#loved the confusion and heartbreak of these missions...

[marvelstoriesepic]

A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.
You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter

[rimzaaa]

Happily Ever After

Oneshot!

Pairing: Frontman(inho) x Female reader(y/n)

Fandom: Squid Game (오징어 게임)

Summary: What if the final game never truly ended? What if love survived the arena?

Y/N thought she had lost everything. The man she loved—dead. Her world—shattered. But when the mask comes off, and the truth is revealed, she's forced to face her deepest heartbreak all over again. With a newborn in her arms and her past standing in front of her, will she walk away… or risk everything for a second chance?

This is a story of betrayal, grief, found family, and the kind of love that crawls out of hell just to hold you again.

Warning: Violence & death. Blood & trauma. Canon-typical content. Emotional breakdowns. Heavy angst. Redemption arc. Some soft comfort & fluff. Mentions of suicidal ideation (brief)

Author's Note: This is my first ever fanfiction for Squid Game, and it’s centered around my favorite character—the Frontman (aka Inho/Young-il). I wanted to give the show an ending that we all think the characters deserve. This story means a lot to me, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Feedback and reblogs mean the world 💌

Words Count: 4.2K+

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦

The air was thick — heavy with the scent of blood, sweat, and fear.

Only three players remained: Y/N, Gi-hun, and Player 222 — Jun-hee’s daughter, too young to understand the stakes of the game.

They stood on the broad, red-stained surface of the triangle-shaped platform, raised high above the arena floor. It was wide enough to move, to run — or to fight. The ground beneath them felt solid, but the danger lay in the unspoken rule: one of them had to fall.

Y/N clutched the child tightly against her chest, her breath quick, her heartbeat louder than the ticking clock. A few feet away, Gi-hun stood in silence, eyes locked on the next shape — the circle, waiting for the moment someone would make the first move.

Time was running out.

Only two players could jump forward.

High above the arena, behind the wall of dark glass, the Frontman stood in silence — his mask reflecting the soft glow of the lights. The VIPs lounged nearby, laughing, drinking, placing their bets. But he wasn't listening.

His heart was pounding.

There they were.

Y/N and Gi-hun.

Two names from a life he barely recognized anymore.

Two people he once knew... back when he was still young-il.

Originally, he had entered the games as a player with one mission — to keep an eye on Gi-hun. But the moment he saw you, everything changed.

He fell for you. Hard.

Quietly. Helplessly.

And without telling a soul, he made himself a promise:

He would protect you. No matter the cost.

But now, as he watched from the shadows of power, that promise echoed bitterly in his chest.

Because all he could think about…

was what happened last night.

⟣ FLASHBACK ⟢

The room was dimly lit. Player 100 and Player 333 were fast asleep after the luxurious dinner arranged for them as finalists. Gi-hun and Y/N, however, remained awake — watching over the baby girl Jun-hee had entrusted to them.

Suddenly, a pink guard entered the room and walked toward them.

“The Leader wants to see you both,” he said flatly.

Gi-hun and Y/N exchanged a glance before standing up and silently following the guard.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft beep.

And there he was — the Frontman, seated calmly on a couch in his all-black uniform, his expression hidden behind a dark mask.

Gi-hun and Y/N walked in slowly, stopping in front of him.

“Sit down. This will take some time”

He said in his cold, commanding voice.

They obeyed, taking seats across from him.

“I have an offer for both of you.”

Both Gi-hun and Y/N stared at him, confused.

An offer?

The Frontman reached into the pocket of his long coat and pulled out two daggers, placing them on the table between them.

“Go and kill the remaining two players,” he said evenly. “And I’ll make sure you both walk out of here. The next game won’t happen — I promise you that.”

“Why should we trust you? Why would you help us?”

Gi-hun asked sharply, trying to make sense of what was happening.

Y/N, meanwhile, was silent — her eyes locked on the man behind the mask. Something in her gut told her something was coming… something big.

The Frontman’s eyes flicked between the two of them beneath his mask.

He took a slow breath, then reached up — pulling back the hood of his uniform.

Then, without a word, he removed his mask.

And looked straight at them.

“…young-il?”

Y/N whispered, her voice trembling, her breath catching.

Her hands shook as she stared at the man she had once fallen in love with inside these deadly walls — the man who had whispered soft promises to her in the dark. The man she’d mourned. The man she thought was long dead.

He wasn’t.

He was alive.

Right in front of her.

Part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms, to cry into his shoulder and tell him how much she missed him.

The other part wanted to grab that dagger… and drive it into his throat.

She clenched her fists tightly in her lap, her heart unraveling.

“young-il… you…?”

Gi-hun looked stunned, disbelief washing over his face. The man he once trusted — the one who had fought by his side — was the Frontman?

The Front Man lowered his head.

“In-ho”

He corrected quietly, barely above a whisper. There was guilt in his voice. Shame in his eyes.

He turned to Y/N. She was gripping the hem of her t-shirt tightly, her eyes glassy with tears — but she refused to let them fall.

“Why?”

Her voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“Why did you do this to us?”

Before In-ho could answer, Gi-hun suddenly stood up, grabbing one of the daggers off the table, rage flaring in his eyes. He raised It as if to strike but stopped just short — trembling, breath uneven.

“Why did you kill Jung-bae?”

He asked through gritted teeth.

In-ho didn’t flinch.

“I’m sorry for what happened to him,” he said. “But killing me now won’t fix it. Someone else will just take my place. You both need to get out of here — with that baby.”

There was a flicker of desperation in his voice.

Despite everything — the lies, the betrayal, the pain — he was still trying to protect them.

“I swear I’ll explain everything. But please… just do what I’m telling you. Go back. End this. I’ll make sure you both survive.”

Gi-hun scoffed bitterly, shaking his head before storming out of the room — dagger still in hand.

Now only Y/N remained.

She sat frozen in her chair, staring at the man across from her — the man she once gave her heart to.

In-ho slowly rose from the couch and stepped toward her.

But she was faster.

Y/N snatched the second dagger from the table and stood, holding it out toward him.

“Don’t… don’t come closer.”

In-ho froze.

“Don’t you dare come near me,”

She snapped, voice shaking.

“You’re a liar. A killer.”

Those words sliced deeper than any wound.

He had been called that before. Many times.

But coming from her?

It shattered something in him.

“Y/N”

He whispered, taking a step forward.

“Don’t!”

She screamed, stepping back.

“Don’t come any closer or I swear… I’ll kill myself.”

She pressed the dagger to her throat.

In-ho’s heart nearly stopped.

His hands flew up in surrender.

“Okay — okay. I won’t. I promise.”

“Y/N, please… just listen. Just this once.”

His voice cracked, stripped of all command.

He was no longer the Frontman now — he was just In-ho.

A man begging the woman he loved to believe in him one last time.

“I don’t believe you.”

Her voice was a whisper.

“You’re not young-il. You’re not the man I fell in love with.”

The words hit him like a bullet.

He couldn’t speak. Only watched as a tear finally slipped down her cheek.

“Please, Y/N,”

He breathed.

“Don’t say that. I know I’ve done horrible things. I’ve lied. I’ve killed. But my love for you — it was never part of the game. It was pure. It was real. It is real.”

She let out a bitter laugh.

“Pure? Do you even know what that word means?”

She lowered the dagger. Stepped back.

“I loved you. I really did. But now…”

She paused. Her voice cracked.

“If you love me — even a little — you’ll help us. You’ll help us all escape this sick, twisted world of yours.”

The words struck deep.

She threw the dagger to the floor with a sharp clatter.

Then turned.

And without looking back…

She walked away.

⟣ PRESENT ⟢

Y/N trembled with fear, but her grip on the baby girl remained steady as she cradled her tightly against her chest.

Across from her, Gi-hun stood frozen in thought, still lost in everything that had happened — and likely still struggling to accept the impossible truth: Young-il… was the Frontman.

“We can’t stay here forever,”

Gi-hun’s voice suddenly cut through the silence.

“We have to think of something.”

Y/N stepped closer to him, lowering her voice as if afraid someone — or something — might hear.

“Gi-hun…”

She glanced around warily, then met his eyes.

“Maybe… maybe we should wait. What if what In-ho said… what if it’s true?”

Gi-hun stared at her in disbelief.

“What?”

His voice cracked with pain.

“You think that man — the one who killed Jung-bae — will save us?”

The memory of that moment was still fresh in his mind.

The blood. The scream. The mask.

“Do you…”

He paused, his voice thick with emotion.

“Do you still love him, Y/N?”

Her heart stuttered in her chest.

She didn’t know the answer.

She’d spent the whole night convincing herself that In-ho was a monster — a liar, a murderer. But some part of her — the part that remembered whispered promises and warmth in a cold, brutal world — refused to let go.

“I don’t know,”

She whispered, eyes falling to the floor.

“But… I want to believe him.”

She didn’t dare look at Gi-hun after that — afraid of what she might see in his eyes.

Behind the dark glass wall, In-ho stood silently, watching it all unfold alongside the laughing, drunken VIPs. He didn’t need to hear her words to know what she was saying.

And God…

It was already tearing him apart.

His thoughts spun in every direction — calculating, panicking, hoping.

He turned his head slowly toward the VIPs, who were already placing bets and laughing about who would fall first.

His jaw tightened behind the mask.

He was running out of time.

But if there was even a single chance to stop this game — to end all of this — he was going to take it.

Gi-hun ran a hand through his hair, eyes flickering between Y/N and the baby in her arms.

The clock was ticking.

Tension rising.

He turned his gaze toward the last platform — the circle.

There wasn’t much time left.

If they didn’t act soon, all three of them would be eliminated.

“I’ll do it”

Gi-hun said quietly, not looking at her.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then turned to face her.

Stepping closer, he placed his hands gently on her shoulders.

“Y/N…”

His voice was low. Shaky. Thick with emotion.

“This baby — she’s innocent. Jun-hee entrusted her to us. She deserves to live.”

A beat.

“And you…”

He paused, his lips quivering slightly.

“I know you still love him. In-ho. And I don’t blame you.”

“You’re the best person I met here,”

He continued, voice breaking.

“And I know he loves you too. He won’t let you die.”

He tried to smile — a pained, trembling thing — as tears welled in his eyes.

“I have no one left.”

His voice cracked.

“My daughter… she’s safe. She’s happy. That’s enough for me.”

He looked down at the baby nestled in Y/N’s arms and smiled softly.

“I’ll go.”

“You both need to live.”

Y/N’s silent tears streamed down her face as she stepped forward, wrapping her arms tightly around him.

“No… I can’t let you die for us,”

She whispered, shaking her head desperately.

“You can’t just give up your life like this.”

Gi-hun held her close, his own tears falling freely now.

“Someone has to.”

He pulled back gently, brushing a hand over her arm. Then, leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to the baby’s forehead.

“Keep her safe, Y/N.”

“And take care of yourself, too.”

“I’m sure In-ho will come for you.”

He smiled faintly, then began stepping backward.

One step closer to the edge.

Y/N sobbed, her voice breaking apart as she screamed:

“NO! GIHUN, DON’T!!”

But he didn’t stop.

In-ho watched as Gi-hun stepped backward, inching closer to the edge of the triangle-shaped platform.

He stopped — just a few feet from falling.

This was it.

Now or never.

In-ho’s jaw tightened, fists clenched. His heart was hammering in his chest.

He couldn’t let Gi-hun die.

Not after the promise he made to her.

Behind the glass wall, his eyes stayed locked on Y/N.

She had fallen to her knees, crying, screaming, begging Gi-hun to stop.

The baby lay beside her on the platform — unaware of the nightmare unfolding around her.

In-ho’s chest burned with guilt.

The sight of her like that — broken, helpless — was unbearable.

“Goodbye, Y/N”

Gi-hun whispered, a faint, resigned smile on his lips.

And just as he was about to fall back—

BANG.

A gunshot tore through the silence.

Y/N screamed.

Gi-hun flinched, stumbling forward in shock.

Behind the glass, the room exploded into chaos.

In-ho stood holding a smoking gun — and one of the VIPs lay dead at his feet.

The remaining VIPs froze — stunned, furious, terrified.

“What the fuck did you just do?!”

One of them roared.

In-ho didn’t answer.

He simply raised his gun again, pointing it toward the one who spoke — who immediately backed off in fear.

“This game ends here”

He said, voice thick with rage and barely-contained grief beneath the mask.

He turned to one of the pink guards and gave a sharp nod.

Seconds later, the cold robotic voice echoed through the entire arena:

“The game has been stopped.”

On the platform below, Gi-hun and Y/N stared upward — eyes wide.

They knew.

They knew it was him.

Y/N lowered her head, tears still slipping down her cheeks — but a deep part of her exhaled in relief.

A part of her that knew he would come for her.

That he would keep his promise.

Another VIP stepped forward, but In-ho fired a shot into the ceiling — making him freeze instantly.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“You can’t do this!”

Another VIP spat.

“We fund your games! You exist because of us!”

In-ho stepped forward slowly, like a shadow rising.

“I’m ending this game.”

His voice was cold now. Final.

“And I’m ending you with it.”

The room was suddenly flooded with guards — all pink suits, all armed, their weapons now turned on the VIPs.

In-ho walked toward the exit.

“Boss!”

The black-mask officer called out.

“What do you want us to do with them?”

In-ho didn’t turn around.

Didn’t flinch.

“Kill them all”

He said quietly.

Then walked out of the room.

Gunshots echoed in the distance as In-ho stormed through the corridors, heading straight for the game arena.

His mind raced. His grip tightened on the gun still warm in his hand.

A pink-suited guard came running from the control room, nearly stumbling as he approached.

“Sir!”

In-ho stopped and turned toward him. “What is it?”

“We’ve got a problem. Coastal guards — they’re headed this way. We believe they’ve located the island.”

In-ho’s expression remained calm behind the mask, but inside, he knew this day would come.

His brother. Jun-ho.

He always knew he’d find him eventually.

In-ho followed the guard into the control room. A monitor flickered, showing the coordinates and proximity of the coastal ships — closer than ever.

Without hesitation, In-ho crossed to a locked panel on the wall.

He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the hidden compartment.

Inside: a single red button.

He didn't hesitate even for a second — then pressed it.

A piercing siren blared, echoing across the island.

“We’re leaving”

In-ho commanded, his voice like steel.

Guards scattered into motion around him, collecting hard drives, burning papers — prepping the evacuation.

On the Platform…

Gi-hun and Y/N looked up in alarm as the siren wailed through the sky.

“What… what is that?”

Y/N asked, her voice trembling.

Was In-ho behind this?

What was he planning?

Or worse… had he changed his mind again?

Gi-hun rushed to her side, knelt down, scooping the baby girl into his arms and wrapping his free arm around Y/N’s shoulder.

“Stay close,”

He whispered.

“Whatever’s coming… I’ve got you both.”

Suddenly, with a mechanical hiss, the center of the triangular platform began to open — revealing a hidden lift.

Both Y/N and Gi-hun stumbled back, stunned.

The platform rose again…

And there he was.

In-ho. Standing in his usual frontman dress. Mask still on.

“You… what the hell are you doing?!”

Gi-hun shouted, stepping forward as he carefully laid the baby back down.

“What’s going on?!”

Y/N froze, staring at In-ho — her chest rising and falling fast.

She wanted to scream, but something about his eyes beneath the mask told her… he hadn’t given up.

“I’m keeping my promise,”

In-ho said quietly as he stepped forward.

“There’s no time to explain. We have to move. Now.”

“This siren — what does it mean?”

Y/N demanded, her voice cracking between rage and fear.

In-ho knelt beside her, took off his mask and gently lifted the baby into his arms.

Gi-hun made a move, but Y/N’s small shake of her head stopped him.

In-ho looked down at the baby, his expressions changed just for a second. Maybe the memories of his unborn child hit him. He quickly composed himself then looked up at her.

“The island is rigged to explode. We don’t have much time.”

A beat.

“Y/N, please… just trust me. I’ll explain everything later. But if we don’t leave now, none of us make it out.”

Gi-hun took the baby from In-ho and gave Y/N a solemn nod.

“He’s right. Let’s go.”

Y/N stood, still glaring at In-ho.

He reached out a hand to help her up.

But she ignored it. As she was still angry at him. She stood on her own — proud, guarded.

In-ho lowered his hand and curled it into a tight fist, but said nothing.

He led them both out of the arena, through a hidden back corridor.

A hidden dock. A ship waiting.

The guards had already boarded the other escape vessels, leaving behind only the sound of alarms and the ticking clock of destruction.

Gi-hun boarded with the baby, Y/N right behind him.

In-ho hesitated, turning for one last look at the island.

And then he stepped aboard.

Moments later, the engines roared to life, and the ship sped away from the shore.

As they sailed into the horizon, a massive explosion lit up the sky behind them — the island engulfed in flames.

It was over.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦

The sky was dark, moonlight hidden behind drifting clouds.

The steady sound of waves filled the air as the ship cut through the black ocean, heading toward the nearest safe dock.

Inside a quiet room below deck, Y/N gently rocked the baby girl in her arms — her tiny eyes fluttering closed, unaware of the world she’d survived.

Meanwhile, up on the deck, Gi-hun stood at the railing, staring blankly into the ocean, lost in thought.

Footsteps approached.

In-ho came to stand beside him, silent for a moment. Then he held out two small bottles of soju.

“You remember?” he said softly.

“We promised we’d drink soju together… once we made it out alive.”

Gi-hun didn’t even glance at him.

He let out a dry, bitter scoff and shook his head.

“I made that promise to young-il.”

In-ho lowered his head, guilt crashing over him like the waves below.

“I know,” he said quietly.

“And I know you hate me for everything I’ve done. You have every right to.”

He looked over at Gi-hun, whose eyes stayed locked on the horizon — silent, hard, unreadable.

“But let me fix things now. Whatever I can. I did… horrible things. I thought humanity was dead. But you—”

In-ho swallowed hard, voice thick.

“You proved me wrong.”

Gi-hun finally turned his head, surprised.

“You were going to give up your life… just to save Y/N. And that baby. You showed me… there are still good people left in this world.”

The man who once orchestrated death games… now standing beside him, confessing his defeat?

Gi-hun didn’t know how to respond.

Not fully.

But after a long pause, he reached out — and without looking — took one of the soju bottles from In-ho’s hand.

“Finally,” he muttered under his breath.

He opened the bottle, still not meeting In-ho’s eyes.

But that single action said enough.

In-ho smiled faintly.

He didn’t speak again. He knew forgiveness wouldn’t come easy.

But maybe, just maybe…

This was the first step.

Y/N gently laid the baby down on the bed, her hands lingering on the blanket.

She leaned back against the headboard, eyes fluttering closed.

Click.

The door creaked open.

She sat up instantly.

In-ho stepped in and quietly shut the door behind him.

“Can we talk?”

His voice was low. Hesitant. Not the voice of the Frontman. Just… his.

Y/N didn’t turn to face him.

“There’s nothing to talk about” she said, rising from the bed.

She turned her back to him — because she knew the moment she looked into his eyes, she’d lose all her resolve.

In-ho walked toward her slowly until he stood just a few steps away.

“Y/N…” he breathed.

“I know you hate me. And I deserve that. But…”

His voice cracked.

“Please believe me — loving you was never part of the game. I lied, yes. I did unforgivable things. But you— You were the only truth in all of it.”

His eyes shimmered. His voice, shaking.

Y/N turned sharply and stepped toward him, rage flooding through her chest.

She grabbed his collar with trembling hands.

“How dare you.”

Tears spilled from her eyes now — raw, broken, endless.

“You LIED to me. You faked your death. Do you even understand what that did to me?”

“I wanted to die. Because in a world where you didn’t exist — what was the fucking point of living?”

In-ho’s eyes dropped to the floor.

Her words shattered him.

And then — he fell.

Dropped to his knees.

Like a broken man — like a boy who lost everything.

He wrapped his arms around her legs, clinging to her like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry I made you feel that way…”

His voice was barely a whisper, thick with the weight of every buried emotion he’d ever carried — ones he’d never shown the world… except to her.

Y/N stood frozen — watching him.

The Frontman. The cold-blooded man behind the mask.

Now crying like a child at her feet.

She slowly knelt down, trembling, and gently cupped his face in her palms.

She wiped his tears away with her thumbs.

“I… I want to forgive you,” she whispered.

“But I can’t. Not after everything you did — to me, to us.”

In-ho’s heart lurched. His breath caught. Was this it? Was this the end?

“No” he whispered urgently, cupping her face.

He pressed his forehead to hers.

“Don’t say that. You don’t mean it. I know you don’t. Please — just one chance. Let me prove I’ve changed. Let me be better.”

He pulled back, searching her eyes for anything — a flicker of hope, the softness she used to show him.

But all he saw was pain.

So much pain.

She didn’t answer. She just shook her head.

And something inside him broke.

“Y/N, please…”

His voice cracked under the weight of desperation.

His hands trembled.

“I’ll protect you both — you and the baby. I’ll take you far away from this hell. I’ll keep you safe. Just… please don’t leave me like this. Please—”

He was spiraling — voice unraveling, panic rising.

She slowly stood up.

Took a single step back.

And that was enough.

“It’s over, In-ho.”

⋆｡°✩ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 ✩°｡⋆

The house smelled of warm vanilla and sugar. Y/N had just finished baking Yu-ri’s favorite cookies.

Yu-ri — that was the name she’d given Junhee’s daughter. Now one year old, chubby-cheeked, bright-eyed… the spitting image of her mother.

Tiny footsteps pattered into the kitchen.

“Mama.”

Y/N turned with a soft smile. Yu-ri stood there, rubbing her sleepy eyes with her tiny fists. She was still half-asleep, but hearing her voice always filled Y/N’s chest with a bittersweet ache.

She knelt, scooping her up into her arms and kissing her temple.

“Did you sleep well, sweetheart?”

Yu-ri gave a slow nod, wrapping her small arms around Y/N’s neck.

Just then, her phone rang from the living room. Y/N’s face lit up when she saw the caller ID.

Gihun.

She pressed the green button, settled on the couch, and gently placed Yu-ri in her lap.

“Hey! Gihun. How are you?”

“I’m good. What about you? And how’s the little queen?”

“She just woke up. Moody as always”

Y/N laughed, just as Yu-ri peeked into the camera and babbled: “Un..cle!”

Gihun chuckled, but his eyes glistened with tears.

“She looks… just like Junhee,”

He said softly, and a flicker of pain crossed his face.

Sensing the shift in mood, Y/N tried to steer the conversation gently.

“So? Adjusted to American life yet?”

Gihun had moved to the U.S. a year ago to be closer to his daughter — trying to start fresh, to live differently.

“Yeah. You could say I’m figuring it out.”

Then, a pause.

“Y/N… Inho called me last night.”

Her smile faded.

Inho. The man she had once loved. The man who had broken her.

The memories crashed into her like a wave — the betrayal, the lies, the pain… and somehow, still, the love.

“I forgave him,” Gihun said gently.

“He’s changed, Y/N. And I hope, someday, you’ll be able to forgive him too.”

Before she could respond, the front door creaked open.

“I’ll call you later, Gihun.” She ended the call and placed the phone aside.

“I’m home!”

A familiar voice called.

Yu-ri’s entire face lit up.

“Appa! Appa!!”

She scrambled off the couch and ran to the door.

Inho walked in, catching her in his arms instantly.

“Aww, appa’s little princess” He whispered, kissing the top of her head.

“Can appa get a kiss too?”

Yu-ri giggled and gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek, making him laugh.

He stepped into the living room, holding her, and Y/N stood nearby — a plate of warm cookies in her hand.

“Yu-ri, come baby. Let’s eat.”

Yu-ri gasped excitedly, “Yayyy!” and reached for the cookies.

Inho gently set her down, and she happily took a big bite.

Y/N turned to head back into the kitchen—

But Inho caught her wrist.

She turned to him.

He dropped down on one knee.

A small red velvet box in his hand.

Y/N’s heart stopped.

“I know you weren’t expecting this”

Inho began, his voice trembling.

“And I know you haven’t fully forgiven me. But it’s been a year… and I’m so thankful you decided to give me a second chance that night”

“Today, I want to make it official. I want to be a father to Yu-ri. I want to be yours — forever.”

“Y/N"

"Will you marry me?”

Tears welled in her eyes.

Could this really be happening?

The memories of the games, the horror, the heartbreak… it all came crashing back — but so did every moment of change, of healing, of the quiet love that had grown again.

She nodded slowly, her voice breaking:

“Yes.”

Inho’s eyes widened, stunned.

“I forgave you, Inho. I just never said it. You’ve changed — and you’ve proven it.”

“But promise me… you’ll never go back to who you were.”

He stood, pulling her into his arms.

“I swear. I’ll spend the rest of my life giving you both the happiness you deserve.”

He slid the ring onto her finger.

They both smiled through their tears.

And then he leaned in and kissed her — a soft, emotional kiss filled with everything they couldn’t say. Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, returning it with just as much love.

“Oooo…”

Yu-ri’s curious voice made them break the kiss and laugh.

Inho picked her up again and tickled her until she squealed with joy.

Y/N grabbed her phone with a grin.

“Time to tell someone the news.”

She video-called Gihun.

“What happened? You ended the call so suddenly earlier—”

She raised her hand.

The ring sparkled on her finger.

Inho stepped in, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“WHAT? He proposed to you?!”

Gihun’s jaw dropped.

“Damn! I’m so happy for you both,”

He said, his voice cracking, eyes glassy.

“We have decided to officially make Yu-ri our daughter” Inho added.

Gihun nodded in approval.

“After everything… you two deserve this. A real, peaceful life.”

“Finally,”

He smiled.

“A happy ending.”

Y/N and Inho echoed together:

“Yes"

"Happily ever after.”

[em1i2a3]

Idk if you’re taking requests but can you do Bob x reader where the reader has powers like Rogue. Bob has the biggest fattest crush on reader, reader is oblivious (but the crush is mutual), and angst angst ANGST

Sailor Song

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry/The Void x Rogue Inspired!Fem!Reader

Summary: Bob is in love with you, but you can’t be what he wants.

Warnings: Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts as Bob is the main character here. There is a whole boat of angst in here, and it’s a bit heartbreaking, and really frickin sad (don’t worry y’all not too sad…Hopefully lol) but I do like the character of Rogue, and this Inbox Request really sparked a lot of inspiration in me to write for an idea like this!

Author’s Note: I love where I got to go with these two characters and how it played out in the end. I added something to the reader's little arsenal of powers by the way, but it is for the plot. I hope it meets expectations. I kinda wrote this really late at night (01:49am over here lol)

Word Count: 5,477

Bob remembers the first night he saw you in his dreams.

Not when he first met you–no. That had been a tense mission briefing, it was your first introduction to the team. You had barely spoken, and Bob had sat two chairs away from you and tried not to stare. It was like he was enchanted by you– the way you held yourself, the way you stood and said your name, the little wave you gave to everyone with your gloved hands before sitting down. He remembered everything about that day.

But the dream–God the dream was so different.

It started with darkness. Not shadows, not dusk–just a smothering kind of black, like he was trapped in the deepest part of his mind. There was no floor beneath him. No air in his lungs. Just coldness. He was clawing at it. His fingers were raw and bleeding, his breath was ragged, and there was this panic that curled tight in his chest like he had swallowed barbed wire.

There was no sense of direction but all he knew was that he needed to get out, but the darkness fought back. It dragged him down, swallowed his screams, twisted his thoughts into screeching noises. It was his personal version of hell…Then…There was light.

It was just a sliver. A violent, beautiful tear right down the middle of the darkness, like someone had reached in and split the fabric with their bare hands.

Then suddenly the darkness was gone, and he found himself in the middle of a glowing field. The air was thick with warmth and the scent of something sweet–jasmine, maybe. Or lavender. He couldn’t tell. The grass around him was tall and pale, not green, but something softer–sun-bleached gold, silver at the tips like it had caught the moonlight. The sky above him was an endless stretch of colour, he couldn’t tell if it was day or night, but it was a bruised blue-purple, with streaks of rose and gold that bled through like watercolour.

It was quiet…For once it was quiet.

There was no wind. No movement. No screaming. Just breathing–his own, slow and steady. He could feel his pulse slowing down, and his skin didn’t hurt, and his hands weren’t bleeding anymore. There was no evidence of the fight he had put up in the darkness.

Confused, he turned in place slowly, trying to understand where he was–trying to find the edges of the dream. Nothing like this had ever come to him in his dreams, not when sleep was usually a war zone. A collapsing cathedral of his own mind.

Then he saw you.

You were standing a few yards away, at the center of the field, bathed in the low light. You weren’t wearing your gloves, you weren’t armored or distant, you looked happy, something he had never seen. You were smiling, and barefoot, your hair lifted slightly from the breeze that blew by you–something he hadn’t felt until that moment.

Bob froze in his spot, and your name left his mouth before he even realized he was speaking. You looked up at the sound, and turned towards it. Your eyes met him at that moment, and something in his chest cracked wide open. He was shocked that you heard him, let alone looked at him.

And then-just as his feet moved forward, just as his hand twitched at his side with the desperate, gut-deep urge to reach for you…He had woken up.

Ever since that night he would pray that he would see you again in the landscape of his dreams.

And he always did.

Each time he closed his eyes, you were there–waiting for him in that glowing field, barefoot and smiling. There was no fear or sharp intake of breath when he reached for you. It was just you, and him, in a version of the world that didn’t punish either of you for wanting something tender.

During the day, he kept his distance from you. He respected the rules you had– the ones that kept everyone safe. But in his mind he was hyper aware of everything you would do. He learned your habits, the way you avoided tight corridors, how you sat far away from people during movie night, how you always wore long sleeves no matter the weather, and how you pulled away when things became crowded.

But at night, in that field of light and silence, he didn’t have to pretend, even though he knew it wasn’t really you.

He could stand beside you without seeing you run off. He could sit close to you, close enough to touch your arm, close enough to feel your breath when you spoke. Sometimes, you would laugh and throw your head back like you weren’t scared of yourself. Sometimes you would lean into him, like it was easy…Like it was allowed.

In the dream, he wasn’t broken, and you weren’t dangerous, and that was all that mattered.

Then like always, Bob would wake up and land back in a body full of restraint. In a world full of barriers. In a life where the one person he wanted, didn’t truly want him.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

Because you never looked at him the way you did in the dream. You never touched him, never lingered near him too long. You were careful with everyone–but with him, there was something more than just caution. It felt like avoidance to him, and he couldn’t figure out if it was because you felt something too, or if it was just the shape of his own delusion.

—————-

“Valentina has planned a retreat for all of us this weekend.” Bucky announced, his voice even but authoritative in the way that warned everyone that nobody was going to be getting out of this, “She says it’s for ‘team bonding,’ so there are no exceptions.”

An array of groans echoed through the common room, and everyone exchanged glances at one another. You were at the kitchen island eating cereal, picking around the marshmallows, leaving them floating in the milk. Your spoon clinked gently against the bowl as you did it, moving slowly and methodically, not looking up to the chaos that was going on around you.

Across from you, Bob sat with his own bowl–one hand wrapped loosely around the ceramic, while the other one rested on the counter beside it. It wasn’t on purpose that he sat across from you, he had just walked in–wearing a baggy hoodie and matching sweatpants–poured his cereal in a sleepy haze and plopped himself down, still rubbing the dreams of you out of his eyes.

”Well why the hell do we need to go on a retreat if we literally already live together? Isn’t doing that enough?” Walker asked loudly, half-laughing, half-serious, his tone teetering on the edge of defiance. Bucky didn’t even flinch at the question because he already knew it was coming.

”Because Val said so, and because you guys don’t know how to wait until after briefings to snap at one another.” Bucky replied, not even looking up from the papers in his hands, “Just a reminder you’re the one who almost got into a fight with Yelena because she accidentally handed you the wrong clip for your gun…So…Maybe that’ll give you another reason why they want us to go into the a cabin in the woods together.” Bucky finished, his tone flat but edged with exhaustion.

A few chuckles rippled through the room, and Ava didn’t miss a beat.

”Yeah, it’s to make it easier to hide the bodies.” She said coolly, reaching for her coffee. Yelena grinned over her mug.

”I don’t need a cabin in the woods. I’d bury Walker deep enough that nobody would ever find him.” Laughter broke out, bouncing off the walls of the compound like someone had opened a valve and let the pressure spill. They all needed it, just to take the edge off the impending doom that was the forced retreat.

You glanced up at Bob who was staring down at his bowl, picking around at the contents like he was distracted. But you saw the way his jaw tensed slightly. The way his hand hovered just a second too long before plunging the spoon back into the milk. He looked up only when the laughter swelled again, and with the most practiced casualness, shoved a spoonful of soggy marshmallows into his mouth.

You glanced down at your own bowl, watching as the marshmallows drifted aimlessly, softening at the edges, bleeding their artificial colors into the milk in soft pinks and greens and blues. They didn’t look real. Like tiny ghosts of something sweet you’d never let yourself want.

A pang stirred in your chest.

Not because of the marshmallows. Not even because of the retreat. But because this was a rare moment–an opportunity to offer him something, anything, that didn’t come off as cold or standoffish. Something that didn’t feel like a wall.

You hadn’t meant for your past interactions with Bob to be sharp. But they had been. Unintentionally. A result of instinct, of fear, of that constant need to protect others from you, and maybe to protect yourself from what you knew you couldn’t have.

You let out a soft sigh, and reached out before you could talk yourself out of it, tapping on the counter in front of him. He had flinched, almost like you had reached out and smacked him. It was the smallest jerk in his shoulder but you saw it. His eyes flicked over to yours, wide and uncertain, like maybe he didn’t believe you were actually trying to get his attention.

“Do you want these?” You whispered, nodding towards your bowl. His eyebrows drew together, confused at your offer, and at the fact you were the one speaking first, when it had always been him to do that. Bob, stumbling through conversation starters. Bob, trying to make you smile. Bob, desperately trying to pretend that he wasn’t dreaming about you every night and waking up lonelier than the day before. His blue eyes glanced down at the bowl for a moment, then raised back to yours. You could see the way he was contemplating. There wasn’t calculation behind his eyes, there was conflict, like he couldn’t tell if this was real, or if he’d finally blurred the line between the waking world and the place where he only ever touched you in dreams.

You watched his mouth part–just barely, like he wanted to say really solid yes, but instead he gave a small nod.

And then–barely audible–he whispered, “Y-Yeah…I mean…If you don’t w-want them of course.” You shook your head at him, then without a word, you slid the bowl toward him. The motion was smooth and steady, but Bob noticed everything. He saw the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way your gloved fingers were barely touching the bowl, like you thought he was going to try to touch you, even the look on your face was telling him that you thought he was going to do something.

He swallowed, sitting up a little straighter, feeling his stomach twisting, as he met you halfway and dragged the bowl away from you, pulling it close to him.

Bob was going to say something, not anything huge, just something that could keep the interaction going.

But before he could get any words out–

”Wait, wait, wait, hold on–we’re all sleeping in the same room?!” Yelena's voice cut across the kitchen like a record scratch. That sentence alone made the both of you draw your attention back to what was happening, surprised by the new information.

”It’s a small cabin,” Bucky said flatly, “One open concept floor. Living room turns into a sleeping area, so bring your own blanket.”

“Oh, this is just great,” Walker muttered, “Can’t wait to wake up to Alexei’s snoring…”

”I do not snore.” Alexei replied.

Bob tuned out of the conversation after hearing the fact that you would all be shoved into one room together to sleep. He could feel a pit of dread settling in his stomach, because he knew what that meant for you. What it would feel like to be surrounded by everyone, pressed into a shared space with no safety net, and no room for distance. He could already see the cogs turning in your head, like the weekend was a minefield and you were the innocent person dropped in the middle of it to try and navigate around the impossible.

Even worse though–he knew what it would mean for him, if he had to fall asleep knowing you were just a few feet away. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hear you breathe. Close enough that when he opened his eyes he would see you, after spending the entire night dreaming of you. It made him ill, and he didn’t know how the hell he was going to handle it when the time came.

———————

The night before the trip, everyone had gathered in the common room to sort out who was bringing what, how many bags were going to fit in the back of the van, who was on snack duty, and who was going to sit where. It had been a loud, chaotic and predictably annoying back and forth, and all you wanted to do was retreat and go to sleep, but you knew that you were going to be a subject that was going to be brought up, so it would be easier to be there.

Bob on the other hand had turned in early.

Said he wasn’t feeling great, a headache according to him. He mentioned he just needed rest.

You overheard him murmur it to Yelena when she passed him in the hallway, and she didn’t push for any information, she just gave him a nod and let him go. It was something that he was doing frequently these days, ducking out of night events to go to bed, and there was always a convenient excuse for him. It was either a headache, lack of sleep, or just not feeling good, and it got him out of everything, including this conversation.

“Okay, okay!” Bucky exclaimed, raising his voice just enough to cut through the arguing, “Even if everyone brings only one bag, we’re still going to be short on space in the van. So we need to figure out how to get everyone there safely without anything happening.” There was a pause in the chatter, the kind that signaled the shift that you were anticipating–the part where you became the logistical variable.

Nobody said your name though.

Instead, there was some fumbling. Alexei muttered something about using the roof racks to tie Walker up onto it. Ava agreed with the suggestion. And Yelena was looking at you out of the corner of her eye like she was waiting for you to offer a solution before anyone else tried to come up with one on your behalf.

”I can drive myself…I have my car,” You said, eyes glancing down at the laminated packing list in your lap, “I can just meet all of you there.” You added. There was a small shift in the atmosphere, like you had immediately taken the tension out of the room. Bucky looked up from the clipboard he was holding, his expression unreadable but focused.

“Thank you, Y/N. That helps more than you realize…But we still won’t have enough space to fit everyone comfortably, would you be able to take someone else with you?” Your eyes flicked up to him.

”Sure.” Bucky bit the inner side of his cheek, like he was contemplating who he was going to send with you. Knowing that you would have final say regardless of the suggestion he gave.

”Would you be able to take…Bob?”

For a moment, all you could think about was how Bob had looked that morning when you offered him your marshmallows. The way he hesitated, and flinched when you tapped the counter, the way his eyes lingered on your gloves.

You thought about how he didn’t look at you again after that, and it made your throat tighten slightly.

Not because you were offended…But because it hurt.

Because there was something about Bob Reynolds that made your chest ache in ways you didn’t know how to soothe. Something about his silence–gentle, tentative, never invasive–that made you feel seen even when you couldn’t be touched. And the worst part was knowing that he wanted to. Not just physically. Not just a hand on your wrist or a brush of fingers. But all of it. The closeness. The company. The conversation that didn’t come laced with protocols.

That’s why you tried to build walls around you as much as possible…Because you knew Bob would never try to scale them. He respected you too much to ignore the rules. Yet you still found yourself thinking that one day he would try to cross the line.

”That’s fine.” You said. It came out even, and controlled, but inside you were anything but.

Bucky gave you a small nod and marked it down with the click of his pen. The others went back to their tasks, but your fingers were stiff against your lap–your gloves creasing every so faintly from how tightly you were gripping the paper.

You left the room not long after, and nobody stopped you.

————-

The next morning came quickly.

Your bag was already packed, and your car was fully prepared for the ride up. You had checked yourself–the gas tank was full, the heat was working, and the backseat was empty. You even shifted the passenger seat back to accommodate Bob’s knees so he didn’t slam them into the glove compartment when he stepped in.

The sky was still a dull blue-gray when you stepped outside, and you could see your breath puffing out in front of you in soft white clouds. The compound behind you was buzzing faintly with the chaos of people double-checking their bags and fighting over seat assignment, but out here in the quietness of the early morning, it almost felt peaceful.

You stood by your car, leaning against the driver’s side door, gloved fingers curled around your thermos. You took slow sips of your coffee–not because you needed it, but because the warmth gave you something to focus on–a distraction from the impending drive. It was only going to be three hours, but you could tell it would be the longest three hours you had ever experienced.

Each passing second was a breath you didn’t want to admit you were holding. Part of you hoped Bob wouldn’t show up–that he would decide last-minute to ride in the van instead and send someone else, to spare you both the awkwardness of being locked in such a small space with nothing but music, the road, and the weight of every unspoken thing between you.

But the other part of you–the one buried deep beneath layers of self-preservation and fear–hoped he would. Hoped he would sit in your passenger seat and glance over at you, and maybe this time…He wouldn’t look away.

The front doors of the compound hissed open.

You didn’t have to look to know it was him. You felt it. The shift. That subtle pressure in your chest like gravity had tilted slightly in his direction. You turned your head just enough to catch him walking across the lot, backpack slung low over his shoulder and a tupperware container cradled in his arms. His hoodie was pulled over his head, and his coat was zipped all the way up, making him look smaller than usual despite the broadness of his shoulders.

He spotted you and slowed.

Bob always slowed when he saw you. Like he needed an extra second to brace himself.

He adjusted the container in his grip and gave a shy, uncertain wave. You lifted your thermos in return.

”Morning,” You said quietly.

”Morning,” He echoed, voice hoarse like he hadn’t spoken to anyone yet today, “I uh…I brought that banana bread that I made yesterday evening. It’s not…I mean. It’s not good, but Yelena tried it last night and didn’t die, so…” You let out a small breath, as a smirk slowly tugged up on your lips.

”Low bar, but I guess it’ll do.” That made him laugh a bit, like he was a little embarrassed, but it was something. He moved towards the passenger door, shifting from foot to foot. You reached into your pocket, clicked the fob and unlocked the doors.

”I adjusted the seat already for you,” You mentioned, opening your own door, slipping in and putting your thermos into the cup holder, while he did the same on his side, “Didn’t want you cramped the whole drive.” You added, when he was able to hear you.

”Oh…Uh…Thanks.” He said after a beat, sliding his backpack off his shoulder, before easing himself into the seat beside you, and shutting the door. The quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it settled between you like mist–thick with things that neither of you wanted to say to one another. You didn’t look at him right away. You focused on adjusting the heat, on clicking your seatbelt into place, on the scrape of your thermos as you nudged it deeper into the cup holder. Anything to keep your hands busy.

But the air had already changed.

The moment he sat down, you could feel it. The warmth of his body chased out the cold that had lingered in the space all morning. He smelled like laundry soap and something sweet–vanilla, maybe. Cinnamon. The faintest trace of sleep still clung to him, and something about that undid you a little. He had clearly just rolled out of bed, eyes still rimmed with the softness of sleep, his hair slightly mussed beneath his hood.

And worse–there was a part of you that wanted to lean closer, just to breathe him in.

Bob didn’t move much, but you could feel the tension radiating off him. His shoulders were rigid, like he was afraid to take up too much space. His hands stayed clasped around the tupperware in his lap, like he needed something to hold onto–some anchor to keep him from saying something he shouldn’t. Like, I dreamt about you again last night. Like, You touched my face and nothing happened. Like, I don’t know how to sit next to you now without wanting things I can’t ask for.

“Did you sleep well?” You asked quietly, putting the car in drive, almost like you were asking for him to tell him about what he had been dreaming about, “I heard you mention to Yelena that you weren’t feeling too well.” Bob looked over at you fast, like he hadn’t expected you to say anything to him for the drive. He was thankful that the hoodie over his head hid his flushed ears, but his face wasn’t shielded from your gaze, and you could see the way the red creeped up on his cheeks.

”Uh…Yeah. Yeah I slept well…Feeling much better.” You nodded once, lips pressing together in a way that wasn’t quite a smile, nor a frown. You didn’t believe him, not fully at least. His voice was too soft, and too careful, like he was picking his words carefully. And maybe that’s what hurt you the most–how gentle he was even when he was lying.

“Oh. Good.” You said simply, eyes fixated on the road ahead as you pressed on the gas, pulling out of the parking lot. Bob sank into the passenger seat, still tasting the ghost of your name on his tongue from the dream he’d barely left behind.

The field had been brighter last night. You laughed at something he said. The kind of laugh that made him feel like the world wasn’t so sharp anymore. Like maybe it didn’t hurt to breathe when you were near. You’d touched his face in the dream–cupped his cheek like he was breakable and safe all at once–and he’d felt it linger long after his eyes opened. He was surprised you didn’t notice how red his eyes were from crying, but then again why would you be concerned with that.

Now he sat here, beside the real you, and he couldn’t even meet your eyes for more than a second.

You glanced at him, catching the way he clutched the tupperware container like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment, the way he fiddled with the edges, the nervous twitching he always did that you couldn’t help but notice. It was one of his many tells that something was bothering him, but you didn’t push, your eyes just returned to what was in front of you.

The highway stretched ahead like a ribbon of grey silk, unraveling beneath your tires. The sun hadn’t quite risen yet, and the pale light bleeding through the windshield was casting a bluish tint over Bob’s face. You kept your eyes on the road, but you could feel his presence like heat on your skin.

“You really didn’t have to bring anything,” You murmured after a stretch of quiet, nodding toward the banana bread.

Bob looked over at you quickly, then back down at the container like it had surprised him to still be there. “I… I just thought it might be nice. For the cabin. It’s dumb, but I—uh—sometimes baking helps when I can’t sleep.”

Your grip on the wheel tightened slightly. “It’s not dumb to want to do something nice…I wasn’t saying it to be…Cold or anything. It’s just a nice thing to do.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Just for a moment. And for the first time in what felt like ages, you looked at him.

A breath passed between you. Heavy. Loaded.

But it didn’t last. Bob glanced back down at the container again and shifted in his seat. The tension in his shoulders softened marginally, and you could tell the lull of the ride was beginning to get to him. The rhythm of the road, the warmth of the heater. You caught the slow, unconscious twitch of his fingers against the plastic lid before he rested the tupperware gently on the floor by his feet and leaned his head back against the headrest.

“I think…I’m going to close my eyes for a bit,” He said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Are you alright?” You asked, concerned about the sudden change in his demeanor.

“Yeah…J-Just tired.” He murmured, his lashes fluttering once before settling. You didn’t push. You didn’t ask if he was sure. You just adjusted the heat a little higher and turned the radio down low, giving him the space he always gave you.

The car fell into a soft hush, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the distant thump of tires over uneven pavement. Bob’s breathing slowed next to you. Gradually. Unevenly at first. Then steadily.

And then it was silent.

Until.

“…Y/N.”

Your name. Whispered like a secret. Like a prayer.

It wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t quiet either. Just clear enough to freeze your hands on the wheel.

You glanced over at him, and his face was tilted toward you now, not fully, but just enough to expose the vulnerability in his features. His brows were drawn slightly together, lips parted, and the softest tremble lingered on the edge of them–like he was mid-sentence in a conversation he couldn’t have while awake.

“…M-Miss y-you.” You didn’t mean to slam on the brakes.

Technically you didn’t–but your foot did twitch hard enough on the pedal to make the car lurch slightly, just enough that your coffee sloshed in the cupholder and Bob stirred in the passenger seat with a soft grunt. But he didn’t wake–not fully. He just shifted his head slightly against the seat, curling further toward the door like he was bracing himself for something, the way someone does when they expect to wake up heartbroken.

You stared at him for a long, stunned second. Your fingers had gone numb around the wheel. You weren’t even sure you were breathing. All you knew was you had to pull over to try and regain some sense of stability before continuing, because your thoughts were derailing and spinning out of control.

You pulled off to the shoulder as smoothly as you could, but your hands were trembling too much to hide it. The car dipped slightly as it slowed to a crawl, the crunch of gravel beneath your tires filling the sudden silence now that the radio had gone quiet. You didn’t turn the engine off. You didn’t unbuckle your seatbelt. You just sat there, staring at your own reflection in the faint gleam of the windshield, breathing like someone who’d just run a marathon.

Bob shifted again beside you in his sleep, brow creasing like he was trying to hold onto something—some fragile thread of whatever dream he was caught inside. But all you could hear was your name, still echoing softly in the air between you.

Y/N.

Miss you.

Your throat tightened so hard it hurt.

Because no one missed you. Not like that.

You didn’t let them.

You couldn’t.

Not when the cost of closeness was something you couldn’t afford. One wrong brush of skin, one slip in control, one heartbeat too fast, one lapse of judgment–and everything you cared about could shatter. You had spent years learning how to exist at arm’s length, how to keep every tender instinct buried beneath gloves, sleeves, distance, and detachment. You had become an expert at denial. At convincing yourself that loneliness was better than guilt.

But Bob Reynolds–quiet, sweet, trembling Bob–was dreaming about you like you were something he had lost. Like he’d had you once. Touched you once. Held you once.

And the worst part? You believed him.

Because deep in your bones, somewhere beneath the power that was humming like electricity in your bloodstream, you felt it. That dream wasn’t just a dream. You knew what it felt like when someone’s subconscious pressed into your atmosphere–when they wanted you so badly that even your powers couldn’t keep them out. And if he’d been dreaming of you enough, if he’d carried that version of you with him night after night…There was a chance his dreams had reached into yours too.

That would explain the phantom warmth you sometimes woke up with. The laughter you’d hear in your sleep and never understand. The way your chest had started to ache when he walked into a room.

“Oh my god…” You breathed, so softly it barely counted as sound.

Your gloved hand hovered, trembling slightly, before you set it down in your lap again. You couldn’t reach out. You wouldn’t. But your heart was thudding so violently in your chest now that you could feel it behind your eyes.

You turned to look at him again.

His lashes were still down, mouth parted slightly in sleep, but the edges of his expression were laced with pain. It wasn’t rest he was getting–it was longing. A quiet, desperate kind. And if you listened carefully, you could hear the tiniest whisper leave his mouth again–like a plea caught in the middle of a storm.

“…Don’t go…Please d-don’t go.”

And your heart broke into a million pieces, because as much as you wanted to reach out to comfort him, there would be no use. It would only draw you in deeper, and somehow you would end up losing him, and that was something you couldn’t risk, something you wouldn’t risk. Bob was part of your constant whether you liked it or not, but you couldn’t be what he needed, or what he wanted, not with the powers you held, and you knew that right from the start.

You just didn’t realize how hard it would be to suppress everything and bury it, but now was just the beginning of the pain.

[sleep-0-deprived]

Hello Dimitri!

I really love your works - especially your yandere oc's and jjk content!- I was wondering if I can put in a request for a poly yandere of Geto and Gojo with a bottom male reader? I want to know how this relationship works when they were in their teens and now that their adults (Geto still choose to be a cult leader, also he does not die. My poor heart cannot handle the heartbreak of Geto dying and leaving Gojo and reader behind ). You can make it sfw or nsfw which either one you like! :)

Ps. Sorry for the long request, it is my first time requesting (0///0)

Two psychos is better than one right?~! (Yandere Geto suguru x male reader x yandere Satoru Gojo) ❀˖°

WC:. 5.7k

Tags: fluff-smut, threesome, spit roasting, poly satosugu, trio friendship, friends to enemies to lovers blowjobs, p in a sex, male on male oral, handjobs, ass eating, anal creampies, Yandere themes, dark content x male reader, dub con, non con, manipulation, drugging, Gojo just gaslighting reader

About: satoru and suguru become friends with male reader ending up in an obsession leading to Geto leaving, even after you split ways with him, he stays watching you from afar despite their separate paths they stay holding their obsession leading to trapping you.

A/N: this is a bit of a longer fic compared to others I’ve I’ve wrote, I put all my effort into this one! After some long writers block I’ve made it back around into writing again <33

Before the Riko incident you became a transfer at jujutsu high, you weren’t really strong nor weak, you were the prime balance of an average guy who just wanted to be in the middle- as long as you helped others then that was fine by you, being well known seemed overrated anyway.

You never thought you’d get between the infamous duo, they were tight knit after all, they were all any jujustu student aspired to be and after all you were just a boy looking to make it through the academy without any complications

If you would’ve known the outcome of transferring to this school you would’ve stayed far away, how did you even enter their lives? You were put on their team as a balance, you were put there to be guided and who was better to guid you than you once upper class men Satoru?

You were put on their missions, it started simple, the three of you going against curses together but you noticed very quickly that your friendship meant more to them than what met the eye. The friendship you thought of as normal or even just knowing them out of same interests turned dark far to fast.

What stool out at you the most was during a mission when you were saving a civilian from a low level curse, after a hour the fight was over and you were clean from any wounds, the man just ran up to you muffling his words between tears grabbing your hands.

“thank you—I don’t know what would’ve happened if you didn’t show up!”

The man hugged you and the next thing you knew you tilted your head and suguru was already pulling him off of you pushing the man away harshly throwing him to a wall of a near by store.

“What do you think you’re doing suguru?!”

You quickly ran forward to him pulling him away from the civilian leaving the man running off terrified, your hands reaching up to his uniform shaking him back and forth while yelling at him. All Geto seems to do is stare blankly like he didn’t care what you did in the slightest.

“He touched you [name], nobody should get up close and personal, unless it’s me or Satoru”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You two aren’t my damn keepers, we are friends Suguru- just friends!”

You look at him offended with your lips pressing in a thin line shoving him back and letting him go, walking off pushing past a confused Gojo leaving him tilting his head looking back at Geto with a ‘what did you do?’ Face.

The next few days to pass you avoided Geto like the plague, only being around Gojo when he wasn’t near Suguru.

Sitting in a café during the weekend with Gojo lifting your drink, the feeling was off and you weren’t the biggest fan of how Gojo kept staring over at you but your dad was pushing you to be more like other boys your age, that’s how you ended up calling Gojo on the water day morning after the incident with Geto.

“You don’t have to avoid him Y’know [name]?”

Gojo breaks the silent looking at you with his eyes rolled forwards under his glasses watching your every move when you take a bite of whatever pastries you made him buy you.

“He’s just so damn possesive Toru- it’s like he thinks I’m his property..it’s just weird”

Gojo just gives a shrug, of course he would. Always sticking up and vouching for Geto like he was some sort of fan boy. What did you really expect? Gojo knew Geto before you, they had an uncanny close relationship and knowing all you know now looking back on it that’s the reason Suguru didn’t mind sharing you with Satoru.

“I think you’re overreacting, he was probably just worried about you, I’m sure he did in in good intentions”

“Yeah, whatever you say Toru”

You shove down a few more bites while Gojo takes a sip of his tea, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched but you always feel that way. Gojo kept trying to bring the topic back to Geto, trying to persuade you two to make up and apologize but you were just creeped out with his actions.

“Come on? He’s our friend [name] you don’t wanna be the one to put a wedge in our trio right?”

Gojo did his best to speak sweetly to you. Trying to convince you, and if that didn’t work then he’d just whine and make you feel bad til you felt like you just had to forgive Suguru. You didn’t wanna be the reason your friend ship fell apart with them right?…

The next day was a Sunday and Gojo had practically done everything but force you to meet up with Geto. Gojo had used the fact he and Geto were on a mission looking after a girl as the perfect opportunity to finally get you three together.

You hear your phone ringing whilst you lay sprawled out in bed, it’s a Sunday morning after all, it’s the last day of your week to sleep in until next weekend.

“Hello Toru..why’re you calling me so early?..”

“I just wanted to ask if you wanted to come and hangout at the beach today? Me and Geto are gonna be watching after this girl for our mission and I really-really want you there [nicknaamee]”

You just let out a small sigh and groggily open your eyes up begrudgingly mumbling back out to Satoru when you hear his whiny voice on the other end of the phone pleading and going high pitch on the nickname he gave you”

“Fine I’ll come but don’t let him act creepy Toru”

After that day at the beach things fell right back in line, you and Suguru had made up, and Gojo was happy, after all his best friends had made up.

Then it went and happened, some assassin had killed who they were protecting- or so Satoru told you. You weren’t there the day it had happened, you were on another mission with your upperclassman Nanami. Suguru wasn’t the same after that point, he hardly talked to you or Gojo- he would just silently space out staring at you.

Then summer hit and when he had came back he wasn’t the same at all, he was cold and distant and snapped at you over the slightest things. If you spent more time with Satoru than him then he’d give you the cold shoulder until you apologized despite your lack of knowing what you did wrong.

“I just don’t understand why you’re acting like this Suguru?”

You walked along side Gojo after school one day following after Geto, your eyes were wide and your lips pressed firm.

“Hey! Where are you goin?!”

Gojo ran faster than you walking forward more when Suguru stops and turns facing Gojo, their argument starts leaving you chiming in every few seconds standing next to Satoru, by the end of their fight Suguru just turns forward to walk away.

“Suguru wait! What the hell are you doing?”

You stand in utter disbelief for what was happening right in front of you— this couldn’t be happening? Your friendship was splitting up right before you and suguru, the boy that was eerily close around you was leaving you now.

You didn’t think you were going to be that affected over the loss but it left you confused on how you felt.

The days following that incident the team had drifted apart but you and Gojo had a newfound closeness but you couldn’t shake the feeling of always being watched, it felt like all eyes were on you even when you were walking through your dorm, that must just be the paranoia that comes with being a jujustu sorcerer right?

By the time you had graduated from Jujustu high, Gojo was already number one, you were happy for him of course as any friend would be. Eventually by the ripe age of twenty you take up a teaching job at jujustu high after a long time of Satoru pestering you to take the job with him.

“If I take the job will you just shut up Toru?”

“Of course I will! I promise [nickname]”

You eventually get tasked over the same team as Gojo, which you found strange. Not that Gojo didn’t totally pull strings to make them place you two together. The teams you were mentoring were names Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi, the boy that Gojo had been watching after ever since he fought with his father- you think he’s the son of that assassin that killed Riko.

The Jujustu world became hectic, not that it was new but it became crazier than usual especially after finding out that Yuji boy had ate one of the king of curses fingers— how was he even alive after that?

Over the years of being a Jujustu sorcerer you had seen and dealt with many things and you couldn’t deny you never thought you’d see Suguru again, not after what he did to his parents- you had just assumed he was gone for good. For some odd reason Gojo never seemed too concerned it felt as though he knew something you never did.

You remember earlier in the day hearing Satoru asking you to take the subway with him later after classes had ended, something about this new place he wanted to take you too and knowing Gojo and his Expensive tastes you had just expected another luxury restaurant so imagine the confusion on your face when you see a old Japanese style parlor.

You walk right in behind Gojo, following confused seeing the dark colored interior and dim lights, non sorcerers walking out of the place wearing matching robes.

“What is this place Toru?”

“It’s just a parlor ran by an old friend”

The way he hummed those words with a smirk made you feel uneasy, this place felt cultic, the purple walls and candles lit around the halls leading towards a pair of Japanese styled double doors, Satoru opens them ushering you inside. Your senses feel different in this room, it smells sweet and all you can do is feel fuzzy inside, were you being laced?

When you come to again you open your eyes half way seeing two figures hovering above you. Softness is all you can seem to feel right now, you’re laying on something soft, maybe a pillow? It’s fluffy and all you wanna do is close your eyes and succumb again, your body is weak and you only muster up enough strength to open your eyes when you feel a hand undoing your pants.

Your eyes roll around a little in their sockets before focusing in on the two figures, they look like yin and yang- one has white hair, it’s Gojo…is that—

“Suguru?”

His name sounds pathetic when you slur your words looking up at him letting out a little whine seeing his robes, where has he been and why was he dressed like a messiah. What was happening? All those thoughts are postponed when you feel hands pulling your cock out of your boxers.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you [name], god you know how hard it is to not be able to touch you? To not hear my name from your mouth? It’s torture sweetheart”

“Awe suguru! You told me the cameras I put in his apartment were close enough?”

Satoru and Geto conversation while kneeling before your body, one of them on either side of you with Suguru’s hand on your cock playing with the soft flesh and teasing it. Your body felt too many things to let your mind properly think.

“You’re alive?”

Those words come out shakily with your body shuddering feeling the warm palm of his hand under the base of your cock pulling a few strokes while Satoru leans down more sliding your shirt up your body, lifting your arms up and discarding it while you lay on your back in the parlor. Your eyes seeing candles lit around the room next to a picture of Geto— this was a cult.

“Of course I’m alive? Why wouldn’t i be [name]?…you know me and Satoru will never leave you”

“Look at him Suguru, he’s so loopy, I told you that gas was too strong~”

Your cock pulses in his hand with your nipples erect from the cool air, your body heating up and your cock starting to leak precum.

“What’re you two doing?”

The words fall weakly while you lay on the pillows with your eyes circling in on Geto the whole time he touches your cock, your eyes rolling over to Gojo when he coos words to you talking you through it while your hands tremble pulling at the pillows.

“What we’ve wanted to do since day one [name]”

Suguru hums, leaning in more stroking your cock a little faster and moving his way between your thighs before craning his neck backwards whispering out something to Gojo. Gojo groans and pouts, taking his hands off your body and getting up walking off and out of the room leaving you and Suguru alone.

When Gojo comes back he’s holding a bottle of strawberry flavored Lube, Geto let’s go of your now hard cock and turns you over on your stomach, Gojo tossing Suguru the lube while he squirts the lube all up and down your crack, sitting the lube aside and squishing your cheeks together over and over making the lube smear around in between your cheeks.

“All I can think about is how you’ll taste, I hope Satoru don’t get mad I eat you up first”

Geto leans down kissing your arch and holding your hips sliding them down to your ass cheeks and slowly pulling them apart while grinning up at Gojo, watching the white haired man undoing his slacks and pulling out his cock, Gojo slaps his tip to your lips still soft.

“Toru please-“

“C’mon, suck it hard f’me?”

Before you can respond Geto has his faced buried between your cheeks eating you out like your his last meal, his tongue sliding up and down your crack and back down to your rim.

When your lips part to gasp, Gojo takes that as his chance to shove his cock down your throat making your lips wrap around him gagging and tearing up laying on your stomach with Satoru’s hand reaching down to grab a handful of your locks making you tilt your head back and look up at him.

“How’s it taste [name]?”

You can’t seem to muster a word, feeling Geto’s tongue going flat against your rim and pressing its way inside you while he reaches one hand under you to grab back ahold of your cock, Suguru starts stroking you in time with his tongue while aiming your cock down towards the pillows in jerking motions like he was milking you.

Gojo and Geto share gleaming looks, they were on cloud nine finally getting the intimacy from you they had longed after for years. Gojo thrusts his hips forward slowly making your cheeks bulge with every motion, his cock now fully hardened in your mouth hitting the back of your throat making vibrations around his base when you wail out.

“Poor baby is all delirious isn’t he Satoru?”

Geto smile against your flesh, pressing sloppy wet kisses to your rim rolling his own eyes back at the taste of strawberry and you on his tongue leaving a satisfaction in his stomach with his cock hard under his robes being pressed to his hip.

Gojo keeps stroking your hair before starting to lift your head by your hair and bob your mouth up and down on his cock making you deep throat him to the point your face was buried in his white pubes.

“Sugu—tworu ple~”

Your words come out choppy around his cock. You speak with your mouth full feeling your throat hurting and the hot tears in your eyes streaming down your cheeks being used by the two men unable to put up a fight due to the drugs in your system keeping you weak between the men.

The feeling of Geto’s tongue swirling around your insides makes your head go fuzzy again, you just wanna close your eyes but you can’t because yours are locked on Gojo’s bright blue ones, have they always been as blue as they are now? The look of pleasure on his faces makes knots build in your stomach knowing you’re the cause for his half closed eyes.

“Oh you’re so close aren’t you? Don’t even gotta answer I can tell [name]”

Geto can tell by the way your rim greedily puckers around his tongue and the amounts of precum oozing from your tip that you’re on the verge of your orgasm. His hand keeps working you between your thighs leaving your legs trembling laying on your stomach when a wave of heat floods your whole body making you moan around Gojo’s cock.

Your tip starts to swell angrily under Geto’s thumb, when his tongue laps your prostate it pushes you past your breaking point making you lose it, cumming all over the pillows, staining the purple fabrics with an off white stain making Gojo look down at you with his signature smirk.

“Mhmf— he’s a fuckin squirter Satoru”

“Suguru you should just feel how he’s gagging on me right now-“

They talk about you like you aren’t there, using you for their own pleasures you feel Geto pulling his face from your cheeks with one last lick pulling his tongue out of you leaving your s/c ass all sticky from a mix of spit and lube.

Geto starts lifting up his robes pulling them up over his head throwing them to the side with a smile, wearing black boxer briefs with a prominent bulge inside them with a dark patch of black hair trailing down his abdomen giving Satoru little to the imagination.

Suguru slides his fingers under his boxer waist band pulling them down his thighs allowing his cock to spring forward and press to his stomach.

“I would ask if you’re ready [name] but you probably shouldn’t speak with your mouth full~”

His voice is cold and mocking not giving a damn about Satoru face fucking you like a fleshlight. Suguru pulls your slick cheeks apart again thrusting his cock up and down your crack getting himself lubed up with the mixed substances.

Gojo reached his thumb down tracing over your full cheeks, watching how your throat bulges more and more the deeper he pushes himself inside your mouth fucking your eyes to reverse watching how they looked away from him and into the back of your head with a teary face that could arouse any man.

“I need-air tworu~”

Your drool running down your chin with your cock half limp between your thighs from how Geto jerked you off leaving you already feeling empty. Suguru reaches his hands up and grips your hips tightly nudging his cockhead against your rim watching while it stretches wide in a sad attempt to fit him, his cock feels like it’s tearing you in half.

“Fuck!~ hurts Suguru—“

You gasp when Satoru pulls his cock from your mouth leaving you fishing the purple pillows clenching up around Geto while he lazily pushes in, he doesn’t pay mind to it hurting you, he rubs small circles on your hips before bottoming himself all the way inside you with your rim leaving a little blood in with the lube from being stretched so much you tore.

“Shh, now you know you can take it can’t you [nickname]”

Gojo drops your head letting it fall forward with your teary face in the purple pillows, your lips all swollen and your throat feeling like razors doing nothing but keeping you from screaming anymore. Your voice is weak and all you can do is hold the pillows and let out little squeals around Suguru.

“Suguru- pleasee—“

You get shut up again by Satoru’s cock, he doesn’t tap his tip to your lips like last time, he forced his whole cock back down your drool filled throat making a slobbery mess running down your face while you reach one hand back trying to push Suguru’s hands off your hips.

“Don’t even try it [name] you know better, god you’re still as feisty as the last time I seen you”

Suguru reached one hand forward holding both your wrists tightly leaving promising red marks while he slowly thrusts his hips forward pushing your face more into Satoru’s groin when Suguru starts to fuck you from behind holding you and binding you with his hands keeping you all defenseless but at this point with the way his cock is sliding against your inner walls you can’t even properly think.

“There you go [nickname] you’re so good at this aren’t you? I think he was made for two cocks Suguru”

Gojo’s blindfold hanging around his neck with his large hand around the back of your head holding it in place while he rocks his hips forward making his veins start prodding against the roof of your mouth more showing you he was close.

“Hmfh!~ Toruu”

You whine wanting to reach your hand down and start touching your cock, you needed to come so bad but you couldn’t do anything but depend on them to make sure you got off. Suguru’s cock pressed against your prostate milking your insides with his base stretching your channel to fit his cock like he was trying to mold you.

“Does our boy wanna come that bad?”

Geto asks you with a fake confused tone fucking you a little harder holding your hands behind your back with one hand using the other to reach down and lift your left thigh up forcing his cock inside you at a deeper angle making you feel every vein and curve to his cock.

“Mh hmm-!”

You’re so far gone you can’t bother to care about every messed up thing these men are doing to you, all your mind can process is ‘needa come’ your back arches and you start trying to bob your head under Satoru’s hand trying to earn good graces from him when you look up at him with your wide eyes batting your lashes back and forth like a doll.

“Oh what’s this? I think he’s starting to be a good boy Satoru, you think we should let him come?”

Suguru asks Satoru with a smug smile holding your thigh tight fucking your insides raw with your rim all puffy and wrapped around his cock split open wide now accepting him with ease with the room in the parlor filling up with lewd squelches from the mix of lube and his spit making wet sounds when his hips hit your ass cheeks.

Plap-plap-plap, the sounds silently echo throughout the room while you just stare up at Gojo with a full mouth before feeling his load shoot down your throat spilling all over the back of your throat and running down the roof of your mouth leaving the pungent taste on your lips.

“I think we should let him come Suguru- he’s been actin nice hasn’t he?”

“I think you’re right Toru~ good boys deserve rewards after all”

Geto let’s your arms go reaching back down between your thighs starting to jerk your cock like he did before, fucking you rougher with his chubby cock head pulsing and twitching on your prostate putting a strong pressure in your stomach threatening to break over at any moment.

Satoru’s cock slips out of your mouth letting you finally breath and gasp for air while Gojo stares down at your face stroking his soft cock hard again and aiming it at your fucked out face watching you get pounded from behind by Geto.

“Close- just a little more- suguru pleasee~!”

You start letting out whiny moans and sounds you never new your voice could make when his thumb runs right across your slit, staring up at Gojo the whole time with your teary face ruined and covered in tears and drool with your hair messy from Gojo’s pulling. Geto keeps going bucking his hips forward harshly rutting himself into you going deep as he can pressing his balls to your backside feeling your rim spasming ready to orgasm around him.

When Suguru flicks his wrist holding the base of your cock it sends you over the edge arching your back under him clenching around his cock and holding onto the purple fabric beneath you, orgasming so hard your ears start ringing making everything in the room feel surreal when you come in Geto’s hand.

“There he goes Suguru- oh that’s such a beautiful face you’re making [nickname]”

Your come floods over Suguru’s thumb and spilling onto the pillows under you making you wail and cry at the nearly dry orgasm being pulled from your cock having you stiffening up under the two men with your nose scrunched in a over stimulated pleasure.

“I’m getting close [name], gonna flood these insides”

When Gojo hears those words he starts stroking his cock faster at your face watching his two best fiends fucking eachother with you laying all out of it and fuzzy from the drugs having you limp under Geto when he lets your thigh down to mount you more fucking your motionless body making you feel how his cock nudged you on its own before his flood gates break.

“O-oh hng~ suguru-“

The words come out high pitched and louder than the last when his come floods your anal cavity, the warmth surrounds your prostate in a hot sensation leaving you feeling all bloated and full from his seed, your hole instinctively starts to clench and unclench around him milking the rest of his load out of him while Gojo lets out a groan watching the whole scene play out before him.

“Here it comes [nickname]”

Those words were the only warning that Gojo gave you before his orgasm shoots across your face all over your nose and lips running down your chin, mixing in with your spit and tears leaving you completely ruined from the two men, with two loads in your tummy and another on your face leaving you spent.

“I can’t take no more Toru~ Suguru I can’t-“

“But you gotta [nickname] ! I haven’t even got to feel your hole yet~”

Gojo lets out a whine while Geto lets go of your cock and pulls out of your ass, using his thumb to push any come that oozes from your hole back inside you while he rotates with Gojo letting Satoru get right behind you swapping places, god! At this rate it was gonna be a real long night.

“Toru- I can’t take it”

You droop your head down feeling his hands flipping you over back into your back on the pillows feeling your come stained pillow fabric pressed to your skin making you cringe, Satoru lifts up one of your legs placing it up on his shoulder nudging your sore rim with his cock while Suguru adjusts himself now facing at your head pressing his cock against your come stained lips.

“Don’t lie, we know you can take it [nickname], you were made to take it baby”

“He’s right baby, we know you can handle it”

They don’t take your weak response as an answer, Gojo slowly pushes his cock into your already stretched hole, sliding in easily from Geto’s come and lube. Your chest aiming up at the air arching splayed on your back with your cock red and soft unable to harden from being milked to many times by the men.

Suguru pushes his cock pash your lips delving it into your wet cavern. Your throat bulges again from your now full mouth, your whole body aches and hurts but all you can do is lay still and take it. Gojo gives you no time to rest before he lifts your other leg up in the air holding you in a mating press while jackhammering into you.

“Fuck Suguru, you’re right his hole feels so fucking good”

Geto hums in response shuddering a little when your canines graze over a sensitive vein on the underside of his cock making him reach his hand down choking your throat a little bit as a warning making your fission blur from the lack of oxygen and the way Gojo was fucking you, reaching more spots than Suguru if that was even possible.

“Ah- careful with your teeth baby, don’t chew on it. Suck it”

Your thighs start trembling pressed to your chest with Gojo dipping his face down and burying his face into your pecks like a madman, taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking on it. His hips roll forwards lifting and reaching down to pull your hips, pulling you back onto his cock with your moans being gagged by Suguru’s cock.

“T’muush~ too stuffed Suguru~”

You roll your eyes back into your head looking up at Geto above you with your nose pressed to his balls from the angle he was fucking your mouth at leaving Satoru’s cum all smeared across your face like a sticky mess. Your cock half limp and tender against your inner thigh while it rests on your stomach leaking a little puddle.

“You sucked Satoru off fine, I think you can handle me too [name], now don’t start acting defiant again on us”

The way Geto spoke to you made you whine sadly unable to fight either of them, the drug still in your system and the way they were trying to consume your body whole left you mute sucking on his cock while Gojo pressed his chest up against yours making your toes curl up when he thrusts forward and nails your sweet spot head on.

“Don’t be so mean to him Suguru, he’s just about used up S’ all”

Satoru coos out to Suguru while he makes the pillows dip under the shared weight of him on top of you, Geto’s come swirling around your insides and trickling down your thighs around the base of Gojo’s cock while Gojo bites down on your nipple again only pulling his mouth off of your flesh to speak.

“I’m getting close [name], do’ you want it down your throat or face?”

Geto asks looking down at you feeling his balls drawing up against your cheek signaling he was close to his peak. Gojo on the other hand didn’t care about Suguru’s orgasm, he was too busy trying to chase his own inside your stomach. Your rim starts burning and stinging from being used and gaping around a cock for so long leaving you in painful pleasure.

“On m’ face~”

You whimper out quietly just not wanting to have to taste another load or feel more come inside your stomach. Reaching one hand down whining when you start to touch your cock, it felt like touching a stiff rod, your hand slowly moved up and down it crying to have to pull another orgasm but you needed to come so bad.

“You can’t do that [nickname] you gotta come from me or Suguru, so no touchin yourself”

Before you can respond or complain Satoru has his free hand slipping off your hip and down onto your cock, quickly swatting your hand away from it. His strokes aren’t gentle like yours were, his are fast and unorganized like his thrusts are. Gojo takes his mouth off your nipple and shoves his face in your neck while Suguru keeps fucking your mouth, his thrusts slow down pulling out of your mouth with his cock jumping on its own.

“There we go [name] see what you do to us?”

Your ass feels sore and red from hips slapping against them over and over but before you can complain a hot load shoots all over your face spilling into your eyelashes and into your mouth making you taste his come, he tasted sweeter than Gojo, his semen more thick and less opaque than Satoru’s.

“I’m getting close Sa-Toruu~”

Your voice cracks from a sore face fucked throat, your lips are all sticky and cracked in the corners from opening your mouth too wide, your lips part and ho agape making an ‘O’ shape when Gojo bites at the crook of your neck licking over the red marks he’s leaving on your S/c skin.

Your abdomen starts feeling hotter and more tense making you sweat underneath Satoru when his cock teases your insides making your legs feel like jello up in the air with your knees bent over his shoulders. By the way Gojo was tensing up and the muscles of his shoulders stiffened beneath your finger nails you could tell he was about to come.

“Me too- you’re just milking it out of me [nickname]”

His hand works harder and faster against your cock making you groan starting to orgasm shaking and crying with hardly any semen able to spill from you. Your tip starts leaking barely any pre come, you begin orgasming dry making Geto smile above you happy to know they had milked your body dry, Suguru reaches his hand down stroking your cheek while Gojo plows you between your thighs making the room spin through your eyes.

Soon the feeling of warmth in your gut hits you again letting you know Satoru had just found his release inside you, his semen seeping out of you overflowing your hole leaving the thin strings of his come running down your thighs and staining the pillows beneath the two of you.

“Toruu.. I’m soo sore-“

You whisper out under him reaching one hand up to his neck and grabbing his hair with your other hand still on his shoulder. Rolling your eyes forwards looking up at Suguru with your insides flooded and your face ruined- god you can’t handle these two insane men- They’re something else!

[eclipixels]

Blue lock boys with a bratty gf who will pout and sulk and cry when she doesn’t get what she wants please?

Want it? Got it.

Character: Yoichi Isagi, Meguru Bachira, Hyoma Chigiri, Rin Itoshi, Seishiro Nagi, Reo Mikage, Rensuke Kunigami, Kenyu Yukimiya, Sae Itoshi, Ryusei Shidou, Michael Kaiser

Yoichi Isagi

      It started with a bear.

      Not a real one, of course, but a plush, wide-eyed, ridiculously overpriced stuffed bear at the back of an arcade prize shelf. The kind of thing that probably cost 100 yen to make and 10,000 yen to win. You'd pointed to it with a hopeful grin, practically glowing under the flashing lights, and asked sweetly:

      “Can we get it?”

      He hesitated. Hesitated. And that was where it all began to go downhill.

      "I mean... it's cute, but don’t you think it's kind of expensive?" he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “And we’ve already spent so much on tokens, maybe we can find another one somewhere else?”

      Your smile faltered. Your eyes began to glisten. You turned away with a soft sniffle, lower lip trembling just slightly, like a dramatic reenactment of heartbreak in a shoujo anime.

      And that’s when it hit him.

      Initial reaction: Confused. Panicking. Internally screaming.

      “W-Wait! Why are you crying?! Was it something I did???”

      He practically lunged toward you, eyes wide with alarm, flailing like a man caught in the middle of an emotional hurricane.

      "I didn’t mean to upset you, I swear! Was it the bear? Is it me?? Did I say something wrong??" His words came out in a frantic rush, every syllable laced with genuine concern.

      You sniffled again, louder this time. Dramatically. Weaponized. Your gaze lifted to meet his, watery and wounded, and that was it.

      He was done for.

      He tried to reason with you. He really did.

      “I mean, it's not that special, right? It probably won’t even match your room, and it's super overpriced, and—”

      Your bottom lip wobbled. “You’re literally earning millions from Blue Lock.”

      “Okay okay okay!” he folded faster than cheap origami. “We’ll go back for it, just just stop crying, please!”

      You blinked up at him, wide-eyed and innocent, and nodded slowly as if forgiving him for the great injustice. He immediately turned on his heel and speed-walked back to the counter like a man on a mission.

      Five minutes later, you were holding the overpriced bear in your arms, beaming.

      He stood beside you, wallet significantly lighter, heart slightly battered, but your smile? Worth every yen.

      “…You’re evil,” he mumbled, eyeing the bear. “I hope you know that.”

      You leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Love you too.”

      And despite everything, he smiled.

Meguru Bachira

      Bachira leaned against the doorway, a smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you from across the room. You were perched on the couch, arms crossed, lips stuck in a stubborn pout. The atmosphere was heavy with your silent, exaggerated sulk.

      He couldn't help it. The bratty attitude was like a magnet to him. It was his favorite thing.

      "Ooooh~ the princess is sulking again!" he chimed, his voice dripping with playful amusement. "What happened this time? No strawberry milk?" His words were almost a melody of teasing, each one drawing out your reaction like a perfectly executed play.

      You shot him a sideways glance, your pout deepening as if you were silently telling him, don't push it, Bachira. But he was always ready to push it.

      Bachira’s eyes sparkled with amusement, and he leaned in, mimicking your pout with such exaggerated effort that it made you want to laugh despite yourself.

      “I don’t think this is the right pout,” he said, making an even more over-the-top face. “Here, let me show you how it's really done!” He made a ridiculous whining noise, his voice high-pitched as he stuck out his lip.

      “Stop it,” you huffed, trying to hide the small giggle that wanted to escape.

      “Poor little princess… no strawberry milk… woe is me!” He spun around, his arms flailing in a way that had you shaking your head and letting out a soft snort.

      But it wasn’t enough. It never was. Not for you, at least. You had something else in mind.

      You let your bottom lip tremble, the pitiful whimper that you knew would do the trick bubbling in your chest. Your eyes watered just a little, enough for the act to feel genuine. You bit your lip, holding back a sob that threatened to escape. “Bachira… I really wanted it…”

      Bachira froze. The playful spark in his eyes dimmed as his gaze softened, and within moments, he was on the couch beside you, pulling you into his arms before you could even process what was happening.

      “Hey, hey, no need for the tears,” he murmured, rubbing your back soothingly as he cradled you against his chest. His voice was warm, comforting, and with every soft stroke of his hand, the weight of the playful teasing vanished, replaced by an overwhelming gentleness.

      “You know you’re cute when you pout…” he said softly, his thumb brushing away the single tear that escaped down your cheek. “But you're even cuter when I give you what you want, huh?”

      Your eyes met his, and his expression was full of affection, despite the playful teasing earlier. “Fine,” he sighed dramatically. “You win. You’re getting your strawberry milk… just this once, though!”

      You sniffled, still trying to keep the pout on your face, but the warmth of his embrace, the way he held you so carefully, made it impossible to stay upset for long.

      “I’m serious, though,” Bachira continued, his grin returning, though softer this time. “You don’t have to cry for me to do what you want, you know? I’ll always give you whatever you need… just ask, and I’m yours.”

      You chuckled softly, resting your head on his shoulder, the bratty attitude slipping away as you melted into his arms. “I know. But it’s fun to make you work for it.”

      He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he murmured. “But I think I might be addicted to this game of yours.”

Hyoma Chigiri

      You cross your arms, lips pouting, as you stare up at Chigiri. His calm demeanor never seems to falter, even when you're throwing your little tantrum. But this time... this time you really wanted him to say yes.

      "I don't see why you can't just come with me, Hyoma," you whine, trying to hide the frustration in your voice. "You know it’ll be fun! I don’t want to go alone."

      He’s still quiet, not giving you an inch. You can see him thinking, his usual calm and collected expression not revealing much. You know he’s not one to cave in easily, but that’s part of the challenge, right?

      You roll your eyes, crossing your arms tighter. "You're always so busy with your soccer stuff. Can't you just take a break for once?"

      His eyes flicker, and you catch the slightest hint of concern. He knows how much this means to you, but there’s a stubbornness in him too.

      "I promised to focus on training today," he says, his tone gentle but firm.

      You feel the pout deepen, and your bottom lip juts out further. You can feel the familiar urge to sulk creeping up. Without thinking, you turn away from him, arms still crossed, and let out an exaggerated sigh.

      "Fine," you mutter, trying to make your voice sound even more dramatic, "I guess I'll just go by myself then."

      Chigiri doesn’t respond right away. His eyes follow you as you move away from him, but he doesn't say anything for a long moment. You're just about to leave the room when you hear his footsteps behind you.

      He grabs your wrist, stopping you. "Hey," he starts softly, his voice almost apologetic, "Don’t be like that."

      You turn back slowly, feigning disinterest, but your eyes betray you. They’re wide, slightly teary, and a little too sparkly. The classic look of a girl who knows she’s about to get what she wants.

      His expression softens, and you watch as he lets out a small sigh. "Alright, alright. I'll come with you," he finally admits, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a reluctant smile.

      You can’t help but smirk, giving him a look of triumph. “Yay!,” you say, practically gleaming.

      Chigiri rubs the back of his neck, trying to act like it wasn't a huge deal. "I just don't get why you can't go by yourself..."

      "Because I wanted you there," you reply simply, stepping closer to him with a satisfied smile. You give him a playful nudge, just to remind him who’s in charge here.

      He gives you a look, like he's trying not to be completely charmed by you, and you can see the faintest blush creeping onto his cheeks. Even though you got your way, there's something about Chigiri that makes you want to tease him just a little longer.

      "So difficult," he mutters, but there's no real anger in his voice.

      You beam up at him, feeling completely satisfied now that he’s given in. "I know, but you love me anyway."

Rin Itoshi

      You cross your arms and pout, lips jutting out in that way that always makes his patience wear thin. “Rin…” you murmur, voice soft but dripping with that petulant edge.

      He raises an eyebrow, giving you a blank stare, already bracing for the storm. “Are you seriously crying because I said no to sushi tonight?” he asks, voice flat and dismissive.

      But the moment you avert your gaze and let out that exaggerated sniffle, a small sob escaping your lips as you try to hold it together… Rin feels that familiar twitch in his jaw. His hands flex at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for you, even as his mind screams for him to stay calm, to stay firm. But damn it, you’re good at this.

      “Y/N…” he mutters, more to himself than you. His tone is a mix of frustration and reluctant concern, but he doesn’t want to admit it. “You’re really gonna cry over sushi?”

      You just sniffle harder, the act so perfectly rehearsed that it almost makes him want to laugh at how ridiculous it is. But the hurt in your eyes when you look away hits him like a freight train.

      He can’t win, not when you’re looking like that. “Tch. Fine. Get in the car,” he snaps, turning on his heel with the grace of someone who clearly knows he’s about to fold. His voice is clipped, like he’s trying to be irritated, but you know better.

      You’re already pulling on your shoes before he’s finished speaking.

      And as he drives you to the sushi place, he’s stewing in silence, a mix of annoyance and something more dangerous swirling in his chest. You’d gotten him to cave faster than he liked. Again.

      He glances over at you, and you’re sitting there all smug in the passenger seat, quietly triumphant. It bugs him. But he won’t admit it.

      Not out loud anyway.

Seishiro Nagi

      You cross your arms and scowl, lying dramatically on the couch, your face scrunched up in a perfect pout. Seishiro Nagi looks so good at ignoring you when you're like this. Too good, and it’s starting to annoy you even more.

      You huff, making your pout even deeper, refusing to look at him. It's like he's not even trying to make this right. You can practically feel the tension building up, but he doesn’t budge. No apologies. No attention. Nothing.

      “Ughhhh, you’re being annoying again,” he says, his voice not even holding a hint of frustration, just a calm, almost bored tone as he lazily sprawls across the couch. His fingers swipe through his phone as if you're not even there.

      You roll your eyes, pretending to look away, but your lip trembles just enough to get his attention.

      After a few minutes, you hear him sigh, followed by the sound of his phone being set down. “Fine. What do you want? Let’s go.”

      Your heart skips a beat. He’s giving in. You shoot him a quick look from beneath your lashes, just to make sure he’s serious.

      He’s leaning against the armrest now, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in defeat. He’s so lazy that even this little act of giving you what you want seems like the biggest effort of the day. It’s kind of adorable in a way, but you won’t let that stop you.

      “Can we go to gamestop,” you murmur, finally relaxing a bit, even though you're still holding that hint of a pout. He’s just too easy sometimes, and you know it. But, deep down, you both know that after a little tantrum, there’s going to be some serious cuddling.

      Seishiro looks at you, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re such a brat, you know that?”

      You nod and step on your tippy-toes to give him a quick peck. Yeah, you got what you wanted. But you kind of enjoy the aftermath, too, his lazy, relaxed attention, his way of caving in just because you’re being so much to handle. It’s a little game, and you play it well.

Reo Mikage

      You’re sitting on the couch, staring at your phone with a frown that deepens with every refresh of the page. That dress you’ve been eyeing for days is sold out. You knew it would happen, but that doesn’t stop the disappointment from sinking in. You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears, but it’s useless.

      The door opens, and Reo steps in, his sharp gaze immediately landing on you. “Hey, baby,” he says, voice gentle, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. He takes one look at your face and sighs. “What happened?”

      You blink up at him, and then the tears start to spill over. “It’s nothing…” You sniff, wiping your face with the back of your hand, but your voice cracks. It’s the dress, of course. It’s always the little things, the ones that feel the most trivial, that hurt the most.

      Reo walks over, kneeling in front of you with a playful glint in his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, his voice lowering into something softer, more coaxing. “What do you want? A new bag? That perfume you liked? You name it. You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, you know that, right?”

      You shake your head, your pout deepening. “No… it’s not that…”

      He smiles, like he’s barely containing his amusement, and you catch that mischievous sparkle in his eyes. He knows exactly what’s going on. He’s always so aware of you, of every little thing that gets under your skin. It’s like a game to him, how far can he push you before you crack? How long will you sulk before you ask him to fix it? And the best part? He enjoys every minute of it.

      With an exaggerated sigh, Reo pulls out his wallet, the motion so smooth it’s almost theatrical. He waves it in front of your face. “I’m not sure you’re getting the point, sweetheart. But if you want it, you only have to say the word.”

      You meet his gaze, the slight smirk on his lips making your heart race in a way you don’t want to admit. You’re being bratty, and he’s loving every second of it. Your arms cross over your chest, and you can feel the tension in your shoulders.

      His teasing tone cuts through the silence. “What, you’re not going to make me beg? You know, I’ll just spoil you rotten to make up for this little pout, baby.”

      You finally crack, letting out a small sigh of surrender. “I just wanted the dress…”

      Reo leans in, brushing your hair away from your face with a soft touch. “Done. It’s yours.” He says it so easily, so casually, like there was never any doubt.

      You sniffle, wiping your eyes and looking up at him. “Really? How? It was sold out?”

      He grins, his voice playful. “I know the designer. I’ll do anything to see you happy, princess. And I’m sure I’ll enjoy spoiling you even more after this.”

      You lean into him, still pouting, but your heart feels lighter. Reo may tease you, but you know he’ll always give in. Encourages your brattiness because it gives him the excuse to pamper you like royalty. After all, you’re his spoiled princess, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Rensuke Kunigami

      You sit there with your arms crossed, staring at the soda can in front of you, clearly upset. Kunigami stands beside you, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, trying his best to hold his ground.

      “You really gonna act like this over a soda?” he asks, his voice tinged with disbelief. “It’s just a drink, Y/n.”

      But you don't respond. Instead, you puff out your cheeks, trying to look as dramatic as possible. You just turn your head, letting out a small, exaggerated sniffle. His eyes widen slightly.

      "Y/n…" he starts, but trails off as you shift your gaze toward the floor. His eyes flicker between you and the can of soda. "Come on, you're being unreasonable. It's not even a big deal."

      But you just let out another sniffle, tears threatening to spill from the corners of your eyes. You watch his expression change from frustration to confusion, and then, the realization sets in: he’s struggling. He sighs deeply, his shoulders slumping a little as if the weight of the situation is too much to bear.

      You catch his eye, and his lips twitch. He's trying to stay stern, but his resolve is quickly crumbling. He’s so soft when it comes to you.

      “Okay, okay, fine…” he mutters, shifting uncomfortably. He leans down to meet your eyes, holding the soda you wanted, but his voice is gentle now. “Just… please don’t cry, alright? I can’t stand it when you do that.”

      A small, triumphant smile pulls at the corners of your lips. You sit up a little straighter, but the pout never quite leaves your face.

      Kunigami lets out a defeated sigh, his shoulders relaxing as he hands you the soda. “Here. Just don’t cry, okay? You’re spoiled, you know that?” he mutters under his breath.

      But even as he says it, you can see the soft, adoring look in his eyes. You know he's fully aware he’s the one spoiling you. And yet, he can’t help himself. As much as he tries to lecture you, it only takes a few sniffles for him to cave.

      You take the soda with a smile, but it’s hard to suppress the small giggle that escapes you. He’s so easy, it’s almost unfair.

Kenyu Yukimiya

      You cross your arms and plop down on the couch with a dramatic huff. You don’t even try to hide the exaggerated pout on your lips, why should you? You asked him to cancel practice for one day. Just one day. And what did he say?

      "I can’t skip. I made a commitment."

      Boring. Responsible. Stupidly mature.

      So now, you’re sulking. Loudly. Visibly. With little sniffles thrown in for good measure.

      “I can’t believe you love soccer more than me,” you mumble into your sleeve, voice trembling just enough to sound convincingly heartbroken. You hear his quiet sigh as he takes off his jacket and walks over.

      “I don’t love soccer more than you,” he says, tone calm but clearly bracing himself for your dramatics. “I just have goals I’m working for.”

      You whip your head toward him like you’ve been mortally wounded. “I’m a goal worth working for!”

      He chuckles, and that only fuels the fire. Now your lip trembles for real, though it’s half from frustration and half from how dare he still look this good when you’re in crisis mode. Your eyes gloss over with tears and you sniff loudly, flopping onto your back with a soft wail.

      “Kenyu, I’m suffering! This is emotional neglect!”

      He finally leans over you, his hand brushing the hair off your forehead, the softest damn look in his eyes. Ugh. He’s impossible to stay mad at.

      “I’ll bring you strawberry mochi after practice,” he offers, kissing your forehead.

      You scowl up at him, not accepting the peace treaty just yet. “...Two mochis. And I get to pick the movie tonight. And I get your hoodie.”

      He nods like he expected all of this. “Deal.”

      You turn your head away with a small hmph, but you scoot closer to him anyway, burying your face in his shirt with a sniff that’s more smug than sad now.

      “Love you,” you mumble into his chest, voice muffled.

      He kisses the top of your head, arms wrapping around you. “I know. Even when you’re the absolute brattiest.”

Sae Itoshi

      You cross your arms, lips pushed out in a dramatic pout as you stare out the window of Sae’s car, radiating maximum levels of brat energy. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, clearly not amused.

      "God, you’re such a child," he mutters, rolling his eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t get stuck.

      You let out a small, wounded sniffle. You clearly said you wanted that stupid, overpriced plushie at the shop earlier, and he was the one who brushed you off with a cold, “You don’t need it.”

      You twist your body away from him more, just to emphasize your sulking. A silent protest.

      “Oh, come on,” he huffs, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel like you’re inconveniencing him just by existing. “It’s literally a piece of fabric with eyes. You’re being ridiculous.”

      You sniff again, “You don’t care about me at all.”

      “That’s definitely not what I said,” he says dryly, though he doesn’t look at you.

      You stay quiet. Sulking. Pouting. Waiting.

      And then, five minutes later, he clicks his tongue and nods toward the passenger seat without looking your way.

      “Check the bag.”

      You blink, suspicious. “What bag?”

      “The one that’s literally right next to you, genius. God.” He sounds exhausted.

      You unzip it and there it is. The plushie. The stupid, overpriced plushie you whined about for twenty minutes straight.

      You gasp.

      He keeps his eyes firmly on the road. “It was supposed to be a suprise.”

      “Thank you, Sae! I love it!” you say, clutching it like it’s your firstborn.

      He scoffs. “You are a brat.”

      You smile.

      “I love you,” you mumble, a little softer now, glancing at him from behind the plush.

      He doesn’t look at you, but his ears are suspiciously red.

      “Mhm. Whatever. Love you too.” You catch the corner of his mouth twitch, just for a second.

Ryusei Shidou

      You cross your arms and glare at him from the edge of the couch, lips in a full-blown pout. "You said you'd take me. You promised,"

      He’s leaning against the doorframe like he owns the world, a smirk plastered on his face, arms crossed, golden eyes sharp and glowing like he’s just scored the winning goal. And in a way, he has—you're pouting, sulking, seething, and that’s exactly what he wants.

      “Aw,” he drawls, cocking his head with a grin that screams trouble.

      Your glare sharpens. “I hate you.”

      “Damn, you're hot when you're upset.” He laughs, low and cocky, tongue brushing over his teeth. “Shit, if I knew saying no would make you act like this, I would've done it sooner.”

      You throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily, still grinning, and drops it to the floor. He stalks over like a predator, crouching down in front of you so he's eye-level, watching your every twitch with that unhinged amusement.

      “You promised,” you whine again, eyes glossing with frustrated tears. You blink fast, hoping he doesn’t see, but of course he does. He lives for this. The way your voice wobbles. The way your bottom lip trembles.

      “Oh, you’re really gonna cry now?” he murmurs, brushing his fingers beneath your eye, like he's trying to catch a tear before it falls. “That’s so fucking cute.”

      You shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. “You’re such an asshole, Ryusei.”

      “Mhm. And you love it.”

      You do. And he knows it.

      He leans in, breath warm against your ear. “Come on, baby. Cry a little harder for me.” His voice drops, rough and teasing. “Maybe I’ll give you what you want.”

      You sniff dramatically, eyes big and wet, and look up at him with your best pitiful expression. “You’re so mean to me.”

      Tears flow down your cheeks and Shidou picks them up with his thumbs immediately, tucking your hair behind your ears.

      “Okay, let’s go get what you want.” He gives a quick peck to your face, secretly doing so he can taste the saltiness of your tears.

      You lean in and peck his cheek back. “Yay!”

      “Such a brat.” He shakes his head.

      “Yeah but you’d die without me.”

      He grins, feral and hungry. “Maybe. But you’d cry without me, so we’re even.”

Michael Kaiser

      You know exactly what you’re doing when you pout like that.

      Bottom lip jutted out, arms crossed, eyes big and glossy like you’re personally offended by the universe. Or, more accurately, offended by Michael Kaiser saying “no” for once in his spoiled, cocky life.

      He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded, watching your performance with that smug little smirk that makes you wanna punch and kiss him at the same time.

      “Oh? Tears already?” he teases, cocking his head like he’s not already cracking. “You really think that’s gonna work on me, babe?”

      It works on him.

      Because not five minutes later, he’s sighing dramatically, unlocking his phone, and muttering under his breath about limited edition drop times and how you’re ‘literally impossible when you don’t get your way.’

      You hear him grumble, “You’re lucky you’re cute,”

      You flop onto the couch with a sniff, making sure your little sulk is loud and visible. He lets you sit in your pouty little misery for a whole thirty seconds before he’s tossing a small velvet box onto your lap.

      “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

      You don’t even look at it right away. You blink up at him, wet lashes, lips trembling like you’re seconds from another dramatic meltdown.

      He rolls his eyes. “God, you’re such a brat.”

      You grin.

      “Yeah, but I’m your brat.”

      And that, that, is the part that gets him every damn time.

      He’s got a mental checklist of everything that makes you tick. Bubble tea spots with the cute straws. That obnoxious plushie you insisted had “soulful eyes.” Even the overpriced skincare set you cried over in Sephora. Half of it shows up at your door before you even remember to throw a tantrum about it.

      He says it’s damage control.

      But he spoils you rotten like it’s a sport, and every time he’s with the guys he’s like, “Yeah, yeah—she’s a handful. Total brat. But she’s my brat,” with this stupid little smirk like he just scored the winning goal and you’re the trophy.

      You pout.

      He buys.

      Rinse, repeat. Because he loves you, and he’d do anything for you.

[crescenthistory]

Save Your Own Skin

pairing: sirius black x fem!reader

synopsis: based on an anonymous request about a heated love confession – you and sirius are partners on order missions, supposed to follow the strict command to not risk your lives for one another. sirius defies the rules, and you just can't make sense of why.

wc: 1.7k

cw: fem!reader, set during the first wizarding war, angst, high stakes hurt/comfort, near-death experience, panic attack/flight or fight state, order missions, reader is biased against bellatrix, no established relationship, references to the black family turbulence, moody catching strays from sirius, implied feisty!reader, a fight turned love confession, first kiss, happy ending

Moody’s instructions had been clear. Take no risks. Don’t look back. Save your own skin.

Those words had been rough to hear in a room surrounded by the people you loved most. To glance around at your fellow Order members and stomach being told to leave anyone behind if it came down to it felt like a death sentence in and of itself.

Nonetheless, you swallowed it. Stomached it. Because you had to – there was no room to risk two lives in the hopes of saving one. You didn’t have the numbers for it. You understood.

You thought everyone else did the same. You thought Sirius did the same.

You were wrong.

“Sirius, what the fuck was that?” The words were harsh and loud, a whisper-scream that cut through the dirty air around you. He had apparated you to the nearest safepoint, an ancient Longbottom cabin that hadn’t seen inhabitants in years. Now, all it saw was terrified anger. “How could you?!”

Your voice was shaky, filled with confusion, rage and preemptive heartbreak. You were being harsher than you should be; both in the sense that your anger didn’t reflect the crime and because you knew of Sirius’ sensitivities. In this moment, though, with fight or flight instincts shooting through your every nerve, you couldn’t help it.

Minutes ago, you had been seconds from embracing death. As you were running away from an unexpected and intense altercation with Rabastan and Bellatrix, she had cast a rope spell that caught your ankle, yanking you yards backwards in one quick swipe. You had never experienced fear like it, the incoming sensation of doom where your mind shut down and instincts took over.

You had lost your wand in the duel, so you were forced to simply try and roll away from the spells she threw at you as you flew through the air. 

Some distant thought in your mind had barely managed to find solace in the fact that her distraction with you meant that Sirius would get away. It didn’t even register with you that he might do anything else.

Until Bellatrix had you by her feet and raised her wand with a blinding green light that reflected in your irises, consumed your being – only for her to be thrown back several metres with a curse to her chest. A flurry surrounded you as Sirius threw himself over you, battling Rabastan with one hand while desperately trying to cut the magical ropes around your ankles with his enchanted dagger.

Somehow, he succeeded within seconds. Whether it was willpower or if Bellatrix retreated you didn’t know, though you couldn’t imagine why she would. Maybe he knocked her out enough.

As soon as you were free, Sirius grabbed you firmly and apparated you away, seconds before Rabastan was over you once more.

You knew in your heart that he saved your life. It made you all the more livid.

Now he stood before you, face grimy after the battle and hair dishevelled from pulling at it as he listened to you. Neither of you had any time to recover before you lashed out. The emotion on his face surely matched yours, brows furrowed painfully in confused frustration. 

“What do you mean ‘what the fuck’? I fucking saved you!” His voice was louder than yours, exploding right back at you. “You’re my mission partner, I’m not going home without you!”

Your eyes felt like they were bulging out of your head, body still violently shaking from the battle. “Yes, you are! You’re supposed to, that’s the whole point, Moody made it clear–”

“Oh, don’t be bloody daft, I don’t listen to the shit he says,” he exclaimed, only riling you up further.

“I’m daft? I’m daft? He is the only fucking person who knows what to do Sirius, we will all die if we don’t agree and coordinate based on what he says!”

“Oh, so you do care about not dying?” he asked, laughing humourlessly as he threw his hands out. “Then you should be thanking me babe, because you would have if I hadn’t gone back for you.”

“You–” You cut yourself off, realising you were screaming. You turned away from him, digging the palms of your hands into your eyes, realising you were close to crying with anger. “Yes, Sirius, I’m glad I’m not dead right now. But it’s pure luck that you aren’t too – and what would we do then? No one to return the artefact we got and two Order soldiers lost. We can’t fucking afford it! That’s the rule, that’s the bloody agreement. No unnecessary risks, and that is the biggest risk I’ve ever seen you take, running towards the very woman who wants you dead while she holds all the power.”

The fear of Bellatrix and her desire for vengeance against the perceived stain on her family ran deep within you. It wasn’t something you were proud of, but you thought about it every day, particularly when in the field. Not only that, you knew Sirius also feared going up against her because of their past, he had confessed as much to you when protected by the dark during stakeouts.

You turned back, hoping to see him explain that he just forgot about the rule, that panic got the best of him. Instead, he looked at you as if you had grown two heads. “Since when do you know me to be a rule follower? To shy away from risks?”

“Maybe when your friends’ lives depend on it!”

“Your life depended on me to not give a single flying shit what strategy Moody thinks is best.” His voice was surprisingly measured, but each word was biting, his deadpan speaking volumes.

“And?” Your voice shook around the word, as did your hands as you played brave. Played soldier. “My life matters no more than the lives of those who depend upon your survival. People rely on us, Sirius. We need as many survivors as possible.”

He dragged his hands over his face, looking more exhausted than you’ve ever seen him. The war hadn’t been kind to him, but he still remained beautiful – this though, this was more intense. Deeper. 

His silver eyes shone at you from across the room as he stared through you, shrugging slightly. “Yeah, well, maybe I need one of those survivors to be you.”

This time it was your turn to look dumbfounded, furrowing your brows at him. You and Sirius had always been friendly, but never the closest. That is why you were paired up for missions; you were supposed to go with someone you trusted fully but would be able to go on without. The months you had spent in forced proximity had deepened the affection in your own heart further than you would like to admit, but his words still made no sense to you.

“Why?” Your own voice sounded foreign, more inconsolable than you had meant it, trying to force yourself to be alright. 

Sirius’ expression was turning increasingly despaired. “Are you blind?” he asked, voice rough. He stepped closer to you, which both calmed and intimidated you. “Do you really not understand?”

You were too upset at the minute to be belittled, look souring as you threw your hands out. “What? What is there to see other than you unnecessarily risking your own lif–”

“It was necessary!” Sirius yelled, cutting you off. He took a deep breath, lowering his voice. “Don’t you see? Doll, I care about you, I– can’t you see that I love you?!”

There wasn’t enough air in your lungs for it to be knocked out of you, but you felt equally as floored. These past twenty minutes were proving more than you could handle.

“No, you don’t,” you whispered, shaking your head.

Sirius’ expression didn’t change, but he closed the distance between your bodies, striding to stand before you, bringing his shaking hands to hover over your cheeks. It took two more seconds of eye contact, seeing the tears brimming in your eyes, before he cupped your face, cradling it firmly in his hands.

“Yes. I do.” His whisper broke off at the end. “And you don’t get to say that I don’t.”

When you didn’t pull away, Sirius placed his forehead against yours, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. You vaguely thought he might be trying to calm the violent shaking of your body. 

“Well, you don’t get to risk your life for me.” It was petulant, it was out of order, but you were rattled and heartbroken and terrified.

“Yes, I do,” he repeated, voice soft but adamant. “I do and I did and I will. I refuse to watch anyone slaughter the girl I love, least of all my cousin.”

“Sirius–”

“No. I love you. And I refuse.”

“You can’t,” you cried desperately, the first few tears slipping down your cheeks. “I love you too much for it, you can’t.”

Sirius smiled wetly, alleviating some of the crushing weight of the moment. “Ah, so she’s not just a stickler for the rules.”

The cry turned into a sob as you surged forward to press your lips against his. They were trembling and salted with your tears, but Sirius swallowed it all up as he tightened his grip on your face to step further into you. He tilted his face sideways to deepen the kiss, allowing himself these few seconds of passion. 

When you pulled away, he chased your face to press a kiss beneath each of your eyes. A moment of silence stretched out as the confessions settled into each of you.

“We should probably switch Order partners then, huh?” you tried to joke, voice still too choked for the laugh to sound genuine.

Whatever restraint Sirius had been exhibiting went out the window as he moved his hands to the small of your back and the back of your head to pull you flush against him into a crushing hug. “Absolutely not,” he whispered. “I get the strategy, I respect the intention, but that’s another one that will go out the window. You’re my partner, love.” 

You felt the fight, however justified, drain from you as you let him engulf you. Let him comfort you.

You almost died. He saved you.

“We can fight about it some other day,” you murmured into his chest as you folded your shaking hands over his back. Giving in. 

Sirius kissed the top of your head and began squeezing up and down your body, bringing you back down from your fight or flight state. “I’m sure we will, baby.”

[seraphrelic]

⟡ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ONLY IN THE SHADOWS — Anakin Skywalker x reader.

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SUMMARY: Two Jedi navigate the difficult the impossible line between loyalty and longing.

A/N: i was YEARNING for anakin angst for so long i took matters into my own hands </3 a little rushed n rough around the edges but let’s ignore that🤞

WARNINGS: heartbreak, forbidden love, public humiliation

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Whatever you were doing, it was dangerous, unthinkable, even. Something the Jedi code would’ve never allowed, not in a million years.

And yet, here you were with the infamous Skywalker, a last name recognisable within the entire galaxy, right in your bed. Your head was gently placed on his torso, hearing his heartbeat and the occasional rise of his chest.

The silence between you was peaceful, nothing was meant to be said, just the both of you here, in this moment, was enough.

A constant loop. The two of you, sneaking around, hiding, knowing this shouldn’t take place. You’d promise each other no more, yet those empty vows would be broken, over and over.

“Anakin?” Your voice hummed against his chest, causing his gaze to shift from the dimly lit corner of your room, back to the crown of your head, resting just beneath his chin.

He didn’t say anything, just hummed in response, awaiting to hear whatever was on your mind, what you had to say.

“Do you think-“ Trailing off, you tried to find the right words to form your thoughts, to make them sound meaningful.

“Do you think if we weren’t Jedi, we’d be able to live like this freely? No Jedi code, nothing to hold us back?”

Those words rung in his ears louder than any command the Council had ever given him, louder than duty, louder than reason.

He wanted to give you an honest answer, but he couldn’t. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. It was the kind of question that didn’t have a correct way to answer it.

As the stillness settled, you took Anakin’s silence as an answer to your quiet wondering.

Eventually, you allowed sleep to overtake you, muffling any thoughts still lingering in your mind about the Jedi, anything even merely connected to him.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The mornings always ended up cold, subconsciously reaching for the warmth you fell asleep with, only to be met with disappointment.

Same routine every time. The both of you would fall asleep, tangled in each other, to then open your eyes to an empty space, just a faint scent indicating his presence the night before.

It drilled a hole within you each time, even though you understood, you had to. Jedi weren’t meant to be this close, this deep in feelings, and yet you couldn’t brush it away.

With a sigh, you slipped your Jedi robes on, the hilt of your lightsaber sliding into the side of the uniform with a gentle click.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

“Y/n!” A familiar voice called out, followed by Ahsoka who ran up to you in the hall, a smile painted across her face. „Where’ve you been?”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, a little worried now. „Did something happen?”

„Well, there’s gonna be a mission soon. You’ll join me and my master,”

Joining Ahsoka with Anakin. Seemed like an interesting turn of events, not like you had any plans for today anyway.

A part of you felt a little nervous. You hadn’t seen him at all, then again, it was only the morning — he usually was busy at this time.

Boarding the ship was a fast process, per usual. Exceptionally quiet, maybe because everyone was still a little droopy, you hoped.

Anakin sat in the pilot seat, right next to you. His gaze was locked on avoiding any obstacles, but he could’ve said something, you thought.

Ahsoka was in the middle of you, cleaning up the hilt of her lightsaber. Perhaps the silence also bothered her as much as it bothered you.

„Is something the matter, Skywalker?” Upon hearing those words, his gaze instinctively drifted to your features. „No, why?” He answered, trying to dismiss any concerns you might’ve had.

He sounded calm, nothing that could’ve indicated anything otherwise, but it didn’t sound believable, not really.

It was always like this. Beneath the moonlight, his eyes had this certain look in them, as if you were the only person in the entire galaxy. Like only you mattered.

In the daytime, things were different, as expected. Playing the role of two Jedi, completing their duties with no strings attached. A cycle you had to endure.

And yet, sometimes you hoped it could’ve been different. It was a false hope, you were well aware, but nothing could’ve dulled the ache. The want in not needing to hide your feelings with the Jedi anymore.

Ahsoka glanced at the both of you, even though it was obvious she was pretending to not pay attention to the short conversation. Not that she suspected anything, though.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The mission went well. That’s what you would’ve said if not for the fact that you were attacked by bounty hunters, not like they stood a chance.

„Snips, stay put!” Anakin exclaimed, not even waiting for Ahsoka’s answer, currently in a battle with one of the enemies, occasionally glancing back at you.

Your lightsaber worked overtime, blocking every hit that went your way, the Jedi title in front of your name didn’t stand there for no reason. It was an indication of your training, growing strength over the years.

„Y/n, behind you!” Ahsoka raised her voice, only now noticing the bounty hunter creeping up, but it was too late.

All the others were fought off, but this specific one ended up slicing your shoulder, just a bit.

Anakin’s lightsaber seeped right through him shortly after, but missed catching your body to dull the pain appearing shortly.

Your teeth gritted against each other, brows scrunched together, wincing when your fingers brushed against the clothed wound.

„Kriff, just hold on!” Ahsoka hurriedly put her lightsabers away, the only thing you managed to remember before your vision started to blur and softly blacken.

Warmth. The sound of crackling fire humming in your ears, your eyesight becoming more vivid with each blink.

„She’s reckless.”

„Cut her some slack, she was just caught offguard,”

It was clear they were having a conversation, but a part of you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe it was about you? Sure, you could’ve stopped the bounty hunter in time, but a tragedy didn’t happen.

Your eyes closed shut as the pain in your upper shoulder appeared once more, your arms shaking just a bit as you sat up straight.

Eyes locking almost immediately with Anakin felt uncertain, like you weren’t even aware of what to expect from him.

Ahsoka shot you a warm, sympathetic smile. Clearly she was the one that bandaged you up. Anakin didn’t, his expression was the opposite, now that you were able to compare it to his Padawan.

„I’ll uhm—I’ll leave you to it,” Sensing the uneasy silence, the ship suddenly became very interesting, like it needed something to be checked, fixed, leaving the two of you alone.

„What was that?” His expression was unreadable, yet his words were laced with irritation, you could tell. „I’m sorry?”

„You really couldn’t fight him off? He could’ve brought an end to your life, and you don’t care?”

Your eyebrows scrunched together, trying to figure out where this was coming from. It’s not like the mission failed, so why was he overreacting?

„I was just surprised, is all.” You shot back, your tone becoming a little snarky now. Just the night before, he held you close to his chest, now this?

„You’re too reckless,” He replied, his voice sounding more annoyed.

With a forced laugh, you raised your eyebrows. „Oh, and you’re not? How many ships have you crashed from your thinking?”

„If you even think, that is. Sometimes it seems like you don’t.”

That was the last straw for Anakin. He shot you a glare you couldn’t quite decipher, watching his hand pinch the bridge of his nose.

The atmosphere was tense. It was evident he was upset, but was he really this riled up over a minor accident, or was it something else?

„Look, I don’t know what happened, but you can talk to me,” This time, your voice was a lot softer, wanting to figure out what exactly was bothering him.

„Just forget it, maybe Snips needs some help.” His words were harsh, cutting deeper than any wound could. He got up, the sound of his footsteps shortly disappearing.


That night, it was difficult to fall asleep. Your mind kept returning back to the conversation between you and the Jedi, trying to get a sense of understanding.

You knew he wasn’t asleep, even though he was a bit further than you. Tossing and turning was a clear sign of it.

Biting your lip, you tried to suppress any words that could’ve come out, but to no use.

„Ani?”

It came out muffled, almost like a whisper, careful enough to not wake up Ahsoka, but loud enough for Anakin, who was wide awake, to hear.

„Hm?” That sound startled you just slightly, but it was nice to hear him not pissed off by Maker knows what.

For a moment, you hesitated. What could you even say, come join me?

„My shoulder still hurts, could you check?”

That was the dumbest excuse you’ve ever said. It was obviously a way to get him next to you, to warm up the empty sleeping bag.

After a moment of silence, he finally turned around, locking eyes with yours. For a moment, you hoped that he was about to do what you asked for.

„Y’know we can’t, right? Not how things work,” Somehow, that was painful to hear. Almost like a rejection, even though he had a point.

„Right, yeah,” Your gaze drifted off of him to the ground. „Sorry, for asking—I mean,”

Normally, he would’ve offered you some other form of comfort. Like a smile, maybe whisper some sweet-nothings in your ear to help you sleep better.

„Get some sleep, hm?” His words were neutral, no emotions lingering. No smile attached, just the brief gaze at you before turning around, his back facing you now.

It stung. It really did. You weren’t sure what was going on, but there was definitely something lingering between the both of you.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Over the course of the next few days, it continued. Short glances, no more time spent together, nothing. Your shoulder wasn’t as sore anymore, but even that could take your mind off of Anakin.

It was selfish, you thought. He had his own duties, whether it was his own work or something to do with the clones, he couldn’t offer you all of his time.

But surely, a little wouldn’t hurt?

After your training with the younglings, you spotted a familiar, dark robe in the hallway, curls you would’ve recognised anywhere. Nobody was around, this was your chance.

„Anakin? Do you have a moment?” You watched him stiffen up, as if startled, but he wouldn’t show it too much. His back wasn’t facing you anymore, which was some sort of progress.

He didn’t speak, just simply waited for you to continue.

„I just, I wanted to ask if anything’s wrong, maybe we need to talk—„

„There’s nothing to talk about.”

What? Nothing to talk about when he’s been acting weird, treating you completely differently?

„No, I think there is. A lot, actually.” As he was about to turn away, your hand gripped his arm, careful to not let go.

Anakin was most likely about to say something, when suddenly Obi-Wan crossed the corner.

“Anakin, may I speak to you?” His voice was calm, almost as if he didn’t suspect a thing about what you two were talking about.

“Yes, Obi-Wan.” He replied, his voice monotone. He simply shared a quick glance with you, your grip subconsciously loosening.

Obi-wan’s gaze lingered on you, his expression a little puzzled. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything?”

“Oh, not at all. He’s all yours,” The smile you gave him was forced. Of course, you weren’t upset with Kenobi, not at all, but he really could’ve chosen a different time.

They both paced the hallways in silence, before Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “You two are close,”

Anakin’s jaw tightened almost immediately, but his expression remained calm. “No, not really, She’s a good Jedi, is all.”

Obi-Wan nodded, pausing slightly. He gathered his thoughts for a moment before speaking up.

“Do take care, Anakin. The line between closeness and attachment can be, imperceptible.”

Anakin’s eyes were unreadable, his gaze shifting from the floor to his former master. “I haven’t crossed it.”

Obi-Wan knew well. He was able to tell what his past apprentice was going through. By no means was Anakin a person easy to read.

From that point on, Anakin actively avoided you, at first it was pretty subtle. His presence was missed in rooms he’d usually be in, not a bit deal, you thought.

Anytime you stepped into a room, he’d always have an excuse up his sleeve to leave, which raised your suspicions.

The final blow was him walking past you, ignoring anything you did to grab his attention. That was a new low, especially from him.

Of course, deeper relationships with the Jedi were prohibited, both of you knew, but did you truly deserve to be treated like this?

Absolutely not. So you followed him, right down to the war room hallway, filled with Jedi and clones.

“Anakin—please!” In a flash of helplessness, you call out to him, causing heads to turn from all around, just not his. Not yet.

Your voice was low, trembling.

“You can’t keep doing this, I don’t even know what we are anymore—If we’re anything, if we ever were—“

Your words were cut off with Anakin turning around, a blank expression on his face. He didn’t even let you finish.

“General L/N,” He trails off, loud enough for the other Jedi to hear. “These kinds of..forbidden feelings are unacceptable within the Jedi code.”

The room was silent. Dead quiet. It’s like time was completely stopped.

Your breath stopped, lips slightly parted, eyebrows scrunched and eyes already filled with tears. You didn’t expect such humiliation.

“Is that really what it was to you?” Your voice shaky, trembling, but he didn’t react. Not one bit. He just turned around and walked away. Stiff, unreadable.

Leaving you in absolute pieces under a thousand, watchful eyes.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

[mahowaga]

you're sitting at your vanity, turning the new lipstick over in your hands—sleek tube, promising color, the kind of shade that makes your heart flutter just a bit. it's bold. a tad darker than you'd usually wear. but something about it had called to you in the store.

maybe it was the name: heartbreaker.

maybe it was the color—a deep, sultry red, like stolen wine at midnight.

maybe it was the stupid little thought in your head that whispered, i bet satoru would lose his mind if he saw this on me.

and so here you are, uncapping the tube, twisting it up, and leaning in to apply it carefully.

satoru's lounging on the bed behind you, limbs sprawled, shirt a half-wrinkled mess from how he'd flopped backward into the pillows ten minutes ago like a man who'd just fought god and won. which, to be fair, isn't that far off from his day job.

"are you ignoring me for that little tube of color?" he calls out dramatically, head lolling over the edge of the mattress like a tragic victorian heroine. "i came here to be adored. worshipped. devoured. and instead i'm being neglected."

you rolls your eyes, finishing your last swipe with practiced ease. "you're so dramatic."

"only because i suffer," he sighs.

you cap the lipstick, twist in your seat to look at him. "do you want to help me test it?"

he perks up almost instantaneously. his white hair flops as he flips over to look at you, those ridiculous sky-blue eyes glittering with mischief.

"is this a kissing test?" he asks, already crawling toward the edge of the bed like a man with a mission. "because i'd love to be involved."

you smile slowly. "maybe."

he reaches you in three seconds flat, knees sinking into the plush carpet, hands gripping the arms of your chair as he peers up at you like you're the last slice of cake in the universe.

"alright," you say, lifting your chin, "sit still."

"bossy," he whispers, and closes his eyes.

you lean in, hands on his shoulders, and kiss him—slow, but brief. just enough pressure to transfer the color, just enough to taste the grin on his lips.

when you pull back, he blinks at you.

"did it work?" he asks, lips slightly parted, blinking slowly like he's halfway drunk already.

you grab your phone, switch to the front camera, and angle it toward him.

his lips are deep red. glossy. perfectly outlined. slightly smudged.

you dissolve into laughter.

"oh my god, satoru—"

he grabs the phone from you, looks at himself, and grins.

"damn," he says, admiring his own reflection. "i look hot."

you're wheezing at this point. "you look like you just walked off the runway of a very confused fashion show."

"i look like a man who's been kissed to death."

"you look like i'm dating the joker."

"oh, come on, i'm way prettier than the joker." he leans forward, tilting his head. "how 'bout we test it again? for durability. y'know. scientific reasons."

you squint at him. "are you asking for more kisses in the name of science or trying to seduce me while wearing my lipstick?"

"yes," he says, already leaning in.

and this time, when you kiss him, it's longer. messier. more deliberate.

when you finally pull back again, you're both breathless, and his mouth is a glorious mess of smeared red and smug satisfaction.

you stare at him. "you look like you ate a cherry pie with no hands."

he beams. "best pie i ever had."

you swat his arm, trying not to laugh. "you're disgusting."

he grabs your hand, presses a red-stained kiss to your knuckles. "disgustingly in love with you."

you groan, rolling your arms even as warmth blooms in your chest. "that was so cheesy."

his smirk widens. "want me to say it again but with more lipstick?"

before you can reply, he's already reaching past you to the vanity, where your lipstick lays uncapped. he picks it up with a flourish like he's holding a sacred relic.

"satoru—" you start, but he's already turning back to you with a glint in his eyes that spells nothing but mischief.

"hold still, gorgeous," he murmurs, thumb brushing over your chin. "gotta make sure the test conditions are perfect."

you should stop him. you really should. but instead, you tilt your face up, lips parting just slightly as he twists the lipstick up and leans in, so close you can feel his breath fanning across your cheek.

his touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he applies the color back onto your mouth—slow, purposeful strokes that have nothing to do with precision and everything to do with the way he's looking at you. like your lips are something he's memorizing. like he's painting on temptation itself.

"there," he says softly, drawing back a little to admire his handiwork. "perfect."

you shove him backward onto the bed, climbing onto him with a sigh. "i'm gonna need a whole new tube at this rate."

"baby," he says, pulling you in, lips already finding yours again, "i'll buy you ten."

his lips drag color from yours like he's starving for it, for you, smearing red across his mouth and jaw and down the line of your neck where he presses open-mouthed kisses.

you lose count of how many times you reapply it between kisses—sometimes because he smudges it clean off, sometimes just because he likes the ceremony of it. likes the way your lips part under his touch. likes the way you go pliant when he leans in too close, eyes flickering to your mouth like it's his favorite sin.

and by the time the sky outside has long since turned dark, you're both wearing matching stains—on your lips, your necks, your collarbones. on pillowcases and fingertips. a warpath of crimson that says everything he's too far gone to articulate anymore.

maybe two tubes, you'll need.

possibly three.

[pohtaytoh]

𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗧𝗼𝗱𝗮𝘆, 𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗿

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Lara Raj x 7th Member!Reader

Three years ago, Lara Raj and Y/N Y/L/N from KATSEYE broke the internet when they first announced their relationship live. Now, they're back on screen, but with a different kind of news. A heavy silence hangs as they brace themselves to drop a bombshell: they're calling it quits. Just as they begin to share their heartbreaking announcement, the other KATSEYE members crash the live stream, on a mission to mend not only Lara and Y/N's hearts but also the hearts of their devoted fans. Will this be the end of their famous love story, or will their friends manage to turn the tide and keep them together?

The camera clicked on, and a wave of blinding white light hit Lara Raj and Y/N Y/L/N. They blinked, adjusting to the sudden glare but the real discomfort wasn't from the lights.

It was the heavy, suffocating silence that filled the room, a silence that felt louder than any stadium full of screaming fans. Their usual playful banter was gone, replaced by a shared tension that vibrated between them.

Three years ago, almost to the day, they had sat in a very similar setup. Back then, their faces were flushed with excitement, their eyes sparkling with a secret they were desperate to share. The internet had practically exploded when they, Lara Raj and Y/N Y/L/N, two members of the global sensation KATSEYE, had announced they were officially a couple.

It was a fairytale come true for millions of fans who had shipped them since their trainee days. Their love story became a symbol of hope and happiness in the often-harsh world of fame. Every shared glance, every subtle touch, every whispered word caught on camera became fuel for their devoted shippers.

Their "L/N-Raj" fan accounts thrived, filled with edits and theories and pure, unadulterated joy. Now, the air was thick with something entirely different.

Their smiles were forced, fragile things that threatened to crack. Lara’s usually vibrant eyes held a shadow, and Y/N, typically so warm and expressive, looked guarded, almost distant. They were holding hands, but it wasn't the comforting, intertwined grip of lovers. It was a desperate, almost formal clasp, as if they were clinging to each other for support through a difficult ordeal.

"Hi, everyone," Lara began, her voice a little shaky, a stark contrast to her usual confident tone. She squeezed Y/N's hand, and Y/N offered a weak, tight-lipped smile to the camera.

"Thanks for joining us today," Y/N added, their voice equally strained. "We know this is... a bit unexpected."

The comments section, which usually flooded with hearts and excited greetings, was already a mix of confusion and growing worry. "Why do they look so sad?" "Is everything okay?" "What's happening?"

Lara took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling visibly. "As you all know, three years ago, we shared some incredibly happy news with you. We announced that we were together." A small, sad smile touched her lips as she looked at Y/N, who nodded slowly.

"And your support, your love for us as a couple, has meant the world." Y/N picked up, their gaze drifting from the camera to Lara, then back. "It's been an amazing journey. We've shared so much, grown so much, both as individuals and as a group, and as... partners." They paused, and the silence stretched, growing heavier by the second.

The comments were now frantic. "No! Don't say it!" "Please tell me this isn't what I think it is!" Lara’s eyes welled up, but she blinked rapidly, fighting back the tears.

"But sometimes," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "even the strongest bonds face challenges that are... too big to overcome." Y/N’s grip tightened on Lara's hand.

"We've been doing a lot of thinking, a lot of talking, over the past few months," they confessed, their voice cracking slightly. "and we've come to a very difficult decision."

A collective gasp seemed to ripple through the comments section, even though they were thousands of miles away. The fans knew. They felt it.

"We've decided," Lara said, her voice now a mere whisper, "to... to go our separate ways." The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Y/N squeezed their eyes shut for a moment, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down their cheek.

Lara’s own tears finally broke free, silently streaming down her face. The comments exploded: "NOOOOOOO!" "This can't be happening!" "My heart is broken!"

The decision hadn't been sudden. It had been a slow, painful unraveling, like a gorgeous fabric fraying thread by thread until it was barely recognizable.

Their love hadn't died, it had simply been suffocated by the relentless demands of their lives. It started subtly. After the initial euphoria of going public, their schedules as global idols only intensified.

Album promotions, world tours, variety show appearances, photo shoots, endless dance practices, vocal lessons – every waking moment was meticulously planned. Time together became a luxury, not a given.

"Babe, are you free for dinner tonight?" Lara would text, exhausted after a twelve-hour practice. Y/N would reply almost instantly, "Ah, I wish, L. Got that late-night recording session. Maybe tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow I have that magazine shoot, remember?" Lara would type back, a pang of disappointment in her chest. "And then the flight to Tokyo."

"Right. Tokyo. I'll be there a day later for the concert prep."

Their conversations became less about their day and more about coordinating their next fleeting moment together. Dates were planned weeks in advance, only to be cancelled last minute due to an unexpected schedule change.

A romantic dinner would turn into a quick takeout meal eaten in silence in a hotel room, both of them too tired to talk. "I just feel like we're roommates sometimes, Lara," Y/N confessed one night, lying beside her in bed, staring at the ceiling.

"We share a bed, but we don't really share anything else anymore." Lara had sighed, turning to face them in the dim light. "I know, Y/N. It's just... so much. We're always working. When do we even have time to be us?"

They tried. They really did. They'd sneak in moments – a stolen kiss backstage, a quick coffee run disguised as a solo outing, a few minutes of quiet conversation in the back of a van. However, these moments were crumbs, not enough to sustain the vibrant, passionate love they once had.

The pressure from their company and the public didn't help. Every interaction was scrutinized. A moment of public affection was celebrated, but a moment of perceived distance sparked rumors. They felt like they were constantly performing their relationship, even when they were just trying to be themselves.

"Did you see that article?" Y/N asked one morning, scrolling through their phone with a frown. "Someone said we looked 'strained' at the airport yesterday. Said we weren't holding hands enough." Lara groaned. "Seriously? We were just tired, Y/N. We'd been on a 16-hour flight!"

"I know, but it's like we can't just be. We always have to be 'L/N-Raj,' the perfect couple." The resentment started to simmer. Small arguments, born out of exhaustion and frustration, began to surface.

"You promised we'd watch that movie tonight, Lara," Y/N said, their voice tight, after Lara had come back late from an impromptu meeting."I know, Y/N, but the company called. What was I supposed to do? Say no?" Lara retorted, feeling defensive. "It's our job!"

"And what about our time? Is that not important?" These weren't huge fights, but they chipped away at the foundation. They started to feel distant, even when they were physically close. The easy laughter and inside jokes became rarer. The comfort they once found in each other's presence slowly faded into a quiet awkwardness.

One particularly painful moment came during their anniversary. They had planned a rare, free evening. Lara had been so excited to bake a small cake but then, an emergency dance rehearsal was called. It was mandatory.

"I'm so, so sorry, Y/N," Lara had said, tears in her eyes as she talked to them in the practice room after hours of rehearsing. "I can't make it. They need us here all night."

Y/N had been silent for a long moment. "It's fine, Lara," they finally said, their voice flat. "It's always fine. Don't worry about it." But it wasn't fine. Lara could hear the hurt in their voice, the resignation.

She knew Y/N had been looking forward to it too. After that, a wall seemed to slowly build between them. They started to communicate less, not out of malice, but out of a weary acceptance that their lives simply didn't allow for the kind of relationship they both craved. They were both hurting, but neither knew how to fix it.

The thought of adding more stress to their already overflowing plates by trying to "work on things" felt impossible.

"Maybe... maybe this is for the best, Y/N," Lara had finally said one quiet evening, weeks before the live stream. They were sitting on opposite ends of their shared couch, the silence between them heavy with unspoken sadness.

"We're just hurting each other, aren't we? By trying to force something that our lives just... don't allow." Y/N had looked at her, their eyes filled with profound sadness.

"I don't want to lose you, Lara," they whispered, their voice thick with emotion.

"You won't lose me," Lara had promised, though her own heart was shattering.

"We'll still be in KATSEYE. We'll still be friends but maybe... maybe we need to step back from this." She gestured vaguely between them. "Before we completely ruin what we have."

It was a mutual decision, born out of exhaustion and a misguided belief that breaking up would somehow alleviate the pain, that it would free them from the constant pressure and disappointment. They thought it was the most loving thing they could do for each other. They were wrong.

Back in the present, on the live stream, the tears were flowing freely now for both Lara and Y/N. The comments were a torrent of grief, disbelief, and pleas.

"We just wanted to be honest with you all," Y/N choked out, wiping their eyes with the back of their hand. "It's been incredibly hard, and we hope you can understand."

Suddenly, the door to the room burst open. "What in actual K-pop is going on here?!" a voice boomed, followed by the sight of four familiar faces storming in.

It was the rest of KATSEYE.

First in was Daniela, her usually composed demeanor replaced by wide, alarmed eyes and a look of fierce determination. She had clearly just sprinted, her hair a little disheveled.

Right behind her, Manon walked in with a more measured, but equally urgent pace, her expression a mix of concern and a hint of her usual calm problem-solving focus.

Megan followed, looking utterly bewildered and heartbroken, her hand flying to her mouth as she saw Lara and Y/N's tear-streaked faces.

Finally, Sophia and Yoonchae, their gentle eyes already glistening with tears, their face a mask of pure empathy. The five of them stopped dead, taking in the scene: Lara and Y/N, red-eyed and distraught, holding hands like they were bracing for impact, and the screen behind them showing the live stream, its comments section a blur of despair.

"You two are breaking up?!" Daniela exclaimed, her voice incredulous, almost accusatory.

"Are you serious right now?!" Lara and Y/N flinched, startled by the sudden invasion. They hadn't expected this. They thought they had timed this when the others were out.

"Daniela, wait," Manon said softly, stepping forward. She looked at Lara and Y/N, her gaze gentle but firm. "What happened? We just saw the notification. We came as fast as we could."

Megan rushed forward, kneeling beside Y/N. "Y/N, Lara, what is this? Why are you doing this? You can't!" Her voice was thick with emotion, already on the verge of tears herself.

Sophia walked over to Lara, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Lara, honey, talk to us. What's going on?"

Lara sniffled, trying to compose herself. "We... We just told everyone. We're breaking up."

"But why?" Yoonchae and Daniela asked at the same time, the youngest asking in a soft tone while Daniela's was the opposite. She demanded for the answer. "You're Lara and Y/N! You're the couple! You're supposed to be forever!"

"It's not that simple guys," Y/N said, their voice hoarse. "It's been hard. Really hard."

Manon stepped into the frame, facing the camera directly for a moment, then turning back to Lara and Y/N.

"Everyone watching, please give them a moment. We just found out too." She then turned her full attention to the couple.

"Okay, let's breathe. Both of you. Tell us, what led to this? We're a team. We're family. You should have talked to us."

"We didn't want to burden you," Lara explained, her voice barely above a whisper. "You all have enough to deal with."

"Burden us?!" Megan cried, standing up. "Lara, Y/N, your happiness is our happiness! Your pain is our pain! We're KATSEYE! We go through everything together!"

"Exactly," Sophia added, her voice soft but clear. "We've seen you two through everything. From the moment you first met, through all the training, the debut, the tours... We've seen your love grow. We've seen how happy you make each other."

Daniela, still looking exasperated, pointed at the screen. "Look at the comments! Everyone is devastated! Do you know how much your love meant to people? It wasn't just your love story, it was our story too, in a way. It was part of KATSEYE's identity!"

"We know," Y/N said, looking down at their intertwined hands. "That's part of why this is so hard. We feel like we're letting everyone down."

"You're letting yourselves down!" Daniela countered, her voice rising. "And each other! Did you even try to fix it?"

Sophia put a calming hand on Daniela's arm. "Dani, let's calm down. Lara, Y/N, tell us. What were the problems? What made you think this was the only way?"

Lara took a shaky breath. "It's just... the schedules. The pressure. We barely see each other. When we do, we're exhausted. We started arguing over small things. We felt like we were drifting apart."

"We thought," Y/N continued, looking up at their bandmates, "that maybe if we weren't together, the pressure would ease. That we could still be friends, still be bandmates, without the added stress of trying to maintain a relationship that our lives just don't allow."

Megan shook her head. "That's a cop-out! You're saying you're giving up because it's hard? Since when does KATSEYE give up because something is hard?"

"Megan's right," Sophia said, her voice gaining strength. "Think about everything we've overcome. The endless practices, the strict diets, the homesickness, the competition... We did all of that together. You two did it together, supporting each other every step of the way."

Manon nodded. "Remember when Lara sprained her ankle right before the first world tour? Y/N, you stayed up with her every night, helping her with her exercises, making sure she ate, cheering her up. And Lara, when Y/N had that vocal strain scare, you were there, researching remedies, making them tea, making sure they rested."

Lara and Y/N looked at each other, their eyes softening as those memories resurfaced. They remembered the late nights, the shared anxieties, the unwavering support they had always found in each other.

"And the fans," Daniela added, pointing to the screen again. "They love you two! They've seen you through everything. They've celebrated your anniversaries, made fan art, written stories. You think they want to see you give up?"

"This isn't about the fans, Dani," Lara said, a hint of her old fire returning. "This is about us."

"It is about you!" Daniela shot back. "It's about the two people who clearly still love each other but are too stubborn or too tired to fight for it!" Y/N flinched at Daniela's bluntness, but there was a painful truth in her words. They did still love Lara. The thought of not having her in their life as more than a bandmate, of not being able to reach for her hand or share a quiet moment, twisted their gut.

"Look," Manon said, stepping between Daniela and the couple, her voice calm but firm. "We understand it's hard. Being in a relationship, especially one as public as yours, while being an idol, is incredibly challenging. But 'hard' doesn't mean 'impossible.' It means you need to find new ways to make it work."

"What new ways?" Lara asked, her voice tinged with despair. "We've tried everything. We're just so tired, Manon."

"Tired of what?" Yoonchae pressed gently. "Tired of loving each other or tired of letting the industry dictate your happiness?"

Sophia knelt down again, taking both Lara and Y/N's free hands. "Think about why you fell in love in the first place. Was it because you had perfect schedules? No. It was because of who you are, how you make each other feel. That hasn't changed, has it?"

Lara looked at Y/N, and Y/N looked back at her. In their eyes, they saw a reflection of their shared history: the laughter, the quiet comforts, the moments of profound understanding that no one else could provide. The love was still there, buried under layers of stress and exhaustion.

"We just... we don't have time," Y/N whispered, the old excuse feeling weak now, hollow.

"Then make time!" Daniela exclaimed. "You're idols! You're creative! You find solutions for everything! You write songs in hotel rooms, you practice dances in airport lounges! You can't find five minutes for each other?"

"She's right," Manon agreed. "It's not about finding more time. It's about making the time you do have count. It's about quality, not just quantity and it's about communicating, truly communicating, about what you need."

"Have you actually sat down and talked about this, really talked, without just saying 'it's too hard'?" Megan asked, her gaze piercing. "or did you just decide it was easier to give up?" The question hung in the air, sharp and uncomfortable.

Lara and Y/N looked away from each other, a flicker of guilt in their eyes. They hadn't. Not really. They had talked around the problem, about the symptoms, but not about the core issue of their fading connection and how to rekindle it. They had both assumed the other felt the same way, that the love was gone.

"We thought... we thought it was mutual," Lara admitted, her voice barely audible. "That we both felt it was just... over.”

"And you, Y/N?" Sophia asked gently. "Did you feel it was over?"

Y/N hesitated, then shook their head slowly, a fresh wave of tears forming. "No. I just... I thought Lara was unhappy. I thought I was making her unhappy. And I didn't know how to fix it."

Lara's head snapped up. "I thought you were unhappy, Y/N! I thought I was holding you back, being a burden with all the extra attention on our relationship!"

A stunned silence fell over the room. The other members exchanged glances. This was it. This was the misunderstanding that had festered.

"So you both thought the other was unhappy, and instead of talking about it, you decided to break up?" Daniela summarized, her voice less accusatory now, more incredulous. "You decided to break up because you assumed things?"

"It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that," Lara mumbled, wiping her eyes.

"It is ridiculous!" Yoonchae said, a small, hopeful smile starting to form on her face. Megan then added "You two are literally soulmates! Everyone knows it!"

"You're both so busy, so focused on KATSEYE, that you forgot to focus on each other," Manon observed, her voice thoughtful.

"It's easy to lose sight of what's important when you're constantly running but that's why you have us. We're here to remind you."

"Remember that time during the 'Debut’ comeback?" Sophia chimed in, a soft smile on her face. "Lara, you were so stressed about the choreography, and Y/N, you stayed up with her every night, practicing until she got every move perfect, even though you were exhausted too. You two always had each other's backs."

"And the time Y/N got food poisoning in Japan?" Megan added, laughing softly. "Lara, you practically became their personal nurse, even sneaking them bland crackers when the manager wasn't looking."

These memories, shared by their friends, weren't just anecdotes. They were powerful reminders of the deep connection, the unwavering support, and the profound love that had always existed between Lara and Y/N. They weren't just bandmates; they were each other's anchors in a chaotic world.

Lara looked at Y/N again, really looked at them, past the tears and the sadness. She saw the person she had fallen in love with, the person who understood her without words, who made her laugh even on the toughest days, who was her safe harbor and Y/N, looking at Lara, saw the vibrant, passionate woman who had stolen their heart, the one who challenged them, supported them, and made their life infinitely brighter.

The love was still there. It had never left. It had just been buried under a mountain of stress, miscommunication, and fear.

"We were so stupid," Lara whispered, her voice thick with regret. She pulled her hand from Y/N's, only to wrap her arms tightly around their waist, pulling them into a fierce hug.

Y/N gasped, surprised by the sudden embrace, but immediately reciprocated, burying their face in Lara's shoulder.

"I missed you so much," they mumbled, their voice muffled. "Even when we were together, I missed you."

The other KATSEYE members watched, tears in their own eyes, a wave of relief washing over them.

"This is what we wanted to see!" Daniela exclaimed, a wide, tearful smile breaking across her face.

"This is Lara and Y/N!" yelled Yoonchae, excited that her two eonnies are reconciling.

"It's not too late," Sophia said softly, her voice full of encouragement. "It's never too late for love like yours."

Manon stepped forward, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Okay, so now that we've established you're both idiots who love each other, what are you going to do about it?" She gestured to the live stream.

"The world is watching, and they're waiting."

Lara pulled back from the hug, still holding Y/N close. Their faces were still tear-streaked, but a new light had entered their eyes, a glimmer of hope, a spark of renewed determination.

"We need to talk," Lara said, looking at Y/N. "Really talk. About everything."

"Yes," Y/N agreed, their voice stronger now. "About the schedules, the pressure, how we can make this work without losing ourselves or each other."

Megan clapped her hands together softly. "And we'll help! We'll be your support system. We'll make sure you both take time for yourselves, and for each other. We'll be your secret keepers, your alibis for date nights, whatever you need!"

"We're a team, remember?" Daniela said, her earlier anger completely gone, replaced by genuine warmth.

"We'll figure this out together. KATSEYE is stronger when we're all strong, and that includes your relationship.”

Lara and Y/N turned back to the camera, their hands still clasped, but this time with a renewed tenderness.

The comments section was now a mix of confusion, hope, and rapidly growing excitement. "Are they... are they getting back together?!" "What's happening?!" "My heart can't take this!"

Lara took a deep breath, a genuine smile finally gracing her lips. "Everyone," she began, her voice clear and steady now, "we owe you all an apology. We came here today with very different news."

She glanced at Y/N, who squeezed her hand. "We were going to tell you we were breaking up." Y/N nodded.

"We were. We let the pressures of our lives, and some serious misunderstandings, convince us that it was the only way. We thought we were doing what was best for each other."

"But thanks to these five amazing people," Lara continued, gesturing to Manon, Daniela, Megan, Yoonchae and Sophia, who were now standing proudly behind them, smiling, "we've had a very important realization."

"We realized," Y/N said, their eyes fixed on Lara, "that we're not ready to give up. Not on us. Not on our love."

"We still love each other very much," Lara confessed, her voice filled with raw emotion. "And we're going to fight for it. We're going to work through the challenges, and we're going to find a way to make this relationship thrive, even with our crazy lives."

The comments section exploded. This time, it was with pure joy. "THEY'RE STAYING TOGETHER!" "MY SHIP IS SAILING AGAIN!" "KATSEYE SAVED THE DAY!"

Daniela stepped forward, beaming. "That's right! No breaking up today! Not ever!"

Megan waved to the camera. "We're here to make sure of it! We're the official L/N-Raj relationship guardians!"

Sophia and Yoonchae giggled, a sound of pure happiness. "We just want them to be happy. And they're happiest together." added the youngest.

Manon gave a reassuring smile. "It won't be easy, but nothing truly worthwhile ever is. What matters is that they're committed to each other, and we're committed to supporting them."

Lara and Y/N looked at their bandmates, then back at the camera, their faces glowing with a newfound hope. The heavy silence was gone, replaced by a feeling of lightness, of possibility.

"Thank you," Lara said, her voice thick with gratitude, not just to the fans, but to her bandmates. "Thank you for reminding us what's truly important."

"We promise to be more open, more honest with each other, and with you all," Y/N added. "And we're going to work hard to make this work."

The live stream ended with a flurry of happy comments and a collective sigh of relief from millions of fans worldwide but for Lara and Y/N, the real work was just beginning.

That evening, after the cameras were off and the initial euphoria had settled, the seven members of KATSEYE gathered in the living room of their dorm. The atmosphere was different now – still emotional, but filled with a sense of purpose.

"Okay, so, first things first," Manon began, ever the organizer. "You two need to set aside dedicated time. Even if it's just thirty minutes a day for a video call, or an hour on your one day off. Make it non-negotiable."

"And no more assuming what the other person is thinking," Daniela added, looking pointedly at Lara and Y/N.

"You talk. About everything. The good, the bad, the ugly. If you're feeling neglected, say it. If you're feeling overwhelmed, say it. Don't let things fester."

"We can help with distractions," Megan offered. "If you need a quiet space, we'll run interference. If you need a moment alone, we'll make sure no one bothers you."

Sophia nodded. "And remember to celebrate the small victories. The quick coffee dates, the shared meals, the moments of peace. Those are just as important as the big anniversaries."

Lara and Y/N listened, holding hands, a comfortable silence now settling between them. They knew it wouldn't be a magic fix. The pressures of their careers wouldn't disappear overnight but they had something they hadn't had before: clarity, renewed commitment, and the unwavering support of their family – their KATSEYE sisters.

"We'll do it," Lara said, looking at Y/N, a genuine, hopeful smile on her face. "We'll really do it this time."

Y/N squeezed her hand. "Together."

Their love story wasn't over. It was just entering a new chapter, one where they learned to face the challenges of their lives with open hearts, honest communication, and the friendship that had, quite literally, saved their love. Not today, not ever, would they give up on each other.

a/n: HERE IT IS! I've been proofreading this for a little while. I might proofread it again later just to make sure. To anon who requested this! I hope this lives up to your expectations, I tried my best really, although I tried to approach this in a funny way but felt like you shouldn't joke about a situation like this (bohoo, I would lol). I hope you guys love this! Send your thoughts and requests! Just tap that ask button ;)

[serotonins-stuff]

3 am preggy cravings

Jjk men ° • . • ° •

------------ ------♥︎--------- ----------

♡︎Sypnosis: You wake up in the early hours of the morning craving your favorite snack. Luckily your husband is always there to help you.

♡︎Featuring: Gojo, Toji, nanami, Geto and Choso

♡︎Warnings: none just, fluff and kisses

------ -----------♥︎------------ -------

-----• ° • .-----

Gojo

It was rare for the both of you to be up like this, at three am with Satoru staring at his paperwork in the bedroom.

You told him that you were just going to go to the bathroom, but then a sudden craving for ice cream hit.you like a truck.That's how you found yourself sitting on the kitchen floor, teary eyed as you stared at the freezer vacant of any sweet treat.

This was probably the most heartbreaking thing you've experienced this week. Tears turned into sniffles which then led to soft whimpers, and not long after your despair you heard footsteps approaching the kitchen.

He was worried out of his mind that something might've happened to you, but he was confused when he could not sense any kind of threatening aura.

"Baby?"

His laid eyes of your slumped figure and jumped into action, craddling your trembling figure in his warm arms.

"Hey" he cooed, wiping your tears away and lifting your chin up to look at him. You were in perfectly good shape, so if he had to take a guess, he'd say it has to be some sort of pregnancy thing. "What's wrong sweets?“

"Toru" you wailed, wrapping your arms around his neck. He could feel goosebumps rise on his skin from the contact of your chilled flesh. The freezer was open, displaying the broad selection of different meats.

"You wanna cook?" He asked and you shook your head. He pondered for a bit, a hand rubbing your back soothingly while you cuddled up into him.

"Were you feelin cold?"

You shook your head, causing him to run a nervous hand through his white locks. He looked at you with a soft smile on his face.

"Sweetheart I can't help if you don't tell me what's wrong"

You felt stupid for what you were about to say. Adamantly so, you didn't think you'd be able to go to sleep without having the cool taste of your favorite ice cream clouding your senses. The tears wounlnt stop coming out and you cursed yourself internally for behaving like this.

"I'm cra-craving ice-cream" you hicupped, letting all the tears flow onto Satorus shirt.

He didn't seem to mind, he was actually relieved because he thought something mighve actually been wrong.

"Okay, c'mon" he cooed, rubbing nice.and tender circles on your big belly. "I can't have my sweet girl cryin on the floor"

"I didn't want t-to bother y-"

"Shhhhh" he whispered, before placing a gentle kiss on your lips. "Don't worry about stuff like that, I'll go get your ice cream ok?"

You nodded, before lifting your hand to shut the freezer. Still sitting pretty in your husbands arms. He stayed with you until you hand calmed down, making sure to give you all the cuddles, kisses and love you needed before lifting you up effortlessly and plopping you onto the bed.

Like a man on a mission he grabbed his keys on the counter and went to the store. It didn't even take him more than ten minutes before he was back home, a bag of ice cream tubs in hand.

He put some in the fridge and took one for you, strolling up to the bedroom with two spoons in hand.

There you were sound asleep on your side, mouth slightly agape as soft snores poured from your lips. Satoru couldn't help but smile softly to himself, walking over to his side and giving you a soft kiss on the forehead.

His head then trailed down to your big bump and he stared at it lovingly. "Whatcha doin to your momma huh?" He asked before chuckling to himself. As the mother of his child he could never ask for more than this. You were perfect, even when you have him running to the store to buy ice cream at three am.

"Damn this tastes good" he hummed, devouring the contents of the ice cream tub next to your sleeping figure.

Nanami

Even if you had wanted to sneak into the pantry, Nanamis death grip on you didn't give you the chance. Whenever you moved he furrowed his brows before snuggling his face where it had grown comfortable in the crook of your neck.

You couldn't help but crave your favorite flavor of ice cream, which had somehow ran out a week ago.

You wouldn't be able to go to the store and buy it because Kento would never let you lay a hand on store bought food. He makes everything from scratch, just for you with the freshest ingredients in the house. The store bought one didn't even come close to being as good as his, which takes a few hours to make. It would probably be bothersome to tell him you wanted some at this time of the hour.

You shifted uncomfortably, rubbing your husbands callused knuckles which pulled your chest close to his. This was painful, having to endure such a craving that only the sleeping man next to you could provide.

You sighed once more before shuffling in his arms, and finally you heard him shuffle in response.

"Hm?" He hummed "What's wrong love?"

His voice was raspy and you couldn't help but feel guilty at the fact that you had just some him from his peaceful slumber.

"Uh well" you paused, tapping on his hands nervously. "Nothing, it's not important"

His hands traveled down to your stomach and settled there comfortably "It's important if it has you unable to sleep at this hour"

"Are you and the baby alright?" He said sleepily into the crook of your neck.

"Yeah we're fine I just- well- randomly started craving ice cream?"

He let out a sigh of relieve, before reaching over to the nightstand on his side and flicking the lamp on.

You were confused right now, more so distraught that your personal heater had just decided to get up and stumble out of the door without a word.

In the distance you heard the fridge open and the clinking of cutlery before his footsteps returned. His hair was messy, and he was stumbling over his feet, cursing internally at the random objects on the ground.

Despite being so disorientated after waking up, he still got up with no questions, fully determined on getting you what you wanted.

You never thought you'd start tearing up at the sight of your adorable husband, shirtless with a tub of ice cream in his hand, helping you sit up by putting pillows beind your back.

"You're so sweet Ken" you cooed, opening the tub to gawk at its delicious contents "When did you even make this?"

"I made sure to stock up on all your favorite craving snacks, just in case"

He didn't want to fall asleep until you were satisfied with your fill, and when you were he gladly pulled you back into his arms

His hand was on your cheek and he wiped of any residue left of the ice cream, tilting your face to look at him in the process.

"Don't be so hesitant to ask me next time"

"Even if its 2am in the morning?"

"Whether it is am or pm does not concern me, I will wake up at any time if it means making the mother of my child happy ok?"

Toji

His legs were tangled with yours, his big strong hands wrapped around your body almost like a shield.

It would be quite impossible to get up without waking him up, which was the last thing you wanted. His instincts were on point, meaning he'd catch you instantly if you so much as inhaled too hard.

You sighed, and immediately regretted it when you felt him shift.

"Somethin wrong?" He rasped, the sound of his voice reverberating against your ear.

"I just need to get up" you groaned, trying to pry his arm off of you. It was no use being sneaky now that he was awake.

You could feel him look at you with a raised brow, not moving an inch from your prying hands. You thought he'd be annoyed with you till his chest shook with laughter. "Sit your pregnant ass down"

You deadpanned which only seemed to made him more amused. Swiftly he hooked his arms under you and carfied you princess style, giving you no time at all to retaliate.

You could already hear the cheekiness in his voice when he looked down at your cute form. "Where to?"

Of course he wasn't going to let you go there by yourself, not after the last time you tripped.

"The kitchen please"

He carried you with such ease even though you had another human being literally growing in your tummy. The ride wasn't bumpy at all, and you could barely feel a thing as he maneuvered you through the house. In the dark may you add.

You felt the coolness of the kitchen against your skin and shivered slightly.

"You can put me down now Toji" you mumbled into his chest. Hesitantly he put you on your feet and watched intently as you waddled over the the freezer and pulled out a tub of ice cream.

His heart warmed at the sight of you disheveled hair and growing belly. It was moments like these were he admired you the most, where you just happily lived your life next to him.

You were looking around for a spoon, but stopped when you saw two of them shining in your husbands hands.

He was looking at you with that face again, the one of admiration were he studied you closely. Shyly, you looked away from him and he laughed before switching the lights off and pulling you into his arms again.

Soon you were seated cross legged in front of him while he fed you ice cream. Occasionally he'd kiss the spots where the dessert would get smudged on your face. He was giving you the prinsess treatment you deserved and he could've never asked for anything more.

"You're so pretty y'know that?" he questioned genuinely, before eating a spoonful of ice cream "Carrying our kid n'all"

This time he was the one with a smidge of ice cream on the corner of his mouth. Mischievioudly you pulled his face close to yours and swiftly licked it off, leaving him shook in his place.

"It's all thank to you for taking such good care of me" you smiled.

"Nuh uh" he wagged his finger, "It's what I'm supposed to do- yer the one who's doing all the growing"

Your heart melted from his statement and you pulled his fave down to kiss the ice cream that was smudged onto his cheek.

"You're too sweet Toji" you said with a smile, and you swear you could see the slight pink tinge of his cheeks.

Choso

His insomniac ass was getting not a single wink of sleep, especially after his most recent mission.

You thought you had successfully snuck off to the pantry to get yourself some snacks. Until you heard crunching behind you nd you flinched.

"You scared me" you whispered, clutching your hand to your chest. His eyes stared at your figure which was trying to reach a box at the top of he shelf. You huffed in annoyance when your fingers touched the box, moving it further away from where you wanted it.

You were about to get a stepping stool before the warm figure of your husband clouded behind you. The smell of the sweets he was eating lingering from his face. He reached up with ease, and brought the box of snacks down for you.

You plopped down onto the couch before switching the tv. You opened your arms to offer your husband cuddles, considering he was following toy around like a lost puppy.

You laid on your back ond he lay on your stomach, occasionally giving your grown belly a kiss and rubs of affection. You stayed like this for a while, just letting the time pass with Choso in your arms, his head resting on your stomach.

He felt a kick and his eyes widened. "Looks like someones a bit feisty huh?"

He then stares up at your sleeping figure, mouth agape and packet of chips in hand as you snored away.

"Just like your mama"

Geto

"Sweetheart" he sighed next to you, rubbing your back as you stood in the pantry. Frustrated to find that the food you were craving was no here to be found.

Geto was kind enough to help you in your search. He didn't get mad when you just stood there with tears staining your eyes and his tshirt.

You huffed into his chest, melting into his strong arms wrapped around your trembling figure. They were warm and welcoming, on top of that he also smelled good and you couldn't help but feel safe listening to the thump of his heart.

"C'mon" he cooed, before pulling away to wipe the tears on your face. "I'll go get it for you yeah?"

"But it's three in the morning"

Nothing was cuter than your tear stained face, pouting at him right now. The urge to squish your cheeks took over and his fingers were on either side of your face. He brought your face closer to his and planted a nice plump kiss on your puckered lips.

"If you're hungry, then that doesn't matter" he smiled, his hand traveling down to your very noticable bump. "As long as you're happy then it's fine, plus the little one's doing quite the number on you anyway- so you need all the food you can get"

You pulled him into a sudden embrace and he chuckled. "Thanks Sugu"

"Anytime baby"

His plan was to quickly get in the car to get your food, then come back. Though that changed slightly when he heard your light footsteps follow him into the garage.

It was far too late for you to be up and about right now, but he didn't have the guts to tell you to , because that would only add to your sadness.

He opened the door for you, held your hand to help you in and even reached over to click your seatbelt into place.

He closed your door and hoped in on his side, connecting the aux cable to his phone to play music that usually calms you down.

He observed your cute figure as you softly let your hand caress your belly. Staring at your bump with nothing but adoration.

"The food I'm craving is bit far from here" you shuffled "Is that ok?"

He chuckled softly and put the car in gear "I'll take you wherever you wanna go"

----- • ° • .•°•. -----

End

[cece693]

Where's The Trust? Pt. 2

pairing: bucky barnes x male reader tags: steve really is an asshole, bucky trying to gain forgiveness, you are bitter as fuck, the avengers are conflicted, Tony taking matters into their own hands, good bro Tony, was gonna end it here but a reconciliation is in order, part 3 if wanted

It had been weeks since that horrible confrontation—weeks since you’d walked out on Bucky, burning with betrayal and heartbreak. And in that time, your anger had crystallized into a cold, vicious wall that no one—least of all Bucky—could penetrate.

Bucky tried. God, did he try. He sought you out in every corridor of the Avengers Compound, cornering you near the training gym, waiting for you outside the labs, even tentatively stopping by your quarters. But no matter how or where he approached, you shut him down with biting words or frosty glares. Sometimes you wouldn’t even look at him; you’d just shoulder past, exuding the kind of scorn that made everyone around you flinch.

You became, in Tony’s words, “the biggest asshole known to man.” Normally affable and considerate, you were now short-tempered, dismissive, and cold as ice. You brushed off team bonding sessions, training spars, even the usual group movie nights if he or Steve were in attendance. The rest of the team was confused, to say the least. After all, you and Bucky had been the golden couple—two people whose trust and loyalty seemed unshakeable. Now, you were outright hostile, and Bucky looked like a hollow shell of the man they once knew. No one knew the details of what went wrong; no one dared pry into the tinderbox of your anger.

Steve, in the meantime, tried to exploit the widening chasm between you and Bucky. “You need to move on,” he murmured one day in the gym, while Bucky had been pounding at the super-soldier-enforced punching bags, trying—and failing—to vent his frustration in a healthier way. “They’re never going to forgive you, Buck. Maybe it’s time you—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Bucky snapped, punching the bag off the chain and sending it skittering across the room. Sweat dripped down his face, but his eyes blazed colder than ice.

“I’m just saying,” Steve continued, stepping closer, “maybe we can find comfort in each oth—”

Bucky nearly flew at him, fists clenched. “Comfort?” he snarled, voice trembling with rage. “Don’t you dare talk to me about comfort, you self-serving bastard. You think you can just swoop in when I’m at my lowest and pick up the pieces? You destroyed everything!” His voice echoed off the empty gym walls, making Steve flinch. The blonde raised both hands, palms out, but Bucky didn’t let him speak again.

“You ruined my life—my relationship—so you could chase some pathetic fantasy that we were meant to be. Let me spell it out for you, Rogers: I don't love you nor do I want anything to do with you. Whatever we had is gone, dead. You come near me with that bullshit again, and I swear I’ll make you regret it.” A tense silence fell. Steve swallowed hard, eyes flicking with hurt, but Bucky stormed off before he could respond. From that moment on, any semblance of friendship between them was shattered.

The tension rose within the team so much that it was Tony—yes, the man who normally avoided confrontation like the plague—who finally mustered the nerve to corner you about what happened with Barnes. He cornered you in one of the compound’s smaller lounges, a glass-walled room where you wouldn’t have an easy escape route. You glowered at him the moment he closed the door, already anticipating the lecture you didn’t want.

“Look,” Tony said, raising both hands in mock surrender, “I get it—you’re in a Bad Mood with capital letters. Usually, I’d say that’s none of my business, but this is starting to affect mission readiness. And that is my business. So talk.”

You folded your arms, lips pressed in a tight line. “There’s nothing to say, Tony.”

“Right. Because you and your ex–mister perfect soldier just decided to stop talking and run around with matching doom-and-gloom expressions for fun.” Tony snorted, crossing his arms in return. “Come on, I’m not asking for graphic details. Just enough to, you know, keep the team from imploding. And—” He hesitated, then added more softly, “I’m worried about you.”

Your chest tightened. You hadn’t heard that tone from him in a while—an undercurrent of genuine concern rather than sarcastic deflection. It reminded you, painfully, that once upon a time you and Tony had been…well, something. Not precisely soulmates, but definitely more than friends. A messy tangle of mutual respect, attraction, and comfort that had eventually fizzled out amicably. And while your heart now belonged to Bucky (or did, anyway), you still had a lingering fondness for Tony that was tough to ignore.

You exhaled a shaky breath, your anger and sorrow warring behind your eyes. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine.”

His eyebrows lifted, and he gave a half-laugh. “Yeah, sure. And I’m the poster boy for healthy coping mechanisms.” Then his expression sobered. “(Y/N), please. Level with me. Something major happened, and if it keeps escalating, it’s not just you and Bucky who’ll suffer—it could jeopardize missions, our safety…everything.”

You closed your eyes. For a moment, your lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. You were so damn tired—tired of carrying all this anger, tired of everyone tiptoeing around you, tired of Bucky’s hollow stares. Part of you wanted to hold everything in. Another part was on the verge of bursting. And Tony…Tony was the one person who might actually understand. Hell, he’d seen you at your worst and never once thrown it back in your face.

Your eyes snapped open, and you found yourself speaking before you could lose your nerve. “He lied, Tony. Bucky lied to me. We were serious, and he never bothered to tell me about him and Steve. They used to…be together. And then I caught them kissing. I—” Your voice cracked, and you had to breathe through the sudden surge of raw pain. “I don’t know who started it. Bucky swears it was Steve, but I— I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Tony’s face flickered with surprise, quickly followed by something like sympathy. “Steve and Bucky…” he muttered, rubbing his chin. “Wow, okay. That’s a new one for me.”

You snorted, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Yeah, well, apparently it wasn’t new for them. They’d had some fling back in the day, never told me, and now I’m the idiot left wondering if he ever really gave it up, or if I was just—just some stand-in.”

You could feel the tears welling up, which only made your anger twist into something more acidic. Dammit, you hated crying in front of others, especially Tony. But the betrayal still burned, and it wasn’t going away. Tony watched you carefully. “Hey,” he said softly, shifting closer. “You can be mad, y’know. You can feel every bit of this. You’re not wrong for it.”

His words—simple validation—threatened to break the floodgates. Despite the resentment swirling in your gut, you felt a small pocket of relief that he hadn’t brushed you off or told you to “get over it.” In fact, he looked unexpectedly sympathetic. “Doesn’t make it hurt any less,” you muttered, wiping angrily at your eyes.

“No,” Tony agreed, “it doesn’t. But sometimes we need the hurt. We need to acknowledge it before it can heal—or before we can figure out if it’s even worth healing.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Trust me, I know a thing or two about screwing up relationships.”

A tired laugh escaped you. “I remember.”

“Har har.” He rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not defending Barnes’ secrecy—dumb move on his part, no question. But from what I’ve seen, the guy worships the ground you walk on. He’s miserable without you.”

“Well, he should’ve thought about that before he lied to me.” Your voice wavered between fury and sorrow. “I can’t just pretend everything’s okay.”

"And you shouldn't, (Y/N), but if there's one thing I know is that love is tougher than the shit we throw at it. If you're still this mad at him, it means a part of you still cares because if you didn't, you'd be indifferent. Anger is a sign there's something worth being angry over, you know?"

You stared at him, that sentiment rocking through you. You’d been so caught up in the betrayal, you hadn’t stopped to think about what your anger truly meant. If you truly wanted Bucky out of your life, why did the mere thought of him push your heart into overdrive?

“God, I hate that you’re making sense,” you mumbled, sniffing.

Tony quirked a small smile. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a rep to maintain.”

You barked a watery laugh, your shoulders sagging. The relief of finally talking to someone—really talking—felt like a weight lifting, even if just a little. “So what now?” you asked, voice quiet. “I can’t just snap my fingers and fix this. Every time I see him, I remember— remember them together.”

He nodded. “I hear you. I’m not saying you have to forgive him tomorrow. But maybe give yourself some breathing room. Let the anger settle a bit. Once the rage isn’t so blinding, maybe you can see if there’s anything to salvage—any explanation that doesn’t make you want to throttle him.” He paused, then added wryly, “And, well, if you can’t salvage it, at least you’ll know you tried.”

A weighted silence lingered. You exhaled slowly, struggling to keep your emotions in check. Finally, you lifted your gaze to Tony’s, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “When did you become the voice of reason?”

He patted your shoulder. “Probably around the time I decided I actually give a damn about the people on this team. Don’t spread it around.” Despite yourself, you laughed again—hoarsely, but genuinely. It was the first time in weeks you’d felt anything close to lightness. Tony gave you a half-smile, pressing a small handkerchief into your hand. You recognized it as one of his showier accessories, printed with tiny Iron Man helmets.

“Here,” he said. “Use it to dab away those tears before someone catches on that you still have a heart.”

You rolled your eyes but accepted it gratefully, wiping the dampness from your cheeks. “Thanks, Tony,” you murmured. “For listening. For everything.”

He shrugged in that trademark Stark way—casual but genuine. “Anytime, (Y/N). Just don’t go ballistic on me if I try to get you two in the same room. I’m not saying I will, but, you know…hypotheticals.”

You shot him a half-hearted glare, tempered by a ghost of a smile. “Don’t push your luck.”

He grinned. “Noted.”

With that, he opened the lounge door, allowing you to slip back into the compound’s corridors. But somehow, the air felt a fraction less suffocating—and for the first time in weeks, you dared to consider the possibility that, maybe, healing wasn’t entirely off the table.

[timeslipcamp]

thoughts on episode 17

i've got my coffee i'm at work i am LOCKED IN reading this. i am SO READY for this love island episode yall have no idea

liveblogging as i read it let's go!! 🌹

spoilers for episode 17

so last we left off, sinostra was declaring war on hyde for the maybe maybe not fake warding card, and romeo had just told us that we didn't hear anything before the screen faded to black. we're getting INTO IT now!!!

benkei dropping secrets immediately is so fucking funny. staff shortages and confused that elias is working. so he might not be a janitor, great! great!!

(also first thought about the anomaly involved is its gonna be a shapeshifter or doppelganger type deal, which would be SO funny. not only do we have to date these dudes but now we have to figure out which ones the real one. how funny would that BE)

the fox escaping???? oh my god so it IS smart!!

god if i don't finally get some more background info this chapter i'm gonna scream.

THE PRODUCERS PICKED THESE GHOULS???? okay that makes a little i guess, because no one in their right minds would have picked this group. i still cannot believe the fucking line up we have this is so funny. also the fact that they had to BRIBE THEM

also the way the chancellor said "can you imagine" when he was telling us how much information worldwide they could get? why haven't they already? why are you holding it over our heads? why do we have to prove ourselves to be saved? god i hate the institute.

love/hate relationship with whatever this implies. definitely doing a deep dive into that later unless someone beats me to it

this dude is killing me hahahaha LOVE these designs. i'm already having a fucking blast with this episode and i haven't even seen a single ghoul yet. this might be my new fav episode

the lil fireworks animation was actually so cute. my girl deserves an island vacation let her relax. also love the aphrodite shoutout, this game looooves their greek mythology huh

the bachelors being described as irresistible and the creme de la creme is sending me through the ROOF thinking about who the line up is. does this mean that these 6 are the hottest canonically? or just the hottest according to KP? i want jiro's reaction to being chosen SO BAD

THEY CHANGED HIS HAIR???????? oh im not surviving this chapter i cant read this at work

"No way I'm letting those other guys anywhere near her. I'm in this for real."

YEAH I BET YOU ARE RUI

jiro please 😭 "I'm a doctor by day, model by night," actually made me choke while leaving this voicemail im fucking dying I CANT DO THIS "she seemed fine" IM CRYING

HARU AS A SINGLE FATHER STOP HAHAHA

jin not saying anything and ren is such a DICK god this is the best episode i don't even care about the plot anymore this is the best episode ive ever read

BIG FAN OF ENEMIES TO LOVERS???? MC PLEASE HAHAHAHA

not the chancellor bribing them all to be here bro 😭 what did they bribe jin with 👀

ren with the ocean lovers name....a surfer....from shonan....its all coming together

dude who am i even kidding i'm gonna end up in love with rui. these antics on the show are so funny. i am OBSESSED with the interviews i think we need these on regular missions too. jiro continues to be the funniest ghoul at this school

also ed just like??? describing his current life as his ideal one?? "I suppose I'd want to build a small cottage in the woods and live there quietly with my spouse. It might be nice to have a big dog, too. A loyal and obedient one."

like ed that is quite literally where you are now

A WOMAN IN WHITE?? LA LLORONA??? oh PLEASE give me a good woman in white haunting those tales are ALWAYS heartbreaking. (for those unaware, a 'woman in white' legend are urban legends that pop up quite literally all over the world in a hundred different forms. typically they're a woman, either in a wedding dress, a white dress, or funeral dress. they're women who died of heartbreak, suicide, etc and come back because their pain keeps them here. a lot of ones involve a lover either leaving them or dying, killing their children, the themes go on, but the vibe that i'm getting based on the blood and the wedding dress from this one is that she found love on the island that turned out to be a lie and now only those who prove their love is true can leave)

it being the old producer is so fun i'm so locked in lets go

also love that ed called haru the tamer...an interesting moniker i like it

this is so interesting listening to this group talk. we've got what, four third years, a super intelligent second, and a first year? so it's a pretty seasoned group. kinda makes me think ren's gonna pull a cool move at the end and prove he can match with them. this is such a fun group i'm so excited

FINALLY a couple more bits of info about the clash!! jiro woke up right before, frostheim was sympathizers, obscuary was neutral, and mortkranken was dissidents. love jins silence after jiro mentioned yuri still hates frostheim. UGH i need the jinyuri backstory soooo bad im gonna lose my mind when it happens

haru fucking dodging around the screen is so funny. they really didnt have to have his sprite zip around from side to side but they DID and i LOVE IT paintball is so funny thank god taiga isnt here

HOW DARE YOU FUCKING INTERRUPT THAT PART

darkwick planting the kyklos??? or darkwick has a secret in on a liminal space??? HELLO ED WHERE ON EARTH oh im so mad we were interrupted

shoutout to whoever posted about kisaragi station last week that was a fun thing to notice right before this episode lol

i am actually suddenly very on board that jin is aware he is being used and that's part of why he hasn't done anything this year. that would also be a huge reason for tohma, a former vagastrom ghoul, to transfer and then start investigating. he can play the good sympathizer flipper and use his new connections to find out what darkwick is up to. did darkwick send the kyklos there? do they have a mole in kisaragi station? does haku's vaguely implied teleporting powers allow him to see into liminal spaces? ugh i need to know. cool that they're bringing up barrier stuff given that the kyklos transported us somewhere

okay what the fuck is the vessel shit. rui what do you mean this vessel isnt worth it. why does ed want you? what??? god these episode cuts are going to drive me INSANE. "saving my life force for you" ed please

ren expertly avoided being on the beach though lmao good for him

top ten moment with the crabs and dr jiro god i love him

THE BRACELET TO PROTECT HER FROM EVIL EXPLODING WHEN ED TOUCHES HER HAHAHAHA IM FUCKING LOSING IT

funniest panel yet this episode. ed in the cuck chair in hotel rooms confirmed

ooo ed lore! romania technically has a part that borders the sea, and that's where a lot of "classic" vampire tales stem from. would love if they really went the vlad the impaler route or something, but he lived in the 15th century, so slightly too long ago. or not! ed only said older than 400, so if he's off by 200 years 😂

i'm loving ren and jiro interacting dude. never in a million years would i have paired them together but now i need them hanging out 24/7

dude rui really doesn't think he's ever going to leave the school, does he? his talk with haru was brief and he didn't say much but it just felt kinda...defeated. i don't think he thinks he'll ever be cured. rui baby :(

rui listens to BALLADS he would oh my god emo boy. also jiro asking jin if he wants to play piano :((( jiro baby pleaseITS ZENJIS BIRTHDAY???? oh im gonna throw up whyyyy

its a woman scooooooorned WOMAN IN WHITE LEGEND LIVES thats fucked up though fuck that guy. you can do better maya

"rugged guys" ed is so funny dude i can't do this

dude why did they give everyone these glamor shots and then haru is over here sweating and fighting for his life--

nvm im into it

ANOTHER REN STIGMA MOMENT he can use it to boil water??? okay so we've got ink removal and boiling water....can he like alter liquids somehow? control them?

ED IS ALLERGIC TO GARLIC HAHAHAHA

wait why was rens confession so cute 😭 dude thats the first nice thing AW REN yes we can keep hanging out!!! ren stans stay winning this episode

these are all so sweet lmao i love this episode so much dude it's so good. "i guess it's over now" rui stop making me CRY! jin...i hate to say that worked. im so annoyed lmao

NOT JIN INTERRUPTING THE CHOICE HAHAHA thats soooo funny. he's so dramatic dude. he didnt want to hear who we were picking

YURI CALLING JIRO TO CHECK ON HIM and us THATS HIS MANS

ooooo okay having someone from the institute undercover on the island with us 👀 hate that actually. jin didn't seem too happy about that either. was he there to watch us or the anomaly? what did he hear?

BENKEI WAS THE OLD CLEMENTIA ADVISOR?????

oh my god okay let me get my thoughts in order

okay first of all, the protection charm from benkei and then he's from clementia is fascinating. makes sense why he and nicolas are friends now. nice that they were able to find him a job after but i STILL dont trust elias. at all lmao especially with what benny said earlier.

this anomaly got solved annoyingly quickly but i do love that jin let it drag out thats funny as hell. this was such a funny episode. got a few clash hints and a zenji mention and a small reveal at the end. lot super lore heavy but thats FINE i guess. mc still has two months, hopefully we make some headway with her next mission.

hotarubi and a festival! here we come!

[catnipaddictt]

Clay surviving and finding the love of his life?

clay beresford x reader

wc: 1k

cw: fluff, kissing, spoliers for Awake (2007)

comment: I love love love Clay, so thank you anon <3

Clay was absolutely smitten. After his ordeal during his heart surgery a lot had changed for him. One of those being you. He never thought that he would be capable of love again. Sam’s betrayal made him doubt himself everyday and showed him the lengths people would go to in order to have access to his fortune.

He met you sometime after his surgery, but was still apprehensive about letting you into his life. Slowly but surely, over time he began to open up to you. He told you about his childhood, his mother, and eventually what happened during his heart transplant. 

You were patient with him, something he valued in you. You let him speak and always listened so intently to what he had to say. 

When he realized he was developing feelings towards you he was conflicted and confused. He truly thought he wouldn't be able to produce these kinds of emotions again. Clay wanted to trust you, he knew he could, but he couldn't shake the memory of Sam and the plot against him.

It took time for him to figure out what he was going to do about his attraction towards you. He wanted you but at the same time his brain told him it was a bad idea. That getting caught up in romance would lead to heartbreak and more devastation.

You however fell head over heels for Clay. He was passionate and spoke in a way that made you feel as if he was taking in every breath you took. You didn't want to scare him off so you pushed those feelings down to the deepest pit of your very being. You couldn't bear to ruin your friendship with the blonde.

After weeks of debate with himself, Clay came to his decision. During one of your weekly sit downs at a cozy corner cafe, he took your hand in his. 

Looking across at him, you felt the warmth of his skin against your palm. You prayed he didn't notice the heat rising on your cheeks or the shaking of your hands. His soft blue eyes looked into yours as his thumb gently ran across the back of your hand.

As he spoke, he looked softly at you, eyes never leaving yours. He told you about how he had come to see you more than just a friend, but that he was confused with himself. Although you would never be able to understand the extent to which he was affected by Sam, you knew that this was hard for him.

After he had admitted his feelings towards you, you were left slightly stunned. Clay Beresford really liked you? You felt like a schoolgirl who just found out that their crush liked them. Breaking the pause in conversation, you let out a grin so big Clay thought he could have another heart attack from the slight. 

He was surprised as you told him you felt the same about him. He couldn't believe that sweet little you thought of him the same way he did you. 

You both took things slow in the beginning. You knew that Clay still suffered with internal doubt about your relationship, so you made it your mission to show him how much you truly cared about him.

As time went on, he realized that this was real, and that you weren't faking your feelings to get his credit card number. Once he came to this conclusion he felt more like himself than he had in a long time.

Holding hands while on a walk turned into peaks on the lips and eventually, you staying the night at his luxurious home. It felt so right for the both of you. 

You fell into a steady rhythm with each other. The pair of you were obsessed with each other, seeing the other was the highlight of your day. Clay was thankful for your understanding when it came to his past. And you were delighted to try and help him through this. 

Many months went by, and it was safe to say that you both were well and truly in love with each other. The first time you said those three words to each other was a calm Saturday afternoon. The sun shine illuminated Clay as you strolled through the public gardens. The autumn leaves fell around the two of you as you walked hand in hand across the grass. 

The leaves that littered the ground were still damp with that morning's dew causing you to tread carefully. Unluckily for you, you stepped down without looking into a particular slippery leaf. Before you know it you were sliding onto the ground, directly into a pile of leaves probably left by some children. Clay's hand was lost from yours as you landed in the pile, causing a laugh from him.

Before you knew it you were both laughing at your clumsiness and he was reaching out his hand to help you back up. Seeing your chance you took his hand only to pull him down into the leaves with you. As he toppled towards you he let out a noise of surprise before landing beside you. 

You laughed as he turned over, lying in the leaves on his back. You followed suit, lying down next to him as the sun hit you through the barren branches of the trees above. 

You sense his head turn to face you, his eyes looking into you. Turning your body to face him you smile at his now messy hair, leaves stuck in it. You pluck out a few golden ones, moving his hair around softly 

“I love you” he says abruptly, your eyes locking on each other. You break out into a smile which fills Clay with butterflies. “I love you too Clay.”

His eyes shine at your words as he pulls you closer to him, leaves sticking to the both of you. He places a sweet kiss on your lips, which you return swiftly. Pulling away you laugh at all the leaves still stuck in his locks. 

“You look nice like this” you say to which he lets out a laugh that is so very him. “You always look nice sweetheart, even if you are covered in leaves” he replies smoothly before sitting up and getting to his feet. This time you let him pull you to your feet before your hand is in his again.

You felt like the luckiest person alive and you could bet that Clay felt the same.

Let me know if there are any errors or if you want to be added to the taglist!

Taglist: @heartsforanakin @qvnthesia @ysrjune

[littleredgun]

Kiss of Guilt.

Jason Todd x f!reader.

That was me losing it.

Minors DNI! 18+, GIF not mine, credit to the owners.

Warnings: mentions of death, use of Y/N, kissing, grinding, light smut, self-loathing, mention of blood, crying, in love Jay (he's a warning).

(I think that's it, if not lemme know)

Word Count: 2229

Rain lashes against the windows. The room is dim, lit only by flickering monitors and the low buzz of failing neon from outside. Y/N paces like a caged animal, soaked to the skin, trembling with rage. Jason stands near the door, silent, his mask tossed aside. She's practically screaming at him. “We were right there, Jason! She was begging us—god, she looked at me like I could save her!”  “I know—”

“No, you don’t! You hesitated. You froze. That split second—that was all it took. And now she’s—” Her voice cracks, but she doesn’t stop. She won’t give him the space to apologise. “She’s dead. Because you didn’t trust me. Because you didn’t move when I said to. What the hell were you thinking?” He’s quiet. Eyes trained on the stone at his feet. “I was thinking about you.” That hits her like a punch, but she doesn’t back down. Her voice drops, bitter. “Don’t you dare put this on me.”

“I’m not. I’m telling you the truth. You were in the line of fire and I—fuck, Y/N, I panicked. I didn’t want to lose you too.”. Her voice trembles..cold.. “So you chose me over the mission? Over her life?”

“I chose not to watch you die! Is that a crime now?” He snaps, his voice a low rumble. They’re inches apart now. Her breath is shallow, furious. His jaw is clenched, chest heaving. “You don’t get to play the hero in this. You screwed up, Jason. You let your fear decide for you. And someone paid the price”.  He moves toward her. She doesn’t back down, but her voice breaks again. “She’s dead, and you’re standing there looking at me like I’m the one falling apart.” Jason grabs her arms, firm but not rough. He’s shaking too. Eyes locked.

“Because you are. And so am I.” And then he kisses her. It’s not soft or sweet—it’s desperate, full of guilt and fury and years of things left unsaid. She resists for half a second, fists clenched against his chest… then she’s kissing him back like she wants to hurt him with it. When they finally break apart, both gasping, she presses her forehead to his, whispering— “We’re not okay.”. 

“I know”. There's a beat. “But I still can’t lose you, Jay”. And that, more than anything, terrifies them both. Her lips are still tingling. Her hands are still balled into fists against his chest. The echo of it — the heat, the anger, the ache — is still crackling in the air between them like a live wire. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You’ve never done that before.” Jason doesn’t move. His jaw tightens like he’s preparing for her to hit him.

“You’ve never kissed me. Not even after everything. Not even after the nights we came back bloody and half-dead, not after the stakeouts where you fell asleep on my shoulder, not even when I thought maybe—maybe you wanted to.” She backs up half a step like she’s trying to get air, but she’s shaking too hard to breathe steadily. “And now? Now you kiss me? In the middle of a fight? While I’m screaming at you for getting someone killed?” Her voice cracks, her hands drop to her sides, defeated but not quiet. “What the hell was that, Jason?”

He finally looks at her. Eyes dark, torn, burning with everything he doesn’t say out loud. “That was me losing it.” There’s another beat. “That was me choosing you and hating myself for it. That was… everything I’ve been trying to hold back for years, Y/N.” She stares at him, and it’s not just anger anymore. It’s confusion. It’s heartbreak. It’s the terrifying realisation that he meant it. “You don’t get to throw that at me like a grenade and expect me not to shatter.” He steps toward her, slow, careful. Still so close. Voice low. “Then tell me what to do. I’ll take it. All of it. Your anger, your guilt. Whatever you need to throw at me. Just… don’t shut me out.”

She exhales sharply, a mix of a laugh and a sob. Eyes glassy, fists clenched again — this time not to fight, but to keep from falling apart. “I don’t know if I want to hit you or kiss you again.” He smiles, sad and a little crooked. “Story of my life.” There’s silence. Thick, fragile silence.

Y/N’s breathing is still uneven, chest rising and falling like she just ran a marathon. Jason hasn’t moved — not much. Just watching her like she might bolt. Like he’s already bracing for the fallout. But then she steps closer. Not angry this time. Not yelling. Just… searching. Like she’s trying to read him in the lines of his face, in the flicker of guilt behind his eyes.

And then she kisses him. Slow. Like she’s testing it. Like she’s memorising the shape of his mouth, the warmth of him, the truth behind the chaos. Her hands slide up his chest, curling into the collar of his jacket, grounding herself. Maybe grounding them both.

Jason groans softly against her lips, like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally remembered how to breathe. His hands find her hips without hesitation, rough palms curling around her like he’s scared she’ll disappear. And then he’s guiding her backwards, step by step, until her back bumps gently against the wall. His body follows, slotting into hers, but the kiss doesn’t deepen into frenzy. Not yet. Because there’s reverence in it now. Desperation, sure — the kind that builds up after years of pretending they didn’t feel what they felt — but it’s laced with something almost tender.

Her fingers drag up the back of his neck, threading into his hair. His thumbs press into the soft dip of her waist, and his lips move over hers like he’s trying to say everything he never dared. When they finally break apart, breathless, foreheads pressed together, she murmurs, soft and low, like the bubble will pop. “That was different,” Jason exhales a half-laugh, half-sigh, “Yeah, this time you kissed me back.”

There’s a flicker of light between them — maybe from a streetlamp outside, maybe just the way his eyes catch hers — but it glows, brief and golden, like something sacred. Y/N’s fingers move before her thoughts catch up. She cups his face, thumbs brushing gently over the stubble on his cheeks, grounding him in her touch. Her back presses deeper into the wall, and he follows, instinctively closing the space between them again, his body moulding to hers like gravity’s got nothing on this. Their breaths mix, slow and shallow. His hands tighten just slightly at her waist, but he doesn’t rush. Doesn’t move. He’s waiting for her, for the answer, for what comes next.

“What does this mean?”, its soft, quiet. Jason’s eyes flutter closed for a second, like the question cracks something open in him. When he looks at her again, there’s no mask. Just him — raw, real, and maybe a little scared. “It means I can’t pretend anymore. It means I’m done lying to myself every time you smile at me like I’m worth something.” Her breath catches, but her hands don’t stop stroking his jaw, slow and comforting. 

He’s quieter now. “It means… I’ve wanted this. You. For longer than I’ll ever admit.” Y/N leans in, brushing her nose against his, their foreheads touching again. Her lips are only a breath away. “Then don't - just kiss me.” He does. No hesitation this time — just his mouth on hers again, slower than before but deeper, more sure. Like a promise. Like a beginning. Jason kisses her like he’s starving, but it’s not rushed — it’s reverent. Careful. Like he’s mapping out every second he never let himself have. Y/N’s hands slide down to his shoulders, fingers gripping just a little tighter when his hips press into hers. He groans low into her mouth, like the contact is too much and not enough all at once.

Then — he shifts.

One strong arm wraps around the backs of her thighs, and she gasps softly as he lifts her, guiding her legs around his waist. The movement is slow, deliberate, nothing rough or frantic. Just… heavy. Like the weight of this thing between them is finally being acknowledged. He presses her against the wall again, her back hitting it with a soft thud, head bumping the plaster behind her. She doesn’t flinch — just breathes out hard, her forehead falling to his, lips brushing his again.

“Jay…” His hands grip under her thighs as his hips roll forward, slow, grinding into her. The softest friction, but it steals the air from her lungs. His breath stutters, nose brushing along her cheek as he pants, shaky now. “You have no idea what you do to me.” Y/N’s hands come up to cradle his face again, fingertips gentle even as her own breathing stutters.”Show me, then.” He does. Every movement slow, precise — his lips dragging over hers between breaths, the grind of his hips enough to make her whimper softly against his mouth. There’s a kind of desperation in the softness — the kind that only comes from holding back for too long. And for once, neither of them runs.

The room’s gone still around them, save for the sharp little breaths and the soft sound of clothing shifting between touches. Jason’s mouth leaves hers only to trail along her jaw, down the column of her throat, like he’s been dying to memorise her skin. She arches against him, hands buried in the back of his hoodie as her legs stay wrapped tight around him, holding him there. Wanting him there. His hands are everywhere — her thighs, her waist, fingers curling under her shirt, the brush of calloused palms against her bare skin making her shiver. “You’ve… never touched me like this before.” Her breath hitches.  He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes. There’s heat there — sure — but also something deeper. Softer. Real.

“Didn’t trust myself to.” He’s panting, swallowing hard before he speaks again. “Didn’t think I had the right.” She cups his cheek again, thumb dragging along his jaw, and something in him breaks open a little more. “You always did. You just didn’t want to see it.” His forehead presses to hers, and he groans low — half frustration, half awe — before kissing her again, this time deeper, his hips rolling forward as he grinds into her with more intent. Her head tips back against the wall again, a soft gasp slipping free.

He murmurs into her skin between kisses, voice low, vulnerable. “You make me feel like I’m not broken. Like I’m still here.” His hand drags up her spine, slow and reverent. “I’ve always seen you, Jason. Even when you couldn’t.” He leans in, lips brushing her ear now, voice shaking with restraint. “Then let me show you how long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.”

She nods, soft and breathless, hands tangled in his hair now as she pulls him back in. And when their mouths meet again, it’s not about anger anymore. It’s not about what went wrong, or what they lost. It’s about now. It’s about them.

The room’s still. The only sounds are their breathing — slowing, syncing — and the occasional rustle of limbs as they shift into each other. Clothes half-on, half-off, bodies tangled in the quiet aftermath, warm skin pressed to warm skin. Y/N lies tucked into Jason’s side, her leg slung across his hips, fingers tracing lazy patterns over his bare chest. He has one arm curled under her, the other draped around her waist, holding her like he’s afraid she might vanish if he lets go. Neither of them speaks at first.

Because there’s nothing to rush. No mission, no weapons, no blood or bruises or blame — just this. Just them.

Y/N whispers, breaking the silence. “We probably still need to talk about what happened.” Jason hums low in his throat, eyes closed, head turned toward hers on the pillow. “We will. Just… not yet. Let me have this a little longer.” She doesn’t argue. Instead, she leans in, lips brushing along his jaw, feather-light. He exhales slowly, turning his face so their foreheads touch again. 

“You kissed me in the middle of an argument.” “Best bad idea I’ve ever had.” Y/N lets out a soft, breathy laugh, and he smiles — small and crooked, but real. “You’ve never… kissed me like that. Touched me like I meant something.” Jason’s fingers slide up her back, hand settling at the base of her neck, thumb brushing along her skin.

“Because I didn’t know how to do it right.” His admission is soft, like he’s scared she’ll hear him. “Didn’t want to fuck up the one thing in my life that still made sense.” Her eyes sting, and she blinks them shut, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before whispering against his skin. “You didn’t fuck it up. You never could.” He shifts then, turning toward her fully, wrapping her up like he wants to sink into her and never let go. “Just… stay, okay?” “I’m not going anywhere.” And they lie there like that — limbs tangled, breaths steady, hearts finally in sync. Just two people who’ve seen too much, finally letting themselves feel.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

It's a Match! || poly!141 x Reader

[Chapter 29] || [Chapter 31]

Pairing: 141 x gn!Reader Words: 1.4K~ cw: injuries + recovery Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you? a/n: johnny is a filthy man :) but also we love him so is that a problem? no, it's not.

Chapter 30: Playing House

It took a while, but, Simon got healthy, and John and Kyle got their soreness’ settled enough to be able to go back to work.

Johnny, however, needed a little extra TLC. Being shot in the shoulder involved a longer period of medical leave, paired with a long while of physical therapy…

And that means that he decided to make himself your problem.

The rest of the lads left on a mission a few days after being cleared and, as such, left Johnny with you. Not because the lad is incapable of looking after himself, but more so because he, himself, decided he didn’t want to be away from you.

And so, whenever you leave for work, Johnny leaves for PT, then, goes to base for a bit, mostly doing work on things that he can feasibly do without straining his left shoulder/arm… Like doing paperwork and reports, going to the gym for cardio, crunches, and leg and hip workouts… Then he comes home to you.

He goes shopping for you, cooks you dinner, cleans after the two of you, despite your insistence that he rest… But, as it turns out, Johnny isn’t good at that.

Nonetheless, the flat is cleaner than ever before, Johnny’s drawing supplies are permanently stationed on the dining room table, next to your laptop, and some of his clothes have taken a permanent spot in your closet.

And, of course, he spends every night in your bed, spooning you from behind and hiding his face in your neck while you watch tiktoks, talk, or he regale you with the most ridiculous of puns.

In a way, it’s like Johnny MacTavish is your live-in boyfriend. Or, rather, that you’re playing house with him.

You wouldn’t say you hate it. In fact, it’s quite nice to have someone staying with you all night… Johnny is a good partner, he’s helpful and chill and provides wonderful cuddles…

Though you’ve jokingly started calling him ‘Johnny Price’, because, since he hasn’t been working for a month now, he’s let his beard grow out. And he looks like Price more often than he does not.

It’s on week three of your new routine with Johnny when you’re at work, that you get a text from him:

Johnny: guess what bonnie. Johnny: [1 Video Attachment]

You definitely should’ve put on some headphones before you watched that video during work… His grunting and groaning was almost pornographic and definitely earned you a few confused/worried looks from your coworkers…

But all you could think of was how he was finally easing back into his arm/shoulder workouts, which meant he finally got cleared by his PT to do as such!

you: did you finally get cleared johnny? 🥺 Johnny: cleared at 50%. Johnny: not there yet. but soon. you: I’M SO PROUD OF YOU! 🫶🫶🫶 Johnny: thank ye bonnie  you: this calls for a celebration! Johnny: i like how ye think bonnie but im not cleared yet to be able to manhandle ye 😏 you: get ur mind out of the gutter johnny price!!!!!!!! Johnny: oof not ye still calling me that! you: ur beard is looking like his what do u expect of me! 🙄 Johnny: yer right idk what i expected. Johnny: so about this celebration. you: i was thinking we go out for dinner? Johnny: are we going to dress up nice? you: i wasn’t thinking we’d go somewhere super fancy because i do not have money johnnyyyy Johnny: oh good because i dont think i can button up a shirt my shoulder is sore 😖 you: okay then! nando’s!!! 🫶  you: and i’ll give you a shoulder rub when we get home Johnny: speaking my language bonnie.

And so that’s what you did. You went home in a hurry to shower and change, and, for once, Johnny wasn’t there, having chosen to shower and change at base.

You met up in front of the Nando’s closest to your flat and you immediately chuckled at the sight of him. Sure, he had changed, but he was still very much wearing a pair of jeans, sneakers and a grey zip-up hoodie… Although you could very obviously tell he was naked beneath the hoodie.

“Mo leannan.” He murmured in an exaggeratedly polite tone as he popped the door open for you with his good arm.

“Thank you, my good sir…” You joked, which caused you both to chuckle and shake your head.

You got inside, ordered your food and, as you talked, you site adjacent to him, right on his left side, so you could gently rub his arm with your hand.

“Do you miss the lads?” You ended up asking him as you caressed his bicep and shoulder with your hand, watching him wince a bit at it, because he felt so sore from his first workout.

“A little.” Johnny admitted as he looked toward you. “Do you miss ‘em?” He returned the question. You found yourself nodding in reply.

“Having you here is wonderful though… I… quite miss you lot when you’re all gone together. Not to mention I worry sick for you.” You admitted and pressed your lips together a bit awkwardly.

“You do?” He asked you, to which you nodded. So, he continued. “Well.. I guess I understand. I imagine my mam and sisters worry about me too… As do the Kyle and the Captain’s families.” He conceded.

“That’s actually…” You found yourself trailing off as the waiter brought you your orders and you thanked him, unboxing your food so you could dig in.

“As I was saying…” You trailed off. “That’s actually an interesting point… I feel like I know very little about you and the guys’ when it comes to your personal lives… Outside of hobbies and what you do with me.” You mused as you glanced at him as he dug into his double chicken burger one-handed.

“I don’t know much about the others myself to be honest with you.” Johnny admitted as he stole one of your chips off your plate.

“Really?” You asked softly as you ate your own sandwich yourself, nodding along as he continued speaking.

“We try to keep our… ‘outside’ lives under wraps. Even being a team… what we talk about is always very superficial.” He trailed off.

“So you don’t know anything about the rest of them, nor them about you?” You cocked a brow in confusion.

“Oh, no, bonnie, I talk about myself a whole lot, I’m a blabber mouth, me.” He joked and winked at you. “But family is one of those topics that’s best kept under wraps in our line of work.” He told you as he leaned in, rubbing his thumb on the corner of your mouth to wipe it clean of peri-peri sauce. Then, he sucked his own thumb clean.

“What about me? Do I get to know about you?” You asked him playfully as you leaned forward, setting your elbow on the table as you lean in to him, eyebrows raised in intrigue.

“Tell ye what, bonnie.” Johnny leaned toward you too, licking his fingers clean and then wiping them on a napkin before he set a hand on your thigh under the table. “Anything I tell ye about my family is not going to do them justice… So how about I take ye up to meet my family over the summer… And ye meet them directly? Could even take the Captain, Simon and Kyle with us.” He offered.

Your eyes widened a bit and you blinked away the surprise, staring at him like he had grown a second head.

“Meeting your family? Really? Isn’t it a bit early for that…?” You chuckled a bit sheepishly.

“Aye, maybe it is…” He trailed off. “But at this point, I’m basically livin’ wit ye and ye’ve looked after me in sickness, haven’t ye?” He joked. “And I’ve fended off yer ex… so I’ve looked after ye in health, haven’t I?”

Rolling your eyes in amusement, you shook your head. You knew he was just joking, the look in his eyes showed it… “Are you implying that we’re married, Johnny?” You teased him playfully.

“I’m just saying…” He trailed off playfully, a playful smirk on his lips. “And, if we were married, not saying that we are,… I’d make sure to take ye home tonight and rearrange yer guts if ye let me, mo leannan.”

Looking away and biting your lip, you couldn’t help but chuckle. “Shut it…” You trailed off. “You need to rest, your shoulder’s bad still.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t use my mouth on ye… and that you can’t be on top.” He added before he grabbed another one of your chips and popped it in his mouth.

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If the video doesn't work: TUMBLR LINK

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taglist (CLOSED! not adding anyone else, sorry!):

@daisychainsinknots , @bunnysdaydreams , @iite-cool , @lahniu , @pagesfalling ,

@tapioca-milktea1978 , @live-love-be-unique , @thelaisydazy , @littleghosthunter , @bossva ,

@emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago , @chamomiletealeaf , @ghosts-hoe , @kariiiel , @ltbarnes ,

@irregulardongyoung , @spacelia , @hayleybarnesx , @cod-z , @frescoisnotinthemilitary ,

@leeeenistop , @lucienbarkbark , @xxshadowbabexx , @severenswife , @enarien ,

@agoodmoviekiss , @l0lziez , @whos-fran , @greatstormcat , @openup-yourmind ,

@neoarchipelago , @sodavrr , @cutiecusp , @lilliumrorum , @c-nstantine ,

@kneelforloki , @comeonatmebruh , @codsunshine , @waiting-so-long , @captainquake42 ,

@gazspookiebear , @mynameismisty , @reap3erslov3 , @reaper-chan666 , @poohkie90 ,

@kitwithnokat , @stick-the-dumbass , @mothsdrabbles , @justanerd1 , @thesinsoflust ,

@thriving-n-jiving , @blckbrrybasket

[xtrafluffyteddy]

Regret

Simon “ghost” Riley x reader

Summary: simons goin on a suicide mission so he tries to make his last day with you as special as possible since he can’t tell you that he won’t be coming home

Tw: angst, no happy ending, heartbreak, character death

When Simon got the news of the mission he already knew he wouldn’t be coming home, being that deep into enemy territory there was no way that he could reasonably think of, it seems Soap and Gaz had come to that realization as well there faces grim and eyes full of sadness probably thinking about how they would say goodbye to the ones they love.

“Love I’m home” Simon called out into the quaint little apartment you two had called home for the past 5 years taking in all the framed photos, the water ring stains on the table from countless mornings of sharing tea together, the divots in the couch from your respective spots, oh god how he’ll miss it, oh god how he’ll miss you. All that got shoved to the back of his mind as you came out rubbing the sleep from your eyes wearing his shirt “mmmm hi darling welcome home I ordered takeout from that Thai place I’ll go warm it up hm?” You rasped turning away only for Simon to quickly catch your elbow pulling you into his chest “Si? You okay?” You questioned looking up at him with concern as he held you close memorizing everything he could feel about you “yeah love, yeah I’m fine just missed you was all” he reassured though the confession that he’d be gone in just two days hung heavily on the tip of his tongue “aw I missed you too Si, now why don’t we go eat hm?” You press a chastise kiss to his lips turning away again.

Simon held you as close as he could that night his mind keeping him awake as you slept peacefully “I know I don’t say it often” he whispered “but your the best thing that has come out of this fucked up world, and coming home to you is the only thing keeping me goin, I think of you all the time even when I should be focused on the task ahead” he sniffed clutching you tighter “I love you so much, promise you’ll forgive me when I go” he murmured staring down at your sleeping form tucked safely in his arms where he wished he could keep you forever.

Simon was out of bed before you making your favorite breakfast his mind plagued with how he would tell you the news “mmmm that smells good” you mumbled wrapping your arms around him from behind “your favorite love just like you like it” he smiled his eyes betraying him with how he really felt, not that you could see it “I was thinkin today why don’t we go shopping hm? Then that nice cafe you always wanted to go to? Then a nice dinner at the house binging all those cheesy horror movies you like” he set down your plate next to his smiling as you dig in “that sounds great lovey, but why all that today? You leaving soon?” You questioned mouth full of pancakes “somethin like that, and what I can’t wanna spend the day with my baby?” He joked heart cracking in his chest at lying to you, you let out a little laugh shooting him your dazzling smile.

The day was beautiful and left the both of you exhausted snuggled up with each other on the couch arms and legs entangled as some shitty horror movie played “I’m leaving tomorrow love” Simon began “and I don’t know when I’ll be back, but you have access to all the bank accounts and files if anything happens” he continued running his fingers through your hair soaking in the softness “I know that Si, but you’ll come back you always do” you looked up at him confusion evident on your face “I always try love but it’s just in case” he reassured blinking back the tears “I want my baby to be taken care of while I’m gone” he caressed your soft cheek “when do you leave?” You questioned placing your hand gently ontop of his “early tomorrow morning before the sun even rises” he replied “then let’s make this a night to remember hm?” You smiled

Simon woke up the next morning pulling you as close as possible eyes drifting to his bag packed by the door “gotta get goin love” he murmured kissing you softly over and over “mmm okay Simon come back to me okay? I love you” you whispered sleepily drifting back under “goodbye my love I love you so much” he sniffed pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head turning away before he stayed “be good for me yeah?” He whispered picking up his pack, calloused fingers caressing the door to yalls apartment one last time before he climbed into the car that would lead to his death, to him never telling you he loved you again, to never seeing you smile.

Oh god how hell miss you.