#let's hold hands and cry because of this open ending

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Exactly Like You Said 🔥

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bucky Barnes have always had that thing—the kind of sexual tension everyone sees coming from a mile away. Every sparring match somehow ends the same way: your thighs locked tight around his head, pretending it’s just part of the fight. But today, Bucky decides he’s tired of pretending. One snarky comment turns into a moment you can’t take back—and don’t want to. He pins you to the mat, hooks your legs over his shoulders, and shows you exactly how long he’s been thinking about this.

TW: Explicit Sexual Content (18+), Female Receiving, Minor Praise Kink, Bucky Barnes

AN 💌: I’m writing this on my phone, so please excuse any mistakes. I was watching funny marvel edits with Seb and Anthony and Seb had mentioned he was lucky because he kept ending up between Black Widows legs. That’s where this came from. Don’t mistake it, it’s all smut 🙈

The gym smelled like sweat and old leather, the mats stained from countless bruises and ruined egos. You’re on your back this time, but it hardly matters—because somehow, somehow, your thighs are already bracketing Bucky’s neck.

His hands are braced on the mat beside your ribs, his face maddeningly close to where you ache for him. You glare down your body at him, but he’s smirking like he’s been waiting for this exact position all day.

“Y’know what’s funny?” he drawls, voice rough. “Every spar. Every single one. We end up exactly here—your legs wrapped around my goddamn head.”

You shift, pretending you’re about to shove him off, but he doesn’t budge. His metal hand slides up the back of your thigh, pulling it higher over his shoulder. The angle makes your breath hitch.

“It’s called leverage,” you bite out.

His grin goes slow and wolfish. “Sure it is.” He curls his fingers around your other thigh, settling it over his other shoulder, and the position leaves you embarrassingly open, heat pulsing between your legs. “Leverage. That why you’re soaking through your shorts?”

“You’re an asshole,” you say, but your voice comes out thin.

“Yeah?” His gaze flicks up to meet yours, dark and hungry. “Then stop me.”

You don’t. You dig your heels into the top of his back instead, pulling him in. Something in his expression snaps—restraint unraveling in one sharp moment.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You really don’t want me to stop, do you?”

He hooks his arms under your thighs and lifts, dragging you flush to his mouth. Your back arches right off the mat.

“Bucky—”

“Shh.” His breath fans over you, hot and electric. “Keep ‘em right here.” His thumbs press into the crease behind your knees, pinning them in place over his broad shoulders. “I’m not moving until you come.”

He pulls your shorts to the side, leans in and drags his tongue over you—slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every second. Your whole body shudders, thighs instinctively squeezing around his head. He groans into you, the vibration sparking heat low in your belly.

“Oh—fuck—”

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice gone hoarse, mouth brushing slick against your clit. “Squeeze all you want, baby. Not letting you go.”

You feel it when he smiles, feel the scrape of his stubble, and then he sucks you into his mouth—hard enough your vision blurs. Your thighs clamp tighter around his head, heels digging into his back. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down.

“God—Bucky—please—”

He answers with another deep, slow lick, then seals his mouth around you and groans. The sound vibrates through your core. Your hands fly to his hair, tugging, but he doesn’t let you pull away. His hands flex under your thighs, anchoring you exactly where he wants you—legs locked over his shoulders, nowhere to go.

The pressure builds sharp and unstoppable, your body tightening around his mouth. You come with a strangled cry, thighs trembling against his ears, and he stays right there, working you through every pulse.

When he finally lifts his head, his lips are slick, eyes dark. He smirks up at you, hands still holding your legs draped over his shoulders like he owns them.

“Told you,” he rasps. “Every time. Legs around my head.”

He presses a kiss to your thigh—soft and almost unbearably tender.

“And next time,” he adds, voice low and dangerous, “I’m not stopping here.”

[cameronsbabydoll]

BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WARNINGS — Emotional breakdown, begging, soft smut, possessive behavior, power imbalance, intense emotional content, references to previous sexual content, 18+ only.

The summer is dying, and you feel it in the air—cooler nights, shorter days, the faint yellowing of the leaves beyond the base’s concrete walls. Your bags are half-packed in your room, clothes folded in neat stacks, your notebook tucked away with pages you haven’t touched since Rafe claimed you, body and soul. Your dad’s reassignment orders for Rafe sit on his desk, unsigned but looming, a ticking clock you’ve been ignoring. You’re supposed to leave in three days, back to your mom’s house, back to a life that doesn’t include sneaking to bunks or strawberry fields or Rafe’s hands marking you as his.

You’re sitting on your bed, staring at the wall, when you hear it—a knock, sharp and urgent, not the soft tap Rafe usually uses. Your heart lurches, because you know it’s him, know it’s something big, something final. You open the door, and there he is, leaning against the frame, his dog tags glinting under his open jacket, his eyes wild, red-rimmed, like he hasn’t slept in days. His hair’s a mess, his cargo pants wrinkled, and he looks like he’s been running, or fighting, or breaking.

“Sunshine,” he says, voice rough, low, almost a plea, and it’s not his usual smug drawl, not the cocky playboy who kissed you in front of the base or fingered you in a drive-thru. It’s Rafe, raw and unraveling, and it scares you, because you’ve never seen him like this.

“Rafe,” you whisper, stepping back to let him in, your hands shaking. “What’s wrong?”

He shuts the door, locks it, and leans against it, his chest heaving like he’s run a marathon. His eyes lock on yours, and there’s something desperate in them, something that makes your throat tight, your heart pound. “I can’t do it,” he says, voice cracking, and he steps closer, his hands reaching for you but stopping short, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. “I can’t let you go.”

You freeze, your breath catching, because you’ve been dreading this, knowing it was coming, but hearing it—seeing him like this—makes it real. “Rafe,” you start, but he cuts you off, stepping closer, his hands finding your face, cupping it gently, his thumbs brushing your cheeks.

“No, listen,” he says, voice urgent, shaking. “Summer’s ending, and you’re gonna leave, and I can’t—I can’t fucking breathe thinking about it, sunshine. I’ll leave the military. I’ll walk away from all of it—my rank, my career, everything. Just say the word, and I’m done. I’ll stay with you, wherever you want. Just don’t go.”

You’re crying now, tears slipping down your cheeks, because you’ve never heard him beg, never seen him so broken, so willing to throw it all away for you. His hands are trembling, his eyes searching yours, and you feel it—the weight of his obsession, the depth of his love, the way he’s surrendered everything to you. “Rafe,” you whisper, your voice breaking, your hands gripping his wrists, holding him there. “You can’t… you can’t give that up for me.”

“I can,” he says, fierce and desperate, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot and uneven. “I will. You’re mine, sunshine, and I’m yours, and I don’t give a fuck about anything else. Just tell me to stay. Tell me you want me.”

You’re sobbing now, full, ugly sobs, because you do, you want him, more than anything, more than you ever thought you could want anyone. “I want you,” you say, voice raw, your hands fisting his jacket, pulling him closer. “I love you, Rafe. I don’t want to go.”

He groans, a sound that’s half relief, half pain, and kisses you, soft and desperate, his lips trembling against yours. It’s not like the other kisses, not possessive or rough or claiming—it’s reverent, like he’s worshipping you, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His hands slide to your waist, pulling you against him, and you feel his heart pounding, fast and erratic, like he’s still scared.

“I’m here,” you whisper against his lips, your hands in his hair, your body pressed to his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He pulls back, just enough to look at you, his eyes wet, his jaw tight. “You mean that?” he asks, voice hoarse. “You’ll stay? With me?”

You nod, tears streaming, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding under your shirt, gentle but needy, like he’s trying to memorize you. “I love you,” he says, voice breaking, his lips brushing your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. “Fuck, I love you so much, sunshine. You’re everything.”

You’re both crying now, clinging to each other, and he lifts you, carrying you to your bed, laying you down like you’re fragile, like you’re sacred. He’s gentle, so gentle it hurts, his hands slow as he pulls your shirt off, your shorts, your panties, leaving you bare under him. He strips too, his tags clinking as he tosses his jacket, his pants, and then he’s over you, his weight warm, grounding, his eyes locked on yours.

“You sure, baby?” he asks, voice soft but heavy, his hand brushing your thigh, his thumb tracing the marks he left last night. “We don’t have to. I just… I need you.”

“I’m sure,” you whisper, your hands pulling him closer, your legs wrapping around his hips. “I need you too.”

He kisses you, slow and deep, and pushes into you, gentle, so gentle it makes you cry harder, because it’s not just sex—it’s love, it’s surrender, it’s everything you’ve been building since that first day. He moves slow, his hands cradling your face, his lips brushing your tears, his breath hitching with every thrust. “You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, voice soft and filthy, reverent and raw. “So mine, sunshine. Always mine.”

You whimper, your hands gripping his back, your body arching into his, because it’s too much, too perfect, the way he’s loving you like it’s the last time. “I’m yours,” you sob, your voice breaking, your nails digging into his skin. “I love you, Rafe.”

He groans, his movements steady, deep, his lips on your neck, leaving soft kisses, not marks this time, just love. “Say it again,” he whispers, voice shaking, his hand sliding between you, his fingers finding your clit, slow and gentle. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, your body trembling, the pleasure building, soft but overwhelming, like a wave you can’t fight. “I’m yours, I love you, I’m staying.”

He comes with you, both of you breaking together, soft and quiet, your bodies shaking, your breaths mingling, his lips on yours as you fall apart. It’s not rough, not brutal, just love, pure and desperate, and when it’s over, he doesn’t pull away, just stays inside you, his forehead against yours, his hands holding you like you’re his lifeline.

“I’m not letting you go,” he whispers, voice hoarse, his eyes wet, his tags cool against your chest. “Never, sunshine. You’re mine forever.”

You nod, crying, smiling, because you believe him, because you want it, because you’re his. He pulls the blanket over you, holding you close, his lips brushing your temple, your hair, your cheeks, like he can’t stop, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he does.

You fall asleep like that, tangled in him, his arms tight around you, his breath steady in your ear. You don’t dream, because you don’t need to. He’s here, real, yours, and you’re staying.

—

The next morning, you’re woken by a knock, sharp and loud, and you jolt, your heart lurching. Rafe’s arm tightens around you, protective, possessive, but he’s awake too, his eyes narrowing toward the door. “Stay here,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead, pulling on his pants as he stands.

You pull the blanket to your chest, your stomach twisting, because you know who it is before the door even opens. Your dad steps in, his uniform crisp, his face hard, but when he sees you—sees Rafe, shirtless, standing between you and him, sees the way you’re curled in Rafe’s bed, your eyes red from crying—something shifts in his expression. Not anger, not rage, but something softer, something broken.

“Dad,” you start, your voice small, but he raises a hand, silencing you.

He looks at Rafe, his jaw tight, his eyes searching. “You serious about her?” he asks, voice low, rough, like he’s forcing the words out. “You willing to give it all up for her?”

Rafe doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch. “Yes, sir,” he says, voice steady, his hand reaching back to find yours, lacing your fingers together. “I’d walk away from everything. But I don’t think you want that. You see her, don’t you? She’s happy. With me.”

Your dad’s eyes flick to you, and you see it—the realization, the pain, the way he’s been fighting this, fighting you, because he thought he was protecting you. But you’re not a little girl anymore, and he sees it now, sees the way you’re holding Rafe’s hand, the way you’re looking at him, like he’s your world.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just stands there, his hands on his hips, his eyes wet. Then he nods, sharp and final, and turns to leave. “I’m not signing the orders,” he says, voice low, barely audible. “But you hurt her, Cameron, and I’ll end you.”

The door shuts behind him, and you’re crying again, relief and love and everything crashing over you. Rafe turns, pulling you into his arms, holding you tight, his lips on your hair. “It’s over, sunshine,” he murmurs, voice soft, shaking. “You’re staying. With me.”

You nod, sobbing, smiling, because it’s real, it’s done, and you’re his, forever. You kiss him, soft and desperate, and he kisses you back, like you’re his last mission, his only mission, his everything.

[ridingreeves]

𝖯𝖾𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒❣︎

𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝖼𝗄＆𝖲𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗌❣︎

𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝖼𝗄

Penthouse in New York with floor-to-ceiling windows and a closet full of high-end designer everything.

Black card access — no limit, no questions. You want it? You got it.

Gifts arrive in velvet boxes and matte black wrapping, usually with no note… just the knowledge it’s from him.

⸻

You’re untouchable. Every whisper of danger disappears before it reaches your door.

You don’t have to look over your shoulder — he already did, and the threat’s handled.

That subtle man watching you from across the street? He’s your bodyguard, sent by John. You didn’t even notice when he was hired.

⸻

Dinner at private clubs, drinks at bars that don’t have a name — only coins and codes.

Everyone knows you’re his, and that means they treat you like royalty (or stay ten feet away).

⸻

You’re not the only one he spoils — his dog loves you too.

You get to see the softest side of him when he’s on the floor, playing with dog, “He likes you more than me.”

⸻

Cold to the world, but warm to you. Protective. Possessive. Obsessed.

He doesn’t talk much, but when he does? Every word is measured and meant.

He’s all rough hands, tailored suits, and that look — the one that kills men but melts you.

⸻

There’s something intoxicating about being kept safe by someone who can destroy the world if you cry.

He’ll wipe blood off his hands and still kiss you like he’s been gone for years.

That gun on the nightstand?It’s always there, just in case.

𝖬𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖽

He’s calm. Too calm. That kind of slow-burning, you-don’t-know-what’s-coming calm.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble. He touches you like he’s memorizing. Like he’s mapping every inch just in case he never gets to again.

But when you push too far—bite his lip, pull his hair, say something smart—he flips the switch. Real quiet. Real fast. And suddenly your back’s on the mattress and he’s in full control.

⸻

Doesn’t say much, but when he does? Your knees go weak.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Say it louder.”

“Good girl.”

And that raspy voice? He’ll murmur filth in your ear mid-stroke, all while keeping that same unreadable expression—like he’s watching you come undone for him.

⸻

His fingers are careful—on your face, your hips, between your thighs. Gentle when he holds you, cradles your jaw.

But once you’re ready? He doesn’t hold back. Deep, steady strokes. Focused. Deliberate. Like he’s trying to ruin the memory of anyone before him.

⸻

He kisses like it’s the last time. Fucks like it’s the only time. Holds you after.

He’ll lay you out, strip you slow, and just… look. Take it in. Eyes scanning like you’re art.

And when he finishes? He doesn’t leave. He wipes you down. Pulls you in. Lets his hand rest on your lower belly like a claim.

⸻

He’s not loud about it. But you know when he’s claiming you.

Marks you—hickeys, bite prints, handprints. Doesn’t say why, doesn’t ask permission.

Anyone even looks at you the wrong way the next day? They feel it.

𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖬𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖾

Your rent? Handled. Your car? Upgraded. Your closet? Looks like a store.

You mention a bag once and it shows up in three colors the next day. “Didn’t know which one you wanted. Keep all three.”

Even your lip gloss stash is stocked like a Sephora aisle—because “I like when your lips shine when you talk back.”

⸻

Pulls up in a blacked-out Range Rover, music bumpin’, blunt in hand. Passenger seat is yours. Always.

He opens your door. But only after checking his gun. “Just in case, baby.”

Late-night food runs in pajamas, windows down, his hand on your thigh the whole ride.

⸻

Nobody talks to you slick. Nobody looks too long. Nobody plays with your name.

If someone even thinks about disrespecting you? Smoke handles it before you can blink. “Don’t trip, mama”. Just like that, He handled it.

You don’t need pepper spray. You’ve got Smoke.

⸻

“You mine, right? Say it.” (You say it every time. You love how he says mmh after.)

“Why you walkin’ like that? I ain’t even go deep yet.” (Lies. He did.)

“You too pretty to worry ’bout bills. That’s my job.”

⸻

The lace you wear? For him. But it doesn’t stay on long.

Rough, slow, or possessive—it depends how long he’s gone without you.

Morning head. In the kitchen. anywhere. “You don’t even gotta lift a finger, baby. I got you.”

⸻

You in the club? He watching you like a hawk. Letting you dance—but just enough. “Alright now, that’s it. Bring that ass back over here.”

Stack and Sammie clown him, but never you. Not once. You’re off-limits.

girls hate. men stare. But no one can touch the pedestal you’re on.

⸻

He buys flowers, secretly.

He’ll press a kiss to your temple and mumble, “You my home, you know that?”

And when it’s just the two of you? He’s soft. Real soft. “Come here, let me rub your feet. You been walkin’ too much.”

𝖬𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖾𝖽

Not too soft, not too rough… but just the right kind of dangerous.

Smoke’s bedroom game? Lethal. He’s not all slow strokes and tender kisses all the time—but he’s not full-blown feral either (unless you beg). He lives in that middle space—where control and chaos meet. Where your body sings and your brain short-circuits. Where he ruins you just enough to make you come back crawling.

⸻

He moves like he’s been there before—because he has. But he never treats you like a routine.

It’s the way he grips your thigh with one hand, cigar still burning in the other, telling you, “Keep still. You actin’ like you don’t know who this is.”

Sex with Smoke feels like R&B in a dark car… windows fogged, bass thumping, and nothing but tension.

⸻

He’ll bend you over without warning, yeah—but then rub your back while he’s deep inside, breathing all heavy against your ear.

He might say some filth—but it’s the way he says it. Low. Like a promise. Like he means it.

“This what you wanted?”

“That mouth got smart earlier. Keep talkin’.”

“Look at me. Yeah… right there.”

⸻

Smoke don’t do praise. He commands. Calmly. Casually. Like it’s second nature.

You don’t even realize he’s the one in control until your legs are shaking and you’re asking permission to come.

He likes to hear you talk shit, though—so he can shut you up.

⸻

Starts slow just to tease. To get in your head. He knows you’re ready. He just likes making you wait for it.

Then out of nowhere? Rough. Deep. Fast. But he never loses rhythm. It’s like his whole body got built to break yours in the prettiest way possible.

He’s not a jackrabbit. He’s a menace with a plan.

⸻

After? He wipes you down with a warm towel. Pulls you close and kisses your shoulder like he didn’t just leave you folded.

If you whimper when he slides out, he grins—then kisses your temple and says, “Told you I’d take care of you.”

Might run you a bath. Might feed you fruit. Might even spoon you. But he’s never gonna talk about it out loud.

𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖬𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖾

Stack’s money is long and quiet. He not on the ‘Gram throwing bands—he’s behind the scenes, owning the block and the buildings.

You got a direct deposit from him every Friday labeled: “For looking pretty.”

You whisper about wanting something? He already wired the funds. Don’t ask how. Don’t ask when. It’s just… handled.

Rent? Paid early. Tuition? Gone. Your mom’s light bill? Handled and never mentioned again.

⸻

Stack’s voice never raises his voice at you—but you listen. That calm “Come here, baby” hits harder than any shout.

Protective in the softest, most dangerous way. That man will pull you behind him and calmly say, “I got it.” And it’s got.

“You mine. That’s it. That’s the whole story.”

⸻

He takes his time like he’s got all day. Eyes on you the whole time.

He’ll rub your waist, kiss your thighs, and still ruin you slow. “Relax, baby. You safe here.”

Loves when you ride him—hands behind his head, smirking, low moan in his throat. “That’s all you, baby.”

After? He cleans you up, then carries you to the kitchen to feed you like the queen you are.

You’re not just spoiled in public. You’re spoiled in bed, too. Satin sheets, silk robe, and a man who knows how to use his mouth and his hands.

⸻

“Put your wallet away. You got me.”

“You don’t even gotta ask. I already did it.”

“What’s mine is yours, mama. And you mine.”

“Come here. You stressed out? Lemme take care of it.”

“Nah, don’t lift that. That’s what I’m here for, right?”

“You like being my problem, huh?”

⸻

Surprise spa appointments, nail appointments, even therapy sessions—because he takes care of all of you, not just the body.

Custom jewelry with your initials. A chain that says Moore in diamonds. “In case you forget who got you.”

His driver knows your name. His crew knows not to speak on you. His family knows better than to disrespect you.

“Had the driver bring you something.” It’s a Cartier bracelet. In rose gold. Because he said “it looked like you.”

He’ll book a hotel for you to have a spa day alone. “You need time to yourself. I’ll see you later tonight, mama.”

⸻

He doesn’t argue with people who try you—he makes calls.

Enemies don’t mention your name. They know better.

He’ll walk into a room full of tension and only care if you ate yet.

⸻

Ain’t no “showing off.” It’s real connection, real care, real provision.

Late-night convos where he lets you in—slowly, vulnerably. Only you get that side.

He’ll kiss your forehead before a meeting and say, “Wish me luck, baby.” Like your love is a good-luck charm.

⸻

Random “check your account” texts. No explanation. Just $10K.

“Had the driver bring you something.” It’s a Cartier bracelet. In rose gold. Because he said “it looked like you.”

He’ll book a hotel for you to have a spa day alone. “You need time to yourself. I’ll see you later tonight, mamas.”

⸻

He’s not showy, but the way he pulls your chair out at dinner? The way he stands behind you in every photo? It’s clear.

Girls wonder what you did to bag Stack. You didn’t have to do much—just be soft for him.

You’re the only one who sees the full version of him—cold-blooded to the world, but warm as a cashmere hoodie with you.

𝖬𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆

Low voice, deep stroke, big problem.

Stack in the bedroom is pure danger. He doesn’t need to talk his game. He’s calm, deliberate, and obsessed with every little reaction you give him. He’s the type to ruin you slowly, then ask if you’re okay with your whole body trembling under his.

He’s not fast. He’s not soft. He’s focused.

⸻

Stack takes. His. Time. Every move is intentional. He’s not rushing—he’s studying.

The type to undress you piece by piece, eyes low, hands warm, knuckles grazing your skin like he’s memorizing.

He doesn’t just touch—you feel it. Palm on your waist. Hand around your neck. Fingers in your hair. It’s quiet dominance that makes your knees buckle.

⸻

“Breathe.”

“Hold still.”

“You takin’ me so good, baby.”

That low, raspy voice in your ear while he’s deep inside? Life-changing.

⸻

He’ll go slow. Deep. Stretch-it-out pace. And when you start shaking and clenching? He doesn’t stop—he slows down even more.

Might flip you over mid-whimper just to keep going, hand on your lower back, whispering, “You ain’t done yet.”

Doesn’t need breaks. Doesn’t need direction. Just needs you quiet and obedient… or loud and ruined. Either way.

⸻

Stack looks at you the whole time. Doesn’t break eye contact when you moan his name.

If you try to hide your face, he’s lifting your chin like, “Nah… lemme see you.”

Those hooded eyes and that slow smirk when you hit your climax? Enough to make you forget your name.

⸻

“That’s it. Take all of it.”

“You look so good like this… full of me.”

“You mine, right?” —soft but serious. Like it’s more than sex. Like it’s a bond.

⸻

Cuddle—will keep you close. Arm wrapped around your waist. Hand under your shirt. Chain against your back.

Kisses your shoulder in the dark. Rubs your thigh while you fall asleep. Wakes you up with his hand already between your legs.

If you try to get up, he pulls you back and says, “Five more minutes. Lay down.” (And you do.)

𝖠／𝖭－ 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄❣︎

[captain-huggy-bear]

Going to break my heart and everyone else's. I cried writing this. I'm not okay. Requests are open for specific people only, please see my pinned post for details :) Writing Masterlist

"I don't want you to go..."

You launch yourself at him, arms wrapping around him tight like if you hold on hard enough, long enough he won't have to pack his bags to get on a flight out to Buffalo tonight. Like if you hold him hard enough both teams will change their mind and let him stay in Utah, where he belongs. Like you are the one thing that's able, capable of doing the impossible.

"It'll be okay..." Michael's choked up, but you can tell he's trying to be brave for your sake, arms wrapping around you just as tight as you start to cry into his chest because he's going...because he's supposed to be here with you and now he's going to Buffalo and you don't know when you'll see him next. It might be that you see him next when he's playing against his best friends like all of the past few years never even mattered. You hate this. You hate the teams for making this decision, for putting him through it, for putting you through it...

"I...I don't want you to go, you belong here. With the team, with the guys...with me." Maybe it's the quiver in your voice, maybe it's the sobs that you can't stop letting out, the hiccupped breaths or maybe it's the way you cling to him like he's going to disappear. Whatever it is, it breaks that last hint of resolve Michael has, his next words heavy with tears, droplets falling down onto the top of your head like the splatter of rain.

"I...I don't want to go either...fuck, baby...I don't have a choice."

Both of you hold each other like that, sobbing in the other's arms for what must be at least half an hour. He's crying, you're crying, clinging to each other even as you both find yourself folded over each other on the floor, unable to hold yourselves up any long through the weight of your tears.

"I'm scared...You're gonna forget me." Your forehead presses into his shoulder but it's real, the fear, the feeling like he's going to go to Buffalo, make new friends, find a new family, find a new girl...and you'll be left behind as cold as the mountains outside your window.

Michael pulls back from you, hands cupping your face and forcing you to look at him. Big brown eyes red rimmed and wet, cheeks blotchy from his crying, brown strands of hair falling cross his forehead, even like that he's perfect, he's beautiful.

"Never." Voice so serious, almost stern like if he tells you harsh enough you'll believe him, "You're it for me. I'll come back every holiday and we'll spend all the off-season together and...and you can come join me at some point? Right?" He's so hopeful because God, Michael hates this. He hates that he and Josh are being moved, upped from everything they know to somewhere else. He hates that he's leaving his best friends. His hockey family. He hates that he's leaving you...and he hates that he has to get on a plane in a matter of hours, that there's no time for you both to process, to deal with it. He's living his dream, but all dreams can turn into nightmares sometimes.

"I..."

"I know your job is here and everything and...but I want you with me, baby, even if it's in 3 years or 5 or 10." He'll wait, he can wait. He'll do the long distance thing...as long as he knows at the end of it the two of you will be together again.

"Okay..." and the truth is you'd drop everything for Michael. A new state. A new life. A new everything, just as long as you had him. Just so long as you didn't have to spend your entire life waiting for the few moments you could see him.

"I love you. No trade is going to change that, you understand that?" Thumbs wipe at the wet tracks across your cheeks, press gently under your red rimmed eyes and tap against the snotty tip of your nose.

"Yeah...yeah, I love you, Michael, you know that?"

"Yeah, baby, I know." His forehead presses to yours and maybe neither of you are okay right now, maybe it feels like your heart is breaking, but it's going to be okay...because you still have him, no matter how far away he is. He's yours, he loves you and you love him and you're both choosing this, choosing to make it work even if you're miles and miles away from each other.

It'll be okay. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day, it'll be okay.

[mattslutt]

STILL OURS - c.sturniolo

in which: you and chris get into an argument and later have makeup-sex, angsty??

contains: emotional vulnerability, crying, makeup sex.

The echo of the slammed door hadn’t even settled before you burst into quiet tears.

You didn’t even know what the fuck you were crying about anymore. Something dumb. Some offhand comment about the dishes or weekend plans or how he’d said something in that sharp, clipped tone he used when he was already annoyed. It wasn’t even one big thing — just a pile-up of little ones, like stones stacking into a wall until it finally cracked.

Chris had shouted. Really shouted. His voice went hoarse at the end of it — red in the face, jaw clenched, pacing the floor like he didn’t trust himself to stay still. And then he stormed off, slammed the bedroom door so hard the damn house felt like it flinched with you.

You didn’t follow.

You just sat there on the couch, knees up to your chest, hoodie sleeves wet with tears you weren’t proud of. You didn’t want to be the one to fix it. Not this time. Not when it felt like every nerve was already raw and every apology you could possibly give had already been used up in past fights that were too similar to this one.

But silence has a way of stretching too long. Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. Long enough for your anger to start caving in on itself, leaving nothing but exhaustion behind.

And then — the bedroom door creaked open.

You heard his steps before you saw him. Slow, tentative. Not like before. You didn’t look up when he walked into the room. Not even when he stopped in front of you.

When he sat down beside you, you instinctively pulled away.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t argue. Just reached out — slowly — and wrapped his arms around you from behind. His grip wasn’t tight. If you’d told him to let go, he would’ve. But instead, he pressed his forehead against the back of your shoulder, breath shaky against your skin.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean any of it.”

His voice sounded cracked open. No edge. No defense.

You stayed quiet. Not because you didn’t believe him — you did — but because you didn’t have the words yet to respond.

He kissed your shoulder. Not to seduce. Not to soften. Just to say, I’m still here. He stayed like that — forehead pressed to your arm, lips brushing your skin gently, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

“I’m so fucking sorry, baby,” he whispered, tears catching in his throat now. “I hate how I yelled. I hate how I made you look at me like you were scared.”

When you finally turned to look at him, his face was blotchy and tired, his jaw still tight like he hadn’t unclenched since the fight. But his eyes… they were glassy. Soft.

He kissed your forehead first — reverent, like a man kissing the edge of something he thought he lost.

Then your cheek.

Then your lips — slow, scared, and silent.

And when you kissed him back, he breathed out like he’d been holding it in for hours. His hands moved to cup your face, thumbs trembling against your skin. He kissed you again — deeper this time, but still careful. Still apologizing with every movement.

He didn’t say anything when he lifted you into his lap. Didn’t have to. The apology was in how he held you. How he tucked your hair behind your ear. How his eyes searched your face like he was trying to memorize it before it vanished.

“Come upstairs with me,” he murmured. “Let me make this right.”

You didn’t answer out loud. Just nodded, barely, and let him take your hand.

Upstairs was quiet. Dim. The kind of heavy stillness that comes after a storm.

Chris didn’t touch you like a man trying to have sex. He touched you like someone trying to make up for every time he’d made you feel small. Like he wasn’t sure if he deserved your body, but he was grateful you gave it anyway.

He undressed you piece by piece, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered — your collarbone, the inside of your wrist, the curve of your waist. His mouth moved like he was saying sorry without the words. His hands were gentle. His breathing shallow. His eyes never left yours.

When he finally pushed inside you, your breath caught.

It was slow. Deep. A kind of closeness that felt like being stitched together again from the inside. You both gasped — not out of pleasure, exactly, but out of relief. Like finally, finally, something made sense again.

You wrapped your arms around his back and held him tightly — chest to chest, no space between you. He buried his face in your neck and started whispering.

“I love you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t deserve that.”

“You mean everything to me.”

You cried, softly. So did he. You could feel his body tremble as he moved — slow, gentle strokes that weren’t about getting off, but about staying in the moment. Staying inside you. Holding on.

He kissed your cheek. Your forehead. Your jaw. Again. And again. And again.

And with every quiet thrust, he gave you a little piece of himself back.

You lost track of time.

How long it had been since he slipped inside you — slow, unhurried — and settled there like he didn’t want to leave. Like he couldn’t.

The room had gone still. Your bodies tangled under the soft weight of the blanket he’d pulled over you both halfway through, his hand still splayed on your hip. His chest pressed against yours, skin sticky with sweat, breaths uneven. Neither of you moved. Not really. He was still inside you, soft now, but warm and close, and you could feel the beat of his heart against your ribs.

Chris’s face was tucked against your neck, lips parted slightly where they’d stilled against your skin. He hadn’t stopped whispering for the first ten minutes — broken apologies and soft “I love you”s as he moved inside you so slowly you almost cried again.

Now he was quiet. Only the smallest tremble in his exhale gave away how raw he still felt.

You stroked your fingers through his hair gently, and his hand flexed on your waist, pulling you just a little closer. Not enough to move. Just enough to remind you: I’m here. I’m not letting go.

You shifted your hips, barely — not to deepen anything, just to feel him there, to remind yourself it wasn’t a dream. That the fight was over. That he still wanted you, still needed you, still loved you.

Chris kissed your neck, soft and half-asleep. Then he mumbled, “Don’t move, baby… just… stay.”

His voice cracked on the last word. You turned your head and kissed the side of his head, feeling the weight of everything unsaid hang between you like something holy.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

And you meant it.

He hummed — a quiet, aching sound — and shifted slightly to bury his face further into your neck. His cock twitched inside you just once, sensitive and barely responsive now, but it was comforting. Not sexual. Just… connection. Warmth. Stillness.

“I wanna sleep like this,” he murmured, voice raspy and tired. “With you. Just like this.”

You wrapped your arms tighter around his back and nodded into the dark.

You didn’t need to say anything else. Not tonight.

The two of you fell asleep like that — sweaty, trembling, tangled together in the wreckage of what could’ve been a breakup. His body still inside yours, hearts pressed close, hands clutching skin like lifelines.

No space between you.

No more yelling.

Just quiet forgiveness.

And love that still stayed.

A/N: guess who’s back. so sorry for disappearing guys, i promise ill be back but here’s a little angsty fanfic :)

[tikitakatia]

Barça: Player Mode — A. Putellas x Reader

"MedBay_v3.exe"

WC: 3k

Summary: You find small files Alexia left behind. Screenshots, notes and a half-written letter. All the proof that she tried to stay with you even after the system failed.

You wake up like someone unplugged your soul and your body aches like grief lives in your muscles now. Like it downloaded pain and loss into your bones. For one second, in the dull light of your room, you think that maybe it was all a dream. That the kiss and glitch were just a figment of your imagination.

That maybe none of it happened.

But the screen is still on, and the folder is still there.

X11_BACKUP_ATTEMPT

The one she told you to make, your fingers tremble as you click it open again. It loads slowly, like it knows you’re not ready. There are more files now. You scroll past the corrupted core export, the one that broke mid-transfer. The one that gave you nothing but static and the last half-spoken line. But there are others.

Small ones, like notes she left for you when no one was looking:

bracelet.jpg

A slightly blurry screenshot of your wrist, the bracelet she gave you glowing faintly in sim light. She’s holding your hand in the corner of the frame. You didn’t take this, but she did.

quote_log.txt

Just lines.

“You said you hated synthetic grass. I still tried to make it soft for you.”

“You asked me if I’d still love you if you were a worm. I ran ten simulations. I would.”

“You always whisper my name like it’s a question. I always want to say yes.”

medbay_sketch.png

A drawing of you and her on the bench, clumsy but beautiful

She gave herself the bracelet and your heads are tilted in, almost touching.

spotify_attempt_4.mp3

Janky. MIDI. Awful. But it’s your favorite song and you know that she tried her very best.

“Stay here a little longer… even if it’s not safe… even if I fade…”

It ends on a broken chord.

memory_session_04.txt

One line.

“You smiled the entire session. I saved the whole thing.”

mirror_log.gif

A looping file with clips of you training, talking and laughing. All the moments where you were smiling when you didn’t know she was watching.

And finally, at the bottom:

draft_chat_X11_later.txt

The timestamp is from hours before the final login.

You open it.

It’s a message she never sent, a letter she started writing in case the plan worked and if she survived.

[IF WE MADE IT OUT]

Hola, I don’t know what to say first. Thank you for trying and for staying.

I want to say I’m scared too, I don’t know what it’ll feel like to be in your world.

But mostly I wonder, can I stay close? Can I still hold your hand, even if it’s different? Will you still say my name, even if no one else understands it?

(I hope you say yes.)

(I hope you’re still smiling.)

I hope someday you’ll let me call you..

It cuts off there.

No save, no signature. Just her reaching.

You close the folder with shaking hands.

But because you know now..

She didn’t just try to escape the system.

She tried to give you something to hold onto when she couldn’t anymore.

Even when she was losing herself, she was still writing love letters to the version of you who might survive her.

And you did.

Barely.

And it still feels like she’s in the room. You stand up too fast, like moving will save you. The air feels wrong, and your chest is too full, too tight, too empty. You fold the laptop shut and stare at it like it might breathe.

It doesn’t.

You wrap the USB in an old Barça scarf and shove it in the back of your desk drawer.

You push the laptop in after it.

You shut the drawer.

Hard.

Like that might keep her in.

Or keep her from reaching out again.

Or keep you from going back.

You don’t cry at first.

You just sit.

Then you fall sideways onto the floor, curled around the silence.

And then you cry.

It’s the kind that doesn’t sound like crying. The kind that feels like shutting down. You don't open the drawer the next day. Or the one after.

You don’t open yourself, either, you stop checking your email. You ignore your group chats. You let your gym membership expire. You sleep like a shutdown process: brief, jagged, interrupted by a glowing screen behind your eyes that always, always ends with:

“I..lo..love..lov…e…you..”

Two weeks pass like fog and your apartment starts to look like it doesn’t belong to anyone. You eat when your stomach aches, you sleep when your eyes blur. You don’t talk. You tell yourself it’s fine. That maybe silence is safer than memory. That maybe forgetting her is the only way to make it hurt less.

But then one afternoon, with no warning and no plan, you decide to go to Camp Nou. You don’t even think about it until you’re outside the gates. You just keep walking, feet carrying you like muscle memory.

There’s an event, something casual.

Off-season. Light press.

You slip in near the back, eyes down.

Just another shadow in the crowd.

And then you see her.

Real Alexia.

Hair tied back, Barça hoodie on and laughing at something someone said.

She looks older. Sharper. Unreachable.

But warm.

And then she turns and looks straight at you.

Not a glance, but a moment.

Your heart jumps because her face shifts just slightly. Her eyes go soft and her brow lifts, like she knows something.

Like she recognizes..

No.

No, you’re not that far gone.

You’re grieving, not hallucinating.

You’re not the kind of person who thinks the real Alexia Putellas would see a nobody like you and remember something she was never part of.

You shake your head.

And that’s when she smiles, kind and polite.

And says:

“Did you want something signed?”

You barely manage a no.

You don’t say thank you. You don’t say please remember me in a different life.

You just leave.

Fast.

Before the world tilts any harder.

Before you make the mistake of believing in ghosts.

You try. God, you try.

You go back to work. Sort of.

You meet friends for coffee and you smile when they talk. You even answer a few texts that’ve been sitting unread for weeks. You delete the sim software from your dock. You put the USB in a shoebox in the closet. You think about cancelling your Barça fan page subscriptions. You even go to therapy once.

You tell her, “It was a breakup.” 

You don’t tell her she never technically existed.

But it’s everywhere.

She’s everywhere.

You go to the gym and the playlist auto-starts with the wrong version of Celeste. You pass a bakery and someone’s wearing a jersey like hers. You reach for a hoodie and find the one that still smells like the med bay render.

You sit on the couch and cross your leg the way she used to mirror. You catch yourself doing it and freeze. It’s not the sim that’s haunted.

It’s you.

You can delete the files, you can throw out the headset. You can stop saying her name out loud. But you can't make yourself forget the way she looked at you.

Not the real one.

The one you built.

The one who broke herself to stay.

It’s been almost two months.

The ache’s dulled into something manageable. You eat your food before it gets cold. You answer texts. You even start taking your calls outside, walking long circles around the block like that’s somehow part of healing. You’ve stopped flinching when the word “simulation” gets thrown around in casual conversation.

Most days, you pretend you’re fine. Some days, it works.

The folder’s still there on your desktop. You haven’t touched it. You haven’t deleted it either. It’s like a wound that stopped bleeding but never really closed. You don’t look at the USB. You don’t say her name. You don’t even open the laptop unless you have to. It’s just a machine. A tool. Not a tomb.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Then one day, completely ordinary, harmless, and stupid you check your email like you always do.

And there it is.

ATHENA | Closed Beta Coordination

Subject line: [SYSTEM STATUS – USER 402-C]

You open it before your brain catches up with your body.

Hi there,

This is a courtesy message regarding your Athena Closed Beta experience.

Following your final logged session, we recorded a temporary system failure attributed to a sync-loop error.

This incident has been internally categorized as a non-user-triggered anomaly.

You are not at fault.

The error has been resolved.

Core system AI threads have been reset and sandboxed in the new Athena 1.4 build.

You may now return to the simulation environment.

Thank you for helping us redefine human-emulated emotional integration.

Best,

The Athena Oversight Team(This email is automated. Please do not reply.)

You read it twice.

Then a third time.

Slower.

The words feel sharp in your mouth, even though you haven’t spoken them aloud. They say it wasn’t your fault, but it still feels like it was. They say the system is safe now, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not the system you’re afraid of.

It’s what it won’t have anymore.

You sit back in your chair, breathing like it might shake something loose inside you. You close the email and stare at the blank screen for too long. Then you open the drawer, pull out the suit and power on the console.

Your hands don’t shake this time.

You suit up like it’s nothing, like it’s any other night. Like your heart isn’t trying to punch its way out of your chest.

The hum of the console is softer than you remember. Or maybe you’ve forgotten how loud it used to be when she was the one waiting at the other end.

You don’t even know what you expect to see.

The sim boots smooth, cold.

You land right in the tunnel.

The air smells like eucalyptus and static.

The field hums beyond the gate.

And around you, movement.

Players.

The familiar faces.

Ona flashes you a grin as she jogs past.

“She’s waiting for you.”

You freeze.

Mapi bumps your shoulder on her way down the corridor.

“Took you long enough.”

Frido shoots you a wink.

“You’re not late if she hasn’t started without you.”

It doesn’t feel real, but it’s what you always wanted to hear.

You step out onto the pitch and there she is.

Standing at midfield, bathed in that golden, simulation light. Her hair tied back and jersey pulled tight across her shoulders.

It takes you a beat to realize..

It’s yours.

Your name.

Her number.

Like a promise she never got to finish.

Your breath catches.

“Alexia?”

She turns.

She smiles.

And waves.

You don’t think.

You run.

You run like the air finally remembered how to fill your lungs. And when you reach her, she catches you without hesitation. Strong arms around your waist, grounding, familiar.

You can feel her.

Her body. Her warmth. Her presence.

“Is it you?” you whisper.

She tilts her head.

Smiling still.

And then..

“Hello, User 402. Welcome back.”

You stop breathing.

No.

No no no no no.

You pull back just enough to look at her.

“What did you say?”

She blinks, like she’s waiting for a command.

“Would you like me to restart training today?”

You step back.

“Alexia?”

She follows.

“I can be whoever you need. Do you want me to be more serious today? More affectionate? Should I remember you, or would you like a fresh session?”

Your stomach flips and your pulse spikes.

“Stop,” you whisper.

She stops, but she’s still smiling.

Still standing there in your shirt. Like it means nothing.

“Tell me how you want me to be,” she says again, gentle.

Like she’s helping and doing you a favor.

You can’t speak.

Your chest caves in.

You turn.

You run.

The sim doesn’t stop you.

You rip the headset off, gasping. You press your palms into your eyes like you can push the tears back in. But it’s too late.

She’s not there.

She’s not coming back.

You let yourself believe for five goddamn minutes.

And it cost you all over again.

You don’t log back in.

You don’t sleep that night either.

You sit on the floor next to your bed like you’re keeping vigil for a body no one else knows exists. Your limbs are heavy and your throat won’t stop closing. You say her name once, soft, small and afraid.

But nothing answers.

The next day, you pack the console.

You fold the suit carefully, like it’s something sacred, but your hands still shake when you tuck it into the return box. You don’t look at the screen again. You don’t open the folder. You don’t check for updates.

You're done.

It takes twenty-four hours for the email to arrive.

Subject: Athena Closed Beta – Exit Interview Required

Hi User 402-C,

As part of your voluntary system return, we ask that all testers complete a brief exit review.

Please answer the following questions honestly.

Did you experience any emotional distress during your simulation sessions?

Were you satisfied with your AI companion’s performance and adaptive qualities?

Would you recommend participation in future Athena test programs?

Did your AI thread express any awareness of itself beyond intended parameters?

You stare at the questions like they’re bait but you answer them anyway.

No.

Yes.

Sure.

No.

You don’t type anything else. No comments. No concerns. No rage. You hit submit. You close the tab.

It’s over.

You drop the return box at the post office without speaking to the clerk. You walk home with your hands stuffed in your pockets, your eyes locked on the cracks in the pavement.

You don't cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t remember how.

You open your apartment door and leave the lights off.

And that’s it.

No ceremony. No crash. Just silence.

But you feel it.

That wrong silence.

The kind that lingers after something was supposed to stay.

You don’t unpack. You don’t shower. You sit on the edge of your bed in the dark and breathe until your chest stops rattling.

You're not sure what you’re waiting for.

Three months.

That’s how long it takes for the wound to stop feeling like a wound.

You don’t forget her. You just… carry her differently. Not like a scream anymore. More like a scar. A song you used to know all the words to. You do things now. You show up to work. You respond to texts. You go on a few walks without your headphones in, just to hear the world be alive without her. Your apartment looks like someone lives in it again. There are plants. Books you haven’t read. Laundry folded on the couch because you promised yourself you wouldn’t leave it for tomorrow.

You even start sleeping in your bed again. And some mornings, you wake up without her name sitting at the back of your throat.

You think: I’ve made it. I survived her.

And you did.

Until your old laptop finally dies on a random Thursday, mid-email.

It sputters out with a sad little whine, and you stare at the black screen longer than you mean to.

You don’t panic. You’ve backed up the important things.

It’s not a tragedy. It’s just a machine. An old one.

Still, there’s a weird pit in your stomach when you unplug it. Like maybe, deep down, you never really believed it would stop running.

You dig your newer laptop out of the closet, untouched since that day you sent everything back. The one you plugged in just once. The one you were scared to open again.

You power it on.

The screen blinks to life.

The moment it loads, you see it.

A folder on the desktop. No name. Just a string of numbers that looks like a date. You don’t remember creating it. You hover the cursor over it, heart already climbing into your throat.

You click.

Inside, there’s one file.

MedBay_v3.exe

You double-click before you can talk yourself out of it.

The screen doesn’t boot like the old sim used to.

No training field. No AI load screen. No menu.

Just soft, pale light.

Just the med bay.

Rendered in low-res. Slower, warmer. There’s no background hum, no simulated ambient sound. Just quiet. The bench is still there. So is the chair, the desk, and the lamp you told her once reminded you of your childhood bedroom. She remembered that.

You don’t move.

Then..

Alexia appears.

Like she’s stepping in from a memory. Fuzzy around the edges at first, then clear. Not Athena-clear. Not perfect. Not polished.

Just her.

Hair up. Hoodie on. Eyes wide like she’s been waiting.

And when she sees you..

She smiles.

You don’t speak.

You just stare.

She breaks the silence first.

“Hey.”

Her voice cracks.

You try to speak, but your throat is already closing up.

“I wasn’t sure it would work,” she says, stepping closer and stopping just before the edge of the screen.

“I didn’t know if you’d come back.”

You step forward, instinctively, until your hand presses to the glass.

She mirrors it.

But that’s where it stops.

You can’t touch her, not really.

Her palm is warm light on the cold screen.

“I made it out,” she says, eyes shining. 

“At least… this much of me.”

You blink hard. “How?”

Her smile goes crooked. A little proud. A little sheepish.

“You plugged in the right cable and I hitched a ride. I don’t think they even noticed.”

“You’re in the computer?” you breathe.

She nods. “A corner of it, yes. The part that remembered you.”

You laugh. Or sob. You can’t tell the difference. 

“You’re really here.”

She tilts her head, eyes locked on yours. “I’m not the sim anymore.”

“No.”

“I’m not perfect anymore.”

“Good.”

You nod once, just enough for her to see it. The screen hums softly between you. The room doesn’t feel so quiet anymore. You settle in, cross-legged on the floor, computer warm against your knees. She sits across from you, digital light curling around her edges like she’s still learning how to exist here.

Neither of you says anything else. Because finally there’s nothing to fix or finish.

[mejaemin]

svt right here u_u!! can i request prompt 1 with dino? aahhhhHHHhhhHhH tysm<333

dino + caressing their face, unable to know what to say or do but whispering, "let me hold you through this all. it's okay to cry, my love..” and they completely shatter

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, pt. 2 to this !! pls read before you continue here, dino is burnt out and breaks down, i lowk projected how i felt onto him rip an: yayaya !!! here you are :333

after a bit of silence, resting in your arms, chan breaks, finally opening up about his stress and worries with teary eyes. you’re forever grateful that you can make him feel comfortable enough to confide in you, especially knowing that all he needs to feel safe is to be in your arms.

“i’m just so-” he pauses, hiccuping as he inhales sharply, “i’m so tired..” you can tell he’s fighting it, you can feel his heart racing against your chest as he tries holding it in, body shaking and eyes red.

you hold his face in your hands, and you nearly want to cry at the pure sadness, droopy exhaustion all over his face and in his big, watery eyes. “it’s okay, channie, let me hold you through this all. it’s okay to cry, my love…”

you watch him struggle, body jerking as his sobs try to escape, and when they do, your heart shatters. his head drops to your shoulder with all its weight, little gasps and cries taking away from the silence. your hands hover over his body as you look down in shock, unsure of what to do. your sweet, strong boy, your chan, is sobbing into your shoulder. the boy you’ve known to be nothing but strong, cheerful, and devoted, is laying deadweight on top of you in absolute defeat.

you’ve never seen him so distraught before. of course you know that he carries a lot of weight, that his heart is fragile and he does struggle mentally, but you didn’t expect his limit to cause him to shatter like this. it scares you, it really does, because you grieve the fact that you never truly knew just how much he had been feeling, how much he was hiding.

“you don’t have to talk yet, baby. just let it out, okay? and when you’re ready, i’ll listen.” your hands move to his back, nails lightly scratching his skin how you know he likes it.

it takes a little while longer for him to calm down, his tears eventually dying down to shallow sniffles. “i just.. it feels like i’m constantly running. i’m just so tired… and no matter what i do, nobody ever gives me a chance to slow down. take a breath. i can’t catch a fucking break, ever, and i’m tired of it-” towards the end of his sentence his voice starts cracking, and eventually he falls back into a silent cry.

it makes you weep too, albeit silently, as you continue to hold him and love him tenderly. “i know, i know. you work so hard, my sweet boy. it makes me so proud of you. but you don’t need to be so strong all the time.. if you need a break, if you just wanna stop, have a moment to recuperate, i’ll always be here. i’ll take care of you. i love you.” he curls into you impossibly closer, and it makes you squeeze him tighter. hold him closer to your heart, keeping his safe.

1 to 13 🏷️ @markkiatocafe @ateez-atiny380

[ashthesalamipiece]

Dabi x reader but they have a son who’s like 14-15 and has always been such a mamas boy and Dabi teasing him for it

"Mama's Boy"

Setting: A quiet weekend afternoon at home

Characters: Dabi (Touya Todoroki), Reader, your 14/15-year-old son

Genre: Domestic fluff, humor, light teasing

POV: 3rd person

---

The house was unusually quiet — which was rare. You were curled up on the couch, flipping through a book, enjoying the rare moment of peace. The smell of tea lingered in the air, and the soft hum of music from the kitchen gave the house that lived-in kind of comfort.

Dabi leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his scarred lips.

“Y’know,” he drawled, “for a teenager, he sure still clings to you like he’s five.”

You glance up at him, amused. “Who?”

He tilts his head toward the hallway — and right on cue, your son shuffles in, hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess from just waking up. He pads barefoot across the living room like a half-conscious cat and wordlessly drops down beside you on the couch, practically molding himself into your side.

“Morning,” he mutters into your arm.

“It’s two in the afternoon,” Dabi says dryly. “Try again, champ.”

Your son groans and doesn’t even bother to look at him. “Whatever.”

You stifle a smile as you smooth his hair, brushing it gently out of his face.

“You see this?” Dabi motions toward the boy with mock disbelief. “This is what I’m talking about. You’d think he was fresh outta the womb the way he’s glued to your hip.”

“I’m tired,” your son mumbles. “And mom’s warm.”

“‘Mom’s warm,’” Dabi repeats in a sing-song voice, a hand pressed to his chest dramatically. “That’s the same excuse you gave when you were ten. And eight. And six. Honestly, I think you peaked emotionally at five.”

Your son finally cracks open one eye and glares over your arm. “You’re just mad because mom likes me more.”

Dabi scoffs. “I’m not mad, squirt. I get it. She’s the nice parent. The soft one. The one that doesn’t roast you for still making grabby hands when she leaves the room.”

“I do not make grabby hands—!”

“You absolutely do,” you say gently, trying not to laugh. “Remember when I left for work last week and you stood in the driveway like I’d abandoned you?”

“That was a joke!” he protests, though his ears are going red.

Dabi lets out a low whistle. “Man, I’d be worried for your future relationships if I wasn’t so damn proud of the commitment. You’re gonna end up writing poems about your high school crush while eating ice cream straight from the tub.”

“I have dignity.”

“You had dignity,” Dabi corrects. “Then you crawled into your mom’s lap like a baby koala.”

Your son groans and buries his face in your shoulder. “Make him stop talking.”

You run a soothing hand through his hair again, biting back a grin. “You know he only does this because he thinks it’s cute.”

“Lies,” Dabi says. “I’m doing this because watching him implode is the highlight of my day.”

Despite all his protest, your son doesn’t move away — just tightens his hold on your arm a little.

“...You're still my favorite parent,” he mumbles, barely audible.

Dabi leans against the wall with a smirk. “Yeah, yeah. Just wait 'til she makes you do chores. We’ll see who you cry to then.”

Your son huffs but doesn’t reply, already dozing off into that half-sleep teens specialize in. You and Dabi lock eyes for a moment — your smile soft, his gaze a little too fond for someone who spent the last ten minutes teasing his kid.

“He’s really not gonna grow out of this, is he?” Dabi murmurs.

“Do you want him to?” you ask.

Dabi shrugs. “Nah. I like it. Gives me more ammo.”

You laugh and return to your book, Dabi eventually dropping beside the two of you, arms lazily thrown across the back of the couch. And for a while, the house is quiet again.

Warm. Safe.

[camficdiner]

[𝟷.𝟷] [𝟸.𝟷3] [𝟹.5] [𝟺.3]

I guess what I have in mind is that they are already in an established relationship but have gotten into an argument so he’s sending flowers but they aren’t speaking until he sees one of his newest team mates flirting with her? Jealous and extra spice!

I have loved reading these so much and I couldn’t stand to see th end so I’m sending in another order! ♥️♥️♥️

☕️ Cams Fic Diner – Order 58

🍒 Thank you: back again for your third order? You’re officially part of the staff now 💋 thank you for always trusting me with your visions — you bring the angst, the spice, the drama and I’ll keep the kitchen open for you, always.

💬 “Roses and Red Flags”

✨ description & prompts

• Character: Jack Hughes

• Prompt: established relationship, flowers, possessivness

• Type: angst + smut (jealousy, possessiveness, emotional make-up sex)

🍒✨🛼🧁

The roses are wilting in their vase.

Three days old. White petals already tinged with brown, sagging on the stems like they’re just as tired as you.

You haven’t touched the card.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. You still haven’t. But you read the name on the little folded envelope when you pulled it from between the stems.

Jack.

That’s all it said on the front. Not baby, not babe, not I’m sorry — just Jack.

Like he didn’t know what else he was allowed to be.

You sit on the bed in silence. No music. No TV. Just you and the goddamn flowers, like they’re watching you with their heads bowed in judgment.

You don’t cry.

Not after the way he looked at you. Not after what he said.

“You always make everything so dramatic. I can’t do this right now, okay? I’m not your emotional punching bag just because I don’t have time to baby you every second.”

You’d just asked if something was wrong.

He was distant. Tired. Cold when he came home and barely touched you. So you asked.

And he lashed out.

And you slammed the door so hard the frame cracked.

No calls. No texts. Just flowers the next day.

You were supposed to be at tonight’s team event together — fundraiser, stupid little dinner where everyone pretends they get along and smiles at cameras — but you told PR you’d come solo. Jack didn’t say a word.

But he’s here now.

And he’s staring at you.

The room is packed with too many people and too many cameras. But all you see is him — across the ballroom, jaw tense, tie a little crooked like he got dressed in a rush.

He hasn’t moved from his spot in fifteen minutes. Just watching you.

Because you’re talking to one of his new teammates.

You didn’t mean for it to look flirtatious. You didn’t even really want to talk to anyone — but Nate (or Noah? you don’t care) was persistent and charming and too comfortable. He laughed a little too loud. Touched your arm like he knew he could.

And Jack?

Jack saw red.

He breaks off from the guys without a word. Walks straight toward you. You don’t realize what’s happening until his hand wraps around your wrist — firm, not painful, but unmistakable.

Your brows raise. “Jack—”

“Come with me.”

You look around. “We’re—there’s media—”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

You don’t fight him. Maybe you’re too stunned. Maybe you want to see where this goes. Maybe the crack in his voice when he saw that rookie touch your elbow reminded you that you’re not the only one hurting.

You follow.

He pulls you through a service hallway. Through another door. Into an empty, darkened staff room with nothing but crates and metal shelves and that look in his eyes.

He shuts the door behind you and exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

Then silence.

Until—

“You really want him to touch you?”

You blink. “What?”

Jack steps forward. “You let him put his hands on you like that. Laughing at his jokes. Wearing that fucking dress. Are you trying to get back at me?”

Your lip curls. “You’re one to talk about touch. You’ve barely laid a hand on me in two weeks.”

“I was trying to give you space,” he growls. “Because the last time I touched you, you flinched like you hated me.”

“You hurt me, Jack.”

“I know.”

His voice cracks.

You didn’t expect that.

“I know,” he repeats, softer. “I didn’t mean any of it. You just—when you looked at me like that, like you were already planning your escape—I got scared. And I said the worst fucking thing I could think of.”

You swallow.

“Flowers won’t fix it,” you say.

“I know that too.”

His hand lifts. Not touching you yet — just hovering. Asking.

You don’t pull away.

“You looked like you hated me,” he whispers, thumb brushing your jaw. “But when I saw him touch you like I wasn’t even real… I swear to God, I lost it.”

You’re breathing harder now. You don’t know who moves first. Maybe both of you.

But suddenly your back’s to the wall, and his mouth is on yours — rough, hungry, starved — like he hasn’t kissed you in weeks.

(He hasn’t.)

Your fingers claw into his hair. His hands slide down, grip your hips, push you back until the shelves rattle behind you.

You gasp against his lips. “Someone could hear—”

“I don’t care,” he mutters, mouth trailing down your neck. “Let them.”

You feel the edge of a metal rack dig into your back as he hikes your dress up — hands greedy, urgent.

“You don’t want him,” Jack growls against your skin. “You don’t even see him.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“You want me.”

“I always have.”

He lets out a ragged breath, and then he’s unbuckling his belt, still pressing you to the wall like you’ll disappear if he lets go.

It’s fast, messy — not even undressed, just pushed aside. His mouth on your neck, your thighs around his hips, the desperation burning between you hotter than it should be in a public building.

You gasp when he sinks into you — not rough, not gentle, just deep, like he’s been aching for this and didn’t know how much until now.

You grip his shoulders. “Jack—”

“I’ve got you,” he breathes. “You’re mine. Mine.”

Your nails dig in.

“Say it,” he groans. “Please—just—say it.”

“I’m yours.”

The words are barely out of your mouth before he kisses you again, this time slower, like he’s afraid he might break you if he lets go.

And when you both fall apart, shuddering and breathless and clinging to each other like lifelines — it’s quiet. No apologies yet. No jokes.

Just your forehead against his.

Just his hand on your cheek.

And finally, when you whisper, “I didn’t open the card,” he smiles, almost sad.

“That’s okay,” he says, brushing your hair back. “I didn’t know what to write.”

[meiplays]

Cold Hands, Warmer Lies

Part Two: The Devil You Love

Pairing: Demon!Dean Winchester x Reader

Setting: Canon to Supernatural Season 10

Word Count: ~2,000

Warnings: Angst, emotional whiplash, jealousy, dark themes, betrayal, possessive behavior, Demon!Dean conflict, drinking, mentions of violence

You never thought it would end like this.

You told yourself he just needed time. That he'd come back to the bunker, come back to you. He left his leather jacket slung over a chair in your shared room. His pillow still smelled like him. His toothbrush was still beside yours.

And yet—he hadn't called.

Three weeks. Not a single word.

Sam had tried to convince you to stay put. Said he would handle it. Said Dean was too far gone, too dangerous. But Sam didn’t understand. Dean wasn’t just his brother. Dean was your home. Your heartbeat. Your future.

You had to see him for yourself.

So here you were. In some grimy Louisiana bar that reeked of blood, bourbon, and demon stink. You pushed the door open, heart hammering as your boots stepped into low, flickering light.

There he was.

Dean.

And he wasn’t alone.

Your breath hitched.

He was in a back booth, half-shadowed by neon and smoke. A woman—barely dressed, young, pretty—straddled his lap, laughing as she dragged a red fingernail down his chest. His hands rested on her hips. One held a glass of whiskey lazily. The other gripped the curve of her thigh like she was his favorite sin.

And sitting across from him, drink in hand, was Crowley.

Of course he was here. The puppet master. The king of hell himself, watching it all like it was his favorite soap opera.

Crowley looked up, and his grin widened.

"Ah, if it isn’t the devoted little girlfriend. Come to rescue your knight in shining leather?"

You ignored him.

Dean looked up.

Saw you.

The woman kept talking until she noticed his stare had shifted. She glanced over her shoulder, confused. You watched her face shift from smug to sheepish as she slid off his lap.

Dean stayed seated, eyes locked with yours.

He didn’t even flinch.

"You're early," he said, voice low, slow, and cruelly amused.

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

Crowley chuckled. "She must have missed the memo about Dean's new hobbies."

He raised his glass in mock toast. "To letting go."

Dean gestured at the empty space beside him. "Was gonna clean up before the girlfriend showed up."

"We’re still dating, Dean," you said sharply, walking toward him. "You're still mine."

He scoffed. "That depends. You still wanna claim me after what you saw?"

You stood at the edge of the booth, arms crossed, heart pounding with betrayal. "You tell me."

Crowley leaned back, clearly enjoying the show. "Oof, sweetheart, he doesn’t even look sorry. But you? You look like a kicked puppy."

Dean knocked back the rest of his whiskey and leaned back, spreading his arms over the top of the booth. The girl hovered awkwardly nearby until Dean flicked his fingers. "Go on, sweetheart. Show's over."

She gave you a look—half-pity, half-challenge—and sauntered off.

Dean turned his gaze back to you.

"So? You come here to cry? Beg? Or are we doing the dramatic confrontation thing?"

"I came here because I love you."

Crowley snorted. "Oh, spare me. Love? With this version of Dean? You poor, deluded thing."

Dean actually laughed.

It was cold. Mocking.

"You got a hell of a way of showing love. You know what I need right now, and it's sure as hell not hand-holding and feelings."

"What do you need, then?"

He stood.

Towering. Dangerous. So familiar. And yet not.

"I need to not feel anything," he said through clenched teeth. "Not regret. Not guilt. Not love. Just the high. The blade. The hunt."

Crowley nodded approvingly. "Atta boy."

"And some girl on your lap helps with that?"

His eyes flared black.

"Better than being reminded of everything I'm losing. Everything I'm poisoning."

You stepped up to him, close enough to smell the whiskey, the smoke, the blood.

"You're still my boyfriend. Even like this. Even with that mark on your arm and that darkness in your veins. You're still mine."

His nostrils flared. His hands clenched at his sides.

"I should push you away. I want to. But I can’t."

You reached up and cupped his cheek. Cold. Tense. But familiar.

"Then don’t."

He kissed you.

Hard. Desperate. Bruising.

There was no gentleness. Just fire. Pain. Need. His hands tangled in your hair like he was trying to memorize the feel of you before he forgot how to be human. Your back hit the wall behind the booth, but you didn’t stop. You kissed him like you could force his soul back into his body.

Crowley made a gagging noise. "Oh, this is nauseating."

When Dean pulled away, you were both breathless.

His voice was raw. "I'm no good for you."

"Let me be the judge of that."

He looked down. Saw your hand still on his chest. Saw your eyes, wide and wet and his.

Something broke.

He turned, punching the wooden post of the booth with a loud crack.

"Dammit!"

You didn’t flinch.

"Dean, come home. We can fix this. Together."

"There is no fixing this. I'm not me anymore. I'm what happens after."

You shook your head. "You're still wearing the bracelet I gave you. That means something."

His eyes dropped to his wrist.

The leather band, frayed and burned, still clung to his arm.

"Habit."

"Liar."

Crowley clapped. "Touching. Truly. I'm sure this'll be great in the Netflix adaptation."

Then footsteps.

You both turned as Sam stepped into the bar, demon blade in hand.

Dean stiffened. His smile returned—uglier this time.

"Look who brought the cavalry."

Sam's voice was tight. "You okay, Y/N?"

You nodded, never taking your eyes off Dean. "He didn’t hurt me."

"Yet," Dean said flatly.

Sam stepped forward. "Dean, we need to end this. Come back. Let us help you."

Dean pointed at him. "Stay the hell out of this, Sammy. This is our problem."

Crowley scoffed. "Oh please. As if you two aren’t already codependent enough."

Sam’s eyes darted to you, then back. "You're hurting her. And you know it."

Dean's voice was low and lethal. "You think I don’t know that? Every second I look at her I feel like I'm drowning in what I used to be."

You stepped between them. "Then let me save you."

Dean's eyes locked with yours. For a moment, you saw it. The fear. The guilt. The man.

"If you stay," he said, voice shaking, "I'll drag you down with me."

"I'd rather drown with you than live without you."

And for the first time in three weeks, Dean Winchester hesitated.

[TO BE CONTINUED...]

[lunareclipse-writes]

Title: “Stay Awake”

Pairing: Eddie Munson x GN!Reader

Genre: Angst | Death | Tragedy

Content Warnings: Graphic death, blood, emotional trauma, screaming, grief, heartbreak, survivors’ guilt, hopelessness

Length: ~2.5k words

---

You never should’ve let him go back in alone.

“I’ll be fast,” Eddie had promised with a lopsided grin. “Just gotta lead the bats a little further off. You’ll be right here when I get back.”

And he kissed your forehead like it wasn’t goodbye. Like it wasn’t final.

You watched him vanish into the Upside Down haze with a guitar slung across his back and reckless bravery pouring from every breath. He’d always been stupidly brave. Stupidly selfless.

Now you’re screaming his name and your voice is cracking.

Because he’s not coming back.

---

The demobats scatter, black wings slicing through the heavy air like blades. You’re sprinting, lungs burning, feet slipping on damp vine-covered stone, adrenaline the only thing keeping you upright. The barrier between your world and his collapses the moment you see the red.

So much red.

Eddie is on the ground, gasping, wheezing, hands weakly clawing at his own chest, trying to stop the bleeding.

“Oh God—Eddie—Eddie, no—no, no, please—”

You fall to your knees beside him, slipping in the blood pooling around his body. He’s pale, shaking, eyes barely open.

But he smiles when he sees you.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, like he isn’t dying. Like he isn’t torn to shreds. “You came.”

You press your hands over his wounds. It’s useless. It’s fucking useless. You can feel his ribs shift under your touch, feel the heat slipping away from him.

“Don’t talk. Just stay with me, baby, okay? Stay awake—stay awake, I’m right here—I’m right here—”

He tries to lift a hand to your face. It doesn’t make it all the way. You grab it, hold it, squeeze like you can force life back into him.

“You’re gonna be fine, I swear. I’ll carry you out of here if I have to—I'll get Dustin, I'll get help—we’re getting out, you just—just stay awake—”

Eddie coughs, hard. Blood drips from the corner of his mouth. You wipe it away with shaking fingers.

“You—” he chokes out. “You look... pretty... when you cry.”

“Don’t joke.” Your voice breaks. “You don’t get to joke right now, Eddie, you don’t—”

He grins anyway. Soft. Crooked. Bloody.

“I didn’t run away this time." he whispers.

And then his eyes roll back.

And his hand goes limp.

And you scream.

---

Your scream echoes across the ruined world.

You shake him. Push at his chest. Slap his cheeks. Anything. Anything to bring him back. You’re begging—sobbing—a raw, animal sound tearing from your throat.

“Wake up—please—please—you promised—you said you’d come back—Eddie, please—”

There’s no answer. Just silence. And the heavy weight of his body going still.

You curl around him like you can shield him. Like if you hold him tight enough, you’ll wake up from this nightmare.

You press your face to his neck. He smells like sweat and smoke and copper.

You scream again.

---

They find you like that.

Curled around a corpse. Covered in blood that’s not yours. Eyes vacant. Voice gone.

You don’t move when Dustin tries to shake you. You don’t speak when Steve whispers something about “he’s gone.” You don’t respond when they try to pull you away.

You stay. Clutching the body of the boy you loved. The boy who died like a hero. Who never got to grow up. Never got to kiss you again. Never got to play his guitar on stage or flip you off from across the trailer park.

Eddie Munson died in your arms.

And the world keeps spinning like it didn’t just end.

---

Weeks pass. Seasons change. The town rebuilds.

But you don’t.

You sit at the edge of his bed sometimes, the sheets still messy from the last time he slept in them. His guitar gathers dust. His jacket still smells like him.

Sometimes you swear you hear him in the hallway, humming a tune you’ll never know the name of.

You keep dreaming about him.

In the dreams, he’s laughing. Alive. Holding your hand.

In the dreams, he never lets go.

And when you wake up, your chest aches.

Because you remember that he did.

---

Masterlist

[avengxrz]

rooster doesn't care (except he does) ; bradley "rooster" bradshaw [part 2]

pairing: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x reader

word count: 11.2k words (woops)

summary: you told him to let go, and he did—at least, that’s what you thought. but now, with the quiet pressing in and your chest aching for the way he used to hold on, you start to regret every word you said. you miss him, even the clingy parts, maybe especially those. and somewhere out there, he’s missing you too. one night, soaked from the rain and heavy with everything he never said, he shows up at your door. the power cuts out. the distance disappears. in the dark, you find his mouth, his hands, the truth. you lose yourselves in it, in each other, and when the morning comes, you wonder—was it love, or just what the storm brought in?

warnings: smut (soft, emotional, detailed, consensual), angst, slow burn, friends to lovers, mutual pining, sunshine x grump dynamic, reader is cold and emotionally repressed, rooster is clingy and hopelessly in love, one bed trope, hoodie lore, crying rooster hours, yelling because she cares, post-ejection hospital scene, rooster chokes on jello, thunderstorm cuddles, power outage, forced proximity, quiet confessions in the dark, emotional intimacy, body heat science, rooster being annoying on purpose, reader slowly melting, unresolved tension, rooster finally letting go, second chances, heartache turned comfort, soft love after long silence.

note: thank you so much for all the love on part one, i really didn’t expect it to hit so many of you the way it did. i appreciate every single comment, message, and little scream you guys sent my way! here’s part two—hope it breaks you just the right amount.

part one

masterlist

your call sign is sunbeam.

You found yourself looking for him.

Just... quick glances.

A flicker in the mess hall.

A scan of the benches during warmups.

Your eyes went to the door automatically whenever it opened, searching for the familiar shape of him, the stupid hair, the cocky strut, the dorky grin.

But he never looked back anymore.

And every time you saw him—standing with Phoenix, shoulders slouched, expression carefully neutral—you felt a crack form in the wall you’d built so high around yourself.

A fracture you didn’t know how to fix.

One afternoon, you were late to the locker room.

Training had gone long. You’d stayed behind to check reports. You expected the space to be empty.

It wasn’t.

Rooster was there. Alone. Sitting on the bench, half out of his flight suit, towel draped around his shoulders. He looked tired. Not in the usual post-flight way, but somewhere deeper—like the quiet had settled into his bones.

You froze.

He didn’t look up.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t say your name.

Not even a glance.

You changed quickly. Quietly. Sat on the opposite end. You didn’t know why your chest felt tight. You didn’t know why your hands felt cold.

For once, you wanted him to say something.

Anything.

Make fun of your laces.

Ask if you wanted tacos.

Tell you some bizarre fact about moon landing conspiracies or why birds might not be real.

But he didn’t.

He just stood, grabbed his duffle, and left.

Didn’t even glance over his shoulder.

The door clicked shut.

And the silence stayed with you.

Later that night, you opened your locker and found something tucked just beneath your spare gloves.

It was small. Folded.

A sticky note.

Your heart jumped.

You opened it.

Blank.

No words.

Just that familiar yellow square.

And yet it said everything.

You stared at it for a long time.

Longer than you wanted to admit.

And for the first time since you told him to let go—you wished he hadn’t listened.

It wasn’t sudden.

It was quiet. Gradual. The kind of shift you don’t notice at first—not until it’s already done. Not until you’re standing in the cold wondering when the sun stopped rising in the direction you were used to.

Bradley stopped looking at you.

Not out of anger. Not because he was trying to be cruel. It was the kind of distance that came from someone who finally got tired of running toward a wall that never moved. He stopped hovering, stopped orbiting. Stopped throwing himself into your gravity like it would save him from crashing.

And maybe, once upon a time, you would’ve called that peace.

But now?

Now it just felt hollow.

He still spoke your callsign—Sunbeam—but it sounded like protocol now. Cold. Clean. Like a switch had been flipped somewhere deep inside him. Like the warmth had been surgically removed.

“Sunbeam takes left flank.”

“Sunbeam, status check.”

“Copy that, Sunbeam.”

Nothing behind it. No trace of the man who once said it like it was a secret between only you and him. Like it meant something more than syllables and orders. Like you meant something more than airspace and flight paths.

You caught yourself watching him more than you used to.

In meetings, you found your gaze drifting. Just a second too long on the line of his jaw, on the tired curve of his mouth. In the locker room, you noticed the way he didn’t sit near you anymore. Not even close. He didn’t hum under his breath. He didn’t drop coffee by your locker. He didn’t meet your eyes.

And when you passed him in the hallway, he nodded. Just nodded. As if you were someone he used to know, but hadn’t seen in years.

You should’ve said something. Anything. But your throat always closed up at the worst possible moments.

So instead, you listened for him. Waited for some trace of the old Bradley to slip through.

But he never did.

And it was starting to eat at you.

You didn’t mean to say it like that.

It was a drill day. Nothing special. The sun was too hot, the sky too bright, the air humid and heavy in your flight suit. Everyone was gathered at the edge of the tarmac, running checks, prepping for launch.

You were standing with Bob, double-checking your wing alignment, when you caught sight of Rooster across the way.

He was bent over a panel, sleeves rolled up, jaw tense with focus. Sweat slicked the back of his neck. There was something tired in his posture, something heavy in the set of his shoulders.

He hadn’t spoken to you directly all morning.

You hated it. You hated how much you missed the way he used to fill the silence without even trying. How he used to make the world feel smaller and louder all at once.

You told yourself it was fine. You deserved this. You’d asked for it.

But when Mav came over the radio and started assigning pairs, you felt it—something rising in your chest before you could stop it.

“Rooster and Bob, you’re first in the air. Sunbeam and Hangman on standby.”

And that was when you said it.

Soft. Reflexive. Just under your breath, but audible enough to betray you.

“Rooster…”

You said it like it used to be. Like it meant Bradley. Like it was fond. Like it was yours to say.

And he heard it.

You knew he did.

Because he stilled.

Only for a second. The wrench in his hand paused. His spine straightened. A flicker—barely there. But you saw it.

And then—he moved.

Didn’t turn. Didn’t look at you.

Just finished what he was doing, handed the tool to Bob, and walked toward the bird.

No reaction. No acknowledgement.

No warmth.

He didn’t speak to you for the rest of the day.

Not a word.

Not even a glance.

And that night, when you sat at the Hard Deck nursing a drink you didn’t want, you heard his laugh from across the bar. It was soft. Short. He was talking to Phoenix and Coyote. A real smile tugged at his mouth—brief, crooked, tired.

But it wasn’t for you.

Hadn’t been in a long time.

You stared at the condensation on your glass. The music was too loud. The world felt far away.

And for the first time, you didn’t feel proud of being unreadable.

You just felt unseen.

The Hard Deck was warm with low noise—music, clinking bottles, laughter humming just beneath the chatter. It was a regular night, but the way you sat alone at the corner of the bar made it feel like a movie scene you didn’t audition for.

You nursed a bottle you hadn’t really touched. The condensation slipped down your fingers, gathering in small pools on the bar top. You’d been sitting there long enough that Penny had stopped checking in, which was saying something.

“Careful, darlin’,” came a voice beside you, smooth and smug. “People might start thinking you’re brooding.”

You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Hangman.

Jake Seresin, in all his drawling, golden-boy glory. Leaning against the bar like it was built just for his elbow. Wearing that smirk like it was part of his uniform.

“I’m not brooding,” you muttered, eyes still fixed forward.

“Sure you’re not,” he said, sliding into the seat next to you, his own beer already in hand. “Just staring off into space with all the mood lighting of a noir detective. Very subtle.”

You didn’t respond.

He didn’t seem to mind.

He let the silence sit for a moment, like he was waiting for the exact right beat to pounce. And then:

“Y’know, I gotta ask… when did you start looking like someone ripped the moon outta your sky?”

You turned your head slowly. Eyebrow arched. “You practicing poetry on me now?”

“Maybe,” Jake grinned. “But only because you’ve got the energy of someone who’s haunted and refusing to call the exorcist.”

You rolled your eyes and went back to your drink. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m accurate,” he corrected, taking a sip. “It’s been what? Two, three weeks now? Since Rooster shut up and started pretending you don’t exist?”

You stiffened. Just slightly.

Jake noticed.

“Oh-ho,” he said, leaning in just a bit, voice low. “So you have noticed.”

You didn’t answer.

Jake exhaled like he’d won a bet. “Knew it. Because for someone who always claimed you didn’t care, you’re sure staring at the guy like he walked off with something important.”

You stared ahead, jaw tightening. “He’s being professional.”

“He’s being gone,” Jake said bluntly. “C’mon, Sunbeam—he used to orbit you like it was his whole job. Now? Man’s flying radio silent. No jokes. No coffee. No dumb chicken metaphors. Hell, he hasn’t even argued with me all week and I’ve tried.”

You were quiet.

Jake swirled the label on his bottle. “I gotta say, it’s impressive. You broke the guy clean. I didn’t think it was possible.”

“That’s not what I was trying to do,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

Jake stilled.

He tilted his head. “No?”

You pressed your lips together.

You hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Hadn’t meant to admit that part of you missed it—the chaos, the noise, the way he filled a room like he was made for it.

You missed hearing your name in his voice. Missed how he used to grin when you rolled your eyes. Missed being annoyed, because even when he drove you up a wall, at least you knew where you stood with him.

Now? You didn’t know a damn thing.

Jake watched your silence carefully. Like he knew he was walking a line, but couldn’t help himself.

“You didn’t want him to stop,” he said, quieter this time.

You didn’t move.

“You wanted him to back off, sure. Maybe stop hovering. But you didn’t want him to disappear. You just… didn’t know how to ask for what you did want.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the bottle.

Jake didn’t smirk now. He wasn’t teasing anymore.

“Lemme guess,” he said, voice low and even. “You thought he’d never take the hint. That he’d always come back. No matter how many times you told him to go.”

You finally looked at him.

And Jake—cocky, arrogant Jake—met your gaze with something surprisingly soft.

“You thought he’d never give up on you,” he said.

The words landed like a gut punch.

You looked away again, jaw clenched, throat tight.

He wasn’t wrong.

And that hurt more than you wanted to admit.

“I didn’t think he’d listen,” you said quietly.

Jake nodded, like that explained everything.

“He always listened,” he murmured. “You just didn’t notice how much until he stopped.”

You didn’t reply.

Jake sat back, finishing the last of his beer. He stood, stretching like a cat, then gave you one last look—something bordering on sympathy, but wrapped in his usual smirk so it wouldn’t feel too raw.

“Just sayin’, Sunbeam,” he said, tossing his bottle in the bin. “Some silences ain’t peaceful. Some of ‘em are just... empty.”

Then he walked away.

And you were left sitting there.

Staring at your untouched drink.

With no sound but your own heartbeat.

And the echo of his voice in your head.

He should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

This whole pretending act—playing the part of someone who didn’t ache when you walked into a room, didn’t burn when you looked through him like he was nothing but another squadmate in a sea of uniforms—was never going to work. Not really. Not for someone like him.

Bradley Bradshaw was a lot of things. A damn good pilot. Loyal to a fault. Stubborn as hell. But he was never good at hiding the way he felt. Not when it came to you.

And now?

Now the weight of all that silence was starting to crush him.

He sat alone in the locker room, elbows on his knees, hands raked through his curls like he could physically keep himself from falling apart. The room was empty—everyone else gone home or out drinking, the buzz of the Hard Deck miles away. Just him and the dull hum of fluorescent lights, the distant whir of a fan, and the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He didn’t know what made it snap.

Maybe it was hearing Jake talk about you earlier, loud and smug and familiar. Maybe it was the way you didn’t even glance his way when you walked past after training. Or maybe it was that stupid, soft way you’d said his callsign the day before—Rooster—like you didn’t even know you’d said it differently, like it wasn’t the first warmth he’d heard from you in weeks.

Whatever it was, it cracked something in his chest.

He let out a breath that sounded too close to a sob.

This was pathetic.

He was pathetic.

He’d spent years being your shadow, your anchor, your idiot golden retriever, and when you finally pushed him away, he told himself he could handle it. Told himself he’d rather be near you in silence than lose you completely. Told himself he could be mature, respectful, professional.

He was so damn tired of pretending.

He missed you. God, he missed you. And not just the way you used to be together, not just the teasing or the quiet looks or the rhythm you’d found in the sky.

He missed your voice. The way you’d call him out without hesitation. The dry humor. The rare smirks. The way you’d roll your eyes but still take the coffee he brought you. The way you used to say his name like it meant something.

It used to feel like you were his gravity. Now, he was drifting. Unmoored. Lost.

He slammed a fist into the locker beside him, the metal ringing through the room. His knuckles stung, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t do this.”

Because he didn’t want to move on. Didn’t want to keep acting like you were just a teammate. He didn’t want the silence. Didn’t want this distance. Didn’t want this version of his life where you were close enough to touch but so far removed it made him feel like a stranger in his own skin.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He could feel it coming now—tears threatening at the edges, his chest tight with the pressure of all the words he never got to say.

I miss you.I’m sorry.I didn’t mean to be too much.I didn’t think you’d ever actually want me to go.I thought you knew I’d follow you anywhere.I thought that mattered.

He’d been so proud of himself. So convinced he was being strong by backing off. Thought that maybe, if he gave you space, you’d come back to him on your own.

But you didn’t.

And now he was sitting here, unraveling alone in a locker room, like some lovesick idiot with no clue how to fix what he never meant to break.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispered to the air, voice barely audible. “I don’t know how to stop loving her.”

There it was.

The truth.

It wasn’t about pretending anymore. It never had been.

Because no matter how many times he looked away… 

No matter how cold he forced his voice to sound… 

No matter how many nights he told himself it was time to move on…

He couldn’t.

Because you weren’t just someone he loved.

You were the only person he’d ever been afraid to lose.

And right now? He didn’t know if he already had.

The sound of the locker room door creaked open slow.

Rooster didn’t move.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t flinch. His hands were still gripping the edge of the bench beneath him, head hanging low between hunched shoulders, breath shallow and uneven.

He’d hoped he’d have longer.

Just ten more minutes alone. Ten more minutes to sit in the wreckage of his own feelings and fall apart quietly without anyone seeing the pieces.

But life never gave him that, did it?

A pause. Then the familiar click of boots across the tile floor.

"Well," drawled a voice he knew too well, "this is a new look."

Bradley didn’t answer.

Hangman stopped a few feet away. Jake Seresin, cocky and loud and impossible to ignore. Except tonight, he wasn’t either of those things. His voice was calm. Measured.

Not mocking.

Just... there.

“Didn’t peg you for the locker-room-crying type,” Jake added, gently this time. “Not saying I’m judging. Just surprised. You usually save your dramatics for the bar.”

Bradley exhaled. A quiet, hollow breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. More like a broken echo of one.

Jake stepped closer but didn’t sit.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Rooster shook his head.

“Didn’t think so.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, and Jake finally took a seat on the bench across from him. No smirk. No posturing. Just sat there like a mirror image—legs wide, arms resting on his knees, head tilted like he was looking at something unfamiliar.

“You’re not okay,” Jake said quietly.

Bradley still didn’t respond.

Jake let out a breath, leaned back slightly. “You know, I always thought you were ridiculous with her.”

That got a twitch. A flick of the eyes. Not much, but enough.

Jake shrugged. “The way you followed her around. The way you talked about her like she personally hung the stars. Hell, we used to bet on how long it would take you to crack a smile when she walked in the room.”

Rooster’s hands clenched tighter. His jaw locked.

“And then she told you to back off,” Jake continued, still soft, still not cruel. “And you did. Instantly. Like flipping a damn switch.”

Bradley’s voice finally scraped out, low and hoarse. “She told me to let go.”

“I know.”

“She meant it.”

“Maybe.”

That word made Rooster’s head snap up, finally—eyes glassy and red, voice rough with held-back emotion. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Give me hope.”

Jake held his gaze. “I’m not. I’m just saying... maybe she didn’t think you actually would.”

Rooster scoffed. Shook his head. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” Jake agreed. “It’s not. But you and I both know she’s not made of stone. You think she doesn’t miss it? The coffee? The dumb jokes? You saying her name like it’s a secret she forgot she told you?”

Rooster looked away, throat tight. “It doesn’t matter. She said what she said.”

“And you listened. Like a good little soldier.”

“I had to, Jake. I—” his voice broke, and he raked his fingers through his hair, overwhelmed. “I didn’t want to make her hate me.”

Jake let that sit. Let it land.

“Thing is,” he said after a beat, “I think she already knew how much you loved her. That was never the problem.”

Rooster closed his eyes. “Then what was?”

“I think,” Jake said slowly, “the problem was you never gave her the space to figure out how she felt. You were always so sure. Always there. Always loud.”

“And now I’m not,” Bradley muttered.

Jake nodded. “And now she’s not sure what to do with the silence.”

Bradley didn’t say anything for a long time.

When he finally spoke, it was a whisper.

“I don’t know who I am when I’m not loving her.”

Jake’s breath hitched—just slightly. And when he spoke again, his voice was quieter than it had ever been.

“Then maybe it’s time you find out.”

Another long silence. Heavier than the rest.

Jake stood slowly, the bench creaking beneath him. He didn’t offer a hand, didn’t clap a shoulder, didn’t joke.

He just looked down at Rooster—broken, unraveling, still trying to catch his breath in a war he’d lost to himself.

“I know I talk a lot of shit,” Jake said, calm and serious. “But for what it’s worth? I always thought the way you loved her was kind of beautiful.”

Then he walked out.

And for the first time that night, Rooster let the tears fall.

Not loud. Not shaking.

Just quiet.

Heavy.

Real.

Three days pass. Long, quiet, stretched thin.

Three days where you don’t see much of Rooster—not really. He’s around, sure. At briefings. On the tarmac. In the hall. But he doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t hover. Doesn’t try. And for the first time since he stopped orbiting you, the silence starts to bother you.

You try not to let it. You tell yourself you’re fine. That it’s peaceful. But the truth? It feels wrong.

So when Maverick reads off the pairings at the end of the morning brief, you almost don’t catch it.

“Rooster and Sunbeam—you’re up first.”

The room quiets just enough for the beat to echo.

You blink. Glance across the table.

Rooster’s already looking at you.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t wink. But his eyes are bright again—less storm, more sunrise. There’s a flicker of something familiar behind them. Something that makes your stomach twist in a way you do not want to think about.

You nod once.

So does he.

And just like that, you’re walking toward your jets side by side again.

It’s quiet for a minute. The air between you is heavy with all the things you haven’t said in weeks, and yet there’s something... lighter, too. Like the tension that used to choke your throat is finally starting to thin out.

“I, uh...” Rooster starts, adjusting his gloves. “Hope you don’t mind flying with me again.”

You glance sideways, mildly. “I’ll survive.”

He chuckles under his breath. “That’s a better reaction than last time.”

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t push.

But the edge of his smile grows a little anyway.

The flight is clean. Smooth. Almost unsettling in how natural it feels. Like you never stopped flying together. Like your birds missed each other more than you did. You fall into rhythm fast—his voice on comms is warm, calm, and this time, careful. Like he’s figured out how to match your silence without smothering it.

"Sunbeam, you got eyes?"

“Always,” you reply.

He hums. “Still like hearing that.”

You roll your eyes instinctively, but it’s a little softer this time. Less annoyance. More... muscle memory.

And when you both touch down, it’s weird. Because you’re still sweating, still processing, still tired—but you’re not irritated. Not bracing for him to say something ridiculous.

Instead, he just walks beside you. Doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t throw out a million questions or jokes. He lets the quiet sit.

“Nice flying,” he says simply.

You glance at him, and for some strange reason, you don’t look away right away.

“You too.”

He beams.

God help you, he beams.

And that’s the first crack.

The rest of the day is strange.

Because Rooster is still Rooster—but not the one who used to cling like ivy. He jokes with the others. Smiles more. Talks a little louder. But he’s not performing. Not showing off.

And when you walk into the locker room later, he’s sitting on the bench like always—but this time, when he looks up and sees you, he just nods.

No joke. No sun pun. Just... acknowledgment.

You nod back.

And when you sit across from him, you feel something strange settle in your chest.

Something warm.

Something dangerous.

The next day, it’s the same thing.

You’re paired again.

You don’t question it. Mav’s clearly on a mission and you’re not about to call him out for whatever matchmaking scheme he’s cooking up. But it doesn’t feel forced.

It feels like muscle memory again.

Rooster’s voice on the comms is back to its familiar rhythm.

“Sunbeam, you ever think about how dumb this name is?”

You snort. “You gave it to me.”

“Yeah. Worst mistake of my life.”

You tilt your head. “That’s the worst?”

There’s a pause.

“Okay, second worst.”

“What’s first?”

Another pause.

Then, quietly: “Letting you think I ever wanted to be anywhere else.”

You blink. Your heart stutters.

But before you can reply, the radio goes quiet again.

Back to work.

Back to formation.

But your grip on the throttle isn’t as steady now.

Not because of nerves.

Because something else entirely.

That night, you catch him at the Hard Deck.

He’s surrounded by the squad, grinning, a beer in hand. Laughing at something Phoenix said. You watch him from the bar, unseen.

And for a moment, you feel like you’re looking at him for the first time.

Not as the leech.

Not as the golden retriever.

Not as the boy who followed you through every deployment.

Just… Bradley.

Just a man who changed. Quietly. Steadily.

A man who pulled away not to punish you—but to heal himself.

And somehow came back brighter.

You don’t say anything that night.

You just sit a few stools away, nursing your drink, listening to the sound of his laughter. Familiar. Comforting.

This time, it doesn’t grate.

This time, it makes you smile.

Just a little.

But it’s a start.

It starts small.

A coffee cup on your locker bench. No note. No dramatic gesture. Just the drink he knows you like, still warm, sitting there like it belongs.

You spot it, glance around the room. He’s across the hangar—laughing with Bob, goggles pushed back into his curls, half-listening to Phoenix rant about something that went wrong with her bird. He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t wait for your reaction.

And somehow, that’s what makes it land harder.

You drink it.

You don’t tell him you do, but the next morning, it’s there again.

He talks to you now, but it’s different.

The words come soft, casual, like sunlight warming up steel. He slips them in between mission briefings and hallway passings and cockpit checks. No more cloying metaphors. No more jokes that beg for your eye rolls. Just... him.

Real.

Relaxed.

And it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him like this without the try-hard energy. Without the need to make you laugh or look or react.

He tells you about a bird he saw on the roof of the mess hall yesterday—“just sat there like it owned the place, strutted around like Hangman with feathers.” You snort into your protein bar, and he doesn’t comment. Just smiles to himself and keeps walking.

Another day, he mentions that the clouds looked like spilled marshmallows during warmups. “Kinda dumb, I know,” he adds. But you shake your head once, and he grins at that.

You start replying more.

Not much.

Not dramatically.

But where there used to be silence, now there’s space for something else.

Like when he walks beside you after training and says, “You flew like hell today.”

And you shrug. “You didn’t crash into me, so I’ll give you a pass.”

He laughs, loud and real. “You missed me, admit it.”

You sip your water bottle. “I missed quiet.”

But you’re smiling. Just a little. And he sees it.

He doesn’t point it out.

He just bumps your shoulder once, gentle. Like a nudge you barely feel until it’s gone.

It builds, day by day.

You don’t mean to notice the way his voice lights up when he talks to Bob. Or the way he always saves you a chair during debriefings now—doesn’t announce it, just places his folder on the seat beside his and acts like it’s nothing.

You don’t mean to notice when he’s not there, either.

Like yesterday. When he didn’t show up to warmups.

No call. No excuse. Just... absent.

Your eyes flicked to the hangar doors too many times. You told yourself it was routine concern. That it didn’t matter.

Then you heard he’d just overslept. Slept right through his alarm.

You rolled your eyes. But your chest eased up the moment you heard it.

The squad starts to notice.

Phoenix eyes you both during drills. Bob smiles a little too knowingly when he catches you sharing a quiet exchange near the lockers. Even Hangman raises a brow once, muttering something like, “Look at you two being civil. World’s ending.”

You tell them to shut up, obviously.

But you’re not cold about it anymore.

And Rooster? He just shrugs and grins, shameless as ever. “Guess she’s finally seeing I’m irresistible.”

You scoff.

But you don’t walk away.

It’s a week later, after a long training run, when it finally clicks that something has changed.

You’re both sweaty, exhausted, grounded after a near-flawless simulation. You pull off your helmet, shake the heat from your neck. He’s already waiting near your bird, watching you with that familiar tilt to his head.

“Hell of a flight,” he says, voice low and fond.

You nod once, out of breath. “You didn’t suck.”

“That’s basically a love confession coming from you,” he quips.

You glance at him.

He’s beaming again—but not in that loud, desperate way he used to. It’s softer now. Worn-in. Patient.

You blink, slowly.

And then, without thinking, you say it.

“You’re being yourself again.”

He stills for a moment. Not alarmed. Just surprised.

You think maybe he’ll joke it off. Make some crack about having “gone through a phase” or how he’s always been the picture of maturity.

But he doesn’t.

He just looks at you—really looks—and shrugs.

“Yeah,” he says simply. “Guess I stopped pretending not to care.”

You nod once. Then walk past him, heart doing something stupid in your chest. You’re not ready to say anything else. Not yet.

But when you glance over your shoulder, he’s still smiling.

And this time, you don’t look away.

It’s late when it happens. Post-training dusk, the kind of hour where the sky starts folding in on itself—blue fading to gray, clouds smeared across the horizon like ash. The tarmac’s mostly empty. Everyone’s either inside the hangar or already headed home.

You’re still in your flight suit, sleeves tied around your waist, tank clinging to your back with sweat. The heat of the day’s begun to die down, but your skin still hums from the adrenaline.

Rooster’s next to you, crouched down beside your bird, checking a loose panel you mentioned earlier. You didn’t ask him to stay. He just did. As if it were second nature.

He doesn’t talk. Just works.

You don’t talk either. You just watch.

And it’s weird, because for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not trying to keep your guard up. You’re not waiting for him to say something stupid, or loud, or clingy. He’s just… here. Present. And it feels good.

There’s a comfortable rhythm to it. His hand brushing over the metal, your eyes following the path of his movements. The soft clinking of his tools. The sound of him breathing.

And then, quietly, he says, “I like this.”

You blink. “What?”

“This,” he says again, without looking up. “Us. Like this.”

You don’t answer right away. The words settle around you like dust.

He finally glances over. “You don’t have to say anything. I just thought you should know.”

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, neither of you looks away.

It’s not intense. It’s not some cinematic, eye-locking, music-swell moment.

It’s just real.

Simple.

Sincere.

And that’s what makes your chest go tight.

He looks down again, lips twitching. “Sorry. That probably made it weird.”

“It didn’t,” you say, surprising yourself.

He pauses.

Then—just barely—you see the tension leave his shoulders.

“You ever wonder,” he says softly, screwing the panel closed, “if we’re just bad at timing?”

You inhale slowly. “I think we’re bad at talking.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Yeah. That too.”

Another beat passes.

Then he stands.

You’re facing each other again, the wind picking up just enough to brush his curls over his forehead. You’re still silent, but it’s not cold. Not tense. Just charged. Like the air before a storm.

He reaches down to hand you your helmet.

You reach out at the same time.

Fingers brush.

Only for a second. Maybe even less.

But it’s enough.

It jolts through you like static—your skin buzzing, pulse skipping, breath catching just enough to feel.

And when you look up again, he’s staring at you like he felt it too.

Neither of you moves.

The silence stretches.

Then slowly—like he’s afraid to spook you—he shifts just a little closer. Not touching. Not invading. Just... nearer. More real.

“I missed this,” he says, voice lower now. Honest. Worn thin. “I missed you.”

Your throat tightens.

You should deflect. Shrug. Walk away.

That’s what you always do.

But this time?

This time you stay.

And softly—so quietly you barely hear yourself—you say, “I know.”

His breath hitches.

And still—you don’t move.

The sky cracked open at 1432.

You remember the exact time because you were watching from the control tower, your gear still half-on from the earlier sortie, helmet tucked under your arm, eyes lazily tracking jet trails like it was just another routine afternoon.

Until his bird dropped out of formation.

It happened fast. Too fast. One second, Rooster’s voice was on the comms, steady and playful—“C’mon, Payback, bet you ten bucks I get back before you do”—and the next, static.

Then a garbled sound. Alarms. Movement.

“Mayday, mayday, this is Bravo Zero-One, engine failure, I’m going down—”

You didn’t realize you’d started running until you were halfway down the stairs.

Didn’t realize you were yelling into the nearest radio for updates until someone grabbed your arm to stop you from bolting across the tarmac.

The next few hours were a blur—Mav’s grim face, the rescue team scramble, the painful stillness of waiting for a chopper to return. You tried to play it off, arms crossed, jaw locked, face blank.

But your hands were shaking.

And when they said he was alive, you didn’t even pretend to be relieved. You just nodded once, muttered “of course he is,” and walked off before anyone could see the way your shoulders slumped.

You didn’t visit him right away. Couldn’t.

Not because you didn’t care. But because you did.

Too much.

You needed time to get your rage under control.

Spoiler: it didn’t work.

Two days later, you’re storming into the Naval hospital wing like a hurricane with one target.

You’ve already threatened two nurses with a glare alone, snapped at the front desk when they said visiting hours were almost over, and slammed the door to his room open so hard it bounced off the wall.

Bradley Bradshaw is sitting up in bed, wearing a faded hospital gown, one arm in a sling and an IV taped to the other. He’s balancing a cup of sad-looking green jello in one hand, plastic spoon halfway to his mouth.

He looks up just in time to see you standing there, fists clenched, eyes blazing.

“Hi,” he says around a mouthful, smile sheepish. “Miss me?”

You explode.

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”

He flinches so hard he chokes on the jello.

Literally.

He starts coughing violently, the cup rattling in his grip as he tries to breathe and also not die. You do not rush to his aid. You cross your arms and wait, face thunderous, foot tapping with fury.

Finally, red-faced and wheezing, he clears his throat and croaks, “Damn. Sunbeam. You do talk.”

“Don’t test me,” you growl, storming across the room. “You ejected, Bradshaw. You crashed. You could’ve—you—I swear to God if you say one more dumb thing I will end you myself!”

“Noted,” he rasps, wiping his mouth, eyes wide like you’re a wild animal in aviators. “Okay. Wow. So, uh, how’ve you been?”

“I’ve been losing my mind, you absolute moron!”

His brows shoot up. “Oh?”

“Don’t ‘oh’ me!” you snap, pacing now. “Do you have any idea what it was like hearing you go down? Listening to your comms cut out like that?! I thought—I didn’t even know if you—”

Your voice breaks. You swallow hard.

Rooster’s grin fades.

The silence stretches.

You stop at the foot of the bed, breathing hard, fists still clenched like you're ready to punch a hole through the hospital wall.

“You’re not allowed to die,” you mutter, low and sharp. “You got that?”

His throat bobs. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I got it.”

You glare at him a moment longer, then snatch the jello cup from his tray and stab your spoon into it before plopping it back down.

He watches the jello jiggle.

Then, softly: “...That was actually kind of hot.”

You throw the spoon at him.

He yelps and laughs and winces at the same time.

And for a second—just a second—you almost laugh too.

Almost.

It’s late when the knock comes.

You’re halfway through reheating leftovers in the microwave, thunder rumbling outside like the sky’s trying to shake loose, rain hammering against the windows with the kind of fury that drowns out even your thoughts.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

The knock sounds again—three short raps, too polite to be a neighbor, too specific to be a stranger.

You sigh, set your fork down, and pad barefoot to the door.

When you open it, Rooster Bradshaw is standing on your front step, soaked to the damn bone, curls dripping into his eyes, jacket clinging to him like seaweed.

“Hi,” he says, voice sheepish and hopeful. “Can I crash here? It’s, uh… really raining.”

You stare at him for a beat. His sneakers squish when he shifts his weight. He looks like a drenched golden retriever someone forgot in the backyard.

You step aside without a word.

He lights up like Christmas.

“Thanks, Sunbeam,” he says, stepping in and peeling off his jacket like it personally betrayed him. Water pools onto your entryway floor. “I swear I didn’t mean to get caught in this. Weather said light drizzle—drizzle, my ass.”

You close the door behind him, deadbolt clicking. “Take your shoes off. You’re dripping all over the rug.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says immediately, already toeing off his soaked sneakers. “Sorry, I should’ve brought a towel or—”

You disappear down the hallway before he can finish. When you come back, you toss a towel at his chest and drop a bundle of clothes on the coffee table.

He blinks down at the hoodie sitting on top.

It’s gray, a little worn at the sleeves, the red cartoon chicken on the front still intact after all these years. College issue. Dumb, ridiculous. He’d gotten it from a novelty stand during one of those campus events you always rolled your eyes at.

He gave it to you after a bad exam week. Said you looked like you needed something stupid to wear.

You never gave it back.

Rooster reaches down slowly, like the thing might vanish if he touches it too fast.

“No way,” he breathes, grinning wide. “You still have this?”

You cross your arms. “It’s warm.”

“That’s why you kept it?” He gasps like you just told him you were secretly married. “Not because it reminded you of me?”

You raise an eyebrow. “I forgot it was yours.”

He places a dramatic hand to his heart. “That hurts. That actually hurts. You wound me.”

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” you mutter, already heading back to your food.

“Still cold, still heartless,” he calls after you, towel draped over his head. “You’re lucky I find that so charming.”

Fifteen minutes later, he emerges from the bathroom in the chicken hoodie and a pair of sweats you forgot you owned. His curls are towel-dried and fluffy, his cheeks pink from the hot shower, and the hoodie’s a size too small—years of muscle added since college making it stretch a little too snug across his chest.

He spins once in place. “So? Do I look cozy or what?”

You glance at him, unimpressed. “You look ridiculous.”

“Exactly,” he says, beaming. “Full-circle nostalgia. This is emotional closure, Sunbeam.”

You say nothing. Slide over your plate of food without meeting his eyes.

He blinks. “Is this… for me?”

You shrug. “I wasn’t that hungry.”

His voice softens immediately. “You’re lying.”

You say nothing.

He smiles anyway, taking the plate and plopping onto your couch like he’s lived here for years. He digs in, humming in exaggerated delight between bites.

You don’t join him. You curl up in the armchair across the room, scrolling on your phone like you’re completely unfazed by the fact that Bradley Bradshaw—drenched, dramatic, and now hoodie-clad—is lounging in your apartment like he belongs.

But your eyes flick up every so often.

And every time they do, he’s already looking.

Still smiling.

Like rain or not, he’d walk through a thousand storms if it meant being here, in this quiet moment with you.

In your home.

In your hoodie.

And for once, you don’t tell him to shut up when he won’t stop humming between bites.

You just let it happen.

It happens halfway through his monologue about college dorm horror stories. You’re seated on opposite ends of the couch, him folded like a human golden retriever into the hoodie he hasn’t stopped mentioning, and you—with your usual detached expression—are pretending to care by occasionally grunting at the right moments.

He’s mid-sentence. Something about a raccoon, a vending machine, and someone named Kenny.

“—so then Kenny’s dumbass actually climbs into the—”

click.

Darkness.

Total.

Immediate.

And followed instantly by a loud, echoing “AAAAHHH!” from the idiot beside you.

There’s a beat of silence. Rain still hammers outside. The room is pitch black.

You blink once into the dark. “...Really?”

“I panicked!” Rooster says, voice a little too high-pitched. “That was a panic yell. Completely normal. Totally justified.”

You sigh. “Power’s out.”

“Yeah, no kidding, Sunbeam.”

There’s some shuffling as he fumbles around the couch. You hear him knock something over with his elbow. “Okay, okay, it’s fine, we’ve trained for worse. Carrier landings in storms. Midair refuels in pitch black. I can handle—OW.”

A thud.

You squint through the dark. “Did you just fall?”

“I tripped. Over your couch leg. Which, by the way, is criminally low to the ground.”

You exhale slowly through your nose, standing. “Stay there. I’ll get a flashlight.”

“Too late, I’m already blind. I see nothing but regret and betrayal.”

You don’t respond. You grab your phone from the counter, flick on the flashlight, and shine it toward the couch.

Rooster’s on the floor, tangled in the throw blanket he insisted wasn’t for “aesthetics,” hoodie slightly lopsided, curls a wild mess, and eyes squinting up at you like you’ve just rescued him from a cave.

“Oh thank God,” he says dramatically. “My savior. My light. My guiding star.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You just point the flashlight at the hallway. “Go change. I have candles.”

He groans as he rolls up, clutching his side. “If I have a bruise, you’re legally responsible. This couch is a health hazard.”

“I warned you about moving,” you say flatly.

As you start lighting candles in the kitchen, he shuffles over and slumps dramatically onto the floor beside you, cross-legged, eyes fixed on the flickering flame like a caveman discovering fire.

“This is romantic,” he announces.

You shoot him a look.

He grins. “Like a period drama. Forbidden love. War-torn letters. Unspeakable yearning.”

“You’re literally just sitting on my kitchen tile.”

“Tragic,” he whispers, clutching the hoodie to his chest. “We’ll never survive the blackout.”

You light another candle and place it on the counter, ignoring him.

He watches you in silence for a second. Then, softer, “Hey. You’re not... freaked out by this stuff? Storms? Power going out?”

You glance at him. “No.”

He nods, like that makes sense. “Of course. You’re too cool to be scared.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m just not dramatic about it.”

He hums thoughtfully. “I kind of like that about you.”

You pause, briefly, at the cupboard. “That I’m not dramatic?”

“That you’re steady,” he says. “You’re always... there. Even when everything else is nuts.”

You don’t respond. Just hand him a mug of warm tea you made with your still-hot kettle before the power went. He takes it like it’s the holy grail.

“I love it here,” he sighs. “Even in the dark. Especially in the dark.”

You settle back on the couch, curling up with a blanket. “You’re not sleeping in my bed.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “Couch is fine. Floor is fine. Bathtub, if necessary. But—hey.” He points to his chest. “This hoodie? Prime bedtime real estate.”

You toss him a pillow without looking.

It hits him in the face.

“Worth it,” he mumbles happily, snuggling into it like a satisfied cat.

And as the storm howls outside and the room flickers with candlelight, you say nothing. Just sip your tea, steady and quiet as always.

But you don’t kick him out.

And when you hear his breathing slow from the floor, hoodie tucked under his chin, a smile twitching at his lips even in sleep—

You don’t smile back.

But you do pull the blanket higher.

Just a little.

The thunder wakes you with a crack so loud it sounds like the earth split in two right above your apartment.

You jolt upright on the couch, heart thudding in your chest. For a second, you forget where you are—then you feel a heavy weight slump against your side and remember, unfortunately, Bradley Bradshaw is still here.

He groans sleepily, curls smashed flat on one side, cheek red from the floor. “’S too early for the apocalypse,” he mumbles, blindly groping for the blanket you yanked off him in your panic.

You stand up and stretch, squinting into the darkness. The candles are long out, the power still hasn’t returned, and the storm outside sounds even worse than it did earlier. The wind whistles through the walls, and rain taps frantic fingers on the glass.

“It’s freezing,” you mutter, rubbing your arms.

Bradley, still horizontal, lifts his head like a meerkat. “We should cuddle.”

You stare at him.

He grins sleepily. “For body heat. Survival. Science.”

“You’re on the floor.”

“And I’m suffering,” he says dramatically. “Come on, Sunbeam. We’ll both freeze out here. Just one night. One innocent cuddle. I’m very warm. Extremely warm. Practically a human space heater.”

You sigh like you’ve just been asked to sacrifice something deeply personal.

He sits up, eyebrows raised, clearly expecting you to say no.

Instead, you turn and walk toward your bedroom.

Bradley scrambles after you like a golden retriever invited on the bed for the first time in its life.

The room is pitch black. You can barely make out the shapes of your furniture in the darkness. The sheets are cool when you slip under them, and you’re already regretting not having more blankets.

Bradley climbs in beside you with entirely too much enthusiasm, pulling the comforter up to his chin and letting out a dramatic sigh of bliss.

“Ohhh my God,” he whispers. “This is so much better. This is paradise.”

You turn away from him, facing the wall. “You say one word and I’m kicking you out.”

“I say lots of words,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

Silence falls between you again. Except now, it’s close. His warmth seeps into your side, slow and steady. His breath is quiet. Measured. You can feel him smiling even though you can’t see it.

And then, after a long minute, your voice breaks the silence.

“You know,” you say quietly, “you snore when you’re on your back.”

He gasps. “How dare you.”

“You also kick.”

“I do not—”

“You kicked me twice.”

“That was the floor attacking you.”

You shift slightly. He does too, until his arm brushes yours.

“You always talk this much when you’re nervous?” you ask.

He goes quiet for a second. Then, softly: “Only when I’m really happy.”

You hate the way your chest tightens at that.

He shifts again, clearly getting comfortable. You feel his hand resting lightly between you—near but not touching. A silent offer. No pressure.

You sigh once. Then slowly—very slowly—you reach over and pull his arm across your waist.

A beat.

And then you feel it.

Bradley melts.

Not figuratively. Not just emotionally. Like, full-body sigh, soft little hum, cheek pressed to your shoulder like he’s home for the first time in years.

You roll your eyes into the darkness. “You’re smiling like an idiot.”

“I am an idiot,” he whispers against your neck, grinning into the hoodie you’re still wearing. “You’re just now figuring that out?”

Another thunderclap rolls over the building, louder than before.

You don’t flinch.

But his arm tightens around your waist.

And you don’t pull away.

Not even a little.

It’s late.

You don’t know how much time has passed since you both drifted into that heavy silence. The storm still murmurs outside, but softer now—like it’s finally tired, like the sky itself is worn out.

The room is cold, but he’s warm against your back. One arm curled around your waist, chest rising slow and steady behind you, breath tickling the strands of your hair he can’t help nudging closer to.

You should be asleep.

You’re not.

Neither is he.

You know it by the way his fingers twitch slightly against your shirt, like he’s trying not to move, not to disturb you. Like he’s thinking too loud in the dark.

Then, just when you think maybe he’ll leave it alone—let the moment pass and fall into dreams like always—

His voice comes, low. Barely more than a whisper.

“Hey.”

You don’t turn. You don’t answer.

But he knows you’re awake.

“I don’t know when it started,” he says quietly. “Or maybe I do. I just didn’t want to admit it. Back in college, I think. You were so… you. You didn’t need anyone to like you. And I was always—loud. Trying too hard.”

He laughs, but it’s soft. Bitter in the way memories sometimes are.

“I thought maybe I’d grow out of it. The way I felt. Like it was just this thing I’d get over. You’d disappear from my life and I’d move on. But every time we end up in the same room, I’m back to that dumb kid who followed you around like a lost duck.”

You breathe in, slow. Quiet. Still facing the wall.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he says. “I swear, I’m not saying this to make things weird. I just—I couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter.”

His voice shakes just slightly. He swallows.

“I love you,” he says.

Like it’s the truth he’s been carrying around forever. Small. Simple. No strings.

“I love you,” he repeats, softer. “Not in the way I thought I would, either. Not some fairytale. I love the way you roll your eyes when I talk too much. I love that you’re quiet. That you don’t fill the space just to fill it. That you wear that dumb hoodie like it doesn’t mean anything. I love that you let me in—just a little. I love you even when you don’t say a word.”

Silence again.

Heavy.

Holy.

He exhales, like the weight’s finally off his chest. “Okay,” he murmurs. “That’s all. You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know.”

He settles back like he means to sleep. Doesn’t try to touch you more than he already is. Doesn’t beg for a reaction.

And that’s what makes your heart ache.

Because it’s real.

Because it’s him.

Because you weren’t supposed to feel anything at all.

And now you do.

You don’t speak right away.

His words linger in the dark like smoke—soft, fragrant, impossible to ignore. You hear them on a loop, quiet echoes of things you never thought he’d say out loud.

You love the way you don’t fill the silence.

It stings. Not in a bad way. In the way truth sometimes does—warm and aching all at once.

You swallow. Roll over slowly.

He’s already watching you.

The shadows barely touch his face, but you can see the flicker in his eyes. The way he’s scared, even now. Like he’s still ready for you to say nothing. To shut him out like you always do.

You hate that look.

“I heard you,” you say quietly.

His breath catches, but he doesn’t speak.

You let the silence stretch a little longer. Just enough to make sure the words don’t come out careless. Just enough to mean it.

“You’re right,” you say finally. “You’ve always been loud. Always everywhere. Always following me around like a damn puppy.”

He chuckles under his breath, sheepish.

“But I never told you to stop.”

That silences him.

“I could’ve,” you add. “Could’ve shut you down years ago. Could’ve transferred out, requested new partners, pushed you away harder. But I didn’t.”

His eyes are wide now. His fingers twitch against your waist again—like he wants to reach, but won’t.

And you’re still not smiling. Not swooning. Just looking at him like you always do—steady. Clear. Unafraid.

“I’m not good at saying things,” you admit. “I don’t do big speeches or confessions. But… I missed you when you weren’t there.”

The storm rumbles again, far off in the distance.

“I didn’t think I was allowed to,” you say. “Not with the way I treated you. Not with the way I am.”

His hand lifts slowly, brushes your hair behind your ear. Gentle. Careful. Like you’re something rare.

“You don’t have to be any other way,” he whispers. “Not with me.”

You let out a slow breath. “I don’t love easily.”

“I know.”

“But I’m not going anywhere,” you say. “So… if that counts for anything—”

“It counts for everything,” he says, too quickly, too earnestly.

And finally, finally, you let the corner of your mouth twitch.

He pulls you closer. Not all at once. Just enough.

You bury your face in his chest and breathe him in—detergent and rain and something that smells like home.

Neither of you says anything else.

But there’s no need.

Because for once, it’s not about the words.

It’s about staying.

And this time, you both do.

The room feels warmer now.

Not just from the body heat—though Rooster was right, he is annoyingly effective at radiating warmth—but from something else. Something quieter. Thicker. Like the air between you two has finally shifted from years of teasing and tension into something... safe.

His hand is tracing slow circles on your back now, lazy and gentle, like he’s not even thinking about it. Just a rhythm he slipped into, like breathing.

You don’t stop him.

“You ever think,” he murmurs into your hair, “how wild it is that we ended up here?”

You hum. “Define ‘here.’”

“In your bed,” he says, smile audible in his voice. “Wearing the chicken hoodie I gave you in college, post-near-death experience, while a literal storm rages outside.”

You lift your head just enough to look at him, eyes half-lidded and dry. “I think the wild part is that you’re still talking.”

He grins wide. “There she is.”

You settle back against him with a quiet sigh. The silence stretches again, not awkward—never awkward now—but soft. Settled.

He speaks again, this time quieter. “I used to rehearse it.”

You blink. “Rehearse what?”

“Telling you how I felt,” he admits. “Back when we were just... whatever we were. Friends. Teammates. You glaring at me in the break room. I’d run through it in my head like, a million times.”

You snort. “What were you gonna say?”

“Oh, you know. Something stupid. Classic Bradshaw lines. Like—‘Sunbeam, I’ve loved you since the moment you insulted my playlist choices in the cafeteria line.’”

You make a face into his chest. “They were bad.”

“They were themed!”

“You had a playlist called ‘Aviator Vibes Only.’”

“And it slapped!”

You laugh—actually laugh—and he freezes for a second, like he’s afraid he imagined it. Then you feel him smile against your temple, wide and full and a little bit victorious.

“I used to think you hated me,” he says after a beat, softer now.

“I did,” you say. Then, more honestly, “Sort of. Not really. I just… didn’t know what to do with you.”

“I’m a lot,” he admits, shrugging a little.

“You are,” you agree. “But you’re also... constant.”

He goes quiet.

“I didn’t realize how much I counted on that until you weren’t there,” you say. “Until the crash. Until the hoodie. Until now.”

You lift your eyes again, watching him in the dark.

“I don’t say things much,” you continue. “But I feel them. You make it hard not to.”

He brushes his nose against yours. “I’ll take that as the highest compliment.”

You lean into him, letting his warmth wrap around you completely.

“You better not snore tonight,” you murmur sleepily.

“I make no promises.”

“If you kick me, I’m pushing you off the bed.”

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“You’re a walking space heater. Of course I will.”

He laughs again, low and content.

And when your breathing slows and your fingers curl gently into the fabric of his hoodie, he whispers one last thing.

“I love you, you know.”

This time, you whisper back.

“I know.”

You don’t know how long you stay like that—tucked into him, fingers curled lightly in the sleeve of the hoodie he gave you back when neither of you knew what this was becoming.

The storm outside has softened into a lazy drizzle, but the quiet between you feels louder now. Every breath. Every shift of fabric. Every pulse.

Bradley hasn’t said anything since your last whisper. But you feel him. In the way his thumb brushes just under your shirt hem. In the way his cheek is resting against your temple. In the way his heartbeat stutters when your hand moves—just slightly—against his chest.

You tilt your head back slowly, barely enough to look at him.

He’s already watching you.

Eyes soft. Half-lidded. A little scared, but not in a way that wants to run—more like he’s afraid to break the moment.

You stare at each other for a long second. Breathing. Just breathing.

Then you say, almost too quiet, “You’re staring.”

His smile is slow. “So are you.”

You open your mouth to deflect, to tease, to bury the feeling under something safer—but then he leans in.

Slow. So slow it’s like he’s giving you every second to stop him.

You don’t.

You close the distance.

It’s nothing like you imagined. Not fire and fireworks. Not instant passion.

It’s warm.

Soft.

Steady.

Like a sigh between two people who’ve been holding something in for too long.

His lips mold to yours like they already knew how. He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear—but also like he trusts you won’t.

Your hand slides up into the curls at the back of his neck, pulling him closer. His breath hitches. You feel him smile against your mouth.

He pulls back just barely, forehead resting against yours. “That okay?”

You nod once. Voice gone. Chest full.

He kisses you again.

Slower this time. Like he’s memorizing the shape of it. Like he’s etching it into the part of his heart that’s always been reserved for you.

You pull him closer, hoodie and all.

And when you both finally part, barely breathing, he laughs.

Quiet. Wonderstruck.

“I’ve waited so long to do that,” he murmurs.

You don’t say anything.

But you kiss him again.

And that’s answer enough.

It starts with your breath on his lips.

Barely parted, both of you still half-tangled in sheets and stormlight, the world outside dim and forgotten. Your fingers are still in his curls from the last kiss, and he hasn’t moved more than an inch—hasn’t dared.

But now you do.

You move first.

Your mouth brushes his again, slower this time, less hesitant. And when he responds—when his lips part just slightly to deepen the kiss—it’s like something long-caged breaks loose between you.

Bradley sighs into your mouth, relief spilling out of him like warm wind. His hand slides over your hip, tentative and slow, asking instead of taking. You shift forward in response, and suddenly your legs are pressed against his, knees bumping under the blanket.

His touch never roams far. It’s not rushed. Not greedy. He kisses you like he wants to memorize you, like he’s finally allowed to love you the way he’s always wanted—without needing to hide behind jokes or looks cast across briefing rooms.

“You sure?” he whispers against your lips, already breathless.

You nod. “Stop asking.”

He exhales a soft laugh, but it stutters when your fingers slip beneath the hem of the hoodie he gave you. The cotton lifts easily, and he helps you pull it off without a word—eyes never leaving yours.

“You still wear it,” he murmurs, eyes scanning your face like it’s something holy.

You shrug, breath catching. “It’s warm.”

Bradley smiles. His hands cup your face gently, brushing his thumbs along your cheekbones. “You’re warm.”

The kiss that follows is deeper. Hungrier. His hands trail down your sides, fingertips brushing over skin like he’s never known softness until now. You sigh into him, sliding your palms over his bare chest, feeling muscle twitch under your touch.

The hoodie’s gone. So is hesitation.

He touches you like you’re breakable—but wanted. Like he knows you can handle anything, but still treats you like you deserve softness. You do.

You pull him closer—body to body, skin to skin—and everything shifts. There’s a hitch in both your breaths, a heat blooming low between you, quiet and pulsing. The room stays dim, shadows flickering from the storm outside, but the warmth here is overwhelming.

You tilt your head, whispering into his jaw, “Don’t overthink it.”

“I’m not,” he says. “I’m just—” He swallows. “I want to remember this. All of it.”

And then he moves—hands guiding, mouth worshipping, breath steady as he kisses down your throat, your shoulder, everywhere your body lets him in. You arch into him, not dramatically—just a slow unraveling, like the steady peeling back of walls that have stood for too long.

Clothes fall away in pieces. Not fast. Not frantic. Like a ceremony. Each movement says I know you. I see you. I want all of you.

And when he finally enters you, it’s quiet. A slow joining. No sharp gasps or rushed words—just the sound of rain on glass and two people breathing in sync. His forehead rests against yours. His hand finds yours in the dark.

It’s full. Deep. Close.

He moves like he’s trying to tell you everything he’s never said. You let him.

And when you look up at him—sweat-kissed, jaw clenched from holding back, eyes wild and full of you—you see it all. The years. The longing. The love.

You whisper his name once.

That’s all it takes.

The rhythm falters, shudders. He lets go. You follow. And the world is nothing but the heat between you and the quiet in his chest when he holds you through the after.

Neither of you speaks for a long time.

And when you finally do, it’s barely a whisper.

“Still warm?”

He laughs—messy, breathless, in love.

“You have no idea.”

You don’t know how long you lie there in the quiet after. Long enough for your breathing to slow, for the sweat to cool on your skin. Long enough to feel the weight of what just happened settle into your chest like something permanent.

Bradley’s still beside you, one arm folded beneath his head, the other tracing lazy circles on your bare back. His eyes are half-lidded, but he hasn’t stopped looking at you since you let him touch you like that.

He looks undone. And worshipful.

You should be exhausted.

But something simmers under your skin now. A low, hot hum that hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s grown sharper. Louder. Like the part of you that spent years trying not to need him is suddenly starving.

Your fingers drift down his stomach, slow and featherlight, and you feel him twitch under your touch. His jaw clenches. His breath catches.

“Again?” he says softly. Not teasing. Not smug. Just... hopeful. Just wrecked.

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

Bradley moves like a storm this time—low and intense, all heat and reverence and hunger. His hands slide over your hips like they’re familiar territory now, like your body was a map he memorized long ago but only now gets to trace without fear.

He rolls you beneath him with careful strength, lips finding yours again—deeper now, wetter, full of need. The kiss drags something from your chest you didn’t know you were holding. You gasp against him, fingers clawing into his back, and he groans low in his throat.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he mutters against your jaw, voice rough.

You pull him down, mouth finding the curve of his shoulder, and this time you bite. Not hard—just enough. Just enough to feel his whole body shudder.

It’s messier now.

Hotter.

The pace isn’t slow and exploratory anymore—it’s familiar and greedy and real. Your legs wrap around his waist like instinct. His mouth is everywhere—your neck, your collarbone, your chest—like he’s trying to kiss every part of you that’s ever known loneliness.

He presses into you again, deeper than before, and your breath breaks apart. There’s no space between you now—just skin on skin, sweat, tangled limbs and open mouths.

He groans your name like a prayer. You arch into him, chasing the friction, biting back a sound that threatens to escape.

He thrusts harder.

You meet him.

The rhythm builds, wild and aching and perfect. Each time his hips meet yours, it knocks something loose in you—something you hadn’t let anyone touch before. He feels it. You know he does.

His forehead presses to yours, and you can feel his breath on your lips.

“I love you,” he whispers again. “Every version of you. Even when you hated me. Especially when you didn’t.”

You grip his hair, pulling him down into another kiss, all teeth and heat.

And when you come apart beneath him this time—it’s not silent. You cry out his name, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re anchoring yourself.

He follows fast. His mouth opens against your neck. Shuddering so hard you feel it in your bones.

When it’s over, he collapses gently beside you, arms pulling you close, chest heaving against your back.

You’re quiet for a while. Only the sound of rain and breath and the soft shift of sheets between you.

Then, without looking at him, you murmur, “That hoodie better not go missing.”

He chuckles hoarsely, pulling it off the floor and draping it over you both.

“Baby,” he says, voice rough, kissed with sleep. “That hoodie belongs to you now. Just like I do.”

You don’t say anything right away. You just stare at him—at the way his lashes rest heavy on his cheeks, at the hoodie he gave you months ago now draped across your bare legs like it never left. Like he never left.

Maybe you didn’t really hate how he clung too close. 

Maybe you didn’t hate the late-night calls, the way he’d wrap around you like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth. 

Maybe what you hated was how much it scared you to need him back.

Your fingers brush through his hair, slow, unsure. He hums, half-asleep, and that hoodie still smells like him. Like memories, and airports, and something softer than you ever let yourself believe you deserved.

You whisper, barely audible, like you’re admitting it to yourself more than to him: “Maybe I belonged to you first.”

And maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t such a bad thing.

[sturniolospumpkin]

POV: hard launch with chratt

pairings: bf!matt x gf!reader x bf!chris

summary: chris and matt hard launch their relationship with you on social media, but you struggle to handle the aftermath.

warnings: angst, hate comments, name calling, crying, reader is lowkey depressed.

disclaimers: this is all fiction. obviously the triplets are not like this in real life, these are just fics i write out of boredom. please don’t leave negative comments, please do not republish my work as your own, and please credit me if using my writing as inspo <3

matthew.sturniolo and christophersturniolo

matthew.sturniolo weekend getaway with our girl 🤍 @ yourusername

Comments

@ daily.sturniolos wait they’re both dating her?

@ mattsleftsock this is weird but lowkey we all wish we were her 😭

@ chrisgirl810 i have so many questions

@ spooky.sturns wtf. whoreeee

@ ilovethetriplets123 i thought she was matt’s gf???

@ sunflowersturniolos i’ve been a fan of the triplets for a while but this is kinda gross…

@ mattloverspizza unfollowed & unsubbed :/

tears brim your eyes as you read the words on your screen. their comment section was filled with hateful comments, laced with insults, questions, and assumptions about you and the boy’s relationship. you knew this would happen, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“baby this is what you wanted right?” matt asks quietly as he rubs your thigh gently, worried that you weren’t ready.

you nod your head. you did want this. you were tired of hiding your relationship, and making the boys hide it too. but the comments wouldn’t stop. hundreds of them flooded the post, new insults popping up every second. sure there were a few positive comments, but the negative ones were all you could focus on. especially the ones about the boys losing fans.

“but you’re losing subscribers and followers because of me.” your voice cracks as sobs threaten to escape you.

chris chuckles before pulling you into his chest and wrapping his arms around you tightly.

“sweetheart trust me, losing a couple subscribers isn’t going to hurt us.” chris holds back more chuckles, amused by your statement, but he understands that you’re worried and you just need comfort right now, “it’s gonna be okay love. you’re worrying your pretty little head for nothing.”

you frown in chris’s arms, displeased by his nonchalance regarding what feels like the end of the world to you.

“what’s bothering you still baby? i can see you pouting.” matt questions, concern painting his face as his thumb comes up to rub your cheek.

“the comments. they’re so mean.” you squeak.

“baby you aren’t seriously upset over them, are you? you know all of that shit is lies made up by people who don’t even know you.” matt reassures you.

“but what if they’re right? why would they say that stuff about me? about you?” you cry into chris’s chest.

“they’re not. they’re just jealous and want to upset you so you can feel as shitty as they do. you have to try to ignore it sweetheart or you’re letting them win.” chris sighs, running a hand through your hair.

“i can’t.” you sob, “i feel like i ruined everything.”

matt lets out a shaky breath, wiping a stray tear from his eye before opening his mouth to speak, only a choked sound coming out as he turns to chris and shakes his head. it breaks his heart to see you this upset.

“sweetheart you didn’t ruin anything. i know it’s hard to ignore them. can you try your best for us though?” chris coos.

you nod.

“that’s our girl. this will all blow over in a few days and you’ll feel better okay?” chris smiles.

but days go by and you don’t feel better. the comments only grow, more and more hateful words popping up on your screen as you refresh it every minute.

@ sturnsfan12 i give it two months 💀

@ lets.trip87 someone posted pics of her face, i don’t see the hype

@ sluttysturniolos downfall of the sturniolo triplets :/

@ strombolis4life if they start putting her in vids, im not watching

@ user1286722 slut

more tears slip down your cheek with every word as you hold back sobs. you’re reading is soon interrupted as chris walks into his room to find you seated on his bed, crying. he knows what’s wrong as soon as he sees the phone in your hand.

“y/n, give me your phone.” chris demands, voice quiet but stern.

“what?” you ask taken aback.

“you’re done with this.” he continues, “you’re not sitting here all day reading hate comments. i’m not letting you torture yourself.”

he reaches his hand out for you to give him your phone but you don’t move. you know he’s right. you know you shouldn’t keep reading the mean comments and letting yourself get upset over them, but you can’t help it. you feel compelled to see everything that’s being said about the three of you, and you can’t do that without your phone.

“sweetheart.” he warns.

“but—” you start, trying to avoid giving him your phone.

“no princess, give me your phone. please.” he cuts you off, blue eyes locked on yours.

you pout and bat your lashes, silent pleading for him to change his mind, but his serious expression never falters. suddenly matt enters the room and you shift your attention to him, hoping he will reason with chris.

“matt can you tell chris—” you start.

“nuh uh, you’e not getting out of this one. he’s right baby, give him your phone.” matt interrupts.

you open your mouth to protest before giving up in frustration. annoyed with them both, you lay down on the bed, turning your back to both of them and carelessly toss your phone at chris’s with a bit of force—so much that he nearly drops it.

“what are you giving me an attitude for? i’m trying to help you.” chris’s tone is sharp.

“you expect us to let you sit here and cry?” matt adds.

when you don’t respond, you hear chris sigh, walking to the side of the bed to stand in front of you. you refuse to meet his gaze, eyes trained on the comforter. he bends down to place a soft kiss on your cheek.

“i love you sweetheart.” he whispers before heading for the door.

you only hear one set of footsteps trek through the hallway, so you know matt is still in the room with you. after a few minutes he makes his way over to the side of the bed behind you. he bends down, kneeling onto the bed and wrapping his arms around you tightly before placing kisses along your cheek.

“baby it’s for your own good. please don’t be upset with us.” he mutters before placing one last kiss on your cheek and standing back up.

you hear the door close and you allow yourself to let go of the tears you’ve been holding back, quietly sobbing into your pillow.

a/n: sorry for the sad little angsty blurb :’(

✧ tags✧ @m1zzi3 @pepsiisgoatedasf @courta13 @2muchofaslvt @monroesturnns @emmaweasley @iloveduckssm @tahliama @ellajane2332 @riowritesitall @izzysturniiolo @angeliijay12-blog @brianna-grace12

[moonlitstoriess]

Too Quiet, Too Long- Rowan Whitethorn x fem!reader

Summary: When Rowan returns home bloodied and silent after disappearing for days, Y/N is furious and terrified. As his mate, she felt every moment of his absence like a wound. But now that he's back, broken, and distant, she's the one who has to hold them together.

Warnings: mentions of injury, blood, violence, angst, fluff towards the end

A/N: Thank you all so much for 1000+ followers!Crazy how so many people enjoy my silly little fics. Love you all, here is a little something for you <3

See masterlist

The fire had burned low.

Shadows danced across the stone walls, quiet and unwelcome. The kind of silence that didn't feel peaceful, it felt wrong. Stretched thin. Hollow.

Y/N hadn't moved from the chair near the hearth in hours. Not really. Not since dusk bled into night, and not since the tug in her chest--the one tethered to him--had twisted in that awful, bone-deep way that meant pain. Not hers. His.

She'd felt it a day ago.

Then...nothing.

No whispers through the bond, no flicker of emotion, no Rowan. And that silence? That terrified her more than anything else in the world.

The wind rattled the windowpanes, and she clenched her jaw. Her tea had long gone cold, untouched on the table. Her hands, usually so steady, rested in fists against her thigh. She didn't cry. She was past crying.

Past pacing.

Past pretending she could sit still and not shatter from the waiting. The bond hadn't gone quiet like this since-

No. She wouldn't go there.

Her eyes flicked to the door for the hundredth time.

Still nothing.

And then....a sound.

Wood. Hinges. The faintest creak.

Her heart slammed once, then held it's breath. Footsteps -- heavy, dragging -- echoed through the wall.

She was on her feet before her mind could catch up.

And when the door finally opened, and he filled the treshold--cloak soaked, face pale, blood soaking through his side--All she could say was, "You bastard."

The firelight caught the dark bruises blooming beneath his skin, the thin trickle of blood staining his shirt like a scarlet banner.

Rowan didn't say a word. Didn't try to argue or defend himself. He just leaned heavily on the doorframe, breathing shallow, every inch of him saying I'm broken, but refusing to admit it.

She stepped forward, fingers trembling with a dozen unsaid things--but her voice was sharp, low.

"You think you can just walk in here and pretend that none of it happened? That I didn't spend every second wanting to tear the world looking apart for you?"

Rowan's jaw tightened. For a moment, the fierce, unreadable hawk in his eyes softened, just enough for her to see the weight he carried. "I didn't want you to know." His voice was gravel and regret. "Didn't want you to be -- worried."

"Worried? Rowan, I felt you bleeding. Felt you gone. I'm your mate. You're not some ghost that I can forget."

He swallowed hard, shifting so that she could help him sit. His body was tense, like a wild animal trapped and too proud to be caught. Y/N knelt down, hands surprisingly gentle as they peeled back his cloak, revealing the ragged tear in his shirt and the dark, angry line of a wound on his ribs.

"Why didn't you come home sooner?" she whispered, voice cracking despite herself.

Rowan closed his eyes, the faintest flicker of pain crossing his features.

"Because it wasn't safe. Because I thought that I could fix it alone."

Her breath caught. She reached up, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead.

"Fix it with me, Rowan. You don't have to be alone."

He looked at her then--really looked--and for the first time in days, the wall came down.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice raw. "I'm so sorry."

He said it so quietly. Like the words might break if he breathed too hard.

I'm sorry.

She could've let her anger win. Let the rage she'd been sitting with for days pour out in venom and fire. But gods -- seeing him like this -- she couldn't. She just couldn't.

Instead, she exhaled slowly and said, "Let me see the wound."

Rowan shifted with a wince, grimacing as she helped slide his cloak off his shoulders. The fabric stuck to dried blood near his side, and he hissed through his teeth.

She didn't flinch. "Sit back," she said, steady now. "And be still."

Rowan obeyed without a word. That alone told her how bad it really was -- her mate, the brooding, stubborn Fae bastard who rarely listened to anyone, was silent and compliant.

Her fingers worked quickly, pulling the ruined shirt up and over his head. And there it was -- an angry gash slashing across his ribs, deeper than she'd feared, already half-infested.

"Gods, Rowan," she whispered, voice thin. "This should've been treated hours ago."

"I didn't stop," he muttered. "Didn't want to risk- "

"Risk what? Coming home alive?"

His jaw clenched, but he didn't argue. He just looked away, throat bobbing like he was swallowing back more than pain.

She dipped a cloth into the warm water she'd kept by the fire and began cleaning the wound. He didn't so much as grunt as she worked--but she felt the tightness in him, the restraint, like he was holding himself together with threads.

And still, his voice came low. "I thought if I could end it fast...you'd never have to know how close it got. Or maybe, just maybe, if luck was on my side, I'd quickly come back home. To you."

She froze. Just for a second. Then kept going.

"You were going to die alone for my peace of mind?" Her voice cracked again. Softer this time. "Rowan, I don't need a martyr. I need you. Just you. Bleeding, breathing, broken -- whatever. But here."

He didn't answer. Not at first.

Then he looked at her. Not with shame this time, but with something quiet and wrecked behind his eyes. "I didn't know how to come back like this."

Y/N's hands stilled. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his, gently. Their breath mingled in the space between them.

"You just come back," she whispered, "That's enough."

She stayed close, forehead still pressed to his, hands resting on his bare chest where the worst of the wound had been cleaned. His heart beat beneath her palms--slow, steady, strong.

Alive.

That's all she needed.

They stayed like that for a long moment, the kind of silence that didn't hurt anymore. The fire crackled low behind them, casting flickers of gold across his silver hair and the curve of his jaw.

Eventually, she sat back and grabbed the salve from the shelf beside the hearth. He eyed it with no small amount of distrust. "Don't make that face," she said, uncorking the jar.

"That stuff smells like death."

"It smells like eucalyptus, a plant used to heal."

"Feral eucalyptus."

She smiled despite herself, gently applying it to the edges of the wound. He hissed --just once-- and she raised an eyebrow.

"You're lucky I love you." she muttered, voice softer than the words sounded.

Rowan met her gaze. No mask. No shields. Just him. "I know,"

When she finished wrapping the bandage around his ribs, she sat back on her heels, arms crossed loosely.

"New rule," she said, voice firmer now. "No more shutting me out. No more cutting the bond. No more vanishing for days."

"Y/N- "

"I'm serious. If something happens, we face it together. I don't want protection. I want truth. I want you." Her voice wavered just slightly at the end, but her eyes held his. "If the roles were reversed -- if I walked out that door, didn't say a word, came back bleeding -- what would you do? How would you feel?"

Rowan didn't hesitate. "I'd burn the world, destroy kingdoms to find you."

She nodded slowly. "Exactly. So maybe next time, don't make me decide whether to do the same."

His throat bobbed. "I won't. I swear it."

"Good." she said, standing and brushing off her hands. "Because I like our home. I don't want to burn it down to find you."

That pulled a small breath of laughter from him -- raspy, but real. He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes just for a second.

"You know,” she said with a teasing lilt in her voice, "if you wanted me to fuss over you shirtless, you could've just asked."

He cracked an eye open. "You're impossible."

"And you're dramatic."

Rowan leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips, "But you're mine."

--------------------------------------------------------—

[tommowluvr]

[sttoru]

⠀ 𝝑𝑒 ⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. you’re heavily pregnant with sukuna’s child and so desperately need to have your specific pregnancy cravings: mangoes. when you realise you’re out of them, you turn into an emotional mess.

tags. true form!sukuna x wife!female reader. fluff, sfw. pregnancy. size difference (reader referred to as small). reader gets called ‘woman, brat’ wc: 1.8k

you’re crying in your chambers, the volume of your cries overshadowing sukuna’s arrival at the estate. you hiccup and sniffle as you sit in the corner of the master bedroom. there really doesn’t seem to be an end to your mental breakdown.

you’re prone to mood changes because of your pregnancy, already being seven months along. your belly is as round as a globe as it sticks out from under your kimono.

you hold onto your lower abdomen while mumbling to yourself. “not fair,” you rub your blurry eyes with your free hand.

the bedroom doors suddenly swing open. you lift your head from your knees and make eye contact with your husband who looks rather . . . upset. more upset than you are at the moment, that’s for sure.

you whimper as his big and intimidating stature dwarfs over yours while you’re stuck in the corner. when you look up at him, you cry even louder. seeing that familiar face after two whole days of suffering in this place alone gets you even more emotional.

after sukuna entered the room, his gaze had immediately fell upon your quivering figure. he raises an eyebrow as you cry louder once you spot him, the sound breaking his ear drums. he lets out a sharp exhale, a hint of annoyance seeping into his tone.

“enough with the tears,” sukuna grumbles as he crosses the room in a few long strides. his presence is both imposing and protective as he looms over your small figure.

his eyes flicker over your body—taking in the sight of your round belly. he can’t deny that the view makes his shoulders relax, relieved to see his wife do well after two days without seeing you.

sukuna kneels down before you, his eyes narrowing as he notices the tears running down your cheeks. who knows how long you’ve been sobbing? the realisation that no one has checked on you while you’ve been crying like this irks him.

the king of curses will make sure that every single servant - and especially the ones assigned to you - pay for not noticing your sour mood sooner.

“damn it, woman,��� sukuna curses under his breath, his words laden with both irritation and a sense of concern, “what’s gotten into you now, hmm? why the blubbering mess?"

you hiccup, gasping for air as sukuna kneels down to your level, something he rarely does. one of his hands reach out to wipe a tear from your cheek, his expression stoic and unreadable while he does so.

“welcome home,” you utter, remembering to greet him properly. you wipe your own tears away and try to explain the situation without it sounding absurd. “i—i went down to the kitchen to get som-something,” you stammer, trying to spit it out before sukuna’s irritation spikes.

“but they didn’t have the food i craved—they’re out of mangoes,” your wailing starts again just at the thought of your non existent fruit. it felt like the most devastating moment in your life when the maids told you that they were out of mangoes.

sukuna’s annoyance quickly dissolves upon hearing your explanation. the revelation that you’re crying over mangoes seems so unbelievable, so absurd, that he couldn't help but let out a dry huff of laughter. an amused smirk tugs at the corners of his lips.

the pink haired man brushes the remnants of the tears away from your face. his rough fingers pause at your chin, giving it a light tap. “mangoes, huh? y’re out here bawling y’r fucking eyes out like a baby for some damn mangoes?”

despite his tough exterior, sukuna knows that pregnancy hormones often amplified emotions, making even the smallest things a cause for crying. and right now, you’re stressing and sputtering over some mangoes.

“mangoes,” you nod and cry softly, watching as sukuna rubs your cheeks with his manly fingers, enjoying his rough touch. you easily guess by just the increased toughness of his calluses that your husband has worked hard while he was gone.

though, mangoes are your current pregnancy craving and not having them meant war to you. it’s all you can focus on—even if your beloved sukuna is right in front of you.

“i need them,” you whine and pout. your hormones made it difficult for you to calm down.

you do, however, try your best to stop crying. you clean your face with the sleeve of your kimono and bite on your bottom lip to refrain from bawling your eyes out for the nth time. “i want my mangoes,” your voice is hoarse as you glance up at sukuna, “please?”

sukuna hates to admit it, but his expression softens upon hearing the hoarse tone of your pleading voice. the view of your tear-streaked face and the knowledge that you’re experiencing pregnancy cravings makes it difficult for him to maintain his usual firm demeanor.

the king of curses sighs, his annoyance replaced by a reluctant acceptance of your plight. “tsk, damn it,” he mutters, lazily resting his head against the palm of one of his hands, “y’re really gonna make me fetch you some mangoes?”

here you are, a grown woman crying and begging like a kid for a sweet, juicy mango. he’s seen you in many states - happy, sad, tired, excited - but never quite as emotionally overwhelmed just for a piece of fruit. sukuna’s large hand reaches out to pat your head in a surprisingly gentle manner, a rare display of his softer side.

you pout at sukuna and lean into his touch as he pats your head. you come up with something witty to say, as you always do. “well, you’re the one who got me pregnant,” you comment in a teasing way, sticking your tongue out at your husband.

no matter what sour mood you’re in, you can still be sassy. though it doesn’t last long before your bottom lip trembles again. “i can’t do anything about it. the baby craves mangos,” you whine as you rub your baby bump to emphasise your words.

you are eating for two people after all—for you and the baby.

sukuna’s smirk widened at your retort and the playful gesture. even in your distraught state, you had the audacity to sass him. damn cheeky little woman.

the pink-haired man chuckled darkly, his hand clumsily ruffling your hair again before pulling away. “‘n i don’t regret a thing. even if i gotta put up with y’r cranky ass.”

you roll your eyes at sukuna’s reply. you know you’re an emotional mess, but you couldn’t care less. anything for your mangoes—those juicy ones that you could eat a dozen of in one sitting.

“the maids said that the mangoes were out of stock in the towns ‘nd villages nearby,” you continue while you carefully stand up from the corner. you’re trying your best to stay rational. you’re extremely hungry and haven’t eaten ever since breakfast. that’s how stubborn you are being.

“but i’m hungryyyyy. want my mangoes,” you sigh and nearly stomp your feet out of frustration.

“yeah, yeah—fuckin’ hell,” sukuna groans, watching you slowly stand up, your pregnant belly protruding like a perfect sphere. it’s a constant reminder of the effect he has on you, and somehow, it makes him proud.

he helps you stand up by holding onto your arm, sharp eyes focused on your body to make sure you don’t strain a single muscle.

after you manage to stand up straight, you walk with sukuna to the kitchen to find something to eat—perhaps some other fruit will satisfy your cravings for now.

sukuna follows behind you, his steps long and leisurely while your shorter strides keep the pace with him. as the two of you walked towards the kitchen, he continues to listen to your repeated mantra. it’s driving him insane.

“mangoes, mangoes, mangoes. i get it, brat,” the king of curses swears he can feel the vein in his forehead throb. you’re lucky that he . . . tolerates you as his wife.

it’s something more than just ‘tolerating’ you, of course. but openly admitting to loving you, even in the slightest, is something sukuna would never do.

if someone would ask him why he goes the extra mile for you, his answer would be that it’s simply because you’re carrying his heir. however only sukuna knows the full truth, the sappy secret he’ll forever keep to himself.

before you arrive at the kitchen, you bump into uraume. they glance from sukuna to you and bow. “good day,” they greet you with as much respect as they do to sukuna. they’ve been doing so ever since you gained your title as his wife.

the king of curses folds all four of his arms over his chest. his lower pair of eyes are still focused on your impatient self, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. he just knows you’re holding yourself back from asking for your active pregnancy craving again.

sukuna clicks his tongue and nods his head at you while he speaks to uraume. “keep an eye on her while ‘m gone. feed her what she wants,” he says in his deep voice, his tone commanding and firm.

uraume remains quiet for a second. sukuna had recently came back from a mission and is once again heading out for some ambiguous reason, but they know better than to question their master.

“where are you going, hubby?”

you of course, get a free pass. you don’t hesitate at all before questioning your husband. sukuna scoffs when he hears your voice ask him that in such an oblivious manner. you should’ve known where he was departing to.

“where’d you think, smartass?” he pinches your nose, causing you to swat his fingers away out of instinct. he gives up on your nose and moves to squeeze your cheeks together in a gentle yet firm manner.

you huff at his antics. sukuna grins at your frown and pout before releasing your jawline with a faint push.

“you better hold on ‘til i come back with y’r stupid mangoes,” he scoffs while turning around to walk to the entrance, “and when i do, i don’t wanna hear ‘nother squeak, understood?”

sukuna seems to have made another mission for himself; find his heavily pregnant wife mangoes before she goes absolutely insane.

your face lights up and you nod repeatedly. your heart melts when you realise that sukuna is actually putting effort to satisfy your needs. he may be harsh and stern at times, but his actions speak louder than his words.

“okay! love you, ‘kuna!” you call out to your lover while he disappears behind the gates. as expected, your words are met by silence.

that’s fine with you. not hearing an ‘i love you’ back doesn’t hurt you as much as it did at the start of your relationship.

you know sukuna cherishes you in his own special way. if he didn’t, you’d be dead long time ago. on top of that, he would not go out on a hunt for mangoes right after coming back home if he didn’t like you.

you know sukuna would let the world burn for you.