the carpet next to you. ''I don't offer this floor to just anyone.''

So he sat, and you shared and talked. Then finally, he decided: now.

You were laughing at something he said. Your hand was on the floor beside you, his was a few inches away. Just do it. He slowly, carefully, let the side of his hand brush yours. And then... rested it there. Just barely touching.

You didn't look down, didn't call it out. But you did move your pinky until it hooked his. And Bucky forgot how to exist. You didn't say anything about it. Just kept talking, like nothing had changed. But your fingers stayed. Light, soft, reassuring.

And Bucky sat there beside you, pinky to pinky, the contact small enough to be missed by anyone else, but monumental to him. Because he'd finally done it. He'd reached out, and you'd reached back.

Bucky had a plan. Sort of. He'd been replaying that pinky-touch moment for days now. The smallness of it. The deliberate sweetness. How you didn't tease him or pull away. You just let it happen, and he didn't have to explain why it meant so much.

Now, he wanted to try something more. Not huge. Just... bolder. A tiny step forward. He wanted to initiate something. Not because it meant love or romance, but because his body was beginning to crave it. Crave that soft connection. Crave you, in the most innocent, desperately human way. He wanted to know what it felt like to hold you, even for a second.

So he planned for it. Not out loud, not with words, but with a thousand little hypotheticals in his head.

After a mission, maybe. Or in the hallway when you weren't looking. You'd be laughing, or tired, or just there, and he'd go for it - a simple hug. Arms around you. Quick, no pressure. But every time the moment came? He choked.

He was so close tonight.

Mission done. Exhausting but not dangerous. Everyone was filtering into the tower one by one, and you were the last to come in; suit half-zipped, hair stuck to your cheek, laughing at something John said before he peeled off down the hall.

And there you were. Worn out, but happy. Still glowing like you always did. You turned to him, smile softening, and said, ''You did good today, Barnes.''

That's all it took. The moment presented itself like a gift. Do it. Just reach out. He took a breath, stepped forward, his hands hovered awkwardly at his sides. Just a hug. Just a hug. But his body locked. What if she pulls away? What if it's weird? What if it ruins everything? His hands jerked back down.

Too late. You saw. Your eyes flickered to his. Quick and quiet. Understanding dawned across your face like a sunrise. You didn't make it a thing. Didn't joke or ask or tilt your head like are you okay? You just took a small step forward and opened your arms.

''C'mere, tough guy,'' you said.

You stepped in and wrapped your arms around him. A real hug. Chest to chest, face to shoulder. Warm, present, soft.

Bucky stopped breathing. He didn't move. Didn't know how to move. His hands hovered behind your back, unsure, trembling slightly like they'd forgotten what to do. And then you gave the smallest squeeze. Gentle. Safe. That did it, his arms came around you. Slow, careful. And then... all at once. They locked behind you, strong and tight and desperate, like he'd finally given up the fight and was clinging on for dear life.

He didn't mean to hold you so hard. He didn't mean to breathe you in like that. But he couldn't stop. Because your body was real. Warm, solid. And you weren't backing away, you weren't treating him like glass. You were just... holding him.

You shifted slightly to lean into the hug more, and he swore he could feel your smile against his neck. ''See?'' you murmured. ''Easy.''

He could've laughed at that. It wasn't easy, not for him. It was terrifying, dizzying, earth-shaking. But it was also the first time in years that someone had wrapped him up like this without blood or death or adrenaline. No life-or-death panic. Just arms, just warmth. And for the first time, he let himself sink into it. His heart was pounding - slamming, really, and he was sure you could feel it. He didn't care.

You didn't let go until he did. And when he finally eased back - slowly, reluctantly, like his arms had been superglued in place - your eyes met his, steady and bright. No teasing, no awkward silence.

Just, ''Anytime, Bucky.'' And a little smile. The kind that wrapped around his ribs and pulled tight.

He nodded. Couldn't speak even if he tried to. Could barely breathe. And as you turned and padded away down the hall, humming softly under your breath, Bucky stood alone in the hallway like he'd just come back from war. Except this time, someone had brought him home.

Bucky didn't sleep after that hug. He laid in bed, eyes wide in the dark, heart still thundering against his ribs like it hadn't gotten the memo that the moment was over.

You had held him. No flinching or pulling back, you let him cling like he needed it. Because he did, and you made it feel like it was okay. Like it was normal. You never said another word about it. And Bucky walked around the tower for the next few days like someone had filled his veins with warm honey and static electricity.

But with every inch you have him - every smile, every brush of a hand, every shoulder lean or passing touch - Bucky found himself wanting to give something back. He wanted you to know what that hug meant to him. Not in words. He wasn't there yet. And not in touch, his body still rebelled at the idea of starting something again. So instead, he watched again. Carefully, obsessively. And started to notice things about you. Little things.

You hummed when you were nervous, you always pulled your sleeves over your hands when you were cold even though you owned about sixteen hoodies, you liked your tea with honey instead of sugar, and you made up nicknames for everyone. He still wasn't sure if ''Ice Cream Soldier'' was supposed to be a compliment.

But most of all? You loved weird little things. Knickknacks, trinkets, gimmicks - stuff that made everyone else roll their eyes. You kept a plastic dinosaur on your nightstand, and you used pens with flitter ink. And you once got into a thirty-minute debate with Alexei about whether a wind-up chicken toy should be considered ''practical combat gear''. Somehow, you won that debate.

So Bucky made a decision. He couldn't hug you back. Not yet. But he could give you something.

A little mission in Eastern Europe. A side errand in Dubai. A stakeout with nothing to do but sit and watch. And right there, buried in a dusty antique shop next to a faded deck of Soviet playing cards and a pair of rusted brass knuckles, he found it.

A tiny, worn metal figurine. A cat. Its tail curled into a spiral, its ear too big, one eye slightly chipped. It looked hand-forged. Utterly ridiculous and useless. Perfect.

He bought it without hesitation. No one saw, no one knew. He brought it home and sat with it for an hour in his room. Just turning it over in his hands, wondering if this was stupid. If it made him look childish. If you'd even like it.

But then he remembered the way you looked when someone gave you something with no strings attached. He remembered your smile. And that settled it.

He didn't give it to you directly. He couldn't. So, he waited until the next movie night. Same couch, same usual crew. Everyone loud and sprawled and tangled up in a pile of popcorn and dumb banter.

You were curled up in your usual spot with Bob, your legs across his lap, a bowl balanced on your knees, laughing so hard you snorted. And Bucky sat one cushion away. Close enough to hear your laughter, far enough to not panic.

You got up halfway through to refill drinks, and Bucky slipped the little metal cat into the space you'd just left. Just where you'd see it. Not wrapped, not labeled... just there. And when you came back, you saw it immediately. You blinked. Picked it up. Held it up in the light with the kind of gentle curiosity that made Bucky want to crawl under the couch.

''Hey,'' you said aloud, holding it up, ''who left this little guy?''

Bob shrugged, Ava didn't even look, and John made some joke about it being cursed. Yelena grabbed it from your hand and examined it.

''It's ugly. I like it.''

You laughed and took it back, fingers closing around it protectively. ''Well, whoever left it - it's mine now.'' And then you smiled. That kind of soft, knowing smile, and your eyes flicked to Bucky. Just a second. Just long enough.

He didn't say a word. Didn't have to. You tucked the cat into your hoodie pocked and curled up again. And Bucky let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

The next morning, you passe him in the hallway. No one else was around. You didn't stop him. Just walked by, slow and casual, and bumped your shoulder into his with a quiet, ''Thanks, Barnes.'' And kept walking like it was no big deal.

But he stood there in the hallway for a full minute, stunned stupid by how good that felt Not the thanks. The shoulder bump. Small, warm, and his.

From then on, it became a thing. You never asked for more, but Bucky... he started giving it anyway.

A protein bar slid across the table on mornings you looked too tired to grab one yourself, a spare set of hand warmers in your tac vest before cold missions, and a weird sticker he peeled off a vending machine that said ''KICK BUTT, GLITTER GIRL'' that he knew you'd absolutely slap on your laptop.

All of it anonymous, none of it subtle. And every time, your eyes would flick toward him with that soft little grin. You'd touch his arm when you passed, or lean your head briefly against his shoulder, or bump hips when no one was looking.

And Bucky... he thrived on it. Still unsure, still hesitant. But opening, inch by precious inch.

The team didn't mention it aloud. Not once. Not to him, not to you. But they noticed. They noticed that Bucky stopped bracing when someone walked behind him on the couch. That he started answering more questions with actual words instead of shrugs. That he let you rest your head on his shoulder once and didn't move a muscle the whole time.

They noticed how he watched you when you weren't looking. With that quiet awe of someone who's been in the dark so long that the sunlight still hurts, even as it heals.

And on a quiet afternoon when rain still misted against the windows everyone was off doing their own thing - Bob reading a fantasy novel upside down on the couch, Alexei asleep with a magazine over his face, and the rest scattered through the tower. You sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, twirling the end of your braid between your fingers, frowning.

''It's coming undone,'' you muttered.

Bucky was seated on the end of the couch with a cup of tea he didn't remember making, and glanced over. ''Want help?''

You blinked. Then your eyes lit up, slow and warm. ''Yeah. Will you braid it for me?''

Silence. Utter, world-shattering silence. Bob looked up from his book like he'd just heard a hun go off and Bucky froze mid-sip.

Your tone had been casual, like asking someone to hand you the remote. But Bucky felt his spine lock up like a snapped wire, his pulse suddenly very loud in his ears. His brain full-on short-circuited.

You tilted your head back to look at him, smiling. ''You don't have to if you don't want to-''

''No- I mean-yeah-no, I'll-sure,'' he stammered. ''I can try.''

You turned back around, still grinning like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Bucky set his tea down, his hand was already sweating. What the hell did he just agree to.

The moment your back was to him, Bucky realized how close you were. Your bare shoulders peeked out from the loose neckline of your oversized shirt, and the soft scent of your shampoo drifted up to him like a punch to the senses. He reached toward your hair, paused, and immediately pulled his hands back.

''I-uh-I don't know how to braid,'' he said, voice strangled.

''That's okay,'' you said easily, not turning around. ''Just do your best.''

That was not helpful.

Bob, mercifully, looked up from his book again and took pity. ''Hang on, Sergeant,'' he said, reaching for his phone. ''We're gonna get you through this.''

Bucky shot him a look.

Bob raised both eyebrows. ''You wanna bail now or impress the girl with your incredibly subpar braiding skills?''

''I'm not trying to impress-'' Bucky began, but Bob had already opened Youtube.

''There are hundreds of tutorials on this. Oh! Here's one: ''How to braid your girlfriend's hair without making her leave you for someone who owns a comb''. Seems fitting.''

''I hate you.''

''You love me.''

The video started playing - hosted by a chipper woman with perfectly braided hair and way too much optimism, and Bob propped the phone against his knee, narrating helpfully.

''Okay, part it into three sections. Three, Barnes. Not two. You're not tying shoelaces here.''

Bucky narrowed his eyes. ''I know what three is, Bob.''

''Do you, though? Because you're holding two and looking confused.''

''Shut up.''

You were definitely holding back laughter now, your shoulders trembled with it. He finally managed to divide your hair into three semi-even pieces.

''Now cross the right over the middle,'' Bob instructed. ''Wait. Your right. No, her right. Shit- that's the same right. Okay... look, follow the lady in the video.''

Bucky glared at the screen. The woman made it look so easy, the braid just formed like magic. Meanwhile, his hands felt like they were wearing boxing gloves. He tried once. Fumbled. You laughed under your breath.

''Sorry,'' he muttered, fingers clumsy against the silk of your hair.

''No, don't apologize,'' you said, voice light and warm. ''This is the most fun I've had all week.''

He tried again. And this time, the strands twisted more like a loose knot than a braid.

Bob squinted. ''That's... something.''

You snorted. ''It's fine. Just keep going.''

And somehow, despite the odds, the braid started to form. Wobbly and uneven. Your hair curled under his fingers like it belonged there. And Buckt didn't realize he'd started smiling. When he tied the braid off with a small elastic you handed him, you reached back and touched it, beaming.

''It's perfect,'' you said, even though it absolutely wasn't.

Bucky looked away, ears pink. ''Glad I could help,'' he said, voice a little hoarse.

You leaned back slightly, head resting against his shin now, looking up at him with bright, grateful eyes. And Bucky carefully, shyly, reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Not because it needed fixing. Just because he wanted to touch you again. And this time? He didn't panic.

Bob watched the whole thing from behind his book and just smiled. Didn't say a word. Didn't need to.

Gala nights were always chaos wrapped in satin. Everyone was too dressed up, the champagne was too expensive, and the music was more noise than melody. Somewhere between government posturing and forced socializing, it was easy to forget the mission was just to show up and look like you weren't going to level the place.

You, of course, were having the time of your life. Your gown, shimmering and slinky, dangerously backless, drew eyes across the room. But you didn't give them a second glance. You were too busy spinning in circles on the dance floor with Alexei, barefoot now, laughing so hard you nearly tripped over the hem of your dress.

''Is that-? Oh god, is that the cha-cha?'' Valentina muttered from the sidelines, looking scandalized. ''Tell me that's not the cha-cha. In front of the senators.''

''Mm,'' Ava hummed beside her. ''Technically, I think it's the drunk uncle version of the cha-cha. But yes.''

Valentina groaned, lifting her wine glass as if to drink away the embarrassment. ''She's going to give me a migraine.''

''She's not the one doing the shoulder shimmy,'' John said dryly, nodding toward Alexei.

And sure enough - there he was, twice your size and grinning like a man who had never known shame, twirling you dramatically and nearly taking out a waiter's tray in the process.

You didn't care. You threw your arms up, laughed like it was the only thing that mattered, and kept dancing.

Ava turned slightly, her gaze catching on the tall figure lingering near the edge of the ballroom. ''Barnes,'' she said, low enough that only he could hear. ''You gonna sit there forever?''

Bucky didn't look at her. He was too busy watching you. His tie felt too tight, his palm was clammy, and his heart was beating like he was in combat. He hadn't been able to look away from you all night. Your laugh, your touch, the way your eyes sparkled under the chandeliers like you belonged there more than anyone else in the room.

You'd already danced with Bob, who kept spinning you like he'd just watched Dirty Dancing. Then John, then Alexei. You flowed from one person to the next like it was nothing, like joy was just something that spilled out of you onto anyone willing to catch it.

And Bucky wanted to catch it. He almost stood. Almost let himself go to you like Ava was silently urging. But then the music changed. Soft strings. A slow waltz. Couples began to pair off, the lights dimmed slightly, warm gold flickering over crystal and silk. And Bucky panicked. Too intimate, too close. He sat back down, jaw tight.

Missed my chance, he thought bitterly. Typical. But then you were there.

Your voice gentle, like the music itself. ''Dance with me?''

His head jerked up. You were smiling. Hand out, hair a little wild from all your earlier chaos, eyes impossibly soft.

He blinked. ''Me?''

You tilted your head. ''Unless you know another hundred-year-old war criminal with a metal arm in this room?'' That started a laugh out of him, sharp and short. You stepped closer. ''Come on. One dance. I won't even try to spin you. Promise.''

His brain screamed run. But his heart? His heart stood.

Eyes drifted toward you and Bucky as you walked to the dance floor. He didn't look at them. He was too busy not tripping over his own thoughts.

You took his hands in yours and guided them to your waist with a warmth that had no edges. No agenda. Just you, radiant and calm, like you had all the time in the world to teach him what safety felt like.

''Just sway,'' you murmured. ''That''s all you have to do.''

So he did. You led, really. Kept the rhythm soft, let him find his footing. And Bucky was panicking. Because you were right there. So close. Too close.

Your cheek was nearly against his collarbone, your perfume was like summer and sugar and sunlight. Your hands were draped around his neck. And he was certain you could feel his heart pounding.

''Bucky?'' you whispered, barely audible. He grunted in acknowledgment, throat too tight for words. You looked up at him, the corner of your mouth tugging up. ''You're doing great.''

His breath stuttered. I'm not. Because it was too much. The warmth, the softness, the utter lack of fear in you. You danced with him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hadn't spent years pushing people away. Like he hadn't built an entire life around silence and distance.

You didn't ask to be let in. You just walked through the door. And Bucky had no idea what to do with that. He kept waiting for the tension to snap. For someone to step in. For you to pull away. But you didn't.

The song ended slowly, fading into something else. And Bucky felt the loss of it like a pulled stitch.

You stepped back just slightly and smiled up at him. ''Thank you,'' you said, voice as soft as velvet. Then you leaned in and kissed his cheek. A brief press of the lips, barely a breath long.

But it dropped like a bomb in his chest. Your smile didn't fade. You just slipped away, walking off with Yelena toward some obviously doomed scheme involving the catering table and the rooftop.

And Bucky stood there. Absolutely still. A hand on his cheek like the world had just tilted sideways. He barely noticed Ava join him a minute later, champagne glass in hand.

She didn't speak at first, just stopped and looked where you'd gone. Then it came, ''So.'' She glanced at him. ''You okay?''

''No.''

Her mouth twitched. ''Realized it, didn't you.''

Bucky didn't answer. Didn't need to. Because holy fucking shit, he did. He didn't just want affection. He didn't just want safety. He wanted you.

He didn't sleep the night after the gala. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, fully clothes, jaw locked and heart loud, your kiss still pressed to his cheek like a brand. Because it had just been a thank you, right? Just a soft, casual thing. You did that with everyone.

You kissed Ava on the head when she gave you the last slice of pizza, you curled into Bob's side during movie nights like it was your assigned seat, you ruffled John's hair when he was being a sarcastic little shit, and you let Alexei carry you around like a sack of potatoes whenever he pleased. You gave affection like it cost nothing. And maybe it didn't. But to Bucky it cost everything. And now he wanted more. God help him, he wanted you.

It got worse the next day. You were still you - sunlight in human form, skipping around the tower in mismatched socks, humming a tune no one recognized.

You found Bucky in the kitchen, your hair a little damp from a shower, eyes sleepy. ''Hi, soldier,'' you said, bumping your shoulder gently into his arm. ''How are your feet after that dance? Did I bruise you?''

He blinked at you. Then blinked again. Because you were wearing his shirt. Not like, his shirt - but the same Henley brand he wore all the time, one of those oversized soft cotton ones in a color that made his brain hiccup. And he couldn't breathe.

''I-fine,'' he croaked. ''You didn't. I mean. It was fine.''

You beamed. ''Good. Then you can dance some more with me next time.''

He nodded dumbly.

You reached for the cereal box above him, your arm brushing across his chest. He flinched, but not away, from surprise. From the way even the most accidental contact with you lit him up from the inside. You poured a bowl, hummed again, and wandered off like you hadn't just leveled his entire nervous system with a smile.

Later he sat on the couch while you tangled yourself into a pile with Bob and Yelena. Legs over laps, arms slung around shoulders. Bob played with your fingers absentmindedly while Yelena used your stomach as a pillow. You were laughing at something stupid Bob said, glowing with ease, and Bucky watched.

Not like a creep. Just like a man trying not to fall apart. Because every time you touched someone else, something in his twisted. Not jealousy, not quite, just a raw aching hunger.

You're not mine to touch, he reminded himself. You weren't. But God, he wanted to be yours.

And the team noticed. Not loudly. Not with teasing. But they saw.

Yelena caught him watching you over the edge of his book. She didn't say anything, just raised an eyebrow when he looked away too fast and pretended to care about page 62. Bob lingered in the kitchen one morning and passed Bucky a mug of coffee with a quiet, ''You know, she really likes it when people play with her hair without asking first.'' Bucky nearly broke the mug. Alexei gave him a firm, understanding nod once when he caught him staring at you. Didn't say a word just nodded like a man who'd once been there and survived it. And Ava? She said it best.

''Don't rush him,'' she told John one afternoon when the he scoffed at Bucky choosing to sit beside you instead of his usual armchair.

''I'm not rushing him,'' John snapped, adjusting his sunglasses. ''I'm just saying - either kiss her or don't, Barnes. This isn't high school.''

Ava, who had been watching you patiently teach Alexei how to play Go Fish, shook her head. ''She doesn't know,'' she said softly.

John scoffed again. ''She's not blind. She kisses that man on the cheek like it's a Hallmark movie.''

''She kisses everyone. But she's patient with him. Slower. Gentler. More careful. And I don't think she even realizes it.''

John looked unconvinced. ''She's affectionate with everyone.''

''Yes,'' Ava said. ''But she waits for Bucky. She reads him. She's been loving him in a language he can understand.

That shut John up for a full three seconds. ''...Disgusting,'' he muttered. ''You should write poetry or something.''

Ava only smiled.

It was a rooftop night. Cool breeze, blankets, and pizza boxes spread out across mismatched furniture like a half-hearted picnic.

You were leaning over Bob's arm, laughing too hard at something Ava said, and Bucky was trying very hard not to be annihilated by it. You wore shorts and an old hoodie that definitely wasn't yours, hair pulled up with strands curling at your temples. Your bare legs were tangled over Bob's your hand casually resting on his chest while you picked a fight with Alexei about movie trivia.

No one else thought twice about it. They were used to you - your sunshine, your warmth, the way you radiated affection like a second skin. It was just you, untamed and fearless. But Bucky? You were shattering him. Every time you laughed at Bob's stupid joke, every time you reached over to adjust John's hoodie string, or brushed Yelena's hair behind her ear. Every time your eyes sparkled and your hand stayed just a second longer than strictly necessary... it burned.

And it wasn't jealousy. It was a need. Please look at me like that. Please lean your weight against me. Please laugh into my chest. Please, please, choose me, without even realizing it.

The ache was getting harder to hide. He'd tried. God, he'd tried. He still sat closer to you now. Still let you rest your head on his shoulder sometimes. Still awkwardly and terribly braided your hair when you asked. But there were limits he didn't know how to cross. Like now.

When you leaned over Bob and mock-whispered something into his ear, giggling when he gasped and dramatically clutched his heart, pretending to faint. It was nothing. A joke. But Bucky felt it like a sucker punch to the ribs. And you didn't even notice.

''You okay?'' Ava murmyred from beside him.

He didn't look at her. ''Fine.''

She didn't push. She never did. Just handed him a beer and let the silence fill in what he couldn't say.

I'm not okay. I want to be the one she teases like that. I want her hand on my chest. Her eyes on me like I'm the reason she's smiling. I want-

He swallowed he cracked the beer open.

When the wind picked up and everyone started packing up, you wandered over to him. Hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, cheeks rosy from the cold. ''Hey, soldier,'' you said softly.

He looked at you, and God help him - he melted. You gave him that smile. The one that made his lungs forget what to do. The one that used to feel like sunshine but now felt like the slow pull of a tide trying to drown him.

''You looked a little quiet tonight,'' you said, gentle, concerned. ''Everything okay?''

He nodded too quickly. ''Yeah. Just tired.''

Your hand reached up, brushing a leaf from his shoulder. He froze. ''Okay. Well, if you need to not be okay sometime, you know I'm here, right?''

Do you know what you're doing to me? He wanted to ask. Wanted to grab your hand and keep it. Just hold on to something warm for once. But instead, he just nodded. And watched you walk away.

The rooftop cleared, but he stayed behind. Alone, now. Just him and the wind and the echo of your laugh in his ears. And for the first time, the truth didn't whisper. It roared.

I don't just want touch. I don't just want softness. I want her.

In and out. Secure the intel. Light resistance. It was supposed to be simple. It wasn't. And when the explosion went off - too close, too sudden - it was your name that ripped out of Bucky's throat. He didn't see the flash. Just felt the shockwave. And then you were gone from his side.

You weren't dead. You weren't even seriously hurt. Just thrown, bruised, scraped up where you'd hit the wall, comm crackling as you cursed and coughed and told them you were fine.

But Bucky wasn't. He couldn't breathe. His fingers wouldn't stop trembling on the trigger of his rifle. He kept his body moving, eyes scanning, instincts in full soldier mode. But his heart was gone, back there, with you.

He didn't remember finishing the mission. Didn't remember getting on the jet. Didn't remember sitting beside you in the medbay while a nurse patched you up, your voice stubborn and playful as always. What he remembered was the sound of the blast. And the way his entire world collapsed for a second.

He didn't talk on the ride back. You kept glancing at him, frown between your brows, but he didn't look at you. Couldn't He just sat with his hands clenched between his knees, eyes blank, jaw locked like he was holding back a scream. The others noticed, but they knew better than to push.

You knocked on his door that night. Three soft raps. No answer, but you opened it anyway.

Bucky was sitting on the floor beside his bed, back against the wall, breathing hard. Still in his gear. Dog tags clenched in one hand, shaking. He looked up... and shattered.

''You shouldn't be in here,'' he rasped.

You stepped in anyway, gently closing the door behind you.

He shook his head, almost violently. His breath hitched and he pressed his palm to his chest, like he could physically hold something in. ''I thought you were gone.''

You paused. And then moved closer, sinking to your knees in front of him. ''I wasn't.''

''I thought you were.'' His voice cracked. ''I saw that explosion and I thought-I thought-'' He couldn't finish. Just closed his eyes, chest heaving. And then he reached. Arms out. Not confident or practiced, but desperate. Like he couldn't stand another second not touching you.

You moved into the hug without hesitation, and he broke. He held you like a drowning man. Like you were oxygen and he hadn't breathed in weeks. His arms crushed you to him, face buried in your shoulder, fingers twisting into your hoodie like they were terrified you'd slip away again. It wasn't soft, or gentle. It was fierce. A hug with everything he couldn't say.

''I'm here,'' you whispered, hand smoothing up his spine. ''I'm okay.''

His voice was low and hoarse, almost childlike. ''I can't lose you.''

You froze, just for a second. Then melted against him, curling into his lap like you belonged there. You didn't speak. Didn't need to. Because you felt it, now. The weight in his arms, the panic, the relief, the need. You'd hugged Bucky before, but he had never held you like this. And something changed inside you. Because suddenly all the times he'd flinched away, all the walls he kept up - it all made sense. He was afraid of it. Afraid of needing it. Afraid of losing it.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. ''I'm not going anywhere,'' you said softly.

And his eyes- God, his eyes. Like he wanted so badly to believe you, but didn't know how. You cupped his cheek and pressed your forehead to his.

You didn't say anything else. Didn't have to. Because the next day, Bucky sat a little closer on the couch. He lingered when you leaned into him. And when you rested your head on his shoulder? He leaned back.

And you started giving him more. More of your touch, more of your time, more of you. And the others noticed.

It was a quiet change. Not a thunderclap, not a confession, just... little shifts. Like how you still curled against Bob during movie nights, but now your feet somehow always ended up in Bucky's lap. Or how you'd still lean into Yelena's side, tug on John's sleeve, braid Ava's hair while teasing Alexei - but Bucky was the one whose hand you reached for when you needed comfort.

And Bucky... God, Bucky was changing. Subtle things. To anyone else, probably invisible. But not to the team. He never flinched now. Not when you brushed your knee against his, not when you tossed a blanket over both of your legs. Not when your head dropped to his shoulder and stayed there through an entire episode of Jeopardy.

He even initiated things, once or twice. A hand on your back, a squeeze to your arm. The kind of touch that was casual from anyone else, but from Bucky Barnes? It was a goddamn declaration.

Ava watched the way Bucky's eyes always found you first. Not just when you entered a room, but when you laughed, when you moved, when you fell quiet. She saw it like a pulse - how in tune he was with you now. Like he was always listening for your heartbeat.

Alexei didn't understand it in so many words, but he stopped teasing Bucky about being grumpy. Just gave him a single, hearty slap on the back one afternoon and said, ''You are less haunted now. Good. Keep petting her hair, it seems to be working.''

Bob never said a damn thing. He just started sitting a little farther away during movie night, with a small, knowing smile.

John was the only one brave enough to ask: ''So... is this a thing now?'' and got and simultaneous death glare from Yelena and you that promptly shut him up for a week.

And Bucky felt it all. Not just your hands, not just the way your affection lingered now - longer hugs, softer looks, quiet touches that felt like they meant something. No. He felt the way you chose him. You still loved everyone. That hadn't changed. You were still sunshine, still chaos, still a tangle of hugs and shoulder squeezes and kisses on the cheeks and tangled limbs. But when it came to him? You were gentler. Like you were holding something sacred. And it made his heart ache in the most beautiful, terrifying way.

You never talked about it. But one night, when everyone else had wandered off, you padded up to Bucky's room and knocked twice. When he opened the door, you were already stepping in, hoodie sleeves over your hands, bare feet quiet on the floor. You didn't say anything. You just curled up next to him on the bed, on top of the blanket, side pressed to his - cheek on his shoulder. And Bucky wrapped his arm around without hesitation. Like he'd been waiting. And maybe he had. Because something had shifted. You weren't just affection now, or just comfort. You were something that scared the hell out of him. Something he wanted.

You and Bucky were in the common room long after everyone had gone to sleep, arguing about which of you could win in a game of ''sneak tag'' - a stupid version of hide-and-seek Alexei had invented with suspiciously complex rules and the very real possibility of someone getting a concussion.

You were giddy with exhaustion, barefoot and wrapped in a blanket like a cape. Bucky was stretched out on the rug, shirt untucked, hair messy, smiling that quiet way he didn't even realize he was doing now.

''You forget I used to rob people,'' you'd said, gesturing dramatically with a Snickers bar. ''I'm a ghost in socks. A phantom.''

''You tripped over a chair yesterday.''

''That chair moved, Barnes.''

He chuckled, and you decided then and there that the sound was your new favorite thing.

Somehow, between laughter and whispered trash talk, the game actually began. You set the timer. Ten minutes to sneak from one end of the tower to the other, tagging your opponent before they reached the kitchen. Simple.

Except Bucky was fast. And quiet. And probably cheating.

You darted through darkened corridors, ducked behind furniture, and nearly screamed when he appeared out of nowhere beside the elevator. He didn't tag you, just grinned - wild and sharp and boyish - and ran. You chased him like a storm. By the time you skidded into the kitchen and cornered him, breathless and flushed, your laughter was nearly silent. So was his. You had him trapped against the counter, both of you panting, noses inches apart in the dark. He was smiling. But his eyes were wide. Almost awed.

''You lost,'' you whispered.

''I let you win.''

''Liar.''

He didn't argue.

You were both still catching your breath when you looked at him. Really looked at him. The way the moonlight hit his face, the way his hair stuck to his forehead, the way his chest rose and fell like he'd just run through something much more dangerous than a hallway. And it hit you. How much you wanted him. Not affection, not comfort. Him.

And before your brain could catch up to your body - you kissed him. Soft. Barely more than a breath. Your lips pressed to his like a secret. Like a question you didn't mean to ask. And for one perfect second - he kissed you back. Then he blinked, and he was gone.  

No words. No anger. Just... retreat. Like he couldn't breathe. Like he had to escape before he shattered completely. And you were left in the quiet dark, your fingertips and lips still tingling from where you'd touched him.

You didn't sleep that night.

You knocked on his door at 7:04 a.m. No blanket, no jokes, just you.

The door opened slowly, and there he was. Hair wet from a shower, hoodie pulled on inside out, eyes tired - but calmer.

''I'm sorry,'' you said, voice small. He stared at you. ''I didn't mean to do that. I mean- I did, but I didn't think, and you panicked, and I get, I just-''

''Don't apologize.''

Your mouth snapped shut. Bucky stepped back, letting you in.

''I wasn't mad,'' he said softly. ''Just... scared.''

You nodded, stepping inside. ''I know.''

''I didn't want to run.''

''I know.''

''I've just never wanted something this much and not known how to have it.''

You looked up at him, something tender folding open in your chest. And Bucky didn't think this time. He just moved. Closed the distance, tilted his head, and kissed you. Not soft. Not unsure. But with all the weight of what he'd been trying to hold in. Days, weeks, months of trying to bury a feeling that refused to die.

You melted into it, hands finding the collar of his hoodie, lips curving into the kiss even as his hand cupped the back of your neck like he was still afraid you'd slip away. But you didn't. You stayed.

And when you finally pulled back, both of you breathless, foreheads pressed together in the quiet...

He whispered, ''You didn't steal that kiss.''

You smiled. ''Did I not?''

''No,'' he murmured. ''I gave it to you.''

And just like that... Bucky Barnes stopped running.

[slutzforbueckers]

Paige x reader go ALL NIGHT. (Literally all night till like the fucking crack of dawn) It starts off with them taking honey packets as jokes but they realize that it hits them harder than they expected and they get rlly sensual qnd horny and it leads to the smut but like they do EVERYTHING in the book (this is actually filth and borderline insanity)

Ex: strap, oral, fingering,(both p&r receiving for all three), 69, scissoring, dirty talk- they go from bedroom, to kitchen, to counter, to living room, to the car, against the wall, to shower (it doesn’t have to be in this order)

all night long

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

warnings: smut smut smut smut

synopsis: you and paige take the viral honey packets—as a joke, of course— and you doubted its authenticity until you both couldn’t keep your hands off of each other.

a/n: anon i love you.

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

it started as a joke.

you and paige had went to the gas station on a late night snack run. paige had spotted them first, those little golden packets that had everyone in a chokehold. she had looked at you and you had looked at her, both sharing one thought. you grabbed two, quickly paid for your things and left.

now, you were siting in the driveway to your shared house. you sat with your back against the door, your leg pulled into the seat, watching paige watch you. you had taken the packets as soon as you got in the car from the gas station so that it would have kicked in by the time you got back home, and it did. honestly you were skeptical at first, thinking everyone had been exaggerating but you were starting to feel it.

"is it just me or..." you trailed off, shifting in your seat slightly. your body was starting to feel hot with need and paige looked extra good.

"nah, i feel it." she shook her head, her fingers curling into the fabric of her shorts. your eyes followed the movement, watching as the veins in her hand popped. the air was thick as you both waited for the other to make a move. it wasn't long before you did.

"push your seat back."

paige didn't have to be told twice. she pushed her seat back as far as it would go and you climbed into her lap, crashing your lips into hers without a care in the world. her hands found your ass almost immediately, fingers pressing into your flesh like she couldn’t get enough—which, she couldn’t. the way you kissed was nothing short of filthy—tongues fighting for dominance, teeth clashing, hands roaming. your teeth grazed her bottom lip, sucking it into your mouth hard enough to make her moan.

"i want you," you breathed against her mouth, voice low and desperate. "right now, paige."

“take me. right here, right now.” she couldn’t hide her desperation, she couldn't deny you, not when she was already soaked in her boxers. your hands roamed up her hoodie as you moved down, lowering onto your knees in the drivers seat. it was a tight fit but you couldn't care less, you only had one goal in mind and that was tasting her.

you yanked her shorts and boxers down both in one swift motion your hands immediately spread her thighs and you couldn't help but moan looking at how wet she already was. you leaned in without hesitation, dragging your tongue flat through her folds, humming as her slick coated your tongue. paiges head fell back with a soft thud, a breathy whimper escaping her lips as her hips twitched.

her body was on fire, everything seemed ten times more intense, and she was loving every second of it. paige's hands found their way to your head, she looked down at you as she gathered your hair into a makeshift ponytail. you wrapped your lips around her clit, sucking just enough to make her hips jerk up.

"holy shit—" she whined. the car was starting to get hot, the windows fogging up slightly. paige tugged your head closer, if that was even possible, her hips starting to grind into your mouth as she chased that high. you focused on her clit, flicking your tongue fast, then slow, then fast again, sucking it into your mouth with just the right amount of pressure.

one of your hands slid down to tease her entrance, fingers slick with her arousal as you circled around before pushing two inside her. the way she gasped made you clench around nothing.

“fuck, baby, i’m gonna—” she didn’t even finish the sentence before her thighs clamped around your head, back arching as she came hard on your mouth, crying out your name.

you didn’t stop until she was twitching and begging—literally begging—for you to slow down. you pulled back with a slick-covered smile, licking her off your lips like you were savoring dessert. paige slumped into the seat, her arm coming up to rest over her eyes, chest rising and falling heavily.

she let out a small moan as looked down at you, a fucked out expression on your face just from eating her out. "in the house. now."

you barely made it inside the front door before she was pushing you against the nearest wall, pressing her body flush against yours as she kissed you like she needed it to breath. your hand rested on the back of her head, fingers curled into her blonde hair.

paige pulled away so she could pull your shirt over your head, then dropped to her knees like a woman possessed. her fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts and she yanked them down, your panties going with them. you stepped out of them blindly, chest heaving from the way she looked at you—lips swollen, pupils blown, jaw tight with need.

“you’re so fucking wet already,” she muttered as she lifted your leg and placed it over her shoulder, her eyes zeroing in on your glistening cunt. she dragged her fingers through your folds, spreading you open. “you got this wet just from making me cum?”

you whimpered, nodding your head and pressing yourself against the wall for support. “yes—yes, fuck i love it.”

her mouth was on you in a second— hot, relentless, like her entire purpose in life was to make you cum on her tongue. her tongue slid through your folds with slow, deliberate pressure before she zeroed in on your lit, sucking it into her mouth hard enough to make your thighs shake. you slapped a hand against the wall behind you, the other flying to her hair as your hips jerked forward, desperate to feel more.

"oh my god- fuck baby, you're so good at that, don't stop."

she moaned into you like you were her favorite meal, and in a way you were. her tongue flicked and swirled, lips locking around your clit as two fingers slid into you without earning, deep and fast. you cried out, eyes rolling back as she curled them just right, hitting that spot that made your whole body react, that made your head spin.

"god, you taste so fucking good." her words vibrated against you and your hips jerked forward, fingers tightening in her hair as you gushed around her fingers. the sound your cunt was making as she fucked you with her fingers was obscene, loud and filthy in a way that had your stomach tightening.

you couldn't think, couldn't breathe—all you could do was grind into her mouth, chasing her fingers with reckless abandon. your head fell back against the wall and your stomach tightened. paige ran her hands up your thighs, circling around your hips and grabbing your ass. her fingers pressed into your flesh as she pulled you against her mouth, flattening her tongue on your clit and shaking her head.

“you’re gonna make me cum, paige. don’t stop—yes yes yes—“ you voice went up an octave as you nearly screamed, your back arching off the wall as your thighs shook with the force of your orgasm. paige fucked you through it, moaning against your clit, still curling her fingers against that sweet spot.

“damn,” you exhaled shakily when paige pulled her fingers out, you looked down at her with low eyes. paige chuckled as she lowered your leg from her shoulder, pressing one last kiss to your clit before standing up. her mouth and chin were glistening and she pressed her forehead against yours, letting your rapid breaths mingle.

"didn't think it would really work but..." paige trailed off, her slick fingers grazing your hip. "i really wanna fuck you on every surface of this house."

"so do it." you whispered. paige didn't have to be told twice. her lips were on yours within the second, her hands grasping at your hips as she pulled you off the wall. you wrapped your arm around her neck and kissed her back harder, moaning into her mouth as she slipped her tongue past your lips.

paige walked you towards the living room, bumping into the side table which made you both laugh. paige pulled away so she could direct you to the couch without tripping over anything—you took the chance to litter kisses down her jaw. once you felt the back of your legs hit the cushions you twisted around and pushed her down.

“take your clothes off.” you demanded, reaching behind you to unhook your bra and letting it fall off your shoulders. paige quickly pulled her hoodie off, revealing her bare chest underneath, and pushed her shorts and boxers off in one swift motion. she laid back and you climbed on top, slotting your legs between hers so your cunt pressed against hers.

paige’s hands found your hips as she guided your movements, her lips parting. she couldn’t take her eyes away from where your bodies met, she was entranced. you rolled your hips just right, your clit catching hers perfectly.

“you feel that?” you whispered, your voice low and dark as your hips rolled forward again, dragging your pussy against hers with a sticky, obscene sound. “you’re so wet for me, paige. god.”

her head fell back with a moan, breathless and desperate. “f-fuck. that shit is insane, I—” she grabbed your hips tight, guiding your grind as her voice dropped into a groan. “you’re fucking dripping. keep going, baby. don’t stop.”

you didn’t, you couldn’t, not when it felt that good. you pressed your forehead to hers and started moving harder, faster, rocking your hips in a rhythm that had both of you panting. the slick heat of her cunt against yours, the tension building fast—your thighs were already shaking. paige hips jerked up to meet yours, the added pressure causing moan after moan to fall from your lips.

paiges hands fell to your ass and she began pulling you against her harder, her breath coming out in short, sharp gasps. the house was quiet, the only thing heard was the sound of your moans and the squelch of your cunts pressed against each other. you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth as you looked down at her, watching each jab of pleasure shoot across her facial expressions.

pressing your lips against hers, you moaned into her mouth—a high pitched whine that had her slapping your ass. she could tell you were close, the way your hips stuttered and lost their rhythm being a tell sign.

"cum for me, pretty. let me feel it." she muttered against your lips, using her grip on your ass to pick up the slack. you dropped your head onto her shoulder, your breathing hot and heavy.

all you could do was moan, that knot in your stomach slowly starting to unravel. there wasn't a thought in your head, no other than how good she felt. the couch creaked from how hard you were grinding against each other, you wouldn't be surprised if by the end of the night you were searching for a new couch.

you didn't warn her that you were going to cum, there was no need, she could feel it coming. your clits dragged over each other, swollen and slick, wetness coating both of your thighs. you rolled your hips again, harder, and it was over. you kissed her, messy and care free, as your orgasm rocked through your body.

"paige," you mewled, tears welling in your eyes as she kept up the same hard pace. you could feel the pricks of overstimulation settling in your skin and somehow it still wasn't enough.

"i'm almost there—fuck, ma, keep going." her voice cracked and her grip on you tightened, trying to hold you there as her hips bucked up wildly. you kissed her again, moaning because you could feel yourself tumbling into another orgasm.

her back arched, thighs trembling, eyes shutting tight as she came with a loud groan, soaking your thighs as she clung to you. your whole body trembled as your cunt throbbed against hers, soaked and messy. you collapsed on top of her, both of you gasping, legs tangled, sweat-slicked skin sliding together.

“holy fuck,” you heaved.

neither of you spoke for a moment, just trying to catch your breath and come down. one of paiges hands traced lazy circles on your back, the other was tangled in your hair.

a minute passed and paige swallowed, voice hoarse as she finally broke the silence. “is it bad i still want more?”

you laughed, lifting yourself up and planting your hands on her chest.

“would it also be bad if i agreed?”

it was past 5 am now, and you and paige were still going.

your legs were wrapped around her waist, ankles locked behind her back to keep her in place. her hips moved at an impossible pace, hard and fast. your moans flowed straight from your mouth to her ears, the sound a beautiful melody she adored.

paige pressed wet, open-mouthed kissed to your neck down to your shoulder, each one leaving behind a faint sting—the kind that made your toes curl and your walls flutter around the strap she was fucking you with. her hands gripped your thighs tightly, pressing you open as she rocked her hips into yours like she was trying to live inside you.

"you take me so good," she groaned against your skin, her voice low, rough with need. "always so good for me."

you could barely speak—your throat was raw from moaning, begging, crying out her name again and again. every drag of the strap against your walls make your stomach clench and your legs twitch, you clung to her shoulders, nails digging into her back as you buried your face into her neck.

“paige—fuck, i-i can’t—” your hips jerked up to meet her thrusts, a broken sob tearing from your throat. she adjusted her angle, pulled back just enough to slam into you deeper, harder, the base of the strap grinding perfectly against her clit with every thrust. the sound of wet skin slapping filled the room, joined by the thud of the bed frame hitting the wall and the desperate sounds leaving your mouth.

“i’m gonna cum,” you whimpered, voice cracking. “fuck, paige—I’m gonna—”

“cum for me,” she demanded, one hand flying up to press against your throat—not tight, just enough to make your breath hitch. “cum on my cock, baby. let me feel you.”

your back arched as you shattered beneath her, legs locked tight around her waist, eyes rolling back as you came hard, soaking her strap and your thighs all over again. you fell back against the pillows with a loud breath, feeling like the wind had just been knocked from your lungs. you felt paige move off of you and you opened your eyes, blinking up at her in a daze.

"wanna fuck you now." you muttered, sitting up and reaching for the the strap. paige handed over the harness and you fastened it around your hips. once you had it tightened to your fit, paige crawled into your lap, bitting her lip as she hovered over the strap. she wrapped her hand around the strap and cursed under her breath as she could feel your cum still dripping off the silicon.

you leaned back and watched as she slowly lowered herself onto the strap, small whimpers leaving her mouth as she felt the stretch. paige gasped as she bottomed out, her lips parting, hands flying to hold onto your shoulders for stability.

paige started to move, slowly at first, the strap slipping in and out with ease from how wet everything was. your hands found her hips, guiding her movements. her fingers tangled in your hair, her mouth brushing against your cheek, your jaw, your neck. you kissed her shoulder, then down to her collarbone, each press of your lips pulling another soft sound from her.

then, you started to lift your hips in time with hers, thrusting up as she came down—each one sending a sharp bolt of pleasure through her body.

"oh my—fuck, baby. feels so good." she moaned, her head falling onto your shoulder. you responded with a slow thrust upward, and she gasped, her back arching just enough for your hands to trace down her spine and squeeze her ass, guiding her pace. she started to move faster, grinding harder, her thighs flexing around you.

her orgasm was building fast, thanks to all the ones she had before, her body buzzed with overwhelming pleasure. the slick sound of the strap sliding into her filled the room, punctuated by the soft, broken cries she couldn’t hold back anymore. her nails dug into your back—not hard, but enough to ground herself.

you could tell she was close, evident in the way her moans increased, her pace faltering before picking back up faster and messier. she buried her face in your neck, her breath hot and uneven against your skin. “y/n,” she whimpered, voice high and trembling. “i’m—oh my god, i’m gonna—”

“i know, baby. let it go,” you whispered, your voice steady and low, right in her ear. you kept thrusting up into her, matching the roll of her hips. paige cried out, her whole body seizing up as wave after wave of pleasure rocked through her. she held onto you like she might float away otherwise, her thighs shaking around your hips as she rode it out. you slowed your thrusts, just enough to keep her whimpering, keep her grounded while her orgasm surged, leaving her gasping against you.

paige lifted herself up, wincing at the feeling of emptiness, and fell onto the bed beside you. you looked over at her and laughed at how fucked out she looked, her hair was a mess, skin flushed red, her chest still rising and falling unevenly.

"bro," she groaned, turning her head to the side to hide her face from you. you got off the bed and started to remove the harness from your hips. the room was thick with the smell of sex and sweat.

you climbed back onto the bed and onto her lap, leaning down and pressing your lips to her jawline then to the spot right under her ear. "still want more, p."

paige hummed and turned her head towards you, her hands finding your ass. "really?"

"mhm, i love getting you off." you muttered against her skin, ghosting your lips over her cheek before settling on her lips. you kissed her. once. twice. "you're so pretty when you cum."

your words made paige groan, her eyes fluttering for a second. she tugged you up her body, your wet cunt sliding across her abs. "i want you to sit on my face. like right now."

you smiled against her lips and lifted yourself up, turning around and carefully moving back until you hovered over her face. paige didn't waste a second, her eyes landed on your pussy and she grabbed your waist, tugging you down until her tongue was flat against you. a soft gasp fell from your lips as she immediately went to work.

your hips grinder down against her mouth and then you were leaning forward, hands separating her thighs so you could taste her. the second your tongue found her clit she jerked under you, her thighs twitching as she drew her legs up and planted her feet on the bed.

at the same time, you felt her tongue flick against you, soft and hot, and you moaned, hips jolting forward instinctively. paige held you steady with both hands on your ass, guiding your hips against her mouth as she licked deeper, messier, somehow hungrier. you moaned into her, the vibrations making her whimper beneath you.

it was electric—somewhat a push and pull between your mouths, the slick, obscene rhythm that built faster each time your tongues stroked and circled and pressed. you rocked against her face with purpose now, matching every pulse of her mouth with a deeper lick of your own, determined to draw every sound out of her you could.

her hips were bucking now, trying to meet your tongue, and you held her steady, fingers digging into her thighs as you flattened your tongue against her, slow then fast then slow again—right until you felt her body start to tremble. she moaned against your pussy, long and guttural, and the sound of it dragged you closer to the edge too.

you felt her body tense beneath you, her thighs trembling, her breaths turning into helpless little whimpers as your tongue never relented. you knew she was close and you didn’t let up for a second. you circled her clit with slow, deliberate pressure, then sucked, and that was it. paige’s cry was muffled beneath you as she came hard, her entire body jolting beneath your mouth. you didn’t stop—kept licking her through it, feeling her hips jerk with every wave crashing over her.

her fingers dug into your ass, holding you in place as her moans vibrated directly against your clit—that alone had you spiraling. your thighs clenched around her head as you let out a strangled moan, hips grinding desperately down onto her mouth. she met you with everything she had—tongue flicking, licking, sucking until your vision blurred. you came with a loud, shaking gasp, your whole body shuddering above her, thighs locking around her head as your orgasm rolled through you in pulsing waves.

your hands gripped her legs for stability, and she kept going, gently this time, easing you down from the peak while you whimpered and panted above her. eventually, you slumped forward, your lips finding the inside of her thigh, pressing slow kisses into her skin as you both tried to breathe again. her hands rubbed soothing circles into the back of your thighs, her touch still tender, even after all that.

you lifted yourself off her with care, then collapsed beside her, your arm and leg draped across her. paiges eyes fluttered open, dazed but glowing. the room fell quiet except for your breathing, both of you tangled in each other. you laid there for a while, fingers tracing lazy shapes along paige’s waist, before you finally whispered, “i need water or i’m gonna die.”

paige let out a quiet laugh, her fingers gliding through your hair once more before she sat up. “go, before you die.”

you shoved her shoulder lightly at the sarcastic edge to her voice and slid off the bed. you picked up one of her t-shirts that laid messily on the floor and pulled it over your head. padding out of the bedroom, you made your way to the kitchen in the soft, low light, the floor cool beneath your bare feet. you grabbed a glass and filled it at the sink, leaning against the counter as you took a long sip.

you hummed in contentment as you took another sip, leaning against the counter. it was quiet until you heard the soft shuffle of feet approaching the kitchen. before you could turn, two arms were wrapping around your waist. paige was there, pressing her front against your back, hands trailing up your thighs and under your shirt.

“you look so good in my shirt,” she murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “too good.”

a shiver ran through your spine and you called her name with a small groan. “there’s no way that stuff is still working.”

“nah, das all you.” she whispered, her hand reaching up to move your hair aside so she could press kisses down the side of your neck. “i just need to feel you again. that okay, ma?”

you could only nod, hips already tilting back into her touch. she grinned against your skin and ran her hand up to your cunt. she slid two fingers between your folds, groaning when she felt just how soaked you still were. her fingers teased you for a second—gentle, slow—then she slipped them inside with practiced ease, curling just right.

your hand slammed against the counter for balance as your body arched into her. she kept one arm around your waist, holding you in place, as she thrust her fingers steadily—deep and slow, then faster as your moans grew louder. you set the glass of water down with a shaky hand and bent forward over the counter.

your thighs trembled as her pace picked up, the wet, lewd sounds filling the quiet kitchen. her other hand slid up to your breast beneath the shirt, fingers pinching your nipple lightly before rolling it between her fingers, pulling another moan from your throat. then she shifted, adjusting the angle—curling her fingers deeper, her palm dragging slightly over your clit as she moved. you nearly sobbed at the sensation, your knees weakening as her fingers brushed against that spot.

“shit, paige—right there,” you breathed, the words barely making it out before your body was overtaken by another wave of sensation. every little breath you let out—every twitch of your hips, every whimper—only spurred her on. paige kissed along your shoulder blade, trailing her mouth across the back of your neck, her breathing heavy and quick against your skin.

she ran her free hand over your hip, her fingers curling into your skin as she pulled your body back into hers. “let me hear you, baby. let go.”

you cried out—no control left as your orgasm crashed over you, your muscles tensing so hard your knees nearly buckled. paige didn’t stop, just fucked you through it, holding you steady with a hand on your hip. your hips jerked, oversensitive, and she finally slowed—fingers still inside, but easing the rhythm now, drawing out every last pulse until you collapsed forward against the counter, gasping for breath. she kissed the back of your head, then down your spine.

“i’ll meet you in the shower, yeah?”

a moment later, you followed her into the bathroom, steam already clouding in the air. the sound of running water filled the space, and paige stood beneath it, back arched slightly, eyes closed as the water poured over her. you stepped in behind her, the heat wrapping around you instantly.

your hands found her waist, and she let out a soft sigh, leaning back into you. you kissed the slope of her shoulder, trailing your mouth up her neck before whispering, “sit down.”

she dropped onto the built-in bench with no hesitation, legs spreading just enough to let you settle between them. her gaze met yours—half-lidded, already heavy with want. you kissed her thigh first, a gentle kiss before you pressed your lips to her swollen clit. you took your time—a teasing lick, a kiss. paige let out a quiet whimper when you blew on your clit, her hips shifting forward.

you flattened your tongue and licked a long, slow stripe through her folds, groaning against her as the taste of her spread across your tongue. paige gasped, hips twitching beneath your hands, her thighs tightening around your shoulders as you did it again, and again. your tongue circled her clit, then flicked softly, teasing just enough to make her whimper. you moaned into her, the vibrations making her twitch and gasp, her fingers finding your hair.

“fuck— baby, please…” she breathed, voice trembling as she pulled your head further into her cunt. you slipped two fingers inside her at the same time, curling upward slowly until her hips jumped. her walls clenched around you, wet and throbbing, and you fucked her with your fingers as your mouth kept working her clit.

she started falling apart fast, head tilted back against the tile, chest rising and falling with every shaky breath. you felt it in her thighs, in the way her hand couldn’t stop trembling in your hair, in the sharp, desperate sounds leaving her lips.

“oh my god—don’t stop, don’t stop—” she cried out, her legs tightening around you, her whole body lifting off the seat as she chased it. you didn’t let up, fingers thrusting deep, your mouth locked around her clit until she broke with a cry, her entire body shuddering with the force of her orgasm. her hips bucked, back arching, voice whiny and ragged as she came hard on your tongue.

you moaned at the taste of her and pulled away from her cunt, a string of both her cum and your saliva keeping your lips connected to her pussy. you slowed your fingers to a stop and placed them in your mouth, holding her gaze the entire time. paige watched with low eyes as you cleaned her off your fingers, a low groan falling from her lips. she pulled you up and kissed you—hard.

“we’re so doing that again.”

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

[neigepomme]

˙ ✩°˖ ✈️ bulking szn / caleb x reader

synopsis; who knew your lovely and insanely strong boyfriend could get even more muscular — even more sexy. gotta thank bulking season for that!

⋆ 800 words / suggestive (NSFW) / fem reader / 2nd person

caleb's hot. he's been hot.

you know that, and everyone around you knows that — it's almost become a running joke how he gets stares from everyone when he's out and about.

what you didn't know is that he could get even more attractive. who could blame you, though? he looks like he inspired michelangelo's david — and he can get hotter? now that's just plain greedy. except it's happening, and all you can do is stare at him more than usual.

and here was your greek god of a boyfriend standing in the kitchen, preparing his protein shake. sitting at the kitchen island with your chin resting on your hand, you were staring at him, ogling him. his arms looked so good. how would they feel around your neck, you wondered — but your daydreams had to be cut short by the sound of a refrigerator door closing loudly.

"you know baby, a picture might last you longer. i can feel your eyes on me, and i'm not even facing you."

"mmh, i'm just not used to this whole," you make vague gestures in the air, "bulking thing. gotta stare and memorize it."

he laughs, and you keep on openly admiring him. when he mentioned that he'd be bulking soon, you just nodded, not entirely sure what that implied. the caleb you knew from your childhood and teenage years was strong, yes, but mostly athletic. this meatier, buffer version was new, but so, so, so welcome.

right now, his muscles weren't as defined as you were used to. he looked more.. soft. still as strong, but he seemed bigger — he could already dwarf you before, but now, it was way more serious. not only that, he's traded his looser shirtless tank tops for compression shirts, and it was such a delight for your eyes. his pecs looked bigger, and his back — his back. just a little more broad. just a hint more sexy. was it even legal to look that good?

but man, whenever you hugged him? it was like heaven held you in its embrace. the cherry on top of your very attractive (beef)cake. he was so much warmer too — caleb always ran hot. he's your personal heater during the winter months, but now? he was burning hot. or maybe is it just how you see him? who knows, honestly.

funniest thing about this situation, though? caleb knew you'd react like that upon seeing him get more buff, but he didn't know you'd be that affected by bulking season. he knew how much you enjoyed his physique, and bulking up in order to cut and get stronger and bigger than you, just seemed like a nice challenge. a good way to keep himself busy and please you.

there was one more thing though, way more challenging than keeping tracks of his macros in his new diet. you made it insanely difficult to keep his hands to himself. first, it was the staring. he was well aware that you couldn't really help yourself, he was there looking all handsome just for you. the half-lidded stares when he worked out, lingering glances at his arms and chest, bedroom eyes when he wore that compression shirt one size too small, were to be expected. the way you basically undressed him with your gaze occasionally made him flushed, but caleb couldn't even comment on it — he did the same to you practically daily.

and then came the physical touch.

caleb wasn't shy. he knew he looked attractive, and he knew that you found him attractive. he also knew you were touchy, but your touchiness increased tenfold when he started bulking, always poking and prodding at his body. a perpetually careful hand making goosebumps appear on his skin as you softly traced the lines of the veins on his arms. did you know what you were doing? or were you unconsciously exercising your right to touch his body as if it were yours to own. oh well, it basically was — he was your possession as much as you were his.

god, you made it so hard to hold back, though. caleb just wanted to manhandle you and show you that he wasn't just getting softer — his strength remained. he could still bend you whatever which way he pleased (and he knew you'd enjoy it), but he held back. he held back because after years of yearning, years of practiced patience, he knew the reward was worth it.

so caleb just kept on tolerating it. after all, bulking season wasn't over just yet — he could handle your hands roaming around a little more. three more weeks until he could show you his full potential.

you'd get your lovely buff caleb showing off his muscles for you, and in return, he'd get his even lovelier girlfriend underneath him and return all the physical touches he's been subjected to while bulking — he'll have you oh so pliant and responsive to his roughhousing in bed.

fair trade!

🍎 pomme's final notes — don't look at me too hard this is so self indulgent i just really like strong guys and i've been rewatching caleb content and his back is just. irresistible i'm gonna chew on him like those buff bear breads

[kazrz]

TEN YEARS TOO LATE ⛥ sirius black

ten years ago, bellatrix lestrange’s child was thrown onto your doorstep without warning. ten years later, you’re not sure if you’re living the life you’d wanted — but you do know that mattheo is your son, and no one else’s. [1.6k words]

TAGS: sirius is harry’s godfather, reader is a single mum to mattheo riddle, hurt/no comfort, angst, lovers to strangers/borderline enemies ngl, voldemort died after the first war, reader and sirius are both meanies

🐦‍⬛ — everyone say hi to my baby mattheo! I wrote this fic smiling and all but best believe I’ll never have a child in the future. too much work.

p.s. this fic is inspired by ‘he looks like his father’ by @/marauder-misprint! that fic changed lives and one of them was mine.

“He’s not your kid.”

You’ve endured many offensive questions about Mattheo’s parentage ever since you took him in. They sent you spiralling downward into the deepest depths of your mind, wondering why everyone needed to have their noses in your business. They made you second guess your parenting skills, doubting how you raised Mattheo and whether he truly is the boy you nurtured him to be.

While you weren’t normally so tongue-tied in these situations, it didn’t help that your old, repulsive Hogwarts fling was standing right before you — closer than he’d ever been in more than a decade — confidently claiming that your son wasn’t yours.

It was a huge, fucking relief that the kid had inherited his biological mother’s shamelessness.

Mattheo pushed past only a few irritated students and parents on his way to you. Sirius’ words were as clear as day to him. They ignited a flame that wasn’t known for its swift ceasing.

“Who are you to be the judge of that?” he gritted out, fingers clinging onto yours by habit. You smiled down at him, wrapping your arm around his shoulders. “Last I remembered Mum telling me, you ditched her after graduation and never reached out. You have no right to even be speaking to her.”

Your son’s words sizzled a hole into your heart. You hadn’t expected him to remember the measly details about a man who was irrelevant in his life. The last time you’d mentioned Sirius, Mattheo was merely five. He’d asked, “Mama, why don’t I have a dad?”

How could you not answer him?

Eighteen years ago, you would have laughed if someone said you’d be a single mother. Sixteen years ago, you would have laughed, along with Sirius, at the prospect of being parents.

Ten years ago, you held in your distaste for children and took in a three-year-old.

And you wouldn’t let the man who’d left your heart in pieces disregard the hard work you’d put in.

Sirius’ dry laugh left you clenching your teeth, hands itching to curl into fists and punch him square in the face. “Stay out of this, kid,” he snapped, not even bothering to glance at Mattheo.

You sent him a right hook straight to his chiseled jaw, hearing a soft crack sound at the impact.

Silence fell over the courtyard like a thick, suffocating blanket, but not before gasps echoed from every corner of the open space. Sirius held trembling fingers to his left jawbone, lips parted in absolute bewilderment. He stared off into the empty space beside Mattheo.

A few rustles sounded as someone shoved past students clad in their black robes. Harry froze, halting just before he ended up in the middle of the ongoing catfight.

A dazed Remus materialised from behind him, eyes widened as he took in the scene.

“YN,” the lanky man rasped, eyes flitting between you and his best mate. Sirius still had his hand pressed to the side of his insolent-looking face, but now he was glaring you down, brows virtually stitched together. “YN, you’re here.”

Mattheo tugged on your arm and you stepped back, the greater distance between you and your ex clearing the haze from your mind. You tried not to roll your eyes at Remus’ quite apparent observation.

“Yes, I am, Lupin.” The edge in your voice gave way to pure rancour, eyes hardening when Sirius righted himself with a groan. You had half the heart not to utter the next few words. “You’re not the only one with a child.”

By now, the prying eyes of passers-by had redirected somewhere else, no longer interested in your dispute with two of the Marauders.

Remus’ gaze lingered on Mattheo — his dark curls, his defined brows, his nose, the scar that marred his cheek intimidatingly. He looked close to nothing like you, save for his body language, graceful yet sharp, and his clothing choices, casual yet sophisticated.

Even if the kid wasn’t your blood, it was painfully blatant that he was raised by you.

The professor swallowed the lump in his throat. “Riddle’s yours?” The question was stupid, but he was too dumbfounded to think of another one.

Sirius groaned, running a hand down his face. You relished in seeing him wince at the pain that struck his jaw. Mattheo, on the other hand, seemed more than ready to rip him apart.

“You might wanna stop there, Moony, or she’ll have you puking out your guts,” Sirius sneered, the unfamiliar sound sending a tremble down Harry’s spine. His godfather had never been so agitated before. It might’ve just been your presence that irked him, given the woeful tone Sirius would adopt whenever he shared stories about your relationship back then.

You couldn’t help the scoff that left your lips. “You wouldn’t know what it’s like to have someone claim your son isn’t really yours, would you? Because Harry isn’t your son. He’s your dead best friend’s son.”

A brief flicker of hurt crossed Sirius’ grey eyes. It tugged at your heartstrings, but you shoved the feeling aside. You had no compassion for him. He’d shattered you — how could you possibly go back to him?

Mattheo turned to you with a plea in his eyes. While he normally would contribute with some snarky comments of his own, he didn’t want you getting into a brawl. Especially when this was the topic at hand.

“Mum,” he tried, voice firm but holding a semblance of vulnerability he’d only ever show around you. “Don’t do this. He’s not worth it.”

At that, Sirius whipped out his wand and jabbed at your chest with the tip. Mattheo almost broke the man’s ribs, but you pushed him aside before he could get caught in the altercation.

The former Gryffindor looked nearly like a rabid dog with the way he snarled and growled, wand tip digging painfully into your collarbone.

“Not worth it? That’s what I was to you? What you told your son I was?” His voice sank deeper than the depths of the ocean. Harry didn’t recognise the man who looked like his godfather.

You gripped his wand tight, nearly snapping it in two if Sirius hadn’t yanked it away harshly. “The moment you abandoned me on my own doorstep, you became a stranger!” you raged, keeping your volume in check before another crowd formed. “When you didn’t call, or even send a bloody letter, I gave up waiting on you. What could I do? Cry all night because you weren’t there to hug me? Trudge around my house blindfolded because everything reminded me of you? I knew better than that. I moved away, and you weren’t there to stop me. So why are you here now, claiming my kid isn’t mine and acting offended that he thinks you’re of no worth to me?”

Mattheo held his breath when you spat the words you’d been holding in for years. He knew you were tenacious and resolute in all your glory, but he’d never witnessed you so livid. He had little to no knowledge of how Sirius had left you so wounded and exposed, though now, your words began assembling the puzzle pieces he’d collected over the years.

He noticed whenever you stopped for a moment, looking longingly at an object that meant nothing to him, but a lot more to you. You would sometimes, subconsciously, style his hair differently when it grew too long. Right now, as he glanced between you and Sirius with his waves, he realised why.

“Seriously, Sirius?” He heard the crack in your voice when your ex didn’t respond. Out of guilt or fury, he didn’t know. “You made your decision, and I have made mine.”

You shoved the dark-haired man off of you, causing him to stumble backwards and lose his footing. Remus darted forwards, barely managing to catch Sirius in his arms, sparing him from the unforgiving impact of the ground. Hushed whispers were exchanged as the latter righted himself, sending you a glare while holding his injured jaw.

It was only after a quiet, indignant huff that you turned to your son and placed benign hands on his shoulders.

Leaning down slightly, you brushed a stray hair away from Mattheo’s forehead, smiling as tenderly as you could. “Are you ready to leave, Theo?” you murmured sweetly, a stark contrast to your previous bite. The sudden shift in tone induced whiplash.

Mattheo flashed a charming grin that reminded Remus of your own. Whatever Sirius had said about the Slytherin boy not being your son was possibly the most erroneous statement ever uttered.

You mirrored his expression, though yours was gentler and didn’t reach your eyes. Your son’s enthusiasm flickered for a moment, but when you stood to your full height and led him away, Mattheo began cheerfully rambling about the recent happenings at Hogwarts and his own escapades.

Sirius couldn’t believe that he’d just seen you for the first time in more than a decade. He especially couldn’t fathom the fact that it had gone terribly.

He shouldn’t have said Mattheo wasn’t your kid. That isn’t something you say to your ex you’ve been thinking about for sixteen years after you ditched her. Now that he’d put it that way, he realised how horribly he had acted towards you and your son.

Your son. It was a foreign term to him, principally when it came to you. The you he’d known in Hogwarts had an unyielding repugnance for children. But, he figured, you were really only averse to the toddlers who didn’t listen. You must have raised Mattheo well.

“That was awful,” Harry quipped, raising an eyebrow at his godfather. Sirius groaned, dragging a hand down his face and wincing when his jaw decided it was too much.

He sighed, brows stitched together. “I know.” But what did it matter?

Remus patted him on the back. “If you’re lucky, you might see her again,” he reassured his friend, though skepticism snuck between his words.

“If she even wants to see me again.”

Harry had a feeling that you didn’t.

navigation ⛥ sirius black

[artemisiasmuse]

rafe cameron x fem!reader

this one is for the boys in the polos… he just gotta give me that look, when he give me that look then the panties comin' off

or reader is kinda tipsy and rafe looks a little too good in a black polo (3.1k)

cw: 18+ mdni, p in v, tipsy reader, possessive and a bit obssesive rafe but that’s expected, starts off with reader down bad but he very quickly matches your freak <3, praise k!nk, size k!nk, he has to make it fit :>, sweat k!nk(?), no protection (wrap it up!), dumbification if u squint

the neon blue mixer you’d been drinking all night was tasting more and more like candy than anything else and you could tell it was finally having its intended effect. rafe had made sure you weren’t given anything hard, he didn’t want his baby to be too drunk before he could make his way over to you. you’d gotten to the party hours ago and you had scarcely seen your boyfriend, he was busy doing business. sure in the grand scheme of things it wasn’t that long since you spent most of your day together but when your friends’ conversation started becoming boring and your feet began to hurt you wanted nothing more than his strong arms supporting your weight. usually he’d be against your back, biceps curled at the side of your head while he held you close. the pout on your lips was beginning to feel impossible to remove and the pathetic sighs were increasing in frequency. if you didn’t see him soon enough you’d go looking for him, to hell with his wishes that you stay out of his business. you mumbled something about getting more to drink, your cup still practically full as you walked on your damned platform heels in search of your man.

as if he could sense your growing impatience rafe was making his way downstairs. he could probably find you with his eyes closed as he made his way down, watching your body move through the crowd, in that damned baby blue tank that you’d worn cause “it matched his eyes”. he loved how you looked in it but hated that everyone else probably did too, especially since you sacrificed a bra for it. there was a pout on your shiny lips, your arms crossed as you looked around, looked for him. he wasn’t any better. he’d been thinking about you the entire time you were apart, wishing he was fiddling with the hem of your shirt rather than dealing to idiot college students. he stepped into your space, you recognized his cologne before you could register his presence, the expensive and overwhelming scent somehow comforting you, a large hand clasped around your waist and turned your body towards him. and it was as if you could finally breathe you looked up at him, your shoulders dropping and with it the tension you hadn’t known you’d been holding. blue eyes softened as they met yours. he looked too good, you hadn’t seen him when he left, he’d headed out early while you got ready with the girls. low light and his tan skin against the black polo accentuated his features and muscles. your arms looped around his neck before you even spoke and rafe’s lips curled as he watched the frustration in your eyes be replaced with need. your big doe eyes looked up at him, slightly glazed over from your drink and something he shared. as you raised up, your shirt did the same and his thumb swiped against the soft skin of your stomach. just enough contact to make you melt even more.

“‘missed you.” your voice came out small, almost a whine. oh his poor baby. he leaned down, forehead resting against yours and he didn’t care what it looked like, he’d do anything for you. no one would fuck with him or you regardless. the pout was back on your lips and rafe hated it.

“sorry angel, let me make it up to you hmm?” his hands caressed your skin, distracting you from your frustration, and the soft squeeze of your waist thoroughly removed any doubts from your mind. with a slight nod to your head, rafe removed one hand, the other coming to rest on your lower back as he pulled away and led you two away. heads turned as rafe moved you through the party, a satisfied smile creeping onto your lips now that your boyfriend was by your side and rafe felt the same. he could finally relax.

when rafe decided you’d reached your destination he removed his hand. you were on the other side of the house now, there were less people around and an empty couch rafe pulled you onto. despite the room for three people, you were promptly pulled onto his lap, not that you minded, you would’ve ended up there anyway. you leaned your head back to face him, the only downside to being on his lap was not being able to stare at him properly. rafe chuckled at something you weren’t privy to, you didn’t know how transparent you were when you were drunk. it wasn’t even the alcohol anymore that had you in such a state, it was him. the smell of his cologne, his strong thighs under your own, the possessive curl of his arm around your middle, it all had you so far gone you couldn’t even notice his amusement. his hand came up to press a thumb against your lips, his large hand cradling your face easily. god he hated when you pouted, your pretty glossed lips looked so much better when they were smiling, laughing, and especially when they were around him. the cold metal of his ring pressed against your cheek and you shivered.

“hey i’m here now.” you nodded, grabbing his large hand with two of your own and pressing a sweet kiss to the thumb that had been trying to force your lips into a smile. your wide round eyes always gave away your true feelings, you were fine now but you wanted to give him some hell, and he’d let you. rafe smiled at your actions, always so damn adorable.

“yeah it’s just you look really good, kinda wish i could’ve had you all t’myself.” the air left his lungs at your boldness, he knew it was the alcohol making you so careless with your words, but it didn’t matter when he was finding it near impossible to control himself. you were back to looking at his chest, you could easily meet his eyes but no you were just drinking in how tight the polo looked on his arms, how broad his shoulders were, how even though the material was dark you could see his pecs stretching it out, his gold chain peeking through under the collar taunting you. god you needed to buy him more black shirts maybe even a size too small. rafe caught onto your gaze, you had hardly been subtle. his jaw clenched at the way your thighs shamelessly pressed together as if he couldn’t feel them move on his own. he’d had enough, his hand moving down the side of your body, tracing your curves as it landed its target, thick fingers digging into the plush of your thighs, this finally made you look up. this time his laugh was less comforting, you’d been caught. his lips were on yours in an instant, and the force of his kiss made you squirm on his lap, his hand slipping under your skirt and making you gasp. you tried to match his energy, his tongue swirling in your mouth, drool collecting on your tongue and you wanted more. the slight roll of your hips made rafe pull back abruptly, could you even feel how hard he was or were you that far gone? the hazy look in your eyes and slight drool slipping past your lips gave him his answer.

“get up.” he glared down at you, the blue being swallowed by black and you watched his jaw tick in impatience. your body warmed at the way he looked at you, not angry no he was desperate for you. you knew the feeling. you nodded dumbly, a smirk curling his lips as he stood unceremoniously, you stumbling to catch yourself. he would’ve laughed had he not been so pent up, offering a hand as he led you away with fervor. it wasn’t to his car though, no you were going deeper into the house. anticipation coiled in your stomach, your lace underwear drenched through at how forcefully rafe was acting with you. you almost tripped at how quickly he was moving, his long legs making it hard for you to keep up, he didn’t care. you wondered if it might have been better if he threw you over his shoulder at this point. the thought made you even dizzier. rafe tried every doorknob before one opened, an empty guest room that you were being ushered into.

“what are-“ rafe pushed you back gently onto the bed. your mind caught up to his actions, you thought you were going back home, you were supposed to be leaving. the way he was looking down at you, made your skin prick with heat, you’d be lucky if you made it out of this room alive. his arms caged you on either side of your head, veins protruding and muscles taut from tension. he was gonna make you start begging for it if he didn’t act soon.

“not making it home.” the gruff answer was all you could take, a desperate sound crawling up your throat as you fisted the material of his polo and pulled him into a kiss. sloppy and feverish, you were more so trying to consume him than kiss him and he gave in, groaning as you bit his lip hard. at least now he could finally get his hands under that scrap of fabric you called a skirt, tracing the edges of your laced panties as you gasped at the ghost of his touch. and just like that he had the upper hand again, he could feel your nipples pebbling against his chest and he didn’t bother removing his clothes, he knew you liked how he looked with them on anyway. instead he was shoving your legs open, looping one around his hips to make space for himself, drawing a gasp from your glossed lips.

“what do you mean-“ your wide eyes looked up at him, hands instinctively curling into the fabric of his polo. eyes dripping with need and adoration, he wished he could keep you by his side forever he felt so fucking stupid for leaving you in the first place. the way you looked at him made his heart break.

“need you now, fuck do you even know what you’re doing to me?” narrowed navy eyes glared down at you through long lashes, tearing your underwear and skirt down in one fluid motion, the cool air against your sticky cunt making you shiver. “gonna burn this, everyone can see your tits, pissing me off all night.” rafe shoved the blue tank top up your chest, your breasts recoiling and bouncing down to rest against your chest, nipples hard and tempting. mesmerized, rafe was thanking every deity that he was the only one fortunate to see you like this.

“rafey-“ a whine of his name was all it took for something in him to snap out of his trance, without warning your legs were being hoisted over his shoulders and he was unzipping his pants. he was painfully hard and you groaned at the feeling of his weepy tip pressing at your entrance, shaking your head furiously for him to continue. you knew it would hurt, rafe had to prep you before taking him but clearly neither of you could care at the moment. your poor cunt spasmed as he shoved his way in, being pushed out once or twice as you felt your walls spasm in pain at the intrusion, all the while getting wetter in a frustrating dichotomy. such a stretch you couldn’t help the whines leaving your lips, rafe was cursing under his breath at how fucking tight you were. when he finally slipped in he let out a sigh of relief, one he’d been holding since he left your side those few hours ago. your warm wet walls enveloped his tip, holding him tight like he’d ever even want to leave. you felt so good he couldn’t help but want to propose to you every time, he had to hold his tongue the first time you let him hit raw. his calloused thumb reached down to stroke your clit, jolting your body and making you grab onto his shoulders even tighter, trying to relax you so he could be all the way in.

“so fucking tight baby god you feel like a dream, never gonna leave you again.” he gritted the words out, your nails now scratching at his back as you tried to ground yourself. rafe pushed against every ring of resistance, bullying his way in and you felt a lump in your throat, panicked that it was somehow his tip. you could feel every vein, every curve molding your cunt to take him.

“s’too big.” you whined and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. a moment of reprieve from the way he was treating you.

“you can take it, you’re my good girl right?” you squirmed under him at the praise, cheeks puffing up as you huffed out a frustrated breath. you were so damn adorable, rafe fought the urge to bite you. you didn’t respond, continuing your fight to adjust to his size. “let me hear you baby, ‘missed your sweet voice.” his words came out low and sweet, an adoring lilt to his tone that you know he only reserved for you. a siren beckoning you to your demise.

“yes rafey, im yours.” you had barely processed what he said besides the praise, you were slowly adjusting to him and the pain was giving away to pleasure. your adoring, annoyingly accurate, boyfriend had angled you just right so his tip pressed right against your sweet spot. you could feel him hot and angry inside you, leaking precum adding to the mess between your thighs. you didn’t have any space left so all of your arousal was dripping down your crack, pooling on the sheets in an obscene puddle.

“fuckkk that’s right you’re mine.” the kiss he pressed against you was less desperate than yours, sweet and slow, like you had all the time in the world and maybe you did. the weight of his body pressing into yours to kiss you was a welcome one, calming your nerves and reminding you of home. when he pulled back his blue eyes stared into yours, creased at the ends from how he smiled at you, you felt shy all of a sudden, closing yours eyes as you smiled and nodded for him to move.

despite how badly he wanted to rail you into next week he started out slowly, fucking his length in and out of you until he didn’t have to push into you each time. “shouldn’t have looked at me like that pretty girl,” you were starting to grow feverish, he was purposefully missing where you needed him the most, moving too slowly to scratch your itch. his words finally caught up to you, realizing he wanted a response before he gave you what you wanted.

“l-like what?” the sweat running down his neck looked tempting, you wondered if you reached up would you be able to taste him, but that would prove difficult in your current position. rafe could see your hungry gaze trying to work something out, his dick twitching at how even now, when he was 9 inches deep you were still desperate for him. he’d made you like this he knew that, how could he blame his poor baby?

“like you are right now.” your eyes flickered up to meet his, you were caught once again. you didn’t care any more, he was yours and you were his.

“can’t help it-hah-black suits you.” rafe scoffed at your indignant response, ramming his hips a bit harder than he intended and making you cream around him. there was a white ring forming at his base and he’d make you clean it up after. by now he’d had enough, he couldn’t ignore how painfully hard he was much longer.

“blue suits you baby, but just mine.” his sentiment was a bit insane in hindsight, you should have recognized that but you didn’t really care when he slid all the way out and rammed into you. the bed shook from the force of his weight pressed down into yours and you screamed. you were guessing it was his name but it didn’t matter because the next few times it definitely was. rafe was fucking you mean and hard, your legs were far past his shoulders as he slammed his hips against yours his rip bruising your cervix and your g-spot every thrust. you were shaking after being filled by him and then being left empty, every time your body went into shock from the sensation. he chanted your name and a string of curses, drops of his sweat and a few tears mixing on your cheeks and falling into your mouth. the pressure building inside you felt like a dam ready to burst, your orgasm came abruptly, and rafe didn’t even slow down a bit when your walls spasmed around him, trying desperately to hold him still. your back arched and violent shivers ran down your spine at the sensation and subsequent overstimulation. smalls hands shoved his shoulders and it was useless when he had you close to a second orgasm in seconds, as an apology for the sting he pressed a kiss to your ankle between thrusts. the second orgasm was warm and fuzzy, your mind going a bit numb to the pleasure and you’d blame him for making you so cockdrunk if he teases you later for what you were about to do. rafe felt your tongue lick a long wet stripe along his jawline, his sweat salty on your tastebuds and you hummed at the taste. he was close to coming from that alone. a groan left his lips, rumbling deep through you, washing over you like a silent command.

“rafe come inside please.” he slowed down at your words, thinking he might just knock you up if you keep talking like that. with the mean mating press he had you in, it wouldn’t even be difficult.

“fuck want it to-ugh-drip down your legs for everyone to see huh?” you whined at his words, nodding furiously and he smiled down at you, proud of how equally unhinged you’d become. your wish was his command, after all. he drew you to another orgasm before driving his hips into you again and cumming into you, making sure every single drop was given to you. his hips flush against you, with no space for anything to slip out, effectively plugging you full. with the cloud of pleasure slowly drifting away you started to feel the aches in your body and between your legs. no one would see anything because you’d have to be carried out. he rolled off you, pulling your underwear up your legs and making sure his cum didn’t slip away from you, it felt so disgusting but you didn’t have the luxury to worry about that. you were more worried about how you felt like you’d been body slammed by a linebacker. rafe looked thoroughly fucked out, you wondered how bad you looked. he didn’t tell you that he’d have to fix your makeup before leaving the room.

“don’t think i can walk.” you turned towards him on the bed, pulling your shirt down which he watched unabashedly. instead of frowning or faking some kind of empathy, the fucker smiled.

“hell yeah” you shoved at him and he laughed, pulling you closer as if it were possible, your forehead pressed against his. “don’t worry baby i’ll carry you, plus you were kinda slowing me down anyways.” a roll of your eyes and a twitch of your lips told rafe that you’d be okay, he’d pamper you tomorrow and maybe fill you up again, and again, just to see how it would look like running down your legs. you’re the one who asked for it, how could he deprive his baby?

[melminli]

Pink Pony Club

summary - you weren't expecting much from your evening in a shitty bar, but then you saw a pretty woman sitting next to you.

pairing: cho hyun-ju x fem. reader

word count: 1.2k

contains: wlw, angst w/ comfort, fluff, a bit transphobia, pre squid game au

a/n: hyun-ju was my fav this season and i literally love her so much - she deserves the world and more😔💕

the request.

You looked bored at your drink while you caressed its round surface with your index finger. Your friends had finally managed to drag you to one of their favorite bars and, you didn't really enjoy being here, as you had expected since it was pretty, well - straight.

You were fine with it at first, when you all sat down at a table and just talked and laughed together. However, after a while a group of men sat down at your table - with everyone's permission, of course, but you still weren't the biggest fan of that decision. The only reason you didn't mind was that your friends seemed to be having a genuinely good time with the guys and that they weren't too bad. You still excused yourself from the table after a while, because one of them wouldn't stop subtly flirting with you even when did not hide your lack of interest. Sitting lonely at the bar counter wasn't too bad, you guessed.

I'll just finish my drink and then leave. You thought to yourself, still bored, and glanced subtly at the woman next to you after noticing how she seemed to be moving around quite nervously for a while. “Hey, are you alright?” you whispered to her in a soft voice after you moved closer to her side.

She returned your gaze slightly surprised and seemed to try to make herself even smaller after your attention was focused on her. “Ah, yes everything is fine. there is nothing to worry about…”

A few guys a little further away from you suddenly started to cackle ugly after she finished talking and you didn't miss how the woman next to you turned her eyes back to the counter - obviously feeling uncomfortable by what they were saying.

“Did you hear that voice? It's even deeper than yours!” he said to his friend, who only agreed with a shocked look on his face as he pointed his hand in your direction. “Come on man, that's not fair! Have you even seen how rugged that dude is? I mean you do realize that's not a real - you know…”

You took an annoyed breath as you looked across the room and bit your tongue to keep you from spitting in their hideous faces. Though, it was pretty hard to restrain yourself since you really wanted to. "Assholes.” you just uttered while staring at their heads with a hateful look, imagining them exploding.

“Just ignore them…” said the woman next to you with a gentle voice after noticing your reaction. “What they say doesn't bother me anyway.”

And even though she said that you knew it did because it always did. You returned your attention back to her and introduced yourself to her after taking the last sip of your drink. “And what's your name, pretty?”

She seemed to be caught off guard a little when she heard you say that. “Oh, ehm…” she stumbled a little over her words. “It's ehm Hyun-ju. My name is Hyun-ju.”

You smiled. “Pretty like you. It suits you.” you complimented her and noticed how the weird guys from the corner were still watching you. “Hey, do you want to get out of here?” you asked and were glad when she nodded. “Well, come with me, I know a good spot,” you told her and took her hand in yours.

You gently pulled her off the chair with you and led her out of the stuffy bar, feeling like you could breathe again when your nose met the fresh air. “I was really close to beating those guys up,” you told her as you walked hand in hand with her. Hyun-ju giggled lightly, as if it was hard for her to imagine you doing something like that. You looked at her in disbelief. “What, you don't believe me? I'm totally serious, really!”

She tried to hide her smile, but barely managed it. “No, I believe you.” she replied, but you weren't really convinced by her answer. You just hummed when you finally noticed the store. “Look there! I hope you're hungry, because this place makes the best japchea.” you told her happily while holding the door open for her because a long time had passed since you last went to this little restaurant.

Luckily, there weren't many people here at this time of day, so you managed to get a good seat for two. “Sorry, I didn't even ask if you wanted to eat japchea. They also have lots of other things if you want, my treat.” you winked at her and Hyun-ju noticed how you cuddled your hands against your cheeks, as if they were still warm from the alcohol.

“Thank you, but japchea is fine. I will trust your recommendation,” she replied shyly and watched as you shouted your order with two fingers in the air to the chef, who gave you an all-clear with his thumb. “They don't have a waiter here, so…” you explained, automatically putting your hand back on hers without really noticing.

Well, you didn't until Hyun-ju's eyes turned to it and it was only then that you realized you were probably being a little too handsy. “Oh, I'm sorry about that.” you quickly apologized when you quickly pulled your hand back. “I really didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable or anything, you're probably not even into other women?” you let the question hang in the air, while you simultaneously cursed yourself for even asking that.

Hyun-ju blinked slightly in surprise while she played nervously with her hair. You knew at that moment that you had fucked up and prevented yourself from showing your disappointment. Unknown to you, she was thinking about something entirely else right now. So she was flirting with me the whole time? I didn't even realize, how embarrassing. “Are…are you?” she asked tensely, almost slapping her hand over her face at her stupid question. Of course she is, she just said it.

You laughed lightly with one eyebrow raised. “Do I like women? Hell yeah.” you just said, finding it a little funny how she acted right now. cute.

Hyun-ju was used to attracting the attention of girls before starting her transition. She even had a few relationships with them and liked it, but dating was one of the many things that became more than just difficult for her after she officially came out. “I'm a trans woman,” she finally said, even though she knew that you knew.

You just leaned forward with a grin. She hadn't turned you down, that's all you cared about. “I know,” you said, watching how she shyly avoided your gaze while crossing her arms in front of her. “You don't have to hide. I meant it when i said that you're very pretty.”

Hyun-ju slowly met your gaze and this time it was her who initiated physical contact with you. She held your hand softly. “I think you're really pretty too,” she said, and at that moment, you were both pretty glad that you went to that shitty bar today, even if you'd never go there again.

[kysstar]

VAMPIRE!ATEEZ & THEIR FAVOURITE PLACE TO BITE | ATEEZ

pairing : : vampire!ateez x gn!reader

genre : : suggestive, maybe nsfw? idk

warnings : : suggestive content. i'd say mdni but yall wont listen so anygays

author's note : : these are just my headcanons! they may differ from yours, so don't take them srsly <3 this is smth new...idk if its good or not. but oh well 🤷🏻‍♀️ I did try to keep it gender neutral but lmk if I made a mistake!

KIM HONG JOONG : : collarbone

Collarbones are his obsession – sharp teeth grazing the delicate skin, just to watch you shiver.

Smirks against your skin before sinking in, whispering, "Right here, love. Just for me."

Takes his time—tracing veins with his tongue, teasing before the bite.

Straddling him? He loves it. Hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer.

"You're not going anywhere." Growls into your skin as he bites down, just hard enough to leave marks.

Likes watching your reaction—your head tilting back, hands clutching his shoulders.

Aftercare king. Presses soft kisses over the bite, thumb rubbing slow circles on your back.

"Did it hurt?" Smug, but his lips are gentle against the wound.

Lulls you into his arms after—"Rest, love. I'll take care of you."

PARK SEONG HWA : : inner wrist

Wrist kisses first, bite later. His lips brush over your pulse, teasing.

Locks eyes with you—deep, intense, waiting for you to give in.

Holds your wrist up like it's precious. Thumb tracing the veins, feeling your heartbeat quicken.

"Nervous?" Smirks, fangs barely grazing the skin.

Slow, deliberate bite. Just enough pain to make you gasp.

Doesn’t break eye contact. Watches every reaction, drinking in your expression as much as your blood.

Licks the wound after. A slow, sensual swipe of his tongue.

Keeps your hand in his. Fingers intertwining, grounding you.

"Mine." Murmured against your skin, almost reverent.

Pulls you into his arms after. "You're safe with me, darling."

JEONG YUN HO : : shoulder

Big hands, firm grip. Holds you in place like you might run (you won’t).

Nuzzles into your shoulder first. Soft kisses, playful bites before the real thing.

"Relax, I’ve got you." Voice low, reassuring—right before his fangs sink in.

Loves when you squirm. Arms wrapping around you tighter, pulling you closer.

Shoulder bites mean possession. His mark, right where everyone can see.

Growls when he drinks. A deep, satisfied sound that makes your knees weak.

Pulls back with blood on his lips. Licks them clean, eyes locked on you.

"Still with me?" Smirks, tilting your chin up so he can see your dazed expression.

Kisses over the wound. Soft now, almost apologetic.

Tucks you against his chest after.

KANG YEO SANG : : jawline

Holds your chin gently. Tilts your head just right, exposing the perfect spot.

Breath ghosts over your skin. Lets the anticipation build—he enjoys the way you shiver.

Soft-spoken but teasing. "Are you trembling for me?"

Starts with kisses. Traces behind your ear, down your jawline, slow and deliberate.

Bites when you least expect it. Sharp fangs sinking in right as you sigh into him.

One hand in your hair, the other at your waist. Keeping you steady as your body melts.

His lips linger. Tongue swiping over the wound, soothing and claiming.

Loves the little sounds you make. Smirks against your skin when he hears them.

"Perfect." Whispers it like a secret, thumb brushing over your cheek.

Pulls you close after. Tucks you against his chest, heartbeat steady beneath your ear. "You're mine, love."

CHOI SAN : : chest

Loves how sensitive you are. Smirks when you squirm under his touch.

Hands everywhere. One on your waist, the other teasing over your ribs before sliding up.

Kisses lower and lower. Lips dragging over your collarbone, down to the swell of your chest.

"Right here?" Teasing, fangs barely grazing before he bites down.

Moans into your skin. The taste, the way your body reacts—he’s obsessed.

Mouth stays on you. Licking, kissing, sucking—he’s not letting go anytime soon.

Loves marking you. Bruises, bites, anything to remind you he was there.

Eyes dark, wild. Looks up at you, lips swollen, breath heavy.

"So sweet." Smug, but his touch turns softer, more reverent.

Pulls you into his lap after. "Come here, need you close." Arms tight around you, like he’s never letting go.

SONG MIN GI : : hips

Big hands, firm grip. Fingers digging into your hips, keeping you still.

Loves how your breath hitches. Smirks when you realize where he’s about to bite.

Drags his lips over your hipbone first. Slow, teasing, savoring the moment.

"You’re shaking." Amused, his voice thick with satisfaction.

Bites down hard. Wants you to feel it, to remember exactly where his mark is.

Groans against your skin. The way you react drives him insane.

Leaves marks everywhere. Bruises, bites, anything to remind you who you belong to.

Loves the way your hips move. Whether you’re trying to escape or get closer, he’s holding you down.

Lifts you onto his lap after. Hands still gripping your waist, holding you like you’re his whole world.

Wraps you up in his arms. "I didn’t hurt you, did I?" Soft, worried, thumb rubbing circles on your waist.

JUNG WOO YOUNG : : inner thighs

Loves making you wait. Kisses up your leg so slowly, just to hear you whine.

Hands spreading your thighs apart. Holds you open, grinning when you try to close them.

"Ah ah, don’t run from me." Playful, but his grip tightens.

Nips at your skin first. Teasing bites, leaving little bruises before the real thing.

Bites down suddenly. Sharp, deep, right where you’re most sensitive.

Groans at the taste. Might even roll his hips against the bed like he’s feeling it too.

Lips and tongue work overtime. Kissing over the wound, licking up every drop.

Loves how shaky you get. Smirks up at you, eyes dark with mischief.

"You’re so cute like this." such a tease

Wraps you in his arms after. "C’mere, let me hold you." Presses lazy kisses wherever he can reach.

CHOI JONG HO : : neck

Strong grip. One hand at the back of your neck, the other firm on your waist—holding you still.

"Stay still for me." Voice low, commanding, but there’s a hint of teasing.

Brushes his lips over your pulse first. Feels your heartbeat racing under his mouth.

Lets you anticipate it. Breath warm against your skin, fangs barely grazing, waiting for you to beg.

Bites deep. No hesitation—he wants to feel you react, hear that sharp gasp.

Groans against your skin. Your taste? Addictive. He’s already craving more.

Holds you tighter when you squirm. "Told you, no running."

Kisses over the bite. Slow, soothing, but his tongue lingers.

"You’re mine now." Whispered against your skin, almost reverent.

Pulls you onto his lap after. "Stay here." Arms locked around you, unwilling to let go.

© kysstar

[jose996c]

Flicker of Recognition

Summery: Twenty years into the apocalypse, Joel Miller thought his soulmate was lost to the world. But a chance encounter changes everything, leading to an unexpected bond, hard-earned trust, and the hope of a life beyond survival.

Warnings: Soulmate au, apocalypse, fluff, infected, violence (gun), age-gap (reader is in her 30's), romance.

Paring: Joel Miller x f!reader

Word count: 4.4k

2023

The wind howled outside the crumbling house, whistling through broken windowpanes and cracks in the boarded-up walls. Rain tapped steadily against the glass like fingers drumming to be let in. Upstairs, in what used to be someone’s bedroom, Joel sat on the floor with his back against a sagging dresser, methodically cleaning his revolver by the light of a flickering lantern.

Across the room, Ellie lay curled in a dusty sleeping bag, thumbing through a battered comic book with pages softened from use. The silence between them was comfortable, familiar now — until Ellie broke it.

“You ever think about soulmates?”

Joel didn’t look up. “No.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, clearly expecting the answer. “C’mon. Everyone’s got one, don’t they? You’ve seen the marks. Can’t just be a coincidence.”

Joel kept working, slow and steady. The oil made his hands slick, but he didn’t mind the routine. It kept him grounded.

“Even now,” she went on, “twenty years after everything went to shit, people are still getting ‘em. I heard someone in a QZ say theirs showed up last year. Like... like the universe still cares.”

Joel’s jaw tensed. He set the revolver down with a soft clink, finally meeting her gaze.

“You had one, didn’t you?” she asked, softer now.

“I did.”

Ellie sat up a little. “What happened?”

“She didn’t make it.” His voice was even, but the words hung heavy in the air. “First day of the outbreak.”

“Oh.” Her voice was small. “I’m sorry.”

Joel gave a stiff nod. “Long time ago.”

They sat in silence after that. The fire’s glow flickered on the peeling wallpaper, dancing shadows across the walls. Ellie eventually lay back down, eyes lingering on Joel a moment longer before she returned to her comic.

Joel picked up his revolver again, but his hands didn’t move. He just stared at it, fingers curling around the grip like it was something fragile.

In the quiet of the room, with only rain and memory for company, he thought of the mark on his skin — the one that never faded, no matter how much time passed. A cruel little reminder etched into him like a promise the world had broken.

She’s gone, he told himself. Even if she’s not, it’s too late now. Ain’t room for hope in a world like this.

Still, something deep inside him stirred — a flicker of warmth, too faint to name and too stubborn to die.

The town was one of those nameless places you could drive through in five minutes back when the world still worked. Now it sat hollowed out, its main street buried under overgrowth and broken glass. Joel led the way with quiet caution, rifle tight in his grip, boots silent on the cracked pavement. Ellie followed just behind, eyes flicking from shadow to shadow.

“This place gives me the creeps,” she muttered. “Like everyone left all at once.”

Joel didn’t answer. He’d felt it too — the odd stillness, the lingering trace of people long gone.

But as they passed a narrow alley, something tugged at his gut. A house at the far end caught his eye. There was nothing particularly strange about it — two stories, faded paint, porch half-collapsed — but something about it made the air feel heavier.

He paused.

“You alright?” Ellie asked, craning her neck to see what he was staring at.

“Yeah,” he said, but it wasn’t convincing. His fingers twitched at his side, just above where his soulmate mark hid beneath layers of worn fabric. It hadn’t bothered him in years. Not since he’d stopped checking it. Not since he’d given up.

Still, the feeling sat there — not pain, not warmth, just a quiet ache. Something… familiar.

Joel shook it off. “Come on. Let’s clear that house.”

They approached carefully. The door was slightly open, the frame sagging. Joel nudged it wider with the barrel of his rifle and stepped inside, sweeping the entryway with practiced ease. The place smelled faintly of smoke and stale food. Blankets were spread out in the living room — fresh, not rotted. A can of beans, half-eaten, sat on the floor beside a small pack. Someone had been here recently.

He held up a hand to signal Ellie to stay close.

Then—

Bang.

The shot rang out like a thunderclap.

Joel ducked and rolled behind the couch just as the bullet splintered the wood beside him. Ellie screamed, dropping flat. The shooter cursed — a woman’s voice — followed by the unmistakable click of a jammed weapon.

“Shit!”

A second later, a figure burst from the hallway — fast, silent, and deadly. She launched herself at Joel before he could react, tackling him back against the ground. He caught the flash of her eyes, wild and terrified. Her hands scrabbled for the gun at his hip, but he was quicker. He flipped her, pinning her down, his own weapon pressed to her temple.

“Don’t move,” he growled.

Her chest heaved beneath him. But she didn’t fight. Didn’t beg. Just froze.

Joel didn’t pull the trigger.

Something stopped him — a flicker deep under his skin, crawling up his spine, settling somewhere just behind his ribs.

Heat bloomed beneath his sleeve. A strange, slow pulse beat in his arm, not painful, just... there. The kind of sensation you couldn’t ignore even if you wanted to. Familiar in a way that made no sense.

He looked at her. Really looked.

And then everything stilled.

The breath left his lungs in a slow, quiet exhale. The world, for half a second, fell away — the broken walls, the storm outside, the sound of Ellie’s frantic movements — all of it gone.

She stared up at him, eyes wide, lips parted like she was on the edge of remembering something too old, too deep, to put into words.

A spark passed between them — something wordless, undeniable.

Recognition.

Not of her face. Not her voice.

Of something else.

Something older than either of them.

Joel’s grip loosened, just slightly. His hand stayed on the gun, but he didn’t press it tighter. He couldn’t. Not when every cell in his body was suddenly pulling toward the woman beneath him.

A breath caught in her throat. Her eyes flicked down — not to the gun, but to the spot on his arm where her own mark must’ve started to burn, too.

Neither of them moved.

But they knew.

And then the sound hit them: the distant scream of the infected.

A horde. Close. Getting closer.

Joel snapped into motion. He grabbed the woman’s hand and yanked her up, already shouting, “Ellie!”

“I’m here!” Ellie called from behind the kitchen counter, crouched low.

The woman pulled away from Joel’s grip, sprinted past him to Ellie, and hauled the girl toward the stairs.

“There’s a cellar door out back!” she shouted. “This way!”

Joel fired at the front window, taking down a runner that smashed through the glass. More were coming. Too many.

He backed toward the rear exit, bullets flying, but they were swarming the front now — fast and screeching, jaws snapping.

By the time his clip emptied, the woman was shouting again.

“In here!”

She was holding open the narrow door to a shed in the overgrown backyard. Joel sprinted across the grass, shoved the door shut behind him, and slammed the bolt into place just as fists began pounding on the outside.

Then — silence.

The pounding of their hearts. Their breathing. Nothing else.

They stood there in the dark, just shadows in the flicker of Joel’s dying flashlight. Rain pelted the tin roof above them.

And the mark on Joel’s arm still burned.

It was pitch black, save for the thin beam of Joel’s flashlight trembling in his grip. Rain pelted the tin roof in a steady rhythm, a wild contrast to the stillness that had fallen between them.

Ellie was hunched in the corner, wide-eyed and panting. She didn’t speak — maybe sensing that whatever just happened between the two adults had nothing to do with her. Or maybe she was just too winded to ask questions.

Joel didn’t look at her.

He couldn’t look at anything except her.

The woman he’d just fought, disarmed, nearly killed — had touched something ancient in him that hadn’t stirred in decades. She stood against the opposite wall, barely a few feet away, one hand braced on the rough wood like she was steadying herself against gravity.

Her eyes met his.

Neither of them said a word.

Joel felt it again — the hum beneath his skin, a pull in his chest like his body had realigned itself without asking permission. The mark on his arm was quiet now, but it buzzed faintly, like a distant signal trying to come back into range.

She reached up, slowly, and touched her own arm — the spot where her mark must’ve been burning just like his. She didn’t look at it. She didn’t need to.

Her gaze never left his.

And Joel — a man who’d spent the last twenty years learning how to bury things so deep they couldn’t claw their way out — felt something raw begin to surface.

Not joy. Not yet.

Just recognition.

The kind that made his chest tighten and his throat ache. The kind that felt like standing at the edge of a cliff you thought had collapsed years ago, only to find the ground still there.

Her lips parted slightly. Not to speak. Just… breathing. Still trying to catch up.

So was he.

Neither moved. Neither blinked.

The only sound was the rain.

Then Ellie coughed — sharp and awkward — and both of them flinched like the spell had been broken.

Joel turned his flashlight toward her, casting their shadows across the warped walls. The silence was back, but it felt heavier now. Different.

No one spoke for a long time.

Eventually, Ellie sank down against the wall, pulling her knees to her chest. She looked between them, brows furrowed, but said nothing. Maybe she didn’t understand. Maybe she understood too much.

Joel stayed standing, arms heavy at his sides. The woman did the same, shoulders still tense, like her body hadn’t caught up with what her soul already knew.

He wanted to say something. Ask her name. Ask if this was real. Ask if she felt it too — if this meant something anymore, in a world where so much had already been lost.

But the words didn’t come.

So instead, he looked at her the way he hadn’t let himself look at anyone in years.

Like maybe — just maybe — there was still something left to hope for.

The rain had softened to a drizzle by the time the pounding on the shed stopped. The infected were gone — for now. But the silence left in their wake wasn’t peaceful. It hung too heavy, like the kind that only followed something life-altering.

Ellie had dozed off in the corner, arms wrapped around her backpack like a shield. Her breathing had slowed. Even in sleep, she looked wary.

Joel stayed seated on a broken crate near the far wall, elbows on his knees, head low. His fingers toyed with the edge of his sleeve, thumb brushing over the spot where the mark was still pulsing faintly beneath his skin.

He glanced up at her again.

She stood by the door now, arms crossed tightly over her chest, like she needed to hold herself together. Her clothes were damp from the sprint. Mud streaked her jeans. A strand of hair stuck to her cheek.

She hadn’t looked away from him in minutes.

Joel rose slowly, careful not to wake Ellie.

He didn’t speak — he didn’t trust his voice to come out steady — and neither did she. It was like they were still afraid that if they acknowledged it, said it aloud, it might all fall apart.

He stepped closer.

She didn’t back away.

In another life, maybe he would’ve smiled. Teased. Said something charming and low like “Took you long enough.” But there was no room for that here. No time for games. Not when everything in his chest felt cracked wide open just from standing this close to her.

She looked up at him, eyes searching his face like she was trying to memorize it.

He reached out, tentative at first, and gently tucked that damp strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath caught. She tilted her head slightly — not pulling away, not moving closer either. Just waiting.

Joel’s hand lingered against her cheek, rough fingers brushing over soft skin. She closed her eyes for a moment — just a second — and in that second, something passed between them again. That silent promise. That recognition that no words could explain.

He leaned in, just enough for her to feel the warmth of him.

Her lips parted — not in surprise, but in surrender.

Their foreheads brushed, and his other hand ghosted up her arm, steady and slow. She didn’t move away.

They were close now — breath to breath, heart to heart — and he swore he could feel her heartbeat syncing with his.

Then—

“Uh—hey.”

Joel flinched back just as Ellie’s voice cut through the thick air like a blade.

She stood in the doorway, blinking the sleep from her eyes. “Sorry,” she mumbled, “but I think we should probably get moving. Don’t wanna stick around if those things come back.”

Joel stepped back immediately, clearing his throat, avoiding the woman’s eyes as he muttered, “Yeah. Right. Let’s go.”

She didn’t say anything either — just nodded once, that same dazed expression still lingering on her face as she brushed past him and followed Ellie out into the wet grass.

Joel stayed behind a moment longer.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaled hard, and looked back at the door she’d just walked through.

He’d spent twenty years thinking that mark on his arm would never mean anything.

Now?

He wasn’t sure if that terrified him more than the infected.

The forest had swallowed the road hours ago.

What was once cracked asphalt had long since given way to a narrow trail swallowed in vines and damp leaves. The rain had stopped, but the air was heavy, humid with the promise of more. Tree branches creaked above them, the wind threading through like whispers they couldn't quite understand.

Joel led the way, as always, eyes sweeping the woods, shoulders stiff. Ellie walked just behind him, dragging a stick along the dirt. The woman — her — brought up the rear, silent save for the occasional crunch of twigs beneath her boots.

No one spoke much.

Joel had tried once, earlier that morning, to ask if she had a name. The words had caught in his throat, and when she glanced at him over the firelight with that same look — soft and unsure and far too knowing — he dropped it.

Now, in the shifting green of the woods, he caught her in the corner of his vision sometimes. Just a flicker. Just enough to make his pulse jump.

He kept walking.

Ellie broke the silence first.

“So… do you two know each other or something?”

Joel didn’t turn around. “No.”

She glanced back. “Really? 'Cause you were gonna kiss her in that shed like, a lot.”

Joel let out a long breath through his nose. “Ellie…”

“I’m just saying.” Her grin was practically audible.

The woman said nothing, but Joel heard her laugh — soft, under her breath. Almost like she didn’t mean to let it slip. It was the first sound she’d made all day.

Joel’s heart did something uncomfortable in his chest.

They reached the edge of a field not long after, where the trees thinned out into golden grass and low ruins of what must’ve once been a farmhouse. The sun was just starting to dip behind the tree line.

He stopped and scanned the horizon. “We’ll set up camp ahead. Get off the trail a bit.”

Ellie groaned but didn’t argue. She kept walking, boots kicking up dust, until she disappeared behind a cluster of overgrown fence posts.

Joel lingered.

The woman came up beside him slowly, adjusting the strap of her pack.

He didn’t look at her.

But he didn’t move away, either.

For a few moments, they stood there, quiet — not in silence like before, but something softer. Like maybe the worst of it had already passed. Like maybe they were both still trying to make sense of it all.

He turned, just barely, and finally looked at her.

She looked tired. Guarded. But her eyes didn’t hold the same kind of sharpness as they had back in that house. It had shifted into something else now.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

She gave a faint smile, like she understood what he wanted to say and was choosing — just for now — not to make him say it.

Joel nodded.

They walked after Ellie, a little closer than before.

The fire crackled low in the pit — a modest flame, more ember than blaze. Joel had kept it that way on purpose. Too much light drew eyes.

Ellie was curled up on the far side of the fire, using her backpack as a pillow. Her breathing had gone slow, steady. Asleep. Again. The girl could crash anywhere.

Joel sat with his back to a log, elbows on his knees, watching the fire chew through the last of the kindling. His rifle lay within arm’s reach. Old habit. Necessary habit.

She was across from him.

Again.

The woman — his… soulmate, he guessed — hadn’t spoken much since they'd made camp. She’d helped gather wood. Helped cook. Laughed once when Ellie told a story about a “super infected” that turned out to be a deer she’d startled. But mostly… quiet.

Joel glanced at her now, across the glow of the coals.

She was watching the fire, arms tucked around her legs, chin resting on one knee. Tired, but not in a physical way. The kind of tired that settled into your bones and stayed there.

He cleared his throat. “You doin’ alright?”

She looked up, surprised he’d broken the silence. Then gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

Joel didn’t push for more. He just watched her. In the dark like this, with the light flickering across her face, it was harder to keep the distance he'd been forcing all day. Harder to pretend that this — whatever was happening between them — wasn’t real.

He shifted, voice quieter. “Back there… in the house. That mark. You felt it too, didn’t you?”

She didn’t speak. But she didn’t look away either.

That was answer enough.

Joel let out a slow breath and looked back into the fire. “I stopped hopin’ a long time ago,” he admitted, the words like gravel in his throat. “Figured… she died. Whoever she was. World’s gone to hell. Didn’t think I’d ever know.”

She didn’t respond with words. Just moved — slowly — to sit beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.

Joel’s heart picked up. He didn’t pull away.

Her presence wasn’t loud. Wasn’t demanding. It just was. Solid. Familiar in a way he didn’t understand but couldn’t question.

They sat like that for a while, shoulder to shoulder, not talking.

Then — maybe without meaning to — she leaned in a little, her head lightly brushing his shoulder. Joel froze, but didn’t move. After a second, he relaxed into it. Let it happen.

The fire popped softly.

And in that moment, Joel turned his head — just a little — enough to look at her.

She tilted her face up toward him.

Their eyes met. Neither of them smiled.

There was something too heavy, too old, about the feeling between them. Like grief and relief tangled together, impossible to pull apart.

Joel lifted his hand slowly, gently cupping her jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her cheekbone. Her breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before opening again — like she needed to make sure this was real.

He leaned in, slowly — slow enough to give her time to pull away.

She didn’t.

Their lips met — tentative at first, like they were afraid of breaking something fragile. Her hand came up, fingers resting lightly over the front of his shirt, anchoring herself there. His hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her in closer.

The kiss deepened — not hurried, not desperate.

Just real.

Soft.

Grounding.

Like two people who had been starving for something they couldn’t name, and had finally, finally found it.

When they pulled apart, it wasn’t abrupt. It was slow — lips brushing, foreheads leaning together, both of them breathing a little heavier, a little steadier.

Joel kept his hand at her neck, thumb stroking gently over her skin.

“I guess this means it’s real,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer, but her eyes were soft when she looked at him again. And she kissed him one more time — smaller, briefer. Just because she could.

They sat like that for a while.

The fire popped softly beside them, and the night stretched quiet around their little circle of warmth. Neither of them knew what tomorrow would look like.

But for tonight, at least — they weren’t alone anymore.

2026

Snow blanketed the streets of Jackson, soft and slow, the kind that hushed the world and made everything feel still. Smoke drifted from chimneys. The clatter of boots on wooden porches echoed gently through the town. A dog barked once, then quieted.

Joel leaned against the wooden railing outside their porch, mug of coffee steaming between his hands. He watched a pair of kids run past on the street below, bundled in layers too big for them, shrieking as they tossed clumps of snow back and forth.

He didn’t smile, not really — but the tension in his shoulders had gone somewhere in the past few months, and it hadn’t come back.

Behind him, the door creaked open. He didn’t turn.

“I told you it’s too cold for that porch,” came her voice, a little hoarse from sleep.

Joel glanced sideways as she stepped up beside him, blanket draped over her shoulders, hands tucked around her own mug. Her hair was mussed, cheeks pink from the warmth of the house behind them. She looked at him like someone who’d done this exact morning a hundred times before — and wanted a hundred more.

“It’s not that cold,” he said, sipping his coffee.

She arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been out here twenty minutes.”

He didn’t argue. Just glanced at her again, slower this time. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”

“You never do,” she murmured, voice softer now.

The silence settled comfortably between them. No pressure. No need to fill it.

It was strange, Joel thought, how easily this had become normal — she had become normal. The shared house. The shared mornings. The way he could reach out and touch her hand and not flinch from it. The way her presence didn’t set him on edge but settled something deep inside him.

This wasn’t the firelight, adrenaline-heavy intimacy from a year ago. This was steadier. Quieter. Something earned.

He looked back at the street.

“We’re patrolling east tomorrow,” he said after a minute. “Up past the sawmill.”

She nodded. “I’ll pack tonight.”

There was a pause, then she bumped her shoulder gently into his. “You and me?”

He nodded. “You and me.”

Her hand slipped into his then, ungloved and cold, but he didn’t let go. Just held it there, rough calluses and all, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And for them now—it was.

The woods stretched out quiet beneath a gray sky, branches heavy with melting snow. Patches of brown earth peeked through where the sun had gotten bold enough to push through the clouds.

Joel moved ahead, boots crunching softly in the underbrush, rifle slung across his back. She followed close behind, eyes scanning the tree line, her own weapon resting easy in her grip. They didn’t talk much — didn’t need to.

They had the kind of rhythm you can’t fake. One glance, one shift of weight, and they knew what the other was thinking.

It was the kind of patrol Tommy liked to send them on — mid-range, low risk, just a sweep past the outer farms and along the ridge above the river. Still, the silence of the woods never fully lost its edge. You could go months without seeing a Runner, and then suddenly you’d be surrounded.

Joel stopped at a bend in the trail, holding up a hand. She stilled instantly, scanning the bush. A distant rustle. A bird, maybe — or not.

Joel moved slow, crouching by a fallen log. He brushed aside a bit of snow and dirt, revealing a smeared boot print, half-frozen, deep.

Not one of theirs.

He looked up. She was already beside him, crouched low.

“Recent?” she asked quietly.

“Could be,” Joel muttered. “Too heavy for Ellie. Might be one of the new kids… or someone passing through.”

She frowned. “Could be worse.”

They both knew what worse meant.

Joel stood slowly, eyes on the treeline. The woods stayed still.

“You take the left,” he said. “I’ll swing wide, loop back.”

She nodded. “Don’t get distracted.”

He gave her a look, deadpan. “Only thing distractin’ me out here is you.”

Her smile was quick, crooked. She nudged him once before disappearing into the brush like she’d done it a hundred times before — because she had.

The patrol went quiet again after that. They circled wide, careful, methodical. No fresh signs of infected, no sound beyond the wind and the distant call of crows. Eventually, they met again near the stream, the water running shallow and dark between the rocks.

She knelt, splashing a bit of the cold water over her face, pushing her hair back.

“Clear,” she said.

Joel nodded, but his eyes stayed on her for a second too long.

She noticed. “What?”

“Nothin’.”

“You always stare at me like that when there’s nothing?”

Joel stepped closer, letting his rifle rest against his shoulder. “Just thinkin’. A year ago, I didn’t think I’d ever have this again. Peace. A partner... Someone who’s got my back, and who I can trust with mine.”

She stood, brushing snow from her knees. “You do now.”

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at her, steady and warm in the cold.

She leaned in, brushing her lips against his cheek — barely there. Just enough.

He caught her hand before she pulled away.

“Let’s get home,” he said softly.

And together, they turned back toward the path.

Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

[beloveds-embrace]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Matchmaking Buns: Part Two

Part One

What the bunnies look like

The evening of the promised dinner comes faster than you’d anticipated. With every passing minute, you flit from one end of the house to the other, adjusting pillows, checking on the simmering dishes, and shooing your furry “helpers” out of the kitchen for what feels like the hundredth time even if they thump at you. Between binkying across the living room, flopping lazily on the rug right on your path, and trying to sneak nibbles of any available furniture, your bunnies are in top form, thriving in their role as resident chaos agents.

Finally, the doorbell rings. You wipe your palms on your jeans, take a deep breath, and open the door, immediately greeted by four towering figures who seem somehow even more imposing in their casual clothes. Johnny’s already grinning, Kyle’s soft smile is reassuring, Price has a hint of amusement in his eyes, and Simon—well, Simon is as inscrutable as ever, though his gaze lingers on you for just a beat longer than expected.

“Welcome! Come on in and, uh, make yourselves at home. You’ll be sharing the space with the true homeowners, of course,” you say, gesturing toward the four bundles of fluff darting around underfoot, raising their heads in curiosity. “Don’t worry, they’ll give up the prime seats… eventually.”

Price chuckles, stepping into the living room as your spotted holland lop scurries past his feet. “I was almost expecting to see little bunny-sized chairs around here, the way you talk about them.”

“Careful, you’ll give her ideas!” Johnny laughs, watching as your grey Flemish giant noses around his ankle, clearly demanding a greeting. He squats down to give her a gentle scratch behind the ears, and she leans into his hand with that smug satisfaction only a beloved pet can have.

You usher everyone toward the dining table, where a spread of your best dishes awaits. You won't lie; you are extremely proud of what you'd prepared: a platter of roasted herb-crusted lamb, tender and drizzled with honey-balsamic, sits as the centerpiece. Nearby, creamy wild mushroom risotto with parmesan shavings, its earthy aroma irresistible. A vibrant salad of mixed greens, heirloom tomatoes, and crumbled goat cheese (it was a nightmare making this one with the way your bunnies were almost ready to paw-fight you for the greens). There’s also warm, crusty bread with rosemary-infused butter, and a golden vegetable gratin with layers of zucchini, squash, and potato, bubbling with creamy gruyere.

The smell of the food finally entices your bunnies to settle by your feet, eyeing the proceedings with their usual mix of suspicion and entitlement. Simon, catching sight of your mini-lop sniffing determinedly toward a bowl of the salad, picks up the bowl and sets it just out of reach with a faint smile- he has taken off the mask, and you have to tell yourself not to stare too much at how pretty he is.

“Thanks for sparing me from his wrath,” you say, laughing, after clearing your throat. “He’s usually the one ringleading all their mischief.”

The meal kicks off in earnest, and you’re surprised by how quickly everyone relaxes, including you. Price sets a warm tone, regailing you with stories while Johnny occasionally jumps in, keeping everyone laughing and chuckling. Kyle is quieter but genuinely interested, asking about the bunnies, your garden, even your job. Every now and then, you catch him sneaking tiny bites to one of your rabbits, who’s stationed at his feet, looking particularly pleased with itself.

“Looks like they’ve already trained you all,” you joke, nudging Kyle’s elbow as he hands over a piece of carrot to your flemish giant. You've been keeping an eye on them, ensuring he doesn't give them too much.

He grins back, his eyes twinkling. “Guess it’s hard to resist them when they give you those eyes, yeah?”

You sigh, directing a mock glare at your rabbits, who blink innocently back. “Tell me about it. They know exactly what they’re doing.”

As the meal goes on, you feel a shift in the atmosphere- an easiness and familiarity you hadn’t expected to find so soon. Simon is quiet, but every so often, you catch his gaze resting on you, his expression thoughtful, almost… fond. You’re not entirely sure how to read it, but each time, you feel a flutter of warmth. Price seems equally at ease, laughing and sharing stories that, more than once, have you all leaning in closer. Even Johnny, whose teasing often has you blushing, seems oddly protective, always ready to interject if you look the slightest bit uncomfortable.

Finally, as the dishes are cleared and the bunnies settle into a post-feast nap near your feet, you sigh contentedly, leaning back with a soft smile. “Thank you guys again, seriously. That rescue was above and beyond. I owe you all big time.”

Simon, who’s been absently petting your mini-lop, looks up, his gaze steady but warm. “Just watch out for them next time, yeah? Or you’ll end up owing us another dinner.” There’s a subtle tease in his tone, a faint spark of humor that catches you off guard from a man like him.

You roll your eyes, laughing as you try to brush off the warm flutter in your chest. “I suppose that’s fair. But if you all had fun tonight, maybe we could make this a regular thing?” You don't know why you suggest it, but the second the words are out of your mouth you regret them. They won't accept, this was just a "thank you and sorry for the trouble" dinner and-

Johnny’s grin is immediate, stretching wide as he exchanges a glance with Price. “You dinnae have to ask us twice, lass,” he says, his accent rolling thick and smooth. There’s a softness in his expression, a warmth that makes your cheeks flush. He winks, and you catch yourself stifling a giggle, relief blooming in your chest and making it easier for you to breathe.

After dessert (and showing them all the spots, nooks, and crannies you've made for your bunnies), they prepare to leave. Johnny gives your Flemish giant one last scratch behind her ear, and she rolls her head down to give his palm sweet little licks. Kyle leans down to scoop up your mini-lop, placing him gently back near the others, his fingers brushing yours for a moment too long. “You’ve got a good thing here,” he murmurs, smiling as he watches your sleepy bunnies pile together. “It’s nice to see someone care so much.”

Flustered, you smile back, stammering a little. “Thanks… they’re, uh, a handful, but they’re my little family.”

Simon, who’s already by the door, pauses, his gaze on you softened by some unreadable emotion. “Just keep us in the loop if they escape again, yeah?”

Your heart skips at his tone, low and almost teasing. “I’ll make sure to notify the official rescue squad.” You raise an eyebrow at him, trying to hide your grin.

As they finally step out, John turns back to you. His eyes are crinkling at the corners, and he holds your hand up to kiss your knuckles. "Next time, we'll be the ones to take you out, luvie."

Not a request, but he is simply telling you. (Un)surprisingly it has you blushing and nodding.

You watch them head down the driveway then, and for a moment, you stand there, caught somewhere between disbelief and hope. There’s an undeniable warmth in your chest, a realization that maybe this isn’t just about the bunnies after all.

When you finally close the door and glance down, four sleepy bunny faces stare up at you, blinking in unison as if to say, “You’re welcome.” Shaking your head, you scoop up the nearest one, your toasty holland lop, kissing it on the top of its soft head.

“Thanks for the assist, you little terrors,” you whisper, grinning. “Now I have a dinner to look forward to. Perfect.”

[gyugraphy]

psyche (1)

— synopsis. After the catastrophe in New York-when the Void tore through the city-the Thunderbolts know it can't happen again. Bob Reynolds doesn't need another collar or containment spell. He needs help. Enter her: a psychiatrist with an unusual gift, capable of stepping into the mind itself. No one expected her to reach him-least of all, him. "You're just going to leave me the moment it gets too hard, aren't you?" he says. She meets his gaze, steady and unshaken. "I've walked through nightmares to get to you. I won't walk away now."

— pairing. robert reynolds (sentry/the void) x reader

— warning/s. mentions of trauma, mental illness, depression

— word count. 5.1k

masterlist ⊹ part 1 ⊹ part 2 ⊹ part 3 ⊹ part 4 ⊹ part 5 ⊹ part 6

⋆˙⟡

“Strange called,” Christine Palmer said, not looking up from her tablet.

You glanced in her direction but didn’t respond. You felt like there isn't anything worth saying. Instead, you focused on the soft, familiar sounds around you—the quiet clatter of metal instruments being cleaned at the nearby sterilization station, the steady shuffle of footsteps on polished hospital floors. A monitor beeped somewhere down the hall, keeping time in the way only machines could. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead, that you never really noticed, added to the background noise.

In the corner, a few patients sat hunched in plastic chairs, wrapped in hospital blankets that offered more symbolism than warmth. Their faces were drawn, tired, a mix of exhaustion and quiet anxiety. Some waited for scans, others for pain relief, a few just for answers that might never come tonight. They all shared the same energy, that tension that lived in the bones of everyone who passed through the ER after dark. You knew it well.

You were supposed to have clocked out an hour ago—your shift technically ended at midnight—but no one really left on time in this place. The ER didn’t care about schedules. It held you in its grip until it was ready to let go, and sometimes, not even then. Not when a life could still slip through the cracks—because of a missed bleed, a bad stitch, or the wrong word spoken at the worst possible time.

Christine tapped her screen a few times, then added, “Apparently, Bucky Barnes asked him to help find a psychiatrist.”

That made you pause, your fingers hesitating on the chart you were holding. Still, you didn’t look up. The case wasn’t serious—just a minor injury with a straightforward treatment plan. You met Christine’s gaze briefly, then looked back down, eyes scanning through lines of notes more out of habit than need.

“You know I’m not practicing anymore,” you muttered. “Psychiatry, I mean.”

Christine leaned a hip against the counter beside you, folding her arms. “Since when? You’re double-boarded. And don’t give me the ‘I’m just a surgeon now’ line. I’ve heard it too many times to believe it.”

“It’s not a line. It’s a preference,” you said, your voice flat. “Organs are a lot simpler than people's minds.”

“Sure,” she said, the sarcasm thin but present. “You can cut them open, take out what’s broken, sew them back up, and call it a day. But that’s not why you switched.”

Your hands stilled mid-note. The chart blurred for a moment, your pen hovering above the page.

“Tell Barnes to find someone else.”

“Actually, he didn’t call,” Christine said quietly. “Strange didn’t either.”

You looked up, and she turned the tablet toward you.

“They just sent me this.”

Your name was there in bold, black text at the top of the screen—accompanied by layers of encrypted clearance codes, redacted fields, and a formal request for psychiatric consultation. It wasn’t just a note. It was government-level. Serious. Sealed. No fluff. No context. No diagnosis.

Just one name buried in the lines of classified language.

Robert Reynolds.

You stared at it. The name carved through you like a scalpel—sharp, precise, and deep. Your chest went tight. Not with fear exactly, though it wasn’t far off. Christine watched you too carefully now.

You said the name aloud, almost to yourself. “Reynolds. Sentry? The Void? The man who turned Manhattan into literal shadows?”

Christine’s voice softened. “He’ll could probably eat you alive,” she said. “Whoever it is. You know that.”

You didn’t answer. You glanced at the clock hanging on the wall beside you. You reached for the gloves on your hands, peeled them off one by one, and tossed them into the biohazard bin beside the counter. The silence between you stretched.

“You’re not going to do it,” Christine said, trying for a steadier voice. “Right?”

But you were already moving. You grabbed your coat, your badge, and turned toward the hallway that led to the staff exit.

“Right?!” Christine repeated, this time louder. You only waved her off by raising one hand as you continued to walk.

Christine sighed under her breath, watching you go.

“Oh, she’s in trouble,” she mumbled, more to herself than anyone else.

⋆˙⟡

The city didn’t feel real when you stepped outside.

Maybe it was the late hour. Or the way the streetlights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a dim, unnatural gold. The sidewalk gleamed with recent rain, and the night air clung to your skin—cool, damp, electric. Maybe it was just the words still echoing in your mind.

Bob Reynolds.

You heard that name before—not whispered behind closed doors, not even in passing. People avoided it deliberately, like saying it out loud might stir something sleeping. Might invite the dark back in.

He doesn’t need containment. He needs healing.

That was what the message had said.

But you knew what it really meant. You could read between the encrypted lines. Reynolds wasn’t just unstable—he was a ticking bomb they didn’t know how to disarm. He wasn’t a patient; he was a problem no one wanted to admit they couldn’t fix.

They were looking for someone to step into the fire and hope they didn’t burn.

You had no intention of being that someone.

Not anymore.

It was just past two in the morning when the elevator doors slid open on the surgical floor. Most of the hospital was asleep or pretending to be. You were still on your feet—finishing post-op notes in the nurses’ station, trying to tether yourself to something routine. The soft tap of keys, the faint smell of coffee gone cold, the distant echo of an intercom down the corridor. These were the things that kept you grounded when your hands weren’t cutting. When your mind threatened to drift.

The hallway was quiet. Empty.

And then, something shifted.

You didn’t hear him at first. You felt him. A subtle change in pressure. A ripple through the air, like the building itself had gone tense.

You looked up.

There he was.

Bucky Barnes. Standing in the middle of the hallway like a ghost. Dressed in black, that metal arm catching the flickering light overhead. Expression unreadable. Posture coiled.

Your fingers hovered over the tablet.

“Subtle,” you said dryly.

He didn’t smile.

“I’m not here to make a scene.”

“You’re five seconds from getting tackled by security.”

“I turned off the cameras on this floor.”

Of course he did.

You sighed and slid the tablet aside. “You could’ve sent a message.”

“You would’ve ignored it.”

He wasn’t wrong.

You stood, slowly. Kept a polite amount of distance between you. “You want a consult.”

“No,” he said. “I want you.”

That gave you pause. He saw it.

“I read your work,” he continued. “The old stuff. Before you scrubbed it. Neural pathway immersion. Psychogenic structure mapping. Entering the subconscious. Rewriting trauma loops from the inside.”

You kept your expression still. “That research was never meant for clinical application.”

“It saved people.”

“No, it delayed their collapse. That’s not the same thing.”

He took a step closer. “You walked into the mind of a patient mid-psychotic break and helped him walk back out.”

“That patient relapsed two weeks later. Nearly took out his care team with him.”

“But he lived,” Bucky said. “That’s more than Reynolds has right now.”

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let it show. Not much, anyway.

“So let me get this straight,” you said, voice cool. “You want me to crawl into the mind of the most powerful bipolar the world’s ever known? A man who once turned half of Manhattan into literal shadows? You want me to walk into that and—what? Talk him down?”

“He’s not just the Void.”

“No. But the Void is part of him. You don’t separate the two.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped.

“He’s trying, okay? He’s lucid. Or close to it. He’s afraid of what he’s done. He wants to be better—but no one can reach him. They’ve all stopped trying. Except me.”

You studied him then. Not just his words, but everything else—the tight set of his shoulders, the wear in his eyes, the quiet tremor under all that steel. This wasn’t just a mission for him.

“You care about him.”

His breath hitched. “I know what it’s like to be controlled by something inside you. Something you didn’t choose. Something you hate.” His voice cracked just a little. “So yeah. I care.”

You looked away. The floor felt suddenly distant under your feet.

“I’m not a miracle worker, Barnes. I’m not some psychic surgeon. I can’t promise I won’t make things worse.”

He hesitated. “Would you try… if he asked you himself?”

That stopped you.

Your throat went dry.

“You think he wants me?”

“I think he’s afraid of you,” Bucky said. “Which is exactly why I think he needs you the most.”

You exhaled slowly. The kind of breath that emptied your lungs and still didn’t feel like enough.

The name echoed again in your mind like a wound reopening.

Robert Reynolds.

You crossed your arms instinctively, bracing against the words. Against everything they meant. You weren’t ready to say yes—but you couldn’t walk away yet. Not when the puzzle Bucky had thrown at you was already rattling around in your mind like a loose coin.

"Tell me more about him," you said, before you could second-guess yourself.

Bucky blinked, clearly expecting you to brush him off, maybe even shut him down. But you hadn’t done that. Not yet.

He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice as if the air itself might carry his words further than he wanted. "Bob... he's not what you think."

You could feel the weight in the silence between you, the hum of fluorescent lights and distant beeping from another part of the Tower, but it felt miles away. The shift in Bucky’s voice wasn’t a demand. It was a plea—one you weren’t sure you could ignore.

"He's always been complicated," you said, trying to keep your tone neutral. "Sentry and the Void aren’t easy to separate."

Bucky nodded slowly. “I know. But right now? He’s more fractured than ever. The Void doesn’t just come out and take over anymore. It’s... it’s slipping into him, little pieces at a time. He doesn’t know where the man ends and the monster begins.”

You stared at him, thinking of everything you’d heard about Bob over the past few months—the whispers, the rumors, the stories that came with living in a world of meta-humans. The Sentry, a hero with the power of a god, the man who’d nearly torn apart the world itself in a breakdown. The Void, a primal force of destruction that had no regard for morality or life.

But hearing the weight of that confusion in Bucky’s voice was new. And it unsettled you more than it should have.

"Where is he?" you asked, voice quieter now.

"He’s here, in New York," Bucky said, his eyes flicking away. "Living on the same floor as the rest of the Thunderbolts— or the new Avengers. We’re all on the top level of Avengers Tower, trying to keep him from... from himself."

You blinked. Here? With the Thunderbolts? In Avengers Tower? That was... an entirely new layer to the situation. You weren’t sure what was more surreal: the fact that Bob Reynolds was living under the same roof as some of the most dangerous people on the planet or the fact that you’d just been asked to walk into his mind.

“How is that even... manageable?” You asked the question, but you weren’t sure if you were asking Bucky or yourself.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. "We try to keep him grounded. When he’s not... when he’s lucid, he’s like any other person. He talks about everything—sports, movies, some of the stuff that made him happy before everything broke down." He exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated. "But the minute he starts spiraling, it all goes wrong. The Void starts leaking through the cracks. And it’s not just him anymore. He reflects everyone else’s fears. He mirrors them. It’s like we’re all living in his nightmare when that happens."

The implications hit you like a truck. A man who could turn his fear into destructive power was now having his own breakdown while everyone around him became collateral damage.

You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of Bucky’s words settle deep in your chest. “Is anyone else in danger?”

Bucky hesitated. “Not unless we provoke him. But... it’s getting harder to contain. We don’t know what he might do when he finally snaps, and we can’t keep him isolated forever. Not without breaking him completely.”

You shook your head, barely processing the words. Living with the Thunderbolts? This wasn’t just a clinical case anymore. This was a man in desperate need of help who could bring the whole team down with him if things went sideways. And you were being asked to wade into the heart of it.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” you muttered, more to yourself than to Bucky. “You want me to just walk into his mind, face whatever twisted version of reality he’s experiencing, and fix it? I’m not a magician.”

“You’re the only one who’s ever been able to do something like that,” Bucky pressed, voice low but insistent. “You helped people when it seemed like no one else could. Even when it wasn’t perfect, they stayed alive. And you’re the only person who can actually get in there, see it from the inside. No one else has that ability. No one else can.”

You pressed your palms against your face, exhaling sharply. Your mind spun. This wasn’t just about fixing someone. This was about getting close to a raw, broken mind—an unstable mind that could tear apart everything around it if pushed too far. You’d been in this position before. You’d seen minds crumble and break. You’d been the one to pull them back—but not without a price.

“Why me, Bucky?” you said, the question finally spilling out. “You know this isn’t going to be easy. I’m not some miracle worker. I can’t promise I won’t make it worse.”

Bucky’s expression softened. “Because you’re the one who never gave up on the people everyone else walked away from. You see them. Really see them—without the fear, without the labels. You don’t treat people like they’re lost causes. You treat them like they’re still worth saving.”

You took a step back, your chest tightening. You’d made it clear years ago that you wouldn’t practice psychiatry anymore. You weren’t the kind of person who specialized in people’s mental health, not when it carried so much emotional weight, not when the cost was too high.

"He's afraid of himself," Bucky said, almost as if he were reading your thoughts. "He’s terrified that he’s going to lose himself again, that the Void is going to take him completely. But there’s still some part of Bob in there. He wants to be better. He wants to make it stop. I know he does."

You swallowed. “So where does that leave me?”

Bucky stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “I need you to help him. Not fix him. Just help him understand he’s still in control—if he is. If there’s still a way to reach him before it’s too late.”

You closed your eyes again, the pressure in your chest rising. But when you opened them, Bucky was still there, his gaze steady, waiting for something.

And you knew, despite everything, you were already halfway in. Even if you didn’t want to be.

⋆˙⟡

The Avengers Tower loomed like a monument against the night sky, its gleaming windows reflecting the city lights below. As you stepped inside, the difference hit you immediately. It wasn’t the usual cold, sterile atmosphere of hospitals or military facilities. No, this place was warmer—not in temperature, but in feel. It had a kind of lived-in quality you weren’t expecting. The faint smell of coffee lingered in the air, mixed with the scent of old books and worn leather furniture. Shoes were scattered by the door, someone’s guitar leaned against the wall in the corner, and someone had scratched “Yelena was here, losers” into the corner of the counter.

"This is the Thunderbolts' floor," Bucky said as he swiped the access panel, letting you both pass through. There was a strange undertone to his voice, a quiet sort of pride—or maybe wariness. "It’s... a work in progress."

You raised an eyebrow. “A rehab wing for ticking time bombs?”

Bucky gave a small, tight smile. “Something like that.”

The elevator doors opened to a wide living area that was surprisingly quiet, dimly lit. The hum of music thudded faintly from another room, but the space itself was calm—almost peaceful. You noticed how the walls weren’t bare and cold like the rest of the building had been. Bookshelves lined the walls, mismatched furniture sat comfortably in corners, and discarded snack wrappers sat on the coffee table. It didn’t feel like a headquarters for elite soldiers and heroes; it felt more like... home.

Before you could take it all in, a voice rang out, piercing through the quiet.

“Bucky!” The voice was sharp, teasing. “Who’s the new blood?”

You turned to see Yelena Belova striding toward you. Barefoot, dressed in sweatpants, her braid half undone, and a crooked grin on her face, she looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. She took a long look at you, her grin widening.

“She’s not mine,” Bucky said quickly, as if almost to assure you—or himself.

Yelena shot him a knowing glance. "Pity," she said, her grin only growing wider. Then, her eyes shifted to you. “I’m guessing you’re here to meet Bob?”

Bob. That nickname.

You nodded, but you could feel the weight of Yelena’s gaze. Her expression shifted slightly, and you didn’t miss the subtle change. It wasn’t fear, but something much more calculated—like someone who knew the danger that came with being in close proximity to a ticking time bomb, and what could happen if that bomb ever went off. There was wariness in her eyes now, something you hadn’t expected after the teasing remark.

Bucky didn’t miss it either. “I’m bringing her to meet him.”

At the mention of Bob Reynolds, Yelena’s expression changed again. Her playful smile slipped just a fraction, and the playful tone in her voice dimmed. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at you with a kind of guarded understanding, before finally speaking.

“Be careful,” she said, her tone softer now, though still carrying an edge. “He’s a bit sweet. Until he’s not.”

You paused, the weight of her words sinking in. Sweet. Until he’s not. That one sentence sent a chill down your spine. You’d heard the name Bob Reynolds before, the Sentry, the Void—the rumors about his mind and his power were legendary. But this? This was a whole different level of complication. Sweet until he’s not. You couldn’t ignore the warning, not when you were about to walk into that very storm.

Bucky stepped forward, breaking the moment of quiet tension. His voice was quiet but firm. “I’ll be with you. You’re not going in alone.”

You didn’t say anything right away, your mind already racing. You weren’t sure if you were relieved or more uneasy now that you had confirmation Bucky would be there. It didn’t make it less dangerous.

“Thanks,” you finally said, though you weren’t entirely sure what you were thanking him for yet. Maybe it was just for getting you this far.

Yelena took a step back, a small smirk still tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m just saying,” she added casually, “you don’t have to rush in. No one will blame you if you need a minute to run.”

You chuckled lightly, though the humor didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Right,” you said, your voice tight, “I’m sure that’ll be helpful.”

Bucky didn’t linger, turning toward a door at the far end of the room. It was heavy, imposing. You could tell this wasn’t just any door; it was the kind that kept the more... unpredictable things behind it. Bob Reynolds, the man who had lived through the collapse of his own mind, who carried the weight of the Void in him. You had an idea of what kind of danger he represented, but standing in this place, it felt much closer than you had ever imagined.

“Ready?” Bucky asked, looking over his shoulder. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes—maybe it was concern, maybe it was just routine. Either way, it didn’t settle your nerves.

You took a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be,” you said, but even as the words left your mouth, you felt the truth of them slip through your fingers. This wasn’t about being ready. This was about what you could handle when everything fell apart. You didn’t have any illusions about how this might go.

With a quiet hum, Bucky led the way to the door. You followed, feeling a kind of coldness creep into your limbs despite the warmth of the room around you. Whatever was waiting behind that door wasn’t just about Bob Reynolds. It was about everything that had led him to this moment. The Sentry. The Void. The man who had been both savior and destroyer. And now you were about to walk into that darkness.

The door to Bob’s room was slightly ajar when you arrived, and Bucky didn’t hesitate. He knocked once, then pushed the door open.

Inside, Bob sat at the edge of the bed, his posture tense, hands clasped tightly between his knees. His blonde hair was a little too long, and his shirt was wrinkled, like he hadn’t bothered to care about his appearance in the last few hours—or days. He was staring at the floor as though it might somehow provide answers to whatever was going on in his head.

When you stepped inside, his eyes flickered up to you. The movement was slow, almost as if it took him effort to pull himself away from whatever was haunting him in the depths of his mind. And then—he blinked.

“Oh,” he said, the word soft and distant, like it didn’t quite belong to him.

Bucky stepped forward, giving you a glance before offering the introduction. “This is her,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “The one we talked about.”

Bob stood, his movements awkward, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He was tall—broad in the shoulders, built like a man who could break cities—but he moved like someone terrified of knocking something over, of breaking something fragile.

“You’re… the mind walker,” he said quietly, his voice low, tentative.

You nodded, crossing the room slowly to close the distance. “And you’re the man with the monster inside him.”

Bob’s lips twitched—a ghost of a smile, fleeting and uncertain. “Guess we both come with warnings,” he muttered, the humor in his voice strained but there all the same.

The air in the room felt thicker now, the weight of his words hanging in the space between you. You studied him for a moment longer, the tension building like an unspoken agreement that neither of you could escape. You stepped closer. Without saying anything more, you both sank into the floor, sitting cross-legged across from each other. The distance between you was minimal, just your knees nearly brushing. But it was enough to feel the tension crackling in the air between you.

“I need your permission,” you said softly. “To go in.”

Bob didn’t hesitate, though his eyes were dark with uncertainty. He nodded once, the smallest motion.

You closed your eyes.

At first, there was nothing. Calm. His mind opened before you like a gate, as if it was letting you in—but something was wrong. Behind that gate, you could feel a storm building, growing, ready to unleash.

And then—

You were in.

It was worse than you had expected. The space around you was dark, twisting. The architecture was impossible—floating staircases, walls that screamed, mirrors that bled shadows. It felt like a mind split in two: one side terrified, the other hunting. The chaos was dizzying, the sensation of being swallowed whole by something far larger than you.

And then you felt it.

Something massive, coiling around the core of his mind. It was there, lurking. Watching you.

The Void.

It turned its head, and you felt its eyes on you—it smiled.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” it whispered, its voice like shards of glass scraping against your skull.

Pain bloomed instantly. A searing throb behind your eyes. Your nose started to bleed, the pressure inside your head unbearable.

“Get out,” Bob’s voice said, faint, distant—not the Void’s. “Get out now!”

And before you could even process the command, your body snapped back. Your eyes flew open, and you gasped for air, choking on it as blood dripped from your nose. You blinked, disoriented, and found yourself back in the room with Bob.

He stumbled backward, pale, his breath ragged, eyes wide with fear. “You saw it,” he said, his voice trembling.

You wiped the blood from your face and sat back, trying to catch your breath. “I felt it,” you said quietly, the weight of the experience still heavy in your chest.

Bob’s eyes searched your face, his expression torn. “Did it… did it touch you?”

You shook your head slowly. “No. But it came close. Too close.”

He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it would go after you.”

You exhaled, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of the Void’s presence. “We’re not ready,” you said, your voice a little steadier now. “We need to know each other first. Establish a connection before diving into something like that.”

Bob didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stared at you, like you had said something that didn’t quite register in his mind. His expression was still unreadable, but there was something there—a glimmer of hope, perhaps, that you could give him something he’d lost. Something he didn’t think he could ever get back.

“Okay,” he said softly, as if testing the words. “We can… get coffee or something.”

You gave him a small, understanding smile. “Let’s start with daylight.”

Later, back in the common room, you nursed a pounding headache and a steaming cup of tea. Yelena was sprawled across the couch, her feet resting on the armrest, eyes half-closed. Her gaze flickered over to Bob, who lingered just inside the doorway, watching you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he looked away.

Yelena’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. She lowered her voice, but you could still hear the teasing note in it. “Someone’s got a crush.”

Bob’s face flushed instantly, his eyes widening in embarrassment. “I do not,” he muttered, like a kid caught in the act.

Yelena raised an eyebrow, her smirk turning smug.

For the first time all day, you couldn’t help but laugh. It was the kind of lightheartedness you hadn’t felt since stepping into this mess, and it felt like a small, precious thing in the middle of all the chaos.

You finished your tea, Yelena stretched across the couch like she owned the place, eyes flicking between you and Bob with far too much interest. Bob hovered by the doorway, visibly trying to gather the nerve to speak, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a schoolboy.

You stood, brushing off your hands. The day had been long, and you were more than ready to go.

Just as you stepped toward the elevator, Bob moved quickly, blurting, “Uh—wait!”

You turned to him, surprised.

He looked like he instantly regretted speaking so loud. “I just—uh, I think we should talk again. Tomorrow. If you want. About… you know. Everything.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Alright. Where?”

Bob blinked. “I—uh, I don’t actually know where you work…”

You let out a breath. “Metro-General Hospital”

His eyes lit with recognition. “Right, yeah. That makes sense. I’ll be there. I’ll wait until your shift’s over.”

You studied him for a second. He was tall and intimidating by most standards, but right now he looked like someone nervously asking their crush to prom.

“Okay,” you said, biting back a smile. “I’ll see you then.”

Bob nodded too many times. “Cool. Good. Great. Okay.”

You stepped into the elevator. As the doors started to slide shut, you heard Yelena’s voice behind you—lazy and far too entertained.

“She said yes, Romeo,” she drawled. “You can breathe now.”

Bob muttered something unintelligible.

Yelena’s laughter echoed down the hall just before the elevator doors closed. You shook your head, grinning to yourself.

Tomorrow was going to be something.

⋆˙⟡

The Sanctum-like glow of protective wards hummed low along the ceiling as Stephen Strange poured tea into two mismatched cups. The room they were in wasn’t grand — no spell-casting library or mystical relic chamber — just a quiet observation lounge. It had a clear view of the city below, and right now, the skyline looked distant and unbothered by the storm they were preparing for.

Wanda Maximoff stood by the window, arms crossed. Her reflection in the glass looked tired.

“You didn’t tell them everything,” she said without looking back.

Strange let out a quiet sigh as he set the teapot down. “I told them what they needed to hear.”

“No,” she said, turning slowly. “You told them just enough to believe this was still safe.”

Strange didn’t flinch under her stare. He simply raised his cup and sipped.

“She’s walking into a fractured mind with something ancient wrapped around its spine. The Void doesn’t just destroy—he consumes. She’s not just risking injury. She’s risking... unmaking.”

He nodded, gently. “I know.”

Wanda stepped closer. “So why send her?”

“She’s not like us,” Strange said.

Wanda frowned. “That’s not a reason.”

He looked up at her, finally setting the cup down. “It is. You, me, even Charles—we bring power, force, structure. She brings something else. She listens. She understands how to walk with someone in their madness, not just force them out of it.”

Wanda studied him for a moment, then said, quieter, “What’s the best-case scenario?”

“She reaches Reynolds. Helps him stabilize. Creates a bridge between him and the monster he’s trying to cage. If she succeeds… the Void stays dormant.”

“And the worst?”

Strange was quiet for a long moment.

“If the Void latches onto her,” he said finally, “we lose both of them.”

Wanda looked down.

“She doesn’t know how dangerous she really is, does she?” she asked.

Strange gave a faint, unreadable smile.

⋆˙⟡

A/N: :)

[multific]

A Silent Kind of Love

Jason Voorhees x Reader

Summary: Jason Voorhees has only ever known fear and cruelty, until you. You don’t run. You don’t scream. Instead, you leave flowers by the lake and whisper soft words into the wind. 

The world had never been kind to Jason.

He had known fear before he had even understood what it meant, seen it in the way people screamed at the sight of him, in the way they ran, in the way their eyes filled with horror as they gazed upon the monster they believed him to be. 

They never looked deeper, never saw beyond the mask, beyond the scars, beyond the silence and the mask.

And then, there was you.

You weren’t supposed to be here. 

Crystal Lake wasn’t a place for outsiders, not anymore. 

It belonged to the ghosts, to memories, to the vengeful force that kept its borders clear of the living. But you came anyway, drawn by something you couldn’t name.

At first, Jason watched from a distance. 

He had spent years in the shadows, becoming one with them, learning how to be unseen. He expected you to leave, to take one look at the abandoned cabins and whisper the same fearful stories that had kept others away. But you didn’t.

You stayed.

You walked along the lake. 

And then, one day, you left something behind, a single flower, carefully placed at the edge of the water. 

Jason didn’t understand at first. Was it an accident? A meaningless gesture? 

But when he found another the next day, and then another, something unfamiliar started inside him.

You weren’t afraid.

You should have been.

But you spoke to him, even when he didn’t answer.

“I know you’re there.”

The first time you said it, Jason almost left.

But you didn’t chase him. 

You didn’t try to find him. 

You simply sat by the lake and talked, your voice gentle as you spoke of things that didn’t matter.

No one had ever spoken to him like that. No one had ever spoken to him at all.

He told himself it was nothing, that you would leave like everyone else, that you were just another momentary presence in a world that had never been meant for him. 

But then, one evening, as you walked through the woods, you tripped on an exposed root, falling hard against the ground.

Jason moved before he could think.

He caught you, his hands large and unsteady, his body tense as if expecting you to recoil the moment you realized what had happened.

Your skin was warm beneath his fingers. 

Too warm. Too soft. 

It had been so long since he had touched another person since anyone had been this close. 

He waited for you to scream, to pull away, to look at him with that same wide-eyed horror.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you exhaled, your hands bracing against his chest as you steadied yourself. And then, so gently he almost didn’t believe it, your fingers brushed against his wrist.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Jason flinched. 

Not because he was afraid, but because he didn’t know how to process something so foreign. 

Kindness.

He stepped back, disappearing into the trees before he could see the look in your eyes.

But you didn’t stop leaving flowers. You didn’t stop whispering soft words into the night.

And Jason didn’t stop watching.

Days passed. Then weeks.

You were determined, and patient in a way no one had ever been with him. 

Slowly, cautiously, Jason let himself be seen. 

First, just shadows at the edge of your vision. Then, his figure stood farther down the shore as you sat by the water. 

And then, one day, he let you approach.

He never spoke. You never asked him to.

Instead, you sat beside him, close enough that he could feel your warmth but not so close that he felt trapped.

"Do you want me to leave?" you asked one evening, your voice soft as you turned to him.

Jason knew he should nod. 

That would be the right thing, the safest thing. But he didn’t.

You smiled then, something small, and it was the first time Jason wondered if maybe, just maybe, the world hadn’t been entirely cruel.

The first time you touched his mask, he stopped breathing.

It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t anger. 

It was deeper, something raw.

Your fingers were careful, tracing the edges of it with curiosity, not force. And when your hand dropped away, you didn’t try to take it off. 

You simply looked at him, really looked at him, as if trying to see the man beneath the legend.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” you murmured.

Jason didn’t know how to answer, so he didn’t. 

But later that night, when he found himself standing by your cabin, watching the soft glow of your lantern flicker through the window, he realized something terrifying.

He didn’t want you to leave.

He didn’t want to be alone again.

And for the first time in his life, Jason Voorhees understood what it meant to love.

Not the kind of love found in whispered promises or gentle words, Jason had never known those things, never needed them. 

Love, to him, was something unspoken. 

It was the way he lingered near, ensuring you were safe. It was the way he stepped between you and danger without hesitation. It was the way he let you touch him, let you stay, let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t doomed to be alone forever.

So when the day came that someone tried to take you from him—when they entered his woods with cruel laughter and careless threats—Jason didn’t hesitate.

They would not take you.

They could not.

And when it was over, when the threat was gone, Jason expected you to fear him.

Instead, you reached for his hand.

"You're not a monster," you whispered, squeezing his fingers in reassurance. "Not to me."

Jason had no words. He never did. But when he pulled you close, when he let himself feel the warmth of your body against his, when he let you hold him like he was something more than a nightmare, he knew.

You were his.

And he was yours.

No one would ever take you from him again.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[jiwuu]

𓈒 ㅤ୨୧^. .^ ㅤ𓈒 covering jungwon in lip stains

0.5k── fmr x yang jgw, est. relationship, pda

lazy days with jungwon were your favorite kind of days.

no alarms, no real plans. just the two of you tangled up in your little shared apartment, the love of your life walking around in sweatpants and messy hair, sunlight pooling through the windows.

perfect.

also perfect: your evil little secret. every time jungwon wasn’t looking, you were swiping on a new layer of your favorite lipstick. and every few minutes when he least expected it, you’d pepper his face with random kisses — a peck on the cheek when he reached for the remote, a smooch on the jaw when he passed by you to grab a snack, a quick kiss to his temple when he was hunched over his phone.

he laughed it off at first, just wiping the smudges away lazily with the sleeve of his hoodie.

when he eventually stood up, saying he needed to run to the store real quick, you grabbed his face, kissed all over his cheeks, his nose, the tip of his forehead — and sent him out the door like that, waving innocently as he slipped on his shoes.

twenty minutes later, he came stomping back into the apartment, plastic bags dangling from his fingers.

“baby.”

you looked up from the couch, blinking innocently. “hm?”

he set the bags down with a dramatic sigh. “why was everyone in the store looking at me weird?”

you tried to bite back your smile, but failed miserably. “look in the mirror wonnie.”

confused, he wandered into the hallway where the full-length mirror was — and you heard the gasp.

“YN!” his voice echoed through the apartment like a scandalized cat.

you burst out laughing, tears welling up in your eyes when he stormed back into the living room — his entire face covered in lipstick marks. cheekbones, jawline, forehead, even the corner of his mouth. little pink smudges everywhere like you were trying to show your love all across his skin.

“you sent me out like this?” he cried, pointing dramatically at his face.

you only giggled harder, laughing into the pillow.

he didn’t hesitate. in two seconds flat, he tackled you onto the couch, pinning you under him as you shrieked and kicked weakly, laughing so hard you could barely breathe.

“nope,” he said nuzzling his face into your neck despite the lipstick. “this is what you get.”

“jungwon you're getting lipstick on me!”

“i dont care. you’re my prisoner now.” he squished your cheeks between his hands, smearing even more lipstick across both your faces. “you’re sentenced to cuddles forever.”

“that’s not a punishment.”

his eyes softened instantly — melting into the boy you fell in love with, the boy who would let you mark up his whole face just because it made you laugh.

he kissed your nose, your cheeks, your forehead, trailing soft, slow kisses wherever he could reach.

“whatever,” he murmured against your skin, wrapping his arms tight around you. “i wasn’t planning on ever letting you go anyway.”

© jiwuu, all rights reserved.

letters from author ୨୧ should i write my fics in lowercase like this from now on idk why i kind of love it like this its so casual