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chuluoyi · 10 months ago

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𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍'𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

- zayne x reader

as dawn breaks, a new chapter begins. now husband and wife in the truest sense, both of you embark on the path of happiness together. yet, bittersweet loose ends remain still. will they eventually stay in the past for good, or cast a permanent shadow over your lives?

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, pregnancy & sex, mentions of complications related to pregnancy, brief description of childbirth (c-section), hunter!reader (not l&ds mc -> l&ds mc is zayne's late ex-girlfriend here)

note: part 2 to nocturne of twilight. my god, i honestly didn't expect it'd turn out into another 8k fic but here we go :')

Lately, Zayne has come to realize just how much joy you bring to home when you’re happy.

Your smile and giggles simply light up the place.

And moreover, you get happy at the simplest of things—head pats, his snowmen... Even when he responds with jabs just to get a rise out of you, there's always a part of his heart that softens.

Today began just like one of those joyful days. He dropped you off at the Hunter Association base before heading to the hospital, and later, he planned to pick you up and perhaps stop for macarons on the way home—

Or so he thought, until...

"Hello, Dr. Zayne! Sorry for startling you. Can you come to my office? Your wife just collapsed and she is brought here."

. . .

Zayne raced to Dr. Munson's office on the third floor, panic gradually overtook his every step. His mind whirled with all the possible reasons you might end up at—

Ob-gyn office. Wait, what?

The realization struck him just as he flung open the door to his colleague’s office.

"Ah, the man of the hour has arrived!" Dr. Munson greeted him with an ear-to-ear grin.

Zayne gave a quick nod but bypassed him to head straight to the bed where you were.

You looked pale and sluggish, your eyes squeezed shut. He immediately took your hand in his, interlacing your fingers, and you opened your eyes in surprise to see him there.

"Zayne..." you murmured, giving his hand a gentle squeeze and offering a faint smile.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice filled with concern as he gently touched your cool cheek.

"A bit dizzy..."

Seeing you so meek made something inside him lurch. Just this morning, you had been full of life, pouting and playfully teasing him, and now you looked so exhausted.

"Well, maybe you already know this, Dr. Zayne, but still, congratulations!" Dr. Munson clapped his hands merrily. "Your wife is pregnant!"

Pregnant. Zayne stood frozen for a moment. In truth, while the very thought flitted in his mind from the moment he walked in, it didn't make it less surprising all the same. "I see..."

Then he turned to look at you, and to his surprise, you looked away, a shy smile played at your lips, as if you were trying to make yourself as small as possible.

A child. You were with child. His child.

"How far along?"

"Almost ten weeks, give or take. Well, aren't you the one who knows the most?"

"Is she alright? Anything I need to watch out for?"

"Ooh! How sweet!" Dr. Munson laughed crisply. "The cool-headed Dr. Zayne is worrying about his wife! The nurses are going to have a field day when they know this~"

Zayne shot him a look, but didn’t miss a beat as he retorted, "Of course I am."

You looked up at him silently, your heart fluttering at his earnest response. Zayne had always been resilient, but now he seemed more dashing than usual as he fired questions after questions at Dr. Munson about you and the baby.

Baby... both of you were going to become parents. It still felt surreal, but with Zayne’s warm grip on your hand, it began to feel real. You were almost giddy.

But then, it struck you— the baby was around ten weeks.

Then it meant the day of the conception was that night.

. . .

“Here, hold onto me.”

Zayne opened the door to his car and supported you as you carefully stepped out. You were still unsteady on your feet, so he returned you back home to rest rather than heading back to the Hunter Association’s base.

“Have you been feeling unwell these past few days?” he wrapped an arm around your shoulder as you made your way inside. “Usually, the symptoms have been noticeable for a while.”

“Hmmm,” you pursed your lips, feigning coyness. “I... don’t think so?”

Zayne quirked an eyebrow, sending you a withering stare as he realized your ruse. “So you have.”

“Hehe...” you flashed him a sheepish grin, causing him to shake his head in exasperation and pinch your cheek. “Ow!” you squeaked, quickly bringing your hand to your face.

Zayne stifled a smile, then gently guided you to the sofa. He crouched down in front of you, meeting your gaze as he took both of your hands in his.

"You need to tell me these things from now on, alright?" he said, and his steadfast gaze made butterflies flutter in your stomach.

"We..." you started, steeling yourself, "are going to have a baby," you gulped, feeling heat spreading to your cheeks.

He was unfazed. "Mm, we are."

You shifted uneasily, avoiding his gaze. "Are you... happy?"

Your voice wavered at the end, and your hand felt clammy. Suddenly, your stomach too twisted with nausea. Who would've thought that you would conceive a baby from a night that he called a mistake?

However, Zayne tilted his head, seemingly taken aback. "I am."

"Huh?"

"I am happy," he repeated, blinking back at you. "Are you?"

You gaped, caught off guard by his candid response—but then again, when had your husband ever been anything but straightforward?

"But you don’t seem happy!" you accused, pursing your lips. "You’ve been frowning the whole way home."

He shot you a flat look, his expression unchanged. "This is just my face."

You continued to pout, and Zayne sighed. His frown softened as he gently cupped your face, making you look up at him.

"You silly girl, what husband won't be thrilled when they hear that his wife is expecting?" he caressed your face, before poking it. "I'm just worried about you, you still look pale."

"You..." your eyes found his uneasily, at a loss of words. "But this baby is…" Your gaze dropped, anxiety swelling. "From… the night of—"

Your response stunned him, and you didn't dare to look him in the eye. It was still something that gnawed at you inside, because what if—

What if he thought this baby is a mistake?

In that moment, understanding dawned on him. His ashen eyes widened in surprise. You braced yourself for his reaction, but then—

His hand rested on your head, patting you gently. "You carrying our baby..." he faltered, gazed fixed on your averted eyes and then lips. His voice came almost in a whisper:

"This... is the best thing that has happened to me."

Thump! Your heart soared, warmth flooding through you in that very instant as you met his gaze. On the contrary, Zayne felt a crushing weight seeing the tears shining in your eyes. How deeply had he hurt you before that you’d doubt his feelings?

"I promised you that I’ll treasure you better," he said, pulling strands of your hair behind your ears. "This time, let me prove it to you."

Somehow you felt like crying at the sheer sincerity in his words. "You... like the baby?"

A gentle smile touched his lips as he took your hand and pressed a kiss to it. "I do. Truly."

"I... am so happy too," you finally choked up, the first tear slipping down your cheek. You quickly brushed it away, feeling a bit silly for tearing up. "I... have always wanted us to be a family..."

Zayne pulled you into his arms, letting out an exasperated but fond sigh. "A certain someone really does like to cry... And now with a baby on the way, am I going to lose my mind worrying about both of you?"

"Hmph," you wrinkled your nose. "A certain dad-to-be better work on his skills to express himself better, then."

"I'm going to focus my energy on more important things, such as thinking of all ways I should do to keep you from getting into trouble."

"...? I don't get into trouble!"

"You stumble even on empty air, I've seen it myself."

Two years ago, you had envisioned your happily ever after with him, and then you weren't sure if you would get it at all. And now, as you walked towards a new beginning together, you were wholly certain.

At least, that was what you thought.

The days following the reveal of your pregnancy were filled with bliss.

Only that, sometimes... you ask for tall order—

"Zayne... I want that plushie..."

"We have tried it three times already. That machine is rigged."

"B-but! Look, that couple won some!"

Some weeks later, the two of you were at an arcade, and your eyes were literally shining as soon as you saw the Happy Snowman plushie in the claw machine.

And ever since, you had been tugging at his sleeve and dragging him to catch it for you... only to no avail so far.

Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose. "With the way you’re acting, no one would believe you’re about to become a mom."

"Isn't that the whole point?" you fired back, puckering your lips, before mustering your best puppy eyes and bringing your hands together. "Please? Baby wants it so much."

He knew you were using the baby card just to get your way, but you looked so adorable doing it that it often worked—evident from how he lined up once more for the long queue at the claw machine.

"This is the last time," he decided, giving you a flat stare when you two reached your turn. "If we lose, we're buying the one in the souvenir shop."

"Teehee~" you giggled in delight. You'd get your plushie either way. Zayne was always listening to you even with his grumbles, and it made you inwardly kick your feet in joy.

Despite being cross, Zayne was better at this than you. He almost snagged some plushies several times, and this time, he skillfully maneuvered the claw, pressing the button with precision—

“Oh!” Your eyes sparkled as the claw secured your prized Happy Snowman. “Zayne! Just a little more!”

"Yeah, yeah..."

Just like that, the claw released the snowman into the hole. As soon Zayne handed it to you, you practically squealed. "Ahh! Finally I got you!"

You were so full of childlike excitement, even though you were just months away from bringing a child into the world yourself. Zayne watched you silently, and despite himself, a soft smile tugged at his lips.

"Do you want more?" he asked. "We still have three chances left."

"Yes!" You beamed at him. "I want the penguin and crow!"

Apparently, he was weak to your wishes. He then took the machine again, and maybe luck blessed him this time because soon enough, he got you two of them right after the chances ran out.

“Hehe! We’re bringing them home!” You patted each plushie with delight, your giggles drawing the attention of nearby kids.

"Mom, look! That uncle gets many plushies!"

Zayne felt his eyes twitch. Uncle...?

You tried and utterly failed to hold back your laugh.

And you heard another couple bickering nearby as they threw glances at you and your husband—

"I want that crow plushie..." the woman lamented, despondently eyeing the claw machine and the three plushies Zayne had managed to win for you.

Her boyfriend, a scary-looking tall man with red eyes and rider garbs, turned to her with a snort. "Why would you even need that ugly crow for? We have crow at home."

"...Mephisto doesn't count! You're just saying that because your luck and skill are trash!"

"Tch. I can open a whole arcade just so you can tear those plushies into shreds, sweetie... just so you know, there’s a price when dealing with a devil, hmm?"

Opening an arcade only to satisfy his girlfriend's wants? You thought in a passing. Crazy.

. . .

And then your emotions are practically a whirlwind of roller coaster...

“You’re mean!” you sniffled, pointing a righteous finger at your husband and the kitty cards on the table. “You always reduce my kitties whenever you get the chance!”

Zayne exhaled, trying to explain himself. “I just make do with the cards I’m dealt with.”

“But you’re trying to take out my cats all the time!”

“That’s the gameplay. If I let you win, you’d say I’m underestimating you.”

“So, are you saying I’m bad at this?” You looked at the cards with heartbreak etched on your face, your lips quivering. “Am I?”

Uh-oh, he knew what it was. You were a stone throw away from bursting into tears and one wrong word could set you off altogether.

“No, you’re not bad...” he began, carefully choosing his words. “The kitties... they’re just not cooperating with you, that’s all.”

“So, they’re cooperating with you,” you pouted, cross. “Is that what you’re trying to say?!”

Sigh... this is going to take a while...

But ultimately... you’re also incredibly precious.

“I’m going to make an amigurumi for our baby,” you announced, smiling brightly as you settled between his legs with a crochet kit and a snowman pattern in hand. “I just know they’ll like it.”

“You know how to crochet?” Zayne asked, resting his chin on your shoulder and slipping an arm around your waist, gently touching your growing bump.

“Hmph!” You tilted your chin up with a smirk, turning to face him. “Of course, I can!”

“Oh…?”

“It’s a little side hobby,” you explained with a giggle. “I can’t resist having and making cute things~”

Zayne thought he’d laugh, but instead, it was a wave of bittersweetness that washed over him. Because apparently, even after being married to you for two years, there were some things about you he didn’t know.

He was fond of you. He knew you liked a fair amount of sweets, what your favorite food and color were, and that you couldn't sleep without turning off the lights. But then he realized...

"Does it have to be a snowman?" he asked, his eyes fixed on how skillfully you handled the hooks.

"Mm-hmm! It does."

"Why do you like it so much anyway?"

"Ah..." Your movements paused slightly, and you suddenly looked down, a hint of sheepishness in your expression. "Well..."

This way, you looked adorable somehow. Zayne squeezed you gently. "Hmm?"

"You might not remember it... but the first time we met..." you felt heat creeping up to your face but pressed on nonetheless. "I asked you to demonstrate your Evol and you showed me by creating a snowman out of thin air."

Right at that moment, Zayne could've sworn that his heart skipped a beat. That meeting... how many years ago was it? Five? Six?

He could barely remember it until you mentioned it, and yet you held that memory dear.

"Maybe it sounds stupid to you," you puffed out your cheeks. "But I think you’re similar to a snowman. You look cold on the outside, but you bring happiness to so many people. You save lives…"

The way you described him so highly made him flutter inside. Suddenly he felt soft. Soft for you. You were utterly precious, genuine and all this time, he hadn't even truly realized it.

"And to me, you..." you gulped, suddenly self-conscious. "You are... warm, just like the sun..."

The sincerity in your words touched him so deeply that it left him speechless. You had loved him and it was evident in all your actions.

Now the question is, has he done the same for you?

You brightened his life just by being yourself. Most of the time cheery, sometimes snarky, and often times decidedly spoiled... all those sides of you—

He adores them all. And he knows he'll treasure you until the end of time. And now, he's going to show you that.

Before he realized it, he had planted a kiss on the nape of your neck, and you sucked in a breath as you dropped the crochet hooks. "Zayne...?"

And then his lips pressed harder, trailing kisses along your neck, while his hands slipped inside your pajama top, caressing your skin ever so gently. The unexpected touch made you unwittingly moan.

"Can you... finish crocheting another day?" he breathed in your ear, cupping your breasts tenderly, and you almost jolted. "I'll be gentle, I promise."

It felt as if your face had caught fire, your whole body flushing with sudden excitement. Your heart raced wildly at his husky voice, and the very thought that your husband desired you was deeply thrilling.

"But you..." your voice hitched, trying not focus on his fingers. "...are never gentle."

Zayne blinked at you in surprise. "Am... I? That's not true."

"Should I jog your memory?" You pursed your lips. "One time, you threw me on the bed—"

"Well—"

"And that time you had me on all fours—"

"That's—"

"And the night we conceived this baby too—"

"Right. Alright." Zayne’s cheeks flushed with warmth as he released his grip on your mounds. "You might have a point, but this time, I assure you…"

He turned you to face him, and before you could even react, he leaned in close, his breath tickling your collarbone as he whispered:

"I will take good care of you tonight."

He made good on his promise.

This time, his hands moved with a gentleness that took your breath away. Zayne started with peppering your skin in soft, lingering kisses—starting at your jaw, then trailing down your neck, collarbone, and chest.

And when his lips finally reached the slightly visible but firm swell of your belly, he paused, pressing a kiss there that seemed to hold all the love he had for your baby.

The sight pulled at your heartstrings. The very fact that Zayne cherished this little life growing inside you filled you with a happiness so profound, it nearly overwhelmed you.

And soon...

"Ahh... aah!" you writhed, arching your back, your lower body laid bare as his tongue lapped eagerly at your folds. It was, by far, the most erotic thing your husband had done to you— he usually didn’t spend this much time for your pleasure.

But as always, he was not much of a talker during sex. Only dangerous gleam in his eyes as he glanced up from between your trembling thighs that let you know he had no plans of stopping anytime soon.

"Ngh!" You gasped when the tight ball of nerves inside you finally burst, mewling helplessly as you yanked on his hair, and he ate you out even more greedily in response. You had always known it, but moments like this made it undeniable—

Zayne turns completely into a different man while bedding you. Who would have guessed that the stoic, straight-laced head of cardiac surgery could be reduced to a man consumed by lust at the sight of his wife's body?

. . .

He had always liked having you on top. This time, Zayne made sure to prepare you exceptionally well before easing himself inside you, yet, just like every other time, you still felt impossibly tight around him.

“Ah, ah... I-I’m—!” you whimpered tearfully, your walls clenching around his girth, face overtaken by sheer pleasure. “’s full...”

It didn't take him long to bust, really. With a beautiful wife sitting on top of him, eliciting sounds like that... how could he resist?

But maybe he pushed you too hard. Lust won against all his senses as he relentlessly slammed his hips against yours, and he distinctly felt the moment you stifled a scream and came hard around him.

"Are you... alright?" Zayne asked in a groan as he reached his orgasm, his release flooding inside your womb in a rush as you clung into him tightly, shuddering and spasming.

You nodded and collapsed against him, savoring the feeling of how filled up you were. In return, he cradled you close as he slowly pulled out of you. "I-I... am..."

You curled into him, and he pressed a tender kiss on your head. In that moment, you truly felt that there were only two of you in this vast world.

Gently, he lifted you—one arm supporting your legs, the other around your back—and carried you to the bathroom to clean you up.

. . .

“Drink.” Zayne held the cool glass of water to your lips, and you obediently took a sip, your gaze lingering on the gap in his bathrobe where his chest peeked out.

He was so, so considerate. He carefully handled you as he washed your body and wrapped you in the bathrobe earlier, soothing you each time you let out a whine.

It was the most comforting aftercare you had experienced. After making sure you weren’t parched, he tucked you under the comforters, joining you soon after and pulling you close.

“Are you comfortable now?” he asked quietly, straightening your hair.

“Mm-hmm.” You snuggled closer with a smile, tracing a finger along his chest.

Somehow the way he cared for you now made you remember how your relationship was back then. He didn’t dote on you this much, he was good to you but you knew deep in your hearts that he wasn’t really there. But now…

He is yours. In every sense.

“You’re tickling me,” Zayne tutted gruffly, catching your hand and pressing it to his chest.

“So? What will you do?” you teased with a playful grin. “Will you eat me up again?”

“…” His narrowed eyes made you giggle, and you pressed yourself even closer, relishing the afterglow.

You had promised yourself not to bring it up again, but feeling vulnerable in this moment, you couldn’t help but whisper:

“You… have changed,” you muttered under your breath. “Thank you… for thinking of me.”

You couldn’t see his expression, but his arms tightened around you suddenly. Warmth spread through you, feeling as though he were shielding you from the world itself.

Weeks passed by, and soon enough, you reached the middle of your second trimester.

“We’re going to find out the gender today!” you excitedly noted in the passenger’s seat. Zayne glanced at you with a smile, silently looking forward to it too.

He was relieved that your first trimester had passed smoothly, with only a few bouts of sickness. Now, before he knew it, you were already halfway through the journey.

“If it’s a girl, I hope she won’t be a troublemaker like her mom,” he slyly retorted.

You shot him a glare. “And if it’s a boy, I’ll make sure he doesn’t spend all his time studying and turn into a robot like you.”

The journey to fatherhood still didn’t feel entirely real to him with your chirpy self, but as your belly swelled and rounded with each passing week, he began to realize that the day was quickly approaching.

It made him feel warm, and he wished he could show it to you better just how much happiness you brought to him now.

You rummaged through your bag and exclaimed, "Oh, I forgot the appointment card!"

Zayne sighed, turning the steering wheel with a small shake of his head. "See? The little mom can be so scatterbrained at times."

You slouched in your seat, crestfallen. "Sorry..."

"It’s alright," he gave your hand a gentle squeeze as he noticed your expression drop. "I’ll get it. Where did you leave it?"

"In the first drawer of my vanity desk, I think…"

After arriving back at home, Zayne headed straight to your shared bedroom and searched through your drawers. The first drawer only had your perfumes, so he moved on to the second drawer, which apparently only had more makeup supplies.

And so, he pulled the third drawer, and there were a stack of envelopes there. Curious, he pulled one out, thinking it was the card he was looking for—

—but then, suddenly, he was in a state of shock. Never would have he expected to find what he had on his hand then.

For a moment, everything around him seemed to blur, his entire world reduced to those three stark words on the page. His mind struggled to process what he was seeing, a heavy weight settling in his stomach as the realization hit him.

Petition of Divorce — and your signature... was there.

Something seemed a bit off about Zayne, you noticed later that day.

You were really looking forward to finding out the baby's gender, and you thought he was too. He stood by your side all the while, holding your hand as the ultrasound probe pressed against your skin and you waited with bated breath for Dr. Munson to announce—

“Well, it’s a girl!” he declared with a wide grin. “Whoa, Dr. Zayne is going to be a girl dad, huh?”

“Oh my…” Your eyes sparkled with joy at the news. You were fine with either, but you knew Zayne had secretly been hoping for a girl, and you turned to him with pure elation. However...

“That’s… good.” His response was brief, and although he was smiling, something felt off. You had been observing him for too long not to notice—you knew when your husband was distracted.

What is he thinking? Despite yourself, you began to worry.

“Zayne?” you asked later, holding his arm as you both exited Dr. Munson’s office. “Are you thinking about work?”

He turned to you almost immediately. “No.”

“Then why are you frowning?” you asked innocently, trying to lighten the mood by touching his face. He swiftly caught your hand.

“This is a public place,” he said in a strained voice, causing you to stiffen at his tone. “I’ll take you home first.”

Something was not right. Now you were convinced and it started to bother you.

“Actually… I need to go to the Hunter Association's base first to finish my deskwork,” you said.

His brows furrowed even deeper. “Can’t you just submit your leave?”

“Ah... I’m on half-day leave today. I need to wrap up as much as I can before I go on maternity leave later.”

“Next time,” he snapped, his gray eyes locked on you, “Whenever you have appointments, take a full-day leave. You’re in no condition to be working, especially as you get further along.”

"Zayne, are you... upset with me?" you fired the question then, because it seemed like he really did, and suddenly you felt a bit sick at the very thought.

He was certainly not expecting you to ask that, and for a moment, Zayne froze, before he exhaled and his frown softened a bit.

“…no,” he finally said, his tone gentler. “I just don’t want you to push yourself too hard.”

But ever since that day, you knew something had happened to him that he suddenly he became a little distant towards you.

. . .

Zayne hadn’t meant to snap at you. If anything, knowing you were carrying a baby girl filled him with unbridled happiness.

But still, there was still a part of him that wanted to demand answers from you—that part of him that was deeply hurt by what he discovered.

In hindsight, maybe he shouldn’t take it too hard. No matter how much he reflected on it, he knew he hadn’t been the husband you deserved. He knew his faults and understood how much he had hurt you. From the very beginning, you deserved someone who would see only you and no one else—and he hadn't been that person before.

Even with that understanding, he was left with an unresolved hollowness. You had doubted him enough that you were ready to file for a divorce once. It didn't mean that the same thing wouldn't happen in the future.

Does he have it in him to make you happy? He had promised you he would. While he wasn't the most affectionate, he tried his best, and he intended to keep trying.

But now, after learning this, he found that not only you, but even he too was able to doubt himself.

"Zayne...?"

You peeked your head inside his study one night, several weeks later, a hand resting on your bump. You really didn't want to bother him when he just arrived, but you figured you had to tell him.

For the past week, you’d been throwing up, and it didn’t feel right. He had been at a symposium in another city since the start of the week, and you tried to wait it out. But today, you almost blacked out, and now you were genuinely afraid.

"Y/N?" he turned to you just as he laid his briefcase and the moment he saw you, he frowned at how pale you looked.

Zayne immediately stalked towards you and pulled you closer, feeling your neck to check your body temperature. His eyes widened in realization. "You have a fever."

"I-I... feel lightheaded today," you sputtered, clutching his arm. "And... I’ve been vomiting too..."

"I'll get you checked in at Akso," he decided, grabbing the car keys and led you out of the room by the shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me in your calls?"

Very lame excuse, but you tried to defend yourself nonetheless. "It wasn't this severe before—"

"You should have told me." His response was curt, but his fury was evident. You almost shrank at his tone, but Zayne didn't reprimand you further as he helped you into the passenger seat.

The drive was tense and uncomfortable, making you feel even worse. The silence only amplified your anxiety, and it didn't help that you had noticed how distant he was lately.

"I'm sorry—" you blurted but then suddenly, you sucked in a breath, wincing and fisting your dress when you felt the start of a cramp just below your ribs. "Ahh..."

Zayne’s panic surged at your pained gasp. He gripped your hand reassuringly, all trace of anger vanishing instantly. "We’ll arrive soon. I promise you’ll be alright."

At that moment, despite all fears you had—for your baby, of his sudden shift of behavior—you held back your sob and squeezed his hand in return.

. . .

You would be staying at the hospital until all the test results came in.

Zayne sat on the chair beside you, gaze fixed on you as you lay connected to an IV drip in the private room. Though he tried to mask it, he was still shaken. He knew better than anyone that fever and cramps at more than 20 weeks often signaled something was wrong with either the mother or the baby.

The thought of ailments beyond his control affecting either of you made his chest tighten. He loosened his tie and let out a sigh, trying to ease the constriction. "How do you feel now?"

You looked at him, managing a smile as you replied, "I’m fine now."

Seeing you bedridden like this was something he hadn’t realized he dreaded until that moment, and yet, there you were, smiling. You... smiled.

He couldn’t understand why the sight he usually adored suddenly stirred this swirling anger in him.

Your answer seemed to hit a nerve in him as his expression darkened, and anxiety struck you again, twisting something in your gut. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before..."

His lack of response only deepened your unease. "Before today, I didn’t feel faint at all, so I think it’s just something I ate."

He still didn't deign you with any answer. Zayne’s apparent disregard for your words frustrated you, bringing you close to tears. "Say something..." you urged, feeling the tears burn behind your eyes. "I know you're upset, but now I'm scared too."

You really wanted him to comfort you. You knew the Zayne from several weeks ago would do just that, but now you had a feeling that the man before you now wasn't that same man any longer.

"We’ll see when the results are ready," he said then, facing you with a stoic, matter-of-fact tone, as if he were delivering a diagnosis to a patient rather than speaking to his wife. "Don’t fret too much. Have some rest."

Is that... all he has to say to you? A part of your heart withered at his detached response, the tears frozen in your eyes. What happened to him?

You were about to confront him for an answer when his phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and answered.

"Hello? Yes, it's Zayne. Who is this?" he questioned flatly, eyes narrowed into a dissatisfied frown, before suddenly his expression lit up with understanding when the person on the other line introduced themselves.

You could hear the faint sound of a man's voice from his phone. And when Zayne addressed him, a sudden chill spread throughout your body.

"Caleb? It's... been a while."

You felt cold. Caleb. You never really knew him but you had certainly seen him. Once at a funeral, and once at your wedding. He too is Zayne's childhood friend, and more than that, he is the brother of—

Why? Why did all emotional suffering you had to go through, somehow or another, always come down to a dead woman who was once your husband's lover?

When he ended this call, you didn't even pretend to be considerate anymore. "What does he want from you?"

Zayne looked taken aback by your sudden hostility but answered calmly, "He’s in Linkon now and asked if we could meet."

"Must you really see him?"

"What are you getting at?"

"I don’t like it," you spat, venom clear in your voice, turning to him. "I don’t like it at all when you have to be involved with people related to her!"

Finally, you said it. You had never made it clear before, but this time, you felt like you were entitled enough to. You were having his daughter, and if he was still entangled in an illusion of his past girlfriend with you, then—

Zayne responded to your outburst with a suppressed sigh, visibly keeping his frustration in check. "He is an old friend, Y/N. You're too emotional right now that you jump into conclusions and stress yourself out."

He was right, your emotions were spiraling, but right now you were too heartbroken to care for it.

"Do you know what I fear the most?" you asked, tears shining in your eyes. At last, you voiced the dark, unspoken curse that had haunted you since the very beginning of it all:

"I’m afraid that one day, you’ll wake up and realize that either me or our baby is a mistake."

Zayne barely got any rest that night.

In the end, faced with your tears, he didn't respond because he didn't want to prolong the argument. More strain for you could put both you and the baby at risk.

Later, he told himself. No matter how much he berated himself for not noticing the signs of your illness sooner, or wanted show you that you and his unborn child meant everything to him now— later. He wouldn't risk you, and it would be better if you talk later with cooler heads.

Little did he know, that "later" would never come.

Numerous missed phone calls from the nurses station after he stepped out of the operating room sealed your fate. And when Greyson burst into his office, out of breath and panic-stricken, it was like being doused in scalding water.

"Dr. Zayne! Miss Y/N! Sh-she has just been rushed to ER for severe bleeding!"

Just like that, his world crashed and shattered beyond return.

. . .

"Dr. Zayne, I'm not sure how I should break this news to you... As a medical professional, you already know how serious this condition is..."

Everything was his greatest nightmare realized. Dr. Munson’s diagnosis struck him with a searing force, paralyzing him on the spot.

"Your wife has preeclampsia."

The nurses said you had been screaming and bleeding heavily. He too had seen it himself—the blood splattered across the pristine floor when he arrived, just moments after you were rushed to the emergency room—and the sight made a chill run through his spine in horror.

"She just experienced a partial placental abruption because of it. This causes bleeding in the mother, and also increases the risk of premature labor."

Dr. Munson’s explanation was crystal clear, yet it sent Zayne into a daze. It felt as if his chest had been ripped open, leaving him hollow as he stared numbly at your figure, peacefully asleep after the emergency treatment you had been put through.

Zayne clasped your hand in his, feeling the invincible knife lodged in his heart twist painfully.

You aren't supposed to be this cold. He gently griped your hand, his face contorted with agony. How terrified must you have been? How much did it hurt? Despite trying to push the memories away, seeing you like this brought back the nightmare from three years ago.

Only that this time, it was you. And not just you, but his unborn child as well. Both of you... there was a chance that both of you wouldn't survive.

The sheer thought made him stagger, because no, if it was the devil’s way to punish him, then it was beyond cruel. He had failed you once already, and he knew what happiness was by being with you, and to lose all of that in one blow—

"Zayne! Can you make me one more snowman?" you pleaded, your eyes sparkling as you pointed to the little gap between snowmen already perched on the window. "Just one more! It’ll make the line perfect!"

"I’m afraid that one day, you’ll wake up and realize that either me or our baby is a mistake."

It was so, so painful. His chest constricted at the contrasting memories and it took everything he had not to give in to his spiraling fears.

With everything I have, I love you. None of it mattered anymore. The divorce papers, whether he could make you happy— what was important was that It was unthinkable to lose you now. He would trade his life if it meant sparing you, because the pain of losing you would destroy him.

You had always loved that little thing he made on a whim. He opened your palm and shaped the ice through his manipulation, placing the palm-sized snowman in your grasp, hoping it would protect you throughout the night.

You remembered the excruciating pain, the primal dread of losing your baby, and the horrifying sight of crimson streaming endlessly between your legs, also how you screamed for anyone for help.

When you regained consciousness, the scent of fresh linen and alcohol was the first thing that greeted you. Dawn had already arrived, but the sky outside remained dark.

Your right palm felt cold, and that’s when you realized you were holding something. At the same time, you noticed the weight in your other hand—

Zayne. Your husband slept on the edge of your bed in such an uncomfortable position while holding your hand, his brows taut into a frown, only with a coat to cover himself.

He is here. You quietly watched him, and despite everything, you realized once again how much you loved him—even more that he was here for you.

Snowman… you stared at the little toy in your other hand, and overwhelming warmth washed over you at the thought of him creating it for you just before he slept.

The baby… what did you go through? Is she fine? You really couldn’t shake the feeling that something grave had happened to you.

You had to know. You pulled your left hand out of his grasp and caressed his face. He has to shave soon, you noted, feeling the stubble that had started to grow there. Still, you couldn't help but marvel at how handsome he was.

Your gentle touch soon caused his eyes to flutter open, and Zayne jerked awake, instinctively catching your hand. "You're awake..." he rasped, his voice rough with exhaustion.

He looked at you as if he was in disbelief, and immediately rose and squeezed your hand. You looked up to him, feebly asking, "What... happened to me?"

His face fell right that moment but you pressed on, "Tell me. I have to know..."

Zayne's reluctance was obvious, but the plea in your voice made him waver. Finally, he sighed and sat down on the edge of your bed.

"The test results have come back," he began, his voice adopting the clinical tone you recognized from when he spoke to his patients. "Your blood pressure is abnormally high, and there was protein found in your urine sample... These are signs of a condition called preeclampsia."

Shock marred your features in that moment, because you had heard what it was and what it meant for your baby.

"The only cure for preeclampsia is delivery. And at the same time the placenta has detached from the wall of your womb. This way, our baby—"

You had watched Zayne deliver devastating diagnoses to his patients before, and he was always steadfast. But this time, even his voice wavered.

His gray eyes seemed to glisten under the light as they held your gaze. "She's being deprived of oxygen and nutrients because the placenta can no longer supply them. You may also experience heavier bleeding, more cramps, and fetal distress. The best course of action now is to deliver the baby as soon as possible."

It felt like receiving death sentence. No matter how you looked at it, the conclusion was the same. "B-but..." you stammered, your whole body trembling, shaken by the enormity of it all. "S-she's just... barely twenty-six weeks..."

The way devastation bled in your voice pierced him. Without a word, Zayne pulled you into his arms, letting out a long, drawn-out breath as he held you close.

"I'm here," he assured, trying to console you. "You don't have to be scared. We'll monitor you closely until it's possible for you to give birth to the baby in around thirty weeks. I'll make sure of that."

The first of your sobs began. "...i-is it me?" you clutched at his coat mournfully. "Did I… p-put the baby into distress somehow— that it causes the placenta to fall away?"

"No," he firmly shushed you. "It's a condition that can flare up anytime. Don't blame yourself for it."

Still, how could you not? More than yourself, you feared for your unborn child. You sobbed harder, and Zayne held you even as his coat had started to dampen from your tears.

Your predicament broke his heart too, but at the same time, he found the perfect moment to finally show you the entirety of his heart.

"You told me you were afraid I'd come to see both of you as a mistake," he murmured, gently running his hand through your hair in an attempt to soothe you. "But how can our daughter be a mistake when—" his voice caught, choking on the words, "—when I've loved her so much already?"

The strain in his voice made you look up, and you were taken aback by the intensity of his gray eyes that bored into you.

“Both of you... are so precious to me.” Zayne locked his eyes with yours, sincerely meaning everything he said as he cradled the side of your face. “The thought that anything might happen to either of you... is unbearable.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, his voice hoarse, “What if… you continue to bleed and it leads to seizures? What if— you and the baby won’t make it? These are so unbearable for me.”

His words went straight into you, and for a moment, your tears receded as they sank in.

"I can’t give you my past." His voice tinged with melancholy, the expression on his face was torn. "But I promise you, at least in this lifetime..."

He gazed at you with the unwavering look you had fallen in love with, the same gaze you once admired from afar, long ago.

And then, his next declaration took your breath away and made your heart soar like never before. A wave of love surged within you, almost overwhelming you—

"Right this moment and my future—it's for you. For both of you, always."

From that moment on, you knew you would trust him completely. From that moment on, you finally let go of your doubts, knowing that you had nothing to fear with him by your side.

Zayne was by your side whenever he was able to.

You were on bedrest at the hospital ever since, but he always stayed the night here to accompany you, barely going back to home for a change of clothes.

"You’re really making a snowman..." he remarked, observing your fingers and the crochet hooks he’d brought from home so you could keep yourself entertained. "I think you need to add a bit more fluff there..."

Your face brightened with a grin as you cut the yarn. "Don’t worry, I’ll make it extra round."

The weeks in the hospital dragged on, but they also gave you more time to work on your amigurumi. When you finished putting the final touches on it, you proudly presented it to Zayne—the snowman with a blue shawl and black hat, two little round eyes, and a beaming line of smile. "Ta-da! Look, it’s even cuter than the ones you made!"

A happy you was always the sight he loved to see above all. "Yeah..."

"Do you think she'll love it?" you suddenly asked, poking the snowman doll you just made, feeling warm at the thought that your cherished baby will soon play with it too.

You looked so endearing that Zayne felt an overwhelming urge to pull you closer. “She will,” he chuckled, giving you a reassuring pat on the head. “Didn’t you say before she will?”

And soon, you reached the thirtieth-week mark. The time had come to finally deliver your baby.

. . .

"I can't feel anything..." Your voice came out as a soft whine while you lay on the operating table, your lower body numb and obscured by the surgical curtain shielding you from view.

Zayne, standing beside you in a mask and headcap, grasped your hand, his fingers intertwined with yours. "If you could feel it, you’d be screaming."

The C-section was the only way to ensure both you and your daughter would survive. It felt surreal to know they were basically cutting you open, yet you were unable to feel anything.

"Will... she come out healthy?" you asked your husband hesitantly, worried about your soon-to-be born baby. "I'm worried..."

Zayne glanced at you and gave your hand a light squeeze. "Don’t worry too much. You should be more concerned about yourself. Think of all the food you want to have when you get home, and I’ll get it for you."

You shot him a glare. "You make me sound like a foodie."

"You are a foodie."

Despite the ongoing surgery, Zayne’s lighthearted jabs were his way of easing your anxiety. Even though they irked you, you appreciated his attempts to lift your spirits.

And soon—

You heard a feeble cry, though quickly drowned out by the cheers of the surgical team beyond the curtain. You gasped and turned to Zayne, who was fixated on the tiny baby in Dr. Munson's hands.

He didn't even blink. It was almost as if he was spellbound by the sight. Nothing mattered because his daughter was here. Really here.

"Zayne…" your voice then broke the spell. He turned to you, who weakly smiled at him with tears in your eyes.

For the first time in your life, you saw tears of happiness glistening in his eyes as he stared at you— the woman who had just given him a daughter to love and dote on.

He immediately leaned in to press a kiss on your forehead. Your heart felt so full, even though he wasn’t able to fully express it in words. In that moment, you could feel his profound love for you and the new life you would embark on together.

"She is so small..."

You pressed yourself as close as you could to the see-through glass of the neonatal unit, straining to get a glimpse of your baby daughter. Though you weren't well enough to walk three days after the surgery, you insisted on Zayne wheeling you over in a wheelchair just so you could have a peek.

"She’ll grow big soon," Zayne said, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder when he noticed your sadness. "She’ll stay there for a few more weeks, and then we can bring her home."

However, your expression twisted into a worried frown as you watched the gentle rise and fall of your baby’s tiny chest inside the incubator. Even when he had reassured you that it was by all means just an unfortunate condition, you couldn't help feeling that it was your fault somehow that she ended up there.

She had his tufts of black hair, but you weren’t able to get close enough to remember her face clearly. The fact that you hadn’t held her in your arms yet made your heart ache.

"Mommy is sorry that she can't carry you to full-term..." you croaked out, lips wobbling, a hand tracing the glass separating you from your new baby, and Zayne inhaled sharply at the sight.

It hadn’t been easy, but you had made it through. Both of you had. And to him, that was more than enough. So, you needed to hear it too.

He crouched down in front of you, catching your attention instantly. You tilted your head as his hands rested gently on your shoulders.

“Thank you for delivering our daughter safely,” he said with the softest of smiles, ever so genuine just as you were in all times of the two of you together.

Your eyes widened a bit at his sudden gratitude, and when he took both of your hands together in his, gazed at you with such earnestness in his clear ash-grey eyes, and traced his thumbs over your knuckles, your heart skipped a beat.

“And most of all, thank you... for being safe too.”

Those words brought immense warmth to you, and the prettiest of smile lit up your face then at the way he looked at you as if you were his most prized treasure. Just like that, once again, he cast all your fears and doubts aside.

And deep down, you knew that with him by your side, everything was going to be alright.

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marscardigan · 1 month ago

Text

some protector

ellie williams x female!reader

main masterlist

summary: being mute wasn't easy. especially in a cruel world like this one. but meeting ellie made it easier. it made everything easier.

word count: 9.7k

BY THE TIME they arrived, everything had been reduced to ashes.

Smoke hung heavy in the air, and the screams had long since faded into silence. Half the village's population laid dead, and most of the survivors were critically wounded. Tommy and the others from Jackson had tried to offer aid, but it was futile. There was no saving what remained.

Ellie arrived at dusk, accompanied by other members of the patrol sent to assist. Her stomach churned at the sight. The village was a graveyard. The smell was unbearable; blood, char, and rot. The auburn haired girl stood just behind Tommy, her face partially hidden by the scarf wrapped around her mouth and nose. Her eyes scanned the broken skyline, resting briefly on each ruin, as if trying to memorize every scar the city now wore. They were here to help—if that was even possible anymore.

Jackson's people moved between rubble and collapsed storefronts, pulling out the few who were still breathing, if they could be found. The silence was worse than the screams, it made it feel like the world had already ended.

Tommy looked over his shoulder at her. “Ellie,” he said, voice rough from smoke and exhaustion, “check the perimeter. There might still be people hiding. God knows I would be.”

She nodded without a word, shouldering her backpack and tightening her grip on the rifle slung across her chest. She didn’t need to ask where. She knew how these things played out. Survivors fled to the woods if they could—out of instinct. Somewhere, anywhere, away from fire.

She passed the last burned building and moved through the tree line, her boots sinking into damp, scorched soil. The deeper she went, the quieter it became. Just wind and trees, the faint whisper of smoke following her like a ghost. Then she saw something, some odd movement, just barely.

Ellie froze. “Hello?” she called out softly, not too loud to startle anyone, or anything.

No answer. Just the rustle of leaves. Cautious now, she took a few steps forward, her eyes narrowing at the form ahead, curled up beside the base of a tree, almost camouflaged by dirt and blood.

That was when Ellie found you. Filthy, bruised, covered in cuts—some old, some fresh. Your clothes were torn, bloodied, and your skin had a ghostly paleness that made Ellie stomach twist. She dropped to her knees beside you, reaching out carefully with trembling fingers.

“Shit,” she breathed, kneeling. “Hey… Hey.” She gently pressed her fingers to your neck. Nothing. She pressed again, harder this time. There, a faint thrum. Weak. But it was there. Ellie exhaled in relief. “Holy shit,” she whispered.

But the moment her hand lingered a second too long, your eyes shot open. And then the screaming started. Or... at least, it should have been a scream.

Instead, your mouth opened wide, terror erupting in a voiceless shriek, body convulsing in panic. Arms flailed, and your fists struck weakly against Ellie’s jacket, lips moving rapidly in a silent scream that clawed at Ellie more than sound ever could.

“Hey, hey—no, no, no—” Ellie backed off slightly, raising her hands. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I swear, I’m—”

But you weren’t hearing her. Your mouth moved in desperate gasps, and your hands jerked in odd, frantic patterns—almost like you were trying to say something. Something important. But there were no words. You clawed backward until your body was pressed against the tree trunk, chest heaving, and tears running down your cheeks, blurring your vision.

Ellie’s heart pounded. “Shit… okay, okay, slow down.” She lowered herself into a crouch again, moving like someone approaching a wounded animal. “I’m not gonna touch you, alright? I’m with good people. We came to help. We’re not the ones who did this.”

You were desperately shaking, head darting side to side, as if still expecting the attackers to leap from the trees. Your lips moved again, but still, no sound. Only tears now. And those trembling hands.

Ellie noticed it again. Those movements. Your fingers twitching in repeated, frantic motions. Not erratic. Repetitive. Intentional. Were you trying to speak?

“You’re—” Ellie hesitated. “You’re not talking. Are you mute?”

Your wide eyes locked with hers. Your hands stilled. Then, slowly, you nodded.

Ellie let out a slow breath, her voice gentler now. “Okay. It’s okay. I got it.”

She moved closer, keeping her body low and her hands visible. “I don’t know what you’ve been through,” she said. “But you’re not alone anymore. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m gonna get you out of here.”

You looked at her—really looked—and something shifted. You didn’t flinch when Ellie reached into her bag, pulling out a flask of water and setting it on the ground between you.

“I don’t know sign language,” Ellie admitted, her eyes never leaving yours. “But… we’ll figure something out.”

You blinked slowly, still tired. Your hands twitched once more—this time slower, more careful—but Ellie still couldn’t understand.

“It’s okay,” Ellie repeated, voice quiet and steady. “You don’t have to talk. Just… nod if you trust me, alright?” A long pause. And then, finally… a tiny, hesitant nod. Ellie smiled. “Good. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

She gently wrapped her jacket around your shoulders, ignoring the flinch that followed, then reached for her radio.

“Tommy,” she said, pressing the button. “I found someone. She’s beat up bad. Young. Alone. Looks like she’s been out here a while. Prepare a medic or two.”

“Copy,” Tommy’s voice crackled back. Ellie looked back at you, who now sat curled beneath her jacket, eyes glassy but no longer wild with panic.

She crouched beside you again, softly: “You’re safe now. I promise.” And for the first time, you didn’t recoil when Ellie reached out.

THE ROAD back to Jackson was long. Too long.

The snow had picked up again, dusting the road ahead in cold silence. Smoke still curled in the sky behind, faint against the horizon, like the town they’d found you in was still screaming. Even if no one could hear it, not anymore.

You sat bundled in the far corner of the transport vehicle, if you could call it that. It was an old military truck with benches bolted to the inside, just enough room for the wounded survivors Tommy had ordered to be brought to Jackson. Ten of them. Mostly women. A few kids. One old man who hadn’t stopped crying since they pulled him from the rubble.

They all needed help. Badly. And yet somehow, you looked like the worst of all of them. You hadn’t looked at anyone. Your hands gripped the blanket Ellie had given you like it was your lifeline, fingers white-knuckled around the fabric. Blood still crusted on your face and arms. Dirt smeared your cheeks. But every time someone tried to touch you—to help—you flinched, trembling so hard your teeth chattered, and recoiled like they were going to burn you alive.

Tommy had tried once. He’d crouched beside you, speaking gently. “You’re alright now. You’re with us.”

But you didn’t look at him. Didn’t move. Your eyes stared ahead like you weren’t even there. Like your body had made it out of that place, but your mind was still buried somewhere near the ash and the blood. Tommy stood back up, exchanging a glance with Ellie. He didn’t say a word, but the worry was clear on his face.

Ellie never left your side. Not for a second. She didn’t try to talk much. She didn’t push. She just stayed close. Always between you and everyone else. Like a silent promise that whatever had happened before—no one here was going to hurt you again. Not on her sight, at least.

The closer they got to Jackson, the more tense everyone became. The survivors were coughing. A child had developed a fever. One woman was clearly suffering from internal bleeding, her skin pale, lips cracked. They weren’t going to make it much longer without help. When the gates of Jackson came into view, Ellie finally exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. You didn’t even lift your head.

At the gates, Maria was already waiting. She scanned the truck as it rolled in, taking in the bloody, battered survivors. Her mouth pulled into a tight line.

“What the hell is this, Tommy?” she asked as he jumped down from the front. The man grabbed his wife’s arm gently and pulled her aside. Still, you could hear their conversation perfectly.

“People,” Tommy said simply. “What’s left of ‘em.”

“I can see that,” Maria snapped. “But we don’t have room in the medical wing. We’ve got our own people who need care. You were supposed to be bringing back supplies.”

Tommy stepped closer, voice low but firm. “Maria. These people are dying. Kids, too. We couldn’t leave them. They need our help.”

The blonde’s jaw clenched. Her gaze flicked toward you—slumped in the corner, unmoving—and for a moment, just a moment, her expression softened.

“Alright,” she said finally. “Triage in the rec center. I’ll talk to the medics. But if anyone from Jackson dies because we couldn’t spare the meds... this is on you.”

Tommy nodded. “I can take that.”

As people started helping the survivors down from the truck, Ellie reached out gently, touching your shoulder. You didn’t flinch—not from her. Just stared down at the floor.

“She’s with me,” Ellie told Tommy, her voice lower now. “I’ll make sure she gets looked at.”

Tommy frowned, watching the way your eyes still hadn’t moved. “What’s goin’ on with her?” he asked. “She hurt or…?”

Ellie hesitated. Then she replied, “I think she’s mute.”

The word hung heavy in the air. Tommy didn’t press. He just nodded and stepped aside.

Later that day, the rec center looked more like a war zone than a gym.

Medics moved between bodies, and in the corner, on a thin mattress with a frayed blanket, you sat curled up. Ellie was nearby. Sitting in a folding chair, elbows on her knees, watching you. But you hadn’t glanced at her way. At least you stopped shivering, and you finally agreed the medics to check on you, to run a few tests.

Still, her knee bounced. She couldn’t stop staring at you. You looked so... small. Not just physically. You looked like someone who had been shrinking for years.

The door opened, and Joel walked in. Dusty from the road, beard longer than usual, with Dina trailing behind him, scarf around her neck and bow slung across her back. They both looked tired. Patrol had taken them out past the rivers this time. Almost a week gone.

“Jesus,” Joel muttered, taking in the scene. “What the hell happened?”

Dina’s eyes swept across the room—until they landed on Ellie. Then you. She moved toward them quickly. “Ellie—hey. You okay?”

She didn’t answer at first. Her jaw was locked tight. Joel followed her gaze, landing on you in the corner. “She one of the survivors?”

Ellie nodded, slowly. “She was alone when we found her. Barely breathing. Beaten up, bruised.”

A medic passed by, glancing at the group. “The girl in the corner? She’s the one with the damaged vocal cords.”

Joel frowned. “What do you mean?”

The medic lowered her voice. “We ran tests. She’s not just mute—she’s been that way a long time. Her vocal cords are scarred. Chemical burns, maybe. Poison. Acid, even. Could’ve happened years ago.”

Ellie felt it all hit at once—revulsion, fury, heartbreak. The kind that rises like bile in your throat. She looked at you again, your back still turned. Your shoulders hunched. Your silence now explained, and still unbearable.

“She never had a chance,” Ellie whispered, mostly to herself. “Not even to scream for help.”

Dina stepped up, arms folded tightly. Her voice broke the silence.

“My sister taught me sign language,” she said gently. “She worked with non-verbal kids in New Mexico.” Ellie turned to her, startled. Dina gave a small nod. “I could try talking to her.”

Ellie didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she nodded. Grateful. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Joel stood silently, staring at you. Something heavy behind his eyes. Something haunted. “Whatever she went through,” he said, his voice low, “we make sure it ends here.”

Ellie looked at you again. You hadn’t turned. But now… maybe they were finally close enough to reach you.

THE MORNING LIGHT in Jackson was comforting. The storm had passed, but everything still felt heavy.

You sat curled in a chair near the window of the medical wing, blanket pulled around your shoulders. Someone had brought tea. It had long since gone cold on the little tray beside you.

You weren’t shivering anymore. You weren’t flinching when people walked by or whispered. You were just quiet. Still. Like the air before snowfall.

When footsteps approached, you didn’t turn.

“Hey,” Ellie’s voice came from the doorway. Softer this time. Less like she was afraid of scaring you, more like she didn’t want to break whatever fragile moment you were wrapped inside.

You turned your head slightly. Just enough to see her standing there with Dina.

“Mind if we come in?” the brunette asked.

You hesitated. Then gave the smallest nod. They moved in quietly, settling on the bench near your chair. Dina took the spot closest to you, while Ellie sat beside her, leaning forward, hands between her knees.

Ellie tried first. “How are you feeling?”

You blinked. Looked down at your lap. Then, slowly—almost unsure—you raised your hands. Your fingers moved with care, like it had been a long time since someone had truly watched you speak this way.

Dina leaned in. “She’s saying... she’s better today,” she translated, glancing at Ellie. “Tired. But not scared.”

Ellie smiled, just a little. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

You watched her for a moment. Then signed again, slower this time.

“She wants to tell us something,” Dina said. Her voice dropped. “She’s going to tell us what happened.”

Ellie’s posture stiffened. She glanced at you, her chest already tightening. No survivor have had the guts to explain what happened. A man tried once, but panic overtook him before he could finish.

You began signing. Dina translated, her voice quieter now, more careful. Like she was laying out pieces of you with every word. “She says… after her father died, she lived in that village for a few years. Alone mostly. The others… they knew she was there, but no one really asked her about it. She couldn’t talk, so they just… let her be. She fixed broken things. Helped tend the crops. People were kind enough, but it wasn’t home.”

You paused. Your face was blank, but your fingers tightened before moving again.

Dina continued. “She had a place at the edge of the houses. Close to the woods. Far enough that she could sleep without hearing people at night.” Your hands kept going. “She says one morning, a group of men came. Not infected. Just people. They looked like they’d been traveling for weeks—scarred, armed, desperate. They claimed they were traders at first. But they started asking about supplies. Ammunition. Medicine.”

Your hands stopped briefly, fingers trembling, then continued.

“They found out the village had nothing to offer. No luxuries. Just the basics. So they… they took what they could. Someone had hidden away rations, alcohol, painkillers—things scavenged over the years. When the men couldn’t find more, they got angry.” Dina paused, her throat tightening. “They lit the houses on fire.”

You looked away now, your shoulders hunching inward. “She tried to help. Tried to pull someone out of a burning home. But one of the men hit her—hard. Threw her against a wall. And when they noticed she couldn’t talk, they took her to the forest. The men—uh—”

Dina stopped talking. Ellie didn’t need to hear the rest of it. You didn’t look at her, but you heard it. The room went quiet. You finally looked at Ellie. And signed, slowly: “And then you found me.” Dina translated it. But she didn’t need to. Ellie understood that one.

Ellie’s eyes met yours, and something cracked inside her. Not pain. Something warmer, something painful but… human. She didn’t say anything. She raised her hands awkwardly, fingers a little stiff. Then, slowly, clumsily, she moved them. “You. Safe.”

It wasn’t perfect. Not even close. But you understood it. Your throat tightened. You gave her the smallest nod.

A WEEK had passed since your arrival.

The snow had finally started melting around the outskirts of the town, revealing muddy patches of earth where winter had gripped too tightly for too long. Ellie stood near the wooden gate, arms crossed, watching the group of survivors getting ready to leave.

The ones from the burned village were chattering quietly, packing up what they'd been given. Fresh food. Blankets. Maps. A promise of an escort back to whatever scraps of family they still had waiting. They were smiling. Everyone was grateful. Excited, even. All except you.

Ellie spotted it immediately. You were off to the side, near the stone edge of the wall, body drawn in tight, like you were trying to disappear into yourself. Your arms were shaking. Your fingers twitching against your thighs.

She took a step toward you just as Dina’s voice called from behind her, “They’re almost ready to head out. Maria’s gonna do the final check-in.”

But Ellie wasn’t listening. Her eyes hadn’t left you. You looked like you were about to vomit. Then it happened: a sharp shake of your head. Violent. Repeated. Your breath caught. You stumbled back, and then you were trembling, hands raised, desperate to sign something, anything, but your fingers were sloppy, frantic. You couldn’t get the shapes right.

Ellie was already moving. “Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” she said, dropping beside you.

Dina and Tommy were just behind her, closing in. Maria walked fast from the other side of the gate, frowning. Tommy crouched, reaching gently for your arm. “It’s okay, kiddo. We’re gonna get you back to your people—”

But you yanked away like his hand burned. The panic boiled over. Your eyes wide, breath sharp, and you were signing in quick bursts now, so messy even Dina had to pause before translating.

“She says—she says she doesn’t want to go back,” Dina murmured. “She says there’s nothing left fot her there. No family. No one waiting. It’s… it’s bad there. She says she can help here. That she wants to help. Please—she’s saying please over and over.”

Maria frowned. “We agreed Jackson doesn’t—”

“She can stay.” Ellie’s voice cut clean through the air.

Everyone looked at her. Maria blinked. “Ellie.”

“No, listen.” Ellie turned to her, stepping between you and the others. “She’s not sick. She can learn to help here.”

“She needs care—” Maria started, but Ellie didn’t flinch.

“—so give her care,” she said. “You did it for me. For Joel. You do it for people all the time when it’s the right thing. This is the right thing.”

Maria looked like she wanted to argue. But Tommy stepped forward, hands resting on his hips. “She’s right,” he said quietly. “Let her stay.”

Maria turned to look at you then. You were still shaking, eyes wide and full of raw, silent fear. But you weren’t signing anymore. You were just… watching. Waiting. And something in Maria’s face cracked.

She exhaled slowly. “We’ve got one unoccupied space down by the south end. It’s small, but it’s clean. I’ll clear it with the board. But this is your responsibility, Ellie. If it doesn’t work—”

“It will.”

Maria nodded, tight-lipped, and turned away.

The space wasn’t much more than a glorified shed.

An old maintenance room near the edge of the farming district, with one small window and thin walls. The mattress was clean, the oil lamp on the table was half-full, and someone had left a knitted blanket at the foot of the bed—blue with crooked stitches.

You sat on the edge, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor.

Ellie knocked once and stepped in.

“You, uh… you decent?” she joked half-heartedly.

No answer, of course. You looked at her slowly, eyes rimmed red from earlier. She walked in anyway, looking around. The room was bare. White walls. No posters. No clothes. No books. Just a silent girl and an untouched space.

“No pressure or anything,” Ellie muttered, “but this place kinda sucks.” Your mouth curled, barely. Just enough for her to notice.

Ellie reached into her jacket and pulled something out. A folded square of paper.

She handed it to you and waited while you unfolded it. A sketch— rough pencil strokes, smudged shading. A moth, wings spread wide, drawn on the corner of a windowsill.

You traced the wings gently. “I dunno,” Ellie said, fidgeting with her fingers. “Figured maybe you could put something on the walls.”

You didn’t sign anything. But you nodded. It was the first nod you’d given all day.

Ellie stayed until the sun dipped low, and the light faded into that soft blue shadow you only get in the mountains. When she stood to leave, you reached out—not to stop her, but to hand her the drawing again.

She shook her head, smiling at you. “It’s yours now.”

You didn’t smile. But when she left, you pinned the drawing to the wall above your bed. And for the first time since you’d arrived, you slept through the night.

YOU WEREN’T used to peace.

At first, it made you feel anxious. Like quiet was something dangerous. But days passed, and nothing shattered. No fires. No screams. No alarms. Just the thump of boots on snow-soft ground, the whinny of horses, and the occasional dog barking across the fencing.

And people? They weren’t what you expected. No disgusted stares. No cruel whispers. No pity in their eyes. Just… quiet nods. Respectful distance. Some even smiled when you passed. They didn’t expect you to speak. They didn’t press. They just treated you like a normal human being.

It felt strange. But not bad. You kept yourself busy, anyway. Staying in your room made the silence loud again, so you found ways to fill the hours.

At the stables, you brushed and fed the horses. At the medical wing, you helped sort herbs, stitch torn blankets, organize kits. The nurses didn’t talk much, but they smiled in thanks when you caught their mistakes. You were good at reading patterns. Noticing things.

And at the storage barn, you worked beside Dina. She didn’t say much at first. Just stacked crates with you, passed you water, bumped your shoulder when you looked tired. But by the second day, she started moving her hands in a way that caught your attention.

Sign language. Half of it wrong. You raised a brow. She laughed, shrugging. Then signed: “My sister taught me, but lost practice.”

From then on, every time you worked together, she practiced. She corrected herself when she got it wrong. You teached her simple phrases that could be useful for patrols, like— “Are you okay?, help me, stay quiet, Danger.”

Sometimes, Ellie joined you both during free time and watched, arms crossed, pretending she wasn’t interested. But you caught her mouthing the words. Her fingers twitching, trying to mirror yours.

Still, there were people who found odd your… limited vocabulary, to say the least. You were mute, but not deaf. The elders sometimes offered fake kindness, and a couple of teens treated you like you were a sideshow. Whispered jokes behind your back. Laughed when you turned, knowing you couldn’t call them out.

You were at the stable, finishing your chores for the day, when a group of young teenagers snuck inside. As you stepped into the storage room to grab some tools, the door slammed shut behind you. The door slammed shut behind you. At first, it was just the sound. The thud of it. Then came the click of the latch. And then, darkness.

You froze. No light. No cracks in the wood. No way to see the space around you.

And just like that, it hit you. The woods. The smoke curling up into the treetops. The cries. The screams. The pain. Your body limp and bloody in the snow. Now here you were again. Trapped. Powerless. Alone.

Your breath caught. You pounded your fists against the door, over and over. You wanted to scream. Your body tried to scream. But nothing came. Just air and desperation.

You crumbled against the wood, nails scratching at it like an animal. Tears blurred your vision, heart hammering. You were shaking. Falling back into yourself, into the dark part where the only thing that existed was fear.

Time slipped away. You didn't know how long you were in there. Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour? It didn’t matter, because it was long enough. Long enough to collapse into the floor, fear and guilt eating you alive.

Ellie noticed you were gone the moment she got to her room.

Your notebook was still on the table. The blanket was folded the way you always left it when you planned to come back. Something was wrong.

She went to the medical wing first, and asked if you'd stopped by to help with the supply run. Then the town hall. Then Dina’s greenhouse. Each time, her voice got tenser, sharper.

“No, haven’t seen her.”

“She was supposed to help with the stables today, wasn’t she?”

Ellie froze. The stables. Of course. You always stayed late there. Shimmer was like your therapy, your comfort. If something had happened—

She was already running. By the time she got to the stables, the sun had dipped low, and the place was nearly empty. Most of the horses were asleep in their pens, the lights dimmed to a faint amber glow. It was quiet.

Too quiet. Ellie’s stomach dropped.

She walked past the rows of stalls, listening. Nothing. Nothing but the quiet huffs of horses and the creak of old wood. Before she could leave, she heard a sound. Muffled. Faint. Almost too soft to notice.

And it was coming from the supply room.

Ellie rushed over, her heart now pounding in her ears. The door was closed. No light leaked from under the crack.

She pressed her ear to it. And heard a whimper. A cry. Shaky, broken. Yours.

“Shit—”

She threw herself at the door. It didn’t budge. Again. And again. On the third try, the old hinges groaned, and the door burst inward.

The sight stopped her breath.

You were huddled in the corner, back against the wall, arms wrapped around your knees. Your chest was heaving. You were soaked in sweat. Your nails had blood under them. You didn’t even look up at first— just shook violently, stuck in the loop of whatever memories had come rushing in.

“Hey,” Ellie said, dropping to her knees. “Hey, hey—look at me. It’s me. I’m here.”

Your eyes flicked up, wide and full of terror. Then softened. But the tears kept falling.

You reached for her. Barely. She pulled you into her arms. She held you so tightly, you could feel her heart thudding against yours.

“You’re safe,” she whispered into your hair. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

She stayed there with you until your breathing slowed, until the shaking lessened. Until the memory began to dissolve just a little. She didn’t let go.

Later that night, wrapped in a blanket in Ellie’s garage, you sat beside her on the old couch. Your eyes were red and tired. Your hands moved slowly, shakily.

“I thought I was back there,” you signed. “In the woods.”

Ellie nodded. “I know. I know.”

“It felt the same.”

She reached out and gently brushed your knuckles with her thumb. “I should’ve been there. I’m sorry.”

You shook your head. “It was not your fault.”

Ellie sighed, then moved closer. “You're here now. That’s what matters. You're safe. And I won’t ever let anyone do that to you again.”

You let her lean her forehead against yours. You exhaled softly. Your fingers moved once more.

“I was scared.”

She pulled you against her side, her arm around your shoulders.

“I was scared too,” she admitted quietly. “When I couldn’t find you. I thought—” she stopped, swallowed hard. “I don’t want to lose you. Ever.”

You nodded, slowly. Then leaned your head against her shoulder.

Outside, Jackson carried on with its usual rhythm. But in that garage, all that existed was the hush of breath, the warmth of touch, and the unspoken promise that Ellie would never let you fall into the dark alone again.

She couldn’t wait to speak to those kids and show them real fear.

THE GARAGE Ellie had turned into her room was dim and quiet that night.

Her guitar sat in the corner, dusty but cared for. A pile of comic books sat untouched next to her bed. And pinned to the wall beside her drawings was something new.

A sketch. It wasn’t finished, but it was clearly you. It was you, brushing Shimmer’s hair. A gentle expression on your face, eyes closed in focus, hair loose around your shoulders. Ellie had started it the night before, couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how peaceful you looked.

She didn’t hear the footsteps at first.

“You drawin’ again?” Joel’s voice broke through the stillness.

Ellie jumped, stuffing the sketch under her pillow in one sharp motion. “Jesus—don’t sneak up like that.”

Joel chuckled, arms crossed. “I knocked,” he said. “You just didn’t answer.”

Ellie shifted, awkward. “Just… sketching. Helps me sleep sometimes.”

Joel looked around the room, taking in the quiet. He nodded toward the pillow.

“That her?”

Ellie’s face went red. “None of your business.”

He smiled, soft. Not teasing, just… knowing.

“She’s a good kid,” he said. “Saw her helpin’ over at the stables this morning. Gentle hands. Real focused.”

Ellie looked down, playing with her fingers nervously.

Joel leaned against the workbench. “Listen. I was talkin’ to Maria. Said some patrol members were askin’ about hand signals. Quiet communication. Stuff you can use when there’s infected close and you don’t wanna make a sound.”

Ellie blinked. “Like… what Dina’s teaching me?”

Joel nodded. “Exactly. She told me the new girl has been helpin’ with that.”

“She’s smart,” Ellie said quietly. “Learns fast.”

Joel gave a low hum. “Sounds familiar.” Ellie shot him a look, but he was already walking toward the door. “She keeps it up,” he said, “it might be worth havin’ her on patrol. Not now, but down the line. Could teach the others what she knows.” Before he left, he added, without turning. “You’re good with her, kid. She trusts you.”

And then he was gone. Ellie exhaled. She pulled the sketch back out from under the pillow. Then pinned it to the wall.

IT WAS A Thursday when Ellie showed up at your door holding something behind her back. You opened it slowly, a blanket still draped around your shoulders, hair messily braided from the day before. You blinked sleep from your eyes.

Ellie grinned. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not a bomb or anything.” You tilted your head. “I brought you something,” she said, stepping inside without asking—because by now, she didn’t need to.

From behind her back, she pulled out a CD player. A real, beat-up, scratched little thing, with worn buttons and cracked volume dials. But it had a soul. And inside it, she'd already loaded the first disc.

“I figured… I dunno. You’ve probably never had time for music. Not real music, anyway. Not the stuff that doesn’t come from a panic radio signal.” You reached out, gently touching the top of it. Ellie was already kneeling, plugging in the cord to the wall, twisting the dial.

A click. A soft whirr. Then the warm crackle of static turned into music. Not loud. Just enough to fill the room. The guitar riff was old-school. Something from the seventies, maybe. You didn’t recognize the song. But Ellie was tapping her foot and mouthing along.

“Fleetwood Mac,” she said with a smirk, glancing at you. You gave a ghost of a laugh. Silent, but real. Then nodded. You liked it. Ellie watched your face carefully.

She sat down cross-legged beside the little player, then reached into her coat and pulled out three more CDs. She fanned them out on the floor like they were cards in a game.

“This one’s The Police. This one’s the Talking Heads. And this—this is my personal favorite.” She held it up proudly. “Aerosmith: Greatest Hits.” You squinted, amused. “Don’t give me that look,” Ellie muttered, clearly flustered. “I know the covers are cheesy. But it slaps, okay? You ever heard Crazy? No? Oh man, you’re in for a ride.”

You reached out slowly. You didn't sign anything, but your eyes said enough. This meant something. Ellie just smiled at you, cheeks red but eyes proud.

“Press this button to open the tray,” she explained, showing you patiently. “And this skips tracks. Here’s the volume. And if it makes that grinding noise again, just smack the side like this.” She did it and immediately winced. “Okay, maybe not that hard.”

Two days later, Ellie woke up to a soft knock on the garage door. When she opened it, no one was there.

But lying on the step was a gently folded note, creased twice, smudged in the corner where a thumb must have pressed too hard. Ellie’s heart jumped. She recognized your handwriting immediately. It was small, tidy, with the slant of someone who’d taught themselves without anyone ever correcting them. She unfolded it slowly. Inside, in careful words, was a list:

CD 1 – Fleetwood Mac: Landslide CD 2 – The Police: Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic CD 3 – Talking Heads: This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody) CD 4 – Aerosmith: Dream On

At the bottom, just beneath the last line, was one more word, written in smaller script: “Thank you.”

Ellie stared at the page for a long time. She read it once. Then again. Then a third time, tracing her fingers over each song like they meant something more now. Like they were your voice. Oh. Your voice. There wasn’t a day she didn’t grieve your voice. She was sure it was the best melody of all. Above from every track. Above from any music note.

But maybe, just maybe, this was enough. Ellie sank down into the chair near her workbench and smiled—really smiled, one of those rare, crooked things that made her freckles stand out and her nose scrunch just a little. “She likes Dream On,” she mumbled to herself.

From that day on, music became part of your language. There wasn’t a day when your small cabin wasn’t flooded with melodies from decades ago.

Ellie would bring new CDs each week—stuff she bartered for, stuff she found on abandoned shelves, anything that might work. And every time, two or three days later, she’d find a note on her doorstep. Your handwriting. Your picks. Sometimes you’d even underline lyrics. Other times you'd draw a little doodle beside a title—a heart, a star, a tiny sketch of Shimmer or a cassette tape.

It wasn’t long before you started leaving music playing in your room when Ellie visited. The sound would greet her before you did, like a secret message. One day, she walked in and found you swaying slightly in your chair to David Bowie, and she nearly dropped the water canister she was carrying.

“You're gonna give me a heart attack,” she muttered, trying not to smile too big.

And you? You just gave her a thumbs up and kept dancing.

Ellie wasn’t sure when it happened. The shift.

She’d always liked being around you. She liked the quiet, the lack of pressure. But somewhere between the notes and the signs, something deeper started to bloom. Something that made her stomach twist in weird, ridiculous knots.

She caught herself watching you more.

Not just because she was worried or curious. But because she liked the shape of your laugh, even if it was silent. She liked the way your face lit up when she remembered something you didn’t think she would—like how you always skipped track three, or how you preferred peppermint tea over chamomile.

She liked how your eyes crinkled when you teased her with hand signs, “slow down, you talk too fast.”

And she really, really liked when your fingers would brush hers while passing a note, and you didn’t pull away.

WHEN spring came, you were a completely different person.

Gone was the ghost of the girl who’d arrived trembling and blood-soaked on the edge of Jackson’s woods. The one who wouldn’t let anyone near. Who flinched from a soft touch and couldn't fall asleep without checking the windows five times.

Now, you stood taller. You looked people in the eyes.

Your hair had grown longer and shinier, often braided back with a little green ribbon Ellie found in the trading post. You’d gained weight, enough to make your clothes fit better, and your eyes look less sunken. You looked healthy. You looked present. And you looked happy. Words weren’t necessary to notice it. They never were.

By now, sign language had spread across Jackson like wildfire.

Dina had started it—volunteering to teach lessons in the evenings at the town hall for anyone who wanted to learn. What started as a curiosity quickly turned into something vital. Because once people realized how useful quiet communication could be during patrols, it was no longer just a gesture of kindness. It was about survival.

There were stories—a team who spotted a runner too close thanks to a signed warning. A pair of patrol members who navigated around a horde without making a single sound, all because they could speak with their hands.

You became the unofficial teacher, alongside Dina.

Some nights you’d stand in front of the room with a small notebook, writing down sequences and watching the crowd mimic you. Kids learned fastest—teenagers who liked how slick it felt to talk in silence. Old folks struggled with the finger speed but didn’t give up.

And Ellie? Ellie learned just for you. She still fumbled sometimes. Signed something completely wrong and ended up telling you she was a “sad fly” instead of “feeling tired.” But she always made you laugh. And the look she gave you every time she got something right? Pure gold.

It was early, the sun still low behind Jackson’s rooftops, when someone knocked gently on your door, The Cure making everything softer. You opened it to find Maria, hands in her jacket pockets, eyes kind but serious.

She waited a beat before speaking. “You’ve been doing real good around here.” You tilted your head, unsure where this was going. “You’ve been… helping. At the stables. Organizing supplies. Teaching.” She paused. “We’ve been watching. You’re steady. And smart.”

“Thing is, there’s a patrol scheduled tomorrow,” she continued. “North route. We could use someone with your skills. Think you’re ready to head out there?”

Your heart pounded. Ready? You hadn’t left the gates since the day you were brought here. You looked down, fingers twitching slightly, signing the word for yes, slow but certain.

Maria smiled softly. “We thought you might agree to that.”

Ellie was the first one to volunteer. The only one, really. The next morning, you stood by the gate—nervous but prepared. Bow slung over your back. Hands steady.

She grinned when she saw you. “Got your game face on, huh?”

You signed “fuck off,” and she burst out laughing.

“You’re too good at that, it’s not fair.”

You rode side by side out into the woods. The snow had mostly melted. Green was returning to the world, shy and slow. Birds chirped above you, and the air had that damp, earthy smell of thawed soil and new beginnings.

Ellie showed you how to spot tracks, how to tell the difference between deer and runners, where to look for broken branches and disturbed dirt. You, on the other hand, taught her how to signal danger in complete silence, how to hold up a closed fist to stop, how to sign clicker or infected or hide in seconds.

You worked like you'd been doing this together for years.

And when a pair of clickers stumbled too close to a creek where you rested, you didn’t panic. You touched Ellie’s shoulder and signed two, right, close— and she nodded instantly, pulling her knife free. It was very effective, to say the least.

That patrol became two. Then four. Then a dozen. You and Ellie became a team. Every time your name was on the board, so was hers.

The rhythm of riding out, scouting, signing small jokes, and sharing your rations. Watching the sun rise over misty hills. Sitting in watchtowers with your boots kicked up and her shoulder brushing yours.

Sometimes you caught her staring. Sometimes she caught you doing the same. Neither of you said a word about it. But everyone else could see it.

IT HAD STARTED like any other patrol.

The clouds were heavy that morning, hanging low and gray over the mountain ridge. You rode out alongside Jesse and another scout, Cal, toward the outskirts of an abandoned rail line two hours away from Jackson. You were tracking a runner sighting someone had reported near the water tanks.

Ellie was on a separate route that day. She’d offered to switch with Jesse when she saw your name on the roster, but Maria insisted she stay on her scheduled path to cover more ground. You kissed her knuckles before separating at the gates, your silent way of saying, be safe.

She signed back, “always.”

You felt something wrong about five minutes before it happened.

Cal had to take a break a few minutes ago, staying by the station, leaving you alone with the other man. Jesse walked ahead, scanning, his rifle slung over his shoulder. You stayed back, close to the train tracks, half-swallowed by grass. You were just signing to Jesse that you thought something was off when a gunshot cracked through the trees. Then pain. The next few seconds blurred into chaos.

You hit the ground, hard. Your ears rang. Two masked men came out of nowhere—one of them slammed Jesse’s head into the ground with the butt of a rifle. You tried to pull your knife, but a boot pinned your wrist to the mud.

They weren’t infected. They weren’t raiders looking for supplies. They were looking for you. Sudden flashbacks of that one night came running through your mind as more hands grabbed your arms. You kicked and thrashed, but they hit hard and fast, knocking the wind out of you. You reached for your belt, trying to scream for help. But nothing came out.

Just air and silence. Your throat pulsed, desperate and useless.

They laughed when they realized you couldn’t scream. One of them leaned down close, breathing in your face. “That’s new. Ain’t that something?” He shoved your face into the mud. “Try to scream. Come on. Do it.”

You gasped, silent, your body wracked with panic.

They started to beat you then. Not enough to kill you, but almost. One of them held your arms while the other kicked your ribs, again and again and again. Another hit your face with a rifle stock, splitting your lip, knocking your head sideways.

“Let’s see what sounds she makes when we break her.”

You couldn’t scream. So they kept going.

By the time they dragged you into an old barn nearby, Jesse was still unconscious, and you were barely breathing. Where the hell was Cal? Did they got them too? Blood trickled down your jaw and pooled in your shirt. You tried to sign for help, your hands shaking uncontrollably. The tall man laughed and tied your wrists.

And that’s when they brought Ellie in.

Tied. Kicking. Bloody from a fight of her own.

Her eyes met yours across the barn, and she screamed.

“NO! No, no— DON’T YOU DARE TO TOUCH HER!”

They slammed her into a beam and tied her arms above her head. One man punched her gut hard enough to make her gasp, but Ellie barely flinched. Her eyes were locked on you, face contorted in pure rage.

“What the fuck did she ever do to you?! HUH?! You cowards!”

“Leave her alone!" Ellie shouted. "She didn’t do anything!”

They laughed. One of them stepped close to you. He grabbed your face, turning it side to side. When they saw how Ellie screamed for you, cried for you, they smiled. That was the fuel they wanted.

They pulled you forward again, cut your shirt open, and shoved you to the floor. Ellie thrashed wildly in her restraints.

“Stop it! STOP—PLEASE!”

“STOP! YOU FUCKING COWARDS!”

You couldn’t scream. You could only gasp, your body shaking violently, your lungs burning as you tried and failed to make a sound.

And when they got tired of you, they started hurting her.

One of them stabbed her leg. She howled in agony. Another one broke a rib with the heel of his boot. You could hear the sickening snap. And you couldn’t do anything. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t save her.

Until something inside you twisted. The man pinning you laughed as Ellie cried your name. Something feral surged through your chest. You watched as his arm pressed roughly on your throat. And you bit it down. Hard.

So hard, you tasted blood and tendon.

He screamed and tried to jerk away, but you didn’t let go. You bit through him until he fell back, blood pouring down your chin. You grabbed the knife he dropped in panic, and before the others could react, you plunged it into his neck. Once. Twice. A third time. Screaming silently, stabbing again and again, the blade punching through soft flesh and cartilage.

You acted fast. One of the others lunged toward Ellie. He had no time to react. You tackled him and drove the blade into his chest, over and over, until your hands were slick with red, and his body stopped moving.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not until Ellie—barely conscious, bleeding out—whispered your name. “Hey. Hey, it’s me. It’s me.”

Your hands trembled as she reached for you.

Her fingers were slick with blood— her own. You dropped the knife, gasping in silence, eyes darting across her wounds.

“Blood. Blood.” You signed frantically. “Blood. You. Blood. Bad.”

Ellie reached up, her touch featherlight.

“I’m okay. I’m okay. You saved me. Look at me. Look at me.”

Her voice cracked with emotion as she whispered, “We’re okay. You did good. You did so good.”

You curled into her, hands clutching her jacket like a lifeline, heart pounding against hers. Ellie, still bleeding, still aching, pulled you closer like she could protect you from everything.

You sobbed without sound. And she held you until the others found you both.

THE RIDE back to Jackson was a blur.

You didn’t remember mounting the horse. You didn’t remember Cal helping Ellie stay upright in the saddle, or Jesse—bruised but alive—riding close behind.

You didn’t remember the whispers. Or the way people gasped when they saw the blood all over you, sticky and dried in layers.

You kept your eyes on Ellie the whole way. Her head leaned against your shoulder, barely conscious, breath hitching with every step the horse took.

You’d already cleaned the blade before anyone found you. You didn’t know why. Maybe instinct. Maybe shame. Maybe you didn’t want her to see how much you enjoyed it— how much of yourself you'd left in that abandoned building.

They took Ellie straight to the med bay.

You refused to let go of her hand. Even as Maria shouted for you to step aside. Even when they pulled back her jacket and revealed the cuts, the bruises, the deep gash along her thigh. You stayed. Not a single nurse tried to fight you on it.

You sat beside her as they stitched her up, cleaned the wounds, reset the cracked rib. She didn’t flinch once. She kept watching you the whole time, her green eyes tracing the dried blood on your cheeks, the tremble in your fingertips.

“...You okay?” she whispered, voice hoarse.

You nodded. But you weren’t.

Later that night, when the sun dipped behind the mountains and Jackson returned to its soft yellow haze of warm lights and guarded walls, Ellie knocked at your door.

She looked tired. Wrapped in a blanket. Her face was pale, the bruises starting to darken. A strip of gauze around her arm, another across her ribs. But she was walking.

And she was alone. “I can’t sleep,” she said quietly. “Wanna come to mine?”

You nodded and followed. The garage was dimly lit, smelling faintly of old leather, music, and a little bit of her. Posters lined the walls, drawings pinned in uneven rows.

You’d been here before—but never like this. You sat cross-legged on her mattress, across from her. Hands tucked in your lap, still trembling a little.

The silence stretched long. But it didn’t hurt. You watched the way she stared at her hands. The gauze on her fingers. The small cuts beneath her chin. The melody of Take On Me was caressing the walls of the garage. Ellie knew how much you loved that song.

You smiled sadly. Then your hands moved. “I’m sorry.” Again. “I’m sorry.” Your signs were shaking. Urgent. Repeating. Over and over.

Ellie moved to sit beside you. Close enough to touch. She placed a hand gently over yours. “Stop,” she said, softly. “I’m not sorry. Not for what you did. Not for any of it.”

Your breath caught. You looked at her. Her fingers trembled as she raised her hands.

She signed—slowly, carefully, but certain. “I love you.”

No stutter. No mistake. The motion was clear. Firm. Honest.

Your lips parted. Not for sound. Just for breath. You stared at her, eyes wide. And then, you smiled. For the first time since the barn, a full, real smile. And you leaned forward. Ellie met you halfway.

Her lips were warm, soft, trembling against yours.

She tasted like peppermint and tea, and the metal tang of healing wounds. Her hand cupped your jaw gently, thumb brushing the bruise on your cheek. She was careful with you, and you were careful with her.

When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against yours.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered. “Not ever.”

You nodded, and your fingers rose again. “Me neither.”

A FEW WEEKS had passed since the attack.

Your injuries had healed for the most part. The bruises faded, the cuts scabbed and softened to scars. But the ache lingered. Neither of you spoke about it anymore. Not in words. Not in signs. But you both knew. You always did.

Ellie had promised you one thing the night she kissed you, forehead to forehead in the garage: that someday, she’d take you somewhere no one else knew about. Somewhere quiet. Safe. Yours.

And one morning, when the sun broke through the trees in soft shafts and the air smelled like early spring grass, she showed up at your door with a half-smile and a bag over her shoulder.

“Come with me,” she signed.

And you did.

It was a three-hour hike outside the west perimeter of Jackson. Off patrol routes, through pine forest and over mossy, half-rotted logs. The deeper you went, the quieter it got. Just birds and your boots and the sound of Ellie humming under her breath, almost unconsciously.

By the time you reached the lake, your chest ached with how beautiful it was.

It wasn’t large, but the water was glass-clear and edged by smooth, sun-warmed rocks. Pines framed it like watchful giants. A single wooden dock jutted out near one edge, old and mossy but still solid.

You smiled, wide and open, and turned to Ellie in a flash of excitement.

She was already looking at you, grinning.

“Told you it was worth it,” she said, brushing a curl behind her ear.

You nodded, signing, “Beautiful.”

Ellie shrugged, bashful. “Yeah. You are.” You blinked, and she coughed. “I-I mean—yeah, it’s beautiful. It. The lake. Shut up.”

She scratched the back of her neck, trying not to look at you directly as you began to pull your jacket off. You stripped down to your underwear slowly, mostly because the sun felt good on your skin and your bruises no longer hurt. Your scars caught the light, silvered now. You stood barefoot at the edge of the lake and glanced back.

Ellie was very visibly trying not to stare. Her face was beet red. You smirked at her.

“Come on,” you signed, beckoning her.

She cleared her throat and peeled off her flannel, boots, and jeans until she was in her tank top and boxers. When she joined you at the water’s edge, she couldn’t meet your eyes.

Then you both dove in, gasping at first, then laughing breathlessly, flailing for a moment before adjusting. You swam circles around her, light and weightless in the water, while Ellie trod with a smile so big it almost looked painful.

You splashed her. She splashed back harder. You dove under and tugged at her ankle. She yelped and nearly went under, laughing.

It was like time slowed down. The world, so often filled with tension and noise and pain, had simply fallen silent. The only sounds were water ripples, quiet laughter, the distant call of birds.

At one point, you floated on your back beside her, arms out like wings.

Ellie watched you, eyes soft. The cut across her nose had faded, but her lip still had a tiny scar where the stitches had been.

You signed to her lazily, hands moving across the water’s surface. “So pretty.”

She blinked. And then she realized you meant her.

Her cheeks flushed deep red, like the sun had suddenly turned up just for her.

“Oh,” she muttered, blinking fast. “Um. You too. I mean—not that you didn’t already know that. You’re, like—yeah. You’re a lot.”

Later, you both climbed out of the lake, dripping and shivering but grinning. Ellie laid out her flannel and you both sprawled on it in the sun, half-dried, steam rising from your clothes.

Your hair was damp and tangled. Her arm was loosely draped over your thigh, fingertips idly tracing the old scar above your knee. You were still. Safe.

You’d been practicing something all week in your cabin, when you arrived at night after doing your daily chores. Ellie had shown you a few times, patiently, her fingers in her mouth, her whistle sharp and clear.

It had taken days to figure it out. You couldn’t hum or sing or shout. But this—this was yours. So, you puckered your lips and whistled. A little shaky at first. But then steady. A tune Ellie liked—one she’d played on her guitar months ago. Future Days.

She froze, and looked up at you.

You kept going. The little melody warbling gently into the air.

Ellie stared, eyes wide, lips parted just slightly. She leaned up on one elbow, and her hand stayed on your leg.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “You are the best.” You tilted your head, a questioning smile. She just shook hers. “You don’t even know, do you?”

You shrugged playfully. She leaned in and kissed your shoulder. Then your cheek, and finally your chapped lips. Then rested her head just below your collarbone, eyes closed.

“Stay here a while longer,” she murmured.

You wrapped an arm around her. Fingers tangled in her damp hair.

The sun was warm. The water glinted. And for the first time in what felt like years, the world didn’t feel cruel.

Before the sun set, you were already packing to go back home. Ellie was checking Shimmer when you nervously opened your bag. Inside was a folded-up piece of paper. You chewed your lip and stared at it for a second before finally walking over and nudging Ellie’s shoulder gently. She turned, and you held the drawing out with both hands. Immediately shy.

Ellie sat up straighter. “What’s that?”

You didn’t sign. Just pushed it gently into her hands, already starting to blush.

She unfolded the page slowly, and her eyes widened the moment she saw it.

It was her. A little smudgy in some areas, sure. Maybe the proportions weren’t perfect; her jaw was a bit too square, her nose slightly off-center, but it was her. Sitting under a tree with her guitar in her lap. Her brows furrowed in focus. Hair curling beneath her ears. A little crease at the corner of her lips like she was about to smile.

She stared at it longer than she probably realized.

When she looked up again, you were biting the inside of your cheek, shoulders hunched slightly, like you were bracing for her to laugh.

Instead, Ellie smiled. Soft. Real. Almost awed.

“Are you serious?” she said. “You drew this?” You nodded, sheepish. Ellie looked back down at it. “Holy shit. This is awesome. Like— actually awesome.”

“You're just being nice.”

She looked up, scandalized. “I am not just being nice!”

You signed with a playful grin. “Says the girl who draws like a professional comic book artist.”

Ellie huffed. “Okay, rude. Yours is just… different. It’s good. Like, warm, you know?” You tilted your head. “Like,” she continued, waving the paper, “you didn’t just draw me. You got the way I sit. That stupid thing I do with my fingers when I’m thinking.”

You lifted your brows. “Stupid?”

She gave you a look. “Yeah, you know, the thing where I— okay, you’re making that face again. Stop!”

You laughed silently, shoulders shaking. She carefully placed the drawing in her pocket, smoothing the edges.

After a few moments of quiet, you signed again. “You’re my favorite thing to draw.”

Ellie’s ears turned red. She didn’t say anything for a second. Then, shyly, “...Will you show me more sometime?”

You looked up at her with a small nod. Ellie leaned in and kissed your forehead.

“I wanna hang that one up,” she whispered. “Right next to our music notes.”

“You’re such a loser”

“Yeah.” She signed back, now more smoothly. “Just for you, baby.”

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undyingdecay · 1 month ago

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Ughhh Bob with a breeding kink 😓😓😓

Like him just letting go and going all caveman brain about it after begging you to just let him pretend it'll take😖😖😖

bob’s pull-out game is genuinely awful. like, laughably bad.

which is how you ended up insisting on condoms in the first place—not that it ever stopped him. he’d find ways. not in a sleazy, frat-boy kind of way, not with lines like “i’m allergic to latex” or “it doesn’t feel the same”—no, bob’s excuses came soaked in something too sincere, almost sweet, if it weren’t for how calculated it ended up being.

“jus’ wanna be close to you,” he’d murmur, voice all thick and needy from where he lay slotted against you, his whole body tacky with sweat and arousal, a gleaming sheen of it covering every inch of skin like lacquer. his weight always followed—not rough, but whole. he liked collapsing on top of you after he slid in, his arms hooked under yours so he could wrap around your back, chest pressed to yours, breath fanning against your ear as if the closeness wasn’t just desire, but some primal need to merge. be inside and on top and around you all at once.

you never got the chance to argue. half the time the condom was off before you’d even realized he’d unrolled it—pulled off between sleepy kisses and soft “please”s, left sagging and useless somewhere near your hipbone. once, he didn’t even bother pretending. you caught him, right there in the bedroom light, jabbing something—his key? a paperclip?—into a row of condoms like he was testing for weak spots.

“bob,” you’d said flatly, and he blinked up at you, all wide-eyed innocence. like he might lie. like he might not lie.

“…thought i saw air bubbles,” he mumbled. his cheeks flushed. his fingers fidgeted. you knew damn well he was lying. knew it, and still did nothing.

because what were your options? fight? withhold sex? as if that would’ve been possible with the way he looked at you, touched you, moaned so gratefully every time he was inside you, like it healed something. instead, you started taking birth control—not as rebellion, but as quiet damage control.

you didn’t hide it. didn’t even think to mention it. why would you?

then came the morning—early, light still soft and blue through the windows, your legs sore, your thighs sticky with dried cum. bob behind you with one arm around your waist, trailing down the stairs like a sleepy barnacle. he didn’t even try to untangle, just followed, skin warm and clinging as you went through your morning routine.

you grabbed the small bottle of vitamins, handed him two, and he popped them without looking. a routine. natural. his chin rested against your shoulder as you reached for your birth control.

instinctively, he held his hand out again.

you hesitated. glanced at him with a faint smile.

“do you plan on getting pregnant anytime soon?” you teased.

his brows pinched, lips parted just slightly.

“birth control,” you clarified, still smiling.

and just like that, his expression shifted. confusion first. then something deeper—quiet, raw. hurt, maybe. or worse: betrayal.

his arm fell away from your waist.

“…you’re taking that?” he asked, voice low, soft. as if the question pained him to ask.

you turned, brows drawing together. “yeah. i didn’t think—”

“but why?” his voice cracked. “why would you do that?”

you turn toward him fully now, your lower back pressing against the counter edge, cool marble grounding you—but only barely. you can feel the way he watches you, gaze heavy and warm, like it might scorch you if you held it too long. he isn’t mad. not really. there’s no raised voice, no cruelty. just this awful, quiet hurt, like you’d taken something from him he didn’t even know he couldn’t live without.

and maybe you had.

the pill still sits between your fingers, tiny and pale in the soft morning light, like it’s nothing—just 3mg of synthetic hormone—but his eyes are fixed on it like you’re holding a loaded gun.

you open your mouth to explain, to give him something gentle and sane and logical, but the words clog up behind your teeth. the kitchen feels darker now somehow. close and still. like it’s holding its breath for you.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper, the words barely there. you don’t even know what you’re apologizing for. but you mean it. that’s the worst part.

“i—i don’t want you to be upset. i love you. you know i love you. i’d do anything to make this better—”

his voice slices through your chest, quiet but wrecked. “throw it away.”

you blink. “bob—”

“please,” he breathes. “just throw it away. right now. i’ll feel better. i promise. i’ll feel better if you just—just let me—” his voice cracks around the edges, fraying like old thread. “i need to.”

you glance at the counter. at the pill. and you set it down without a word.

he breathes in like he’s just surfaced from under water.

his hands are on you again—gently first, palms warm and reverent at your hips like he’s still afraid you might back away—but you don’t. you let him close the distance, let him slot his body between your legs as he leans in to kiss you, deep and messy and grateful.

“i wanna be inside,” he mumbles against your mouth. “don’t wanna wait. let me… please—let me stay this time.”

you nod, not even realizing you’re nodding until he sighs like it’s relief and drops to his knees.

your sleep shorts are gone in seconds. no teasing, no preamble—just his mouth on you, warm and wet and desperate, tongue working like he’s trying to unravel something inside you, hands wrapped around your thighs like handles, pulling you open as if you owe it to him.

he licks until your legs shake, until your voice breaks, until he’s practically whimpering into your cunt, nose buried so deep you wonder if he can even breathe. when you finally try to push him back—half from overstimulation, half because you need him in you already—he doesn’t budge.

“you taste different when you’re not on the pill,” he murmurs, drunk off it. “sweeter. like your body knows.”

you don’t even know what that means. you don’t care.

“bob—fuck, come on, please?— do it for mommy”

that does it.

he rises like a wave, chest flushed, breath ragged, cock already slick and leaking through his briefs. he tugs them down with a frustrated groan and nearly cries when he presses against your entrance—his forehead drops against your shoulder, his voice high and fragile.

“gonna come so deep,” he moans, sliding in inch by inch. “gonna stay there, i swear—i’ll stay in you. don’t want it to leave.”

your hands thread into his curls, nails dragging at his scalp as he bottoms out. he’s trembling, hips stuttering already before he’s even pulled back. “i’ll be good. i’ll be so good. just wanna give you something—wanna fill you, please, let me—”

the counter digs into your spine. the kitchen lights feel too bright. and still, none of it matters except for him.

he starts fucking you slow at first, rolling his hips up into you like he’s memorizing it—like if he gets the angle just right, your body will take him in and keep him there. his hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, sweat slick between your bellies, every wet slap echoing too loud in the quiet morning space.

you can feel it when he gets close—when the whining gets louder, the thrusts more erratic. he’s babbling again, forehead pressed against your cheek now, voice ruined.

“make me a dad,” he gasps. “let me—please—fuck, i wanna come in you so bad—wanna give you everything—i’ll stay inside forever if you let me—please—”

you pull him in deeper. his body jerks.

then he’s coming—hard—right against your cervix, crying out into your neck, hips twitching with every desperate pulse of cum spilling into you. you can feel it, hot and thick, pooling where you’re still joined. he doesn’t pull out.

doesn’t even try.

instead, he slumps forward, cock still hard inside you, panting against your throat. “don’t move,” he whispers. “i’ll fuck it in deeper. just—lemme stay here.”

and you do.

you don’t even reach for the pill.

#.ᐟ.ᐟ #robert reynolds #bob reynolds fanfic #bob thunderbolts #robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds smut #bob reynolds x reader #marvel #robert reynolds smut #thunderbolts #⤷ robert reynolds #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts fanfic #new avengers #afab reader #female reader

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sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

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what happens when satoru gojo gets hit by some weird curse technique and shows up to your first date as a girl?

a/n: satoru gojo is the cutest, most dramatic little meow meow and i will stand by him even when he’s gender-swapped, in shoko’s blouse, and spiraling. my babie forever 🙁🩷

you were supposed to be the one freaking out. you were the one visiting tokyo, meeting your online textmate for the first time, risking the possibility that he could be a balding 45-year-old catfish who misused emoticons. but no. no. somehow, satoru gojo was the one on the verge of collapse.

in a bathroom stall. wearing shoko’s blouse.

“i can't do this,” he muttered, gripping the cold edge of the sink, staring at his reflection—his very female reflection. “this is psychological warfare. i'm gonna throw up.”

he tugged at the hem like it could erase the fact that he was, due to one very stupid cursed technique, stuck in the body of what could only be described as a suspiciously hot girl. legs for days, nails neatly manicured by accident, shiny white hair pinned in a hurried messy bun. sunglasses perched too confidently on his nose. the blouse was cream and satiny, a little loose on the shoulders, collar wide and slouching like it belonged to someone cooler than him.

he looked like a girl who ghosted men after two dates and never replied to texts past 10 p.m.

“i can't ghost her,” he told his reflection, dramatically. “she's so sweet. she sends good morning texts. she laughed at my jokes. my stupid jokes!” he punched the air, then immediately winced when his knuckles knocked against the stall door. “i have never felt this emotionally naked. what am i supposed to do, show up like—surprise! your online boyfriend is a woman for now!”

but he had to.

he owed you that much.

and maybe he liked you a little. like, a lot. embarrassingly so. enough to save your texts in a locked folder on his ancient flip phone. enough to call suguru in a panic the night before because you said you were nervous about meeting. he even wrote down conversation starters on the back of an old receipt. one said: if she looks nervous, compliment her earrings.

“she’s gonna think i’m unhinged,” he muttered as he walked toward the cafe, the satin blouse tucked into a pair of black trousers he'd swiped from nanami’s locker. they hung loose on his hips and cinched awkwardly with a belt that wasn’t his. the cuffs were rolled twice over the ankle, revealing socks with tiny pink cats (he’d borrowed those from shoko too, he was desperate, okay?). his stride was stiff, too aware of the clack of his borrowed heeled boots, too aware of every glance tossed his way.

his hair bounced slightly with each step, a few silvery strands slipping from the bun and catching the sun. his heart was thudding so violently it made him feel faint. the sunglasses hid the worst of it—the panic.

then he saw you.

you were already there. sitting at the little outdoor table, your hands wrapped around a cup, your eyes flitting up every time someone entered. your leg bounced under the table—nervous, hopeful. real.

satoru stopped short, breath caught. you were exactly like your photos. no, better. more real. there was a crease in your brow, like you were trying not to look too hopeful, and your fingers kept fiddling with the straw wrapper.

he adjusted his blouse, took a shaky breath, and walked up.

“hey,” he said, voice pitched a little too high, trying to channel that airy, cool-girl confidence. your gaze lifted, blinking. your eyes searched his face, expression pinched with confusion.

“...hi?” you offered, hesitant.

his heart sank. he waved his hand quickly, stepping closer.

“wait! wait—it’s me. satoru. i know, this looks insane, and i swear i'm not here to rob you or ask about your skincare routine, though i could, because your skin is phenomenal—but it’s me. i just had a... situation. with my body. medically. temporarily.”

your brows furrowed. you looked ready to bolt.

“okay, okay! remember the selfie with the strawberry milk? that was me. this is me. same soul. different shell. still terminally embarrassing. look, i even brought melonpan—your favorite! and i printed out your texts. like a maniac. that’s love, right?”

you were still staring. he could feel the blush prickling beneath his cheeks, a little warmth seeping from under the collar of the borrowed blouse. his fingers gripped the tote bag strap like a lifeline.

then your voice came, small, uncertain. “you really saved my texts?”

satoru nodded fervently. “yes! and organized them by emoji usage. there’s a spreadsheet. color-coded.”

a beat. and then—you laughed.

and satoru, in shoko’s blouse and a body that wasn’t quite his, swore he could’ve kissed the sidewalk in gratitude.

his shoulders dropped, face breaking into a sheepish grin. the sun caught in his lashes, and he tried not to look too lovesick while you took the melonpan from his hands.

“i swear, i’ll explain everything one day,” he said, lowering his voice, a rare hint of sincerity slipping in. “like... everything. i just didn’t want to stand you up. i really wanted to see you. even if i look like this. even if you walk away. i had to try.”

and somehow, impossibly—you stayed.

#౨ৎ — flash reports #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #jjk gojo #jujutsu kaisen #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #gojo x reader fluff #jjk x reader fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x y/n #jjk x reader #jjk drabbles

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yawnderu · 10 months ago

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A one-night stand with Simon completely ruins you for any other man.

His hands are forever tainted with blood and sin, yet despite the callouses adorning the rough skin, Simon’s touch is uncharacteristically gentle for someone his size, nearing a dangerous softness that has your heart beating faster by the second.

His grip on your hips tightens, pulling you down onto his thick, hard cock, the flared tip slamming into the depths of your cunt, every single sensitive spot stimulated, the sound of flesh hitting flesh echoing through the dimly lit room, mingling with your moans.

“Look at you.” His deep voice is thick with approval, tired eyes tracing the line of your collarbone, the swell of your tits, the curve of your waist, admiring you like you're nothing short of a work of art. So fucking perfect, and all his for the night.

“Fuckin’ beautiful.” More than death’s instrument, Simon Riley is just a man, unable to resist temptation— unable to resist the pleading look in your eyes, silently begging for more. His grip on your hips falters, one of his hands trailing up your sweaty, warm skin, pulling you down until your face finds shelter on the crook of his neck, your soft lips hovering over his pulse, a silent display of trust given with such ease to a complete stranger.

He pulled back and thrust inside you again, setting a less brutal rhythm, nothing in his hazy mind but the goal of making you cum first. He couldn’t help but reach between your bodies, applying light pressure on your swollen clit as he fucked you deeper, his thick tip ramming against your cervix over and over, his breath hot against your skin with each groan leaving his lips.

His free hand comes up to grasp your jaw, fingers lightly digging into the skin as he captures your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue tangling with yours in a primal dance of lust. The bitter taste of tobacco and bourbon in his saliva makes you whine, your soft hands coming up to cup his cheeks, half-lidded brown eyes meeting your gaze when you pull away.

“Fuck… gonna cum.” Simon’s breath grows heavier at the pure hunger in your eyes, dancing along a vulnerability he wasn’t used to. Amid the pleasure coiling in your stomach, your hips begin to move to match his intense pace, meeting his thrusts halfway. Simon’s thumb presses harder against your swollen clit, circling it slowly, your walls tightening around his aching cock, dragging a quiet, muffled moan out of him.

“That’s it, sweetheart, cum for me.” Simon’s voice quivers as he lets out a low groan, his free hand going down to grab a handful of your ass, the fat and muscle seeping through his fingers when he squeezes. He pushes deeper into you, trying to reach that blissful peak you both crave. His thrusts grow more desperate, a familiar tightness in his lower stomach threatening to make him cum, using your body as leverage to fuck into you harder, deeper.

“Oh… oh, fuck.” His cock twitches at your whiny moans, your walls growing even tighter around him, eyes rolling back as you finally collapse on top of him, heavy breaths leaving those soft lips he has grown to adore. Simon follows right after, unable to hold himself back, burying his cock inside you as deep as possible. Ropes of thick, hot cum paint your insides, marking you as his, even if only for that night.

“You okay?” He tucked your face into his neck, allowing you to breathe in his scent— cigarettes, gunpowder, and the faint smell of licorice. He leaned down, pressing tender kisses all over your forehead and cheeks, not minding the thin layer of sweat coating your skin. His hands are warm and gentle, running up and down your back as you both catch your breath, giving you time to recover.

“Mhm.” He pulled out of you slowly, tugging you into his side, his hand drifting down to your belly, rubbing circles on the tender skin to soothe you, his other hand pulling you closer, the aftermath of your passion lingering between you. Your fingers linger on his side, hesitantly running up and down, feeling the multiple bumps from old scars, gently rubbing a particularly bad set over his ribs. His breath hitches, yet he remains quiet, allowing you to have all of him.

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geminiwritten · 26 days ago

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soulmate ; bob reynolds

fandom: marvel

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you're engaged to bucky when you find out that not only are fated mates real, but you have one... and it's not your fiancé (soulmate au)

notes: okay, listen, this was never supposed to see the light of day... this was what i would write between other fics when i felt blocked or wanted to be dramatic and wax lyrical about loving lewis pullman... so basically, this is me not-so-subtly saying i would abandon everything i know and love for him... please be kind! this one feels weirdly personal because it's so emo??? but regardless, i hope you enjoy and would love, love, love to hear what you think! (p.s. happy birthday to me!)

warnings: swearing, angst, mention of slight age gap (with bucky), heartbreak (lots), crying, fainting, the void (almost), alcohol consumption, acotar reference (if you squint), so many metaphors, nudity, and horniness very slightly bordering on smut (yes, i still managed to make it horny) so 18+ ONLY MDNI!

word count: 14951

Mates.

It’s not something you hear about often—and it happens even less.

Centuries ago, it was something creatures hungered for. Something that drove them. Compelled them to find their one true mate and, well… mate.

But that was long ago. Now, it’s rare. Fabled. Forgotten by most. Even fewer still are lucky enough to have one.

There are other words for it now—soulmate, twin flame, kindred spirit, true love. Softened, romanticised. Colloquial terms thrown around like confetti at a wedding. Used to describe someone you choose to love. Not someone you’re bound to by something older than time.

Because mates? Real mates? They aren’t chosen. They’re fated. Selected by some ancient magic. A gift from the gods—or whatever existed before gods. Two souls born within the same lifetime, tethered by something invisible and unbreakable. And if they meet?

Well... no one really knows what happens then.

You see, with a world this big, teetering on the edge of collapse, stuffed to the brim with people all trying to survive—who has time to go chasing destiny? Who’s got the energy to scour the globe in hopes of locking eyes with some cosmic stranger?

Sure, the sex would probably be mind-blowing. But sex can be plenty good without a soul-deep connection plucking the strings of your orgasm.

Which is exactly why no one really cares about mates anymore. Most people don’t even believe they exist. And those who do? They’re usually just lonely—reaching for hope, not magic.

And you? Well, you’re more than happy in the arms of your sex god super soldier fiancé.

Or at least… you were.

“Do we have to?” Bucky sighs, his face buried in the crook of your neck, stubble grazing your skin.

You giggle and squirm beneath the weight of his body—his very naked body.

“Come on,” you say, half-heartedly shoving at his chest. “We’re already going to be late. Besides, you can’t possibly be ready to go again.”

He lifts his head, blue eyes glittering with mischief. “Sure about that, doll?”

He shifts, and you feel it—thick and heavy, pressing insistently against your hipbone.

Your eyes go wide, heat pooling between your thighs. “Aren’t you supposed to be like... over a hundred?”

He chuckles, sliding down a little, clearly aiming for your breasts.

“Technically, yes. Biologically, no.”

You hum, enjoying the rasp of his beard as it brushes against your skin. “Still,” you tease, “even biologically, you’re almost an old man.”

His head snaps up, eyes wide in mock offense. “Excuse me?”

You giggle again, trying to wriggle free. As much as you’d love to stay tangled up with him all morning, you really don’t want to be late—again—and keep his teammates waiting. They’re not exactly the warm-and-fuzzy type, but not in a bad way. More like the sarcastic, sharp-eyed, chaos crew who’d never let you live it down if you showed up looking freshly ravished. And honestly? You’re not in the mood to be roasted before coffee.

“For that little comment,” Bucky says, shifting to straddle you as the blankets fall away, “I’m cutting you off.”

You try to look up at his face, but your attention is… elsewhere. More specifically, the part of him that obviously doesn’t agree with this whole cutting you off plan. It’s hard—painfully hard—and staring right at you, begging to be touched.

You lick your lips, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Cutting me off?”

He nods, sliding off the bed and taking his gorgeous body with him. “Mhm. You’re cut off. For at least twenty-four hours.”

You scramble after him, following him into the ensuite like a woman on a mission. “Twenty-four hours?!”

His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a grin, but he keeps it together. “Yep.” He turns to you, leveling you with a mock-stern look. “You called me old.”

You jut your bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. “It was just a joke.”

He leans in and kisses your pouty lips. “Well,” he murmurs, “maybe next time you’ll think twice.”

Then he turns to the shower and cranks on the hot water, leaving you standing there like a sulking child who’s just been denied dessert.

As the two of you shower and dress in companionable silence, a twinge of guilt starts to settle in your chest. Maybe you shouldn’t have made that crack about his age.

He didn’t seem offended—but still. The age gap is real. It’s not something either of you acknowledges often, but maybe you should be a little more mindful. He is the older one. The one in the public eye. The one who constantly fields backlash from idiot reporters and politicians, all desperate to dig up something to use against him.

And now that you’re engaged—engaged—right as he’s stepping into this whole New Avengers thing? The spotlight on him is brighter than ever. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to pick your playful jabs a little more carefully. Just for a while.

“Hey,” you murmur, lacing your fingers through his as you step into the tower elevator. “Sorry about before.”

He hits the button for the main floor, then glances at you with a puzzled little frown. “For what, doll?”

You shrug. “Calling you old.”

He chuckles—low, rough, and unfairly attractive. “Don’t be sorry. I’m a big boy. I can take a joke.”

There’s a beat of quiet as the elevator hums around you. Then, he leans in, lips near your ear, breath warm on your skin.

“I’ll just have to punish you for it later.”

Anticipation sizzles beneath your skin, adrenaline zipping down your spine before settling between your legs—a place Bucky’s words have a habit of landing.

Before you can fire back something smart—or filthy—the doors slide open, and you're greeted by the wide, sunlit expanse of the New Avengers common room.

“Finally!” Yelena calls, her head popping up over the back of the couch. “You’re like… twenty minutes late.”

“It’s not my fault,” you say quickly, slipping away from Bucky toward the kitchen. “All Barnes.”

He shoots you a look, lips twitching, then turns back to his teammates, moving toward where most of them are crowded around the living room setup in the centre of the huge space. Everyone is here except their newest specially-abled member—Bob.

You haven’t met him yet, and honestly, you’re not exactly eager. You know he’s got… issues, to say the least. And with all the other complications this group brings, you’re already close enough to being overwhelmed. How they came to be Earth’s Mightiest Heroes 2.0? You’ll never understand.

You busy yourself in the kitchen, fixing coffee and some breakfast while Bucky and his team dive into their meeting. You don’t live at the tower—you and Bucky have a small apartment a few blocks away—but you’re more than comfortable here. At first, coming along to all the meetings and mission briefings felt like a drag, but eventually you got to know everyone, and now, it doesn’t bother you so much.

An hour later, the meeting slips into something more casual. Bucky excuses himself to take a phone call, and Ava disappears—literally—so you take the opportunity to settle onto the couch, half-listening as John and Alexei bicker over what to watch on TV.

John wins, and you’re stuck watching college sports.

“I read your book,” Alexei announces, turning to you with a proud smile—his back now to John.

You tilt your head, frowning. “My book?”

“Yes, yes.” He slings an arm over the back of the lounge, turning fully toward you. “The one you told me to read.”

You stare at him, confused, for a beat longer than you’d like—until realisation dawns, followed swiftly by mortification.

“Oh my God, no,” you mutter, face burning. “No, Alexei, you didn’t—”

“The one about the faeries,” he says proudly. “It is a little naughty, but it is good.”

“You!” Yelena gasps from across the room. “You’re the one who told him to read those books!”

You sink deeper into the plush couch, hands flying up in surrender. “No, I swear—I didn’t tell him to! He asked what I was reading, and I... I told him. That’s it. I never told him to read them!”

John groans. “He hasn’t shut up about those porn books all week.”

From the kitchen, Bucky turns sharply, halfway through his phone call. His eyes land on you—wide with amusement, brows lifted in mock surprise, the phone still pressed to his ear.

“They’re not all naughty,” Alexei says with a small frown—and you’re not sure if he’s defending himself or you. “There is fighting and magic too. They are good books.”

You can’t help but let a quiet giggle slip past your lips. “Which one are you up to?”

His eyes sparkle with excitement. “I just finished the second book.”

You sit up and lean toward him, ignoring the dirty looks from Yelena and John. “Oh my God, did you love it? The second one is my favourite.”

Alexei nods eagerly. “I loved it. They are perfect together. Much better than the blond man.”

“Much better,” you agree with another soft laugh.

“I have question, though,” he says, his smile faltering into a curious frown. “How can they be mates if they are born hundreds of years apart?”

Yelena scoffs. “The book has soulmates too?”

You turn to her with a playful smile. “They’re mates, not soulmates. Like, fated mates. It’s not as lame as it sounds.”

“It sounds very lame,” she deadpans.

“It is not lame,” Alexei argues. “It is beautiful.”

Yelena rolls her eyes and John lets out a disbelieving laugh, still focused on the TV.

“You know,” you say slowly, leaning forward to catch John’s eye on the other side of Alexei, “some people actually believe in mates. Like real soulmates.”

“Yeah—desperate people,” John quips.

You roll your eyes. “No—I mean, yeah, but not just lonely people. Some still think fated mates are real. Rare, but real. Like some kind of ancient, sleeping magic. Most people won’t find theirs, because the world is too crowded now. But centuries ago, it used to matter. In some cultures, it still does.”

Yelena snorts. “Still sounds lame.”

You’re just about to respond when Ava phases in beside you, startling you.

“It’s true,” she says plainly. “I’ve heard stories.”

You ignore your spiked pulse and tilt your head. “You have?”

She nods. “Yeah. You know, when I was stuck in a lab for most of my childhood. I read a lot. Learned a lot. There are a few different versions, but some cultures still believe in real mates.”

Yelena frowns, but leans in—clearly intrigued. “This is ridiculous. There is no way every person has someone they are destined to be with. If that were true, we’d know more about it.”

“Not everyone has one,” you say. “It’s actually pretty rare.”

Ava raises a sceptical brow. “So, you believe in mates?”

You shrug, your cheeks warming with a touch of embarrassment. “I don’t know.”

“How do you know so much about it?” Yelena asks, a small smirk tugging at her lips.

You press your lips together, buying a moment to decide whether or not to tell them your story. But really—why not? It’s not like you have anything to hide. Mate or not, you’re happy with Bucky. And you know you will be for the rest of your life.

“Okay,” you begin, leaning forward, elbows resting on your knees. “A few years ago, I was at this gala—something for work—and this woman approached me…”

- Five Years Ago -

You tip the champagne flute to your lips, emptying it in one gulp.

“Wow,” you mutter to yourself. “These fancy events are stingy with the refreshments.”

An older couple nearby gives you a dirty look, but you ignore it and wander off in search of another waiter with another tray of tiny, unsatisfying champagne flutes.

“Excuse me?”

A woman steps into your path before you can reach the next tray. She’s older, with a lined face and silver-grey hair that falls almost to her hips. Her floral dress flows a little too gracefully for a ballroom with no breeze, and the many pieces of jewellery adorning her neck and arms clink softly as she moves.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says with a small, serene smile. “But I had to speak to you.”

You tear your eyes away from the waiter retreating with your drink.

“That’s okay,” you reply, turning to meet her gaze—only to falter when you notice her eyes. They’re not hazel or green or brown. They’re gold. Entirely gold.

“Sorry, I—uh, I don’t think we’ve met?”

You offer your hand, which she takes gently, though her eyes never leave your face. They scan your features like she’s searching for something—something buried. Something you’re not sure is even there.

“No, we haven’t,” she says, stepping a little closer. It’s invasive, but her strange energy keeps you frozen in place. “I don’t normally do this. I usually keep my… visions to myself.”

Oh, God. She’s a fucking loon.

You let out a soft, awkward laugh. “Visions?”

She nods. “I’m not crazy.”

Sure, lady.

“My family is gifted—well, some of us are,” she continues. “I prefer to keep to myself, but when I saw you, I had to say something.”

You frown. “Say what?”

“You have the mark.”

“The… mark?”

“Yes,” she says, and you realize she’s still holding your hand as she gently places her other over it. “In your fate lines.”

Your eyes dart around the room. Why is no one noticing this weird little encounter?

You glance back at her—into those strange gold eyes. “My what, now?”

Her brows pull together slightly. “You don’t believe in fate?”

“I believe in free will.”

She smiles. “The two aren’t so different. Fate offers the door. Free will decides whether you open it.”

“Okay...” you murmur. “So I’m marked?”

“You have the mark,” she corrects. “The mark of a mate. Your other half. The dark to your light. You’ll know him when you feel the pull. It won’t be gentle—it never is, for ones like you.”

Your brow creases. “Ones like me?”

She studies you again—longer this time. Her smile is faint, but her eyes are deep, unblinking. She’s not looking at you. She’s looking through you. Still searching for something beneath your skin.

“You’re not ordinary,” she says softly. “Neither is he—at least, he won’t be when you meet. That’s why it matters. You two were made for something bigger. Together, you’ll either shift the course of something… or break it entirely.”

Okay. Definitely time to find that waiter. And take the whole damn tray.

She leans closer, her voice a whisper now—but somehow heavier. “This isn’t about belief. It’s about design. You can walk away—fate gives the door, not the hand that turns the knob. But when the moment comes, it won’t feel like a choice. Not to you. Not to him. Because something in the marrow of your bones will know.”

You swallow hard, the hairs on your neck standing straight.

She glances around once, then leans in—like she’s sharing a secret. “There will come a time when everything depends on whether you hold onto each other. Or let go. And if you let go…” Her lips press together, almost regretful. “Well. I suppose the universe will just have to adjust. Somehow.”

And then, like smoke in a breeze, she slips into the crowd—leaving your pulse racing and the taste of stardust on the back of your tongue.

- Present -

“Were you on drugs?” Yelena asks—not accusing, just curious.

You shoot her an unimpressed glare. “No.”

Of all the faces in the room, Alexei’s is the most excited—his eyes practically sparkling.

“Did you go after the mysterious woman?” he asks, leaning in.

You shake your head. “No. I went after the waiter and took his tray.”

Yelena snorts. “So you were drunk.”

“I wasn’t drunk,” you argue. “Yet, at least.”

Ava tilts her head, eyes narrowed. “Did you believe her?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It sounds far-fetched, but… look at the last ten years. Super-people, aliens, sorcerers, magic. It’s not that hard to believe in the grand scheme of things.”

Alexei leans closer, dropping his voice. “Do you believe Barnes is your mate?”

No—but you’re not saying that out loud.

“Sure,” you say, your voice just a little too high. “I mean, assuming I believe the woman—which I never said I did—”

“You do,” Yelena cuts in. “I can see it in your eyes.”

You shoot her a look. “Whether or not I believe her... I love Bucky. He’s my person. I don’t care if he’s my cosmically assigned soul partner or not. I want him. Only him. End of story.”

Yelena breaks into a cheesy smile. “Aw, you are so cute. Sappy, and a little gross, but cute.”

You roll your eyes as she pushes off the lounge and heads toward the kitchen, where Bucky is still muttering into the phone. John’s attention is glued to the TV—you’re not even sure he heard your story. And Ava phases out again, disappearing somewhere into the tower.

After a moment, Alexei turns to you, voice lowered. “Are you scared?”

You frown. “Scared of what?”

“If you meet your mate.”

You laugh—softly, uneasily—ignoring the sharp twist of anxiety in your chest. “I don’t even know if I believe in that. So why would I be scared?”

“Because,” he says, glancing toward the kitchen, “you’ll either have to break his heart, or break your own by refusing fate.”

His words hit harder than they should. For a moment, it’s like your lungs forget how to work—air punched right out of your chest, heart pounding hard and fast against your ribs.

You’ve never thought about it like that—because you’ve never truly believed the strange woman’s prophecy. You met Bucky nearly a year later, and the thought never crossed your mind.

Not until now. Not until you had to retell that bizarre encounter out loud.

And sure, you could keep telling yourself you don’t believe in it. But there’s always that one question that lingers.

What if?

What if what she said was real?

What if Bucky isn’t your mate?

What if you find him?

What if she was right—and you can’t stay away?

What if the choice comes down to breaking Bucky’s heart… or your own?

“You okay?” Bucky asks, his fingers laced with yours as you walk down the corridor toward the elevator.

You’d spent the last few hours watching TV with Alexei and John—mostly talking about books—while Bucky worked. You tried to push all the weird questions and swirling doubts out of your mind, but it wasn’t easy with Alexei’s constant interrogation.

“Yeah,” you reply quietly. “Just tired.”

He squeezes your hand. “You sure?”

You glance up and meet his baby blues—so sincere it makes guilt creep up your spine. You can’t just tell him you’re scared he’s not your person... That would break his heart. And for what? Some cryptic message from a strange woman about a mark you’ve never even seen? Or believed in.

“Shit,” Bucky mutters, his eyes snapping away from yours.

You frown and follow his gaze, eyes widening when you see the end of the hallway swallowed in black.

“Um,” you lean into him, “what the fuck?”

“It’s Bob,” he says, slowly backing away. “He’s having a nightmare.”

You glance up at your fiancé. “He’s still sleeping?”

“Yeah, he has trouble actually sleeping,” Bucky replies. “That’s why he’s in his room all the time. He’s trying to sleep, and then whenever he does... it’s this shit. I thought I had nightmares, but this kid…”

Your heart thuds heavy in your chest—but not fast. Not panicked. You should be panicked. But you feel calm. Strangely calm. Even as the darkness creeps across the floor and walls, inching toward you as you back away.

“What happens if we touch it?” you ask, hesitating mid-step.

Bucky tugs your hand, urging you to keep moving. “Nothing good.”

Your head tilts as you watch the inky mass crawl, swallowing everything in its path. Your fingers twitch with the urge to reach out—but you know better.

“Is it cold?” you ask, eyes still fixed on the darkness.

Bucky frowns. “What?”

“The darkness,” you say, glancing up at him. “Is it cold? It doesn’t seem cold.”

He stares at you like you’ve just asked if it tastes like chicken. “It doesn’t really... feel like anything,” he says, eyes darting between you and the growing shadow. “Now, come on. We’ll take the stairs and warn the others.”

You stop short, frowning. “You’re just going to leave him?”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your damn mind. “Well, no. We’ll go in if we have to, but it’s usually better to wait it out. He’s getting better at managing it. It usually stops before it spreads too far. So, we try not to interfere unless we need to.”

“He shouldn’t have to deal with it by himself,” you argue.

“I know that,” Bucky says, tipping his head slightly as he studies you. “We all know that. And he knows we’re here for him. But we can’t sleep beside him every night—if we do, we get pulled in the second he starts dreaming. He knows we’ll help him if he needs it, but he’s trying to learn how to control it on his own.”

You feel an ache to run in after him—a man you barely know—to dive into that abyss. But you know it’d be stupid. You’re not like Bucky or the others. Not enhanced. Not particularly special. You probably wouldn’t last a second inside whatever hellscape awaits you in that darkness.

“Okay,” you mutter, squeezing Bucky’s hand. “Let’s go.”

You backtrack through the tower to the common area and give the others a heads-up. Then, taking the route furthest from Bob’s room, the group filters out. Yelena and Ava decide to hang back and keep watch, while Alexei and John head off in search of lunch.

You and Bucky say your goodbyes—for the second time today—before heading down the street toward your shared apartment.

“What was all that, hm?” Bucky asks gently, his voice soft but his eyes sharp with concern.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t still want to go back. The darkness hadn’t scared you—it hadn’t even really deterred you. All you could think about was the man trapped inside it—scared and alone. Gifted with powers like a god, but still powerless against his own demons.

“Nothing,” you say, keeping your tone light. “Just feeling a little extra empathetic today.”

He studies you a beat longer, but you keep your eyes fixed ahead. After a minute or two, he sighs, letting go of your hand and wrapping his arm around your shoulders instead. He pulls you in close and presses a kiss to the top of your head, murmuring something too quiet for you to catch—but you’re pretty sure it’s an I love you.

Once back at your apartment, you curl up on the couch together and start watching a movie—one you insist Bucky has to see, since he missed out on so many years of excellent pop culture. About an hour in, the pressure in your chest finally starts to lift—the weird heaviness that had been stopping you from telling Bucky what was really wrong. But instead of relief, guilt settles in, and you quickly turn to him.

“Buck,” you say softly.

His eyes are on his phone. “Bob’s fine now. Yelena said he woke up and wasn’t even rattled. Said the nightmare was bad, but he found it easier to stop.”

“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

He locks his phone and tosses it onto the couch beside him, giving you his full attention. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah—um, about before. I’m sorry for not listening to you. For arguing. It was weird, and I was kind of lost in my own head.”

He leans forward, takes both of your hands in his, and doesn’t speak—just laces your fingers together and watches how his hands swallow yours.

You clear your throat, hesitating. “Do you remember when I told you about that strange woman who came up to me at The Vantage Summer Gala a few years ago?”

His gaze lifts to yours, steady. “Of course. The lady who told you about your soulmate.”

“Well,” you begin, “I was telling the others about it—Alexei brought up those books I supposedly told him to read, and... I don’t know, we ended up talking about soulmates, or whatever. And after I told them the story, Alexei started asking weird questions. Like if I believed her. If I think you’re my soulmate. And then... what if you’re not? And—and—” Your voice catches, throat thickening. “And w-what if—”

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, scooting closer and wrapping his arms around you. “You’re not about to cry over something dumb Alexei said, are you?”

You let out a watery laugh, your eyes welling as you press your cheek to his shoulder.

“I knew something was eating at you, doll,” he whispers into your hair, breath warm against your skin.

You sniffle, blinking fast. “It just feels so stupid.”

“Nothing’s stupid if it hurts you,” he says firmly. “And you don’t ever have to keep things from me. I don’t care how small it feels—if it’s bothering you, I want to know.”

“Okay,” you mumble into his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he sighs, pulling back just enough to look at you, still holding you close. “Don’t ever be sorry for being upset.”

You swipe the back of your hand beneath your nose.

“Now listen, okay?” He takes your hands again, holding them tight. “This might not help, but I need to say it.”

You frown but stay quiet, holding your breath like it might help hold back the tears.

“I know you’re unsure about what that woman told you,” he starts, “and I don’t know if soulmates are real or if fate really gives a damn about people like us. But I know what I feel when I look at you, and when you look at me.” He pauses, just for a beat. “I love you. And not because the universe says I should. I love you because you’re kind, and sharp, and stubborn as hell. I love the way you get quiet when you’re overthinking, and the way you look at me like I’m someone worth staying for.”

A few tears slip down your cheeks as he takes a shaky breath.

“But if one day, you find out there is someone else—if that soulmate thing is real, and you meet him and your whole world shifts—then I won’t hold you back. Even if it kills me, I won’t be the reason you’re not happy.”

The tears start falling faster.

“Do I want that? Hell no. I want you. Here. With me. Always. But loving someone means putting them first, even when it hurts. So if it ever comes to that… I’ll let you go. But until then… I’m all in. Every part of me is yours. No marks. No fate. Just choice. And I choose you.”

His voice wobbles as he finishes, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

You swallow a sob and take a deep breath, willing your voice to work.

“I love you too,” you whisper, a little pitiful after his brilliant speech.

He grins—and you barely get a second to appreciate it before he’s on you. His lips crash into yours, his hands gripping your body as he presses you back on the couch. The movie is long forgotten as he kisses you like you're the only place he’s ever felt at home.

You start fumbling with his shirt, trying to undress him, but barely make it far before his phone starts buzzing.

He groans and pushes up, and you let him go—his line of work is literally life or death.

“Everything okay?” you ask.

He nods, tapping out a quick reply before locking his phone again. “Yeah. Just John asking about tomorrow night.”

“The foundation ball thing?”

“Yep,” he sighs. “Can’t wait.”

You lean in until your lips are just inches from his. “Can I come?”

He frowns. “I thought you didn’t want to?”

“I didn’t,” you say. “But now I do. I think I need to be there.”

His expression softens as he leans in to kiss you again, murmuring, “Of course you can come.”

You feel strange under the glowing lights of the lavishly decorated ballroom. You haven’t even stepped foot in a place like this since your encounter with the fate lady—which isn’t helping that nagging anxiety that hasn’t let up since yesterday. But you’re still here, dressed to the nines and sipping champagne, because you knew you had to be. You just felt it. In your bones.

“Wow, you clean up nice,” Yelena says, her eyes sparkling as she approaches.

You’re at a high table near the back of the room, conveniently close to the bar.

“And excellent choice in location,” she adds with a wink.

You laugh quietly. “Yeah, I’m not a fan of these kinds of functions unless there’s copious amounts of alcohol involved.”

“I’m not a fan of much without copious amounts of alcohol,” she says dryly. “But I imagine you’ve got a little PTSD from this kind of thing. Especially after the voodoo lady read your palms.”

Her tone is teasing, but her words still prick your chest like tiny needles full of panic.

“Very funny,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll meet a crazy woman tonight who can tell you all about your future.”

She scoffs. “No thank you. I am perfectly happy keeping that a mystery.”

You snort softly into your glass and take a generous sip of champagne.

“I’m pretty sure the only reason Alexei came tonight was in hopes of getting his fortune told,” she says, glancing across the room to where he’s talking to Bucky. “You know he hasn’t shut up about it for the past twenty-four hours? He even asked me to help him use a computer so he could research.”

“Oh my God,” you giggle. “I’m so sorry.”

Before either of you can say anything else, Alexei catches your eye and his face splits into a grin. He waves enthusiastically, then quickly excuses himself and begins weaving through the crowd.

“Oh, great,” Yelena sighs. “He’s coming over here.”

“You are here!” he exclaims, earning a few curious glances from nearby guests. “I am so excited to see you. We have much to talk about.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes your lips. “Hey, Alexei. Yelena was just telling me you’ve been doing some research.”

“Lots of research,” he confirms, setting his beer down on the table. “I know everything about mates. Ask me anything.”

Ignoring the sting of nerves rushing through your veins, you start to search for a safe question—something that won’t set your anxiety on fire.

“How do you know if you’ve met them?” Yelena cuts in before you can speak.

Alexei’s eyes light up. “Ah, good question. It is obvious. You cannot deny it once you meet them. It feels like gravity is gone, and they become your only tether to the earth. You don’t need oxygen. You don’t need water. You just need them.” He smiles proudly and nods at both of you. “Now ask me what happens when you touch them.”

You frown, curiosity getting the better of you. “What’s the difference? Between simply meeting them and touching them?”

“There is all the difference,” he says, frowning like you’ve just asked the dumbest question imaginable. “You see them, and yes, you know—but you still have choice. When you touch them, you cannot change mind. You can try, but it is too painful.”

You tilt your head. “Like... it actually hurts? Or it’s just emotionally difficult?”

“It physically hurts,” Yelena answers, and your gaze snaps to her. “You’ve acknowledged the connection, so you can’t go back to being without them. It feels like you’re being torn apart the further you try to get away.”

You raise your brows, surprised by her sudden expertise.

“What?” she snaps. “I was helping him use the computer, okay?”

You press your lips together to stifle a laugh and turn back to Alexei. “Okay, so what happens if you don’t like your mate?”

He scoffs, throwing his head back dramatically. “It is not possible. These two people are designed to be together, from birth. It is deeper than souls or magic. You cannot even describe it. There is no way two beings created for each other could possibly dislike one another.”

“Okay...” you say softly, “but what if you deny it?”

“Deny it?” he echoes. “You cannot—because you will not want to. The second you find them, you will ache for them in ways you cannot explain. No one else will ever fit. No one else will ever satisfy. You will crave them in your blood, in your breath. Denying it would be like trying to unmake the sky.”

His words knock the breath out of you for the second time in twenty-four hours. You nearly stumble back at their weight—at the way they land straight in your chest.

“This part is interesting too,” Alexei continues, ignoring the way your face has paled. “Before you meet them, you feel it.”

John appears beside you, setting his drink down on the table and eyeing Alexei with a frown. “What do you mean, feel it?”

“When you are close to meeting them, everything shifts,” he says. “Just a little. Sometimes it feels like anxiety. Sometimes it feels like peace. But always, it feels like something is happening—something inevitable. You start going places without knowing why, saying yes to things you would normally refuse. There is a pull in your gut, something telling you where to go. Like the universe is nudging you to where you are supposed to be.”

The words hang in the air, humming like static before a storm—until Yelena’s voice slices through the tension.

“Walker,” she snaps, frowning. “Where the hell is Bob?”

John blinks, taken aback. “I don’t know. I thought Ava was with him.”

You glance between the two blondes, blinking slowly. “Wait—Bob is here?”

“Yes,” Yelena says, clearly irritated. “He asked to come. Said he needed to be here—I don’t know. I felt bad saying no, he never leaves the tower.”

John exhales sharply. “I’ll go find him.”

Yelena turns to Alexei. “Can you go track down Ava? Let us know if she’s with him.”

“I’ll tell Bucky,” you say quickly, already moving as you slip away from the table and into the crowd.

You move through the crowd with steady purpose, weaving between glittering gowns and polished tuxedos, eyes scanning for that familiar face.

Bucky. You’re looking for Bucky.

The ballroom thrums behind you—laughter, clinking glasses, the low swell of music—but it all begins to blur. Your heartbeat picks up, not with panic, but with something else. Something you can’t name. A shift beneath your skin.

You slip through a side door, into a wide corridor draped in golden light. The hush is immediate, swallowing the noise of the party like a dream closing over waking thought. The silence buzzes in your ears, and the air feels... heavier. Thicker. Like the world had been holding its breath, and you just stepped into the exhale.

You walk slowly, drawn forward without thought. Each step echoes, like it belongs to someone else.

And then—you see him.

At the far end of the hallway, half-turned as if he wasn’t sure whether to leave or stay, stands a man. Tall. Tousled brown curls. Shoulders hunched just slightly in a way that says he doesn’t quite know how to fit inside his own skin. His head lifts as if sensing you, like a string inside him just snapped taut.

His eyes meet yours.

It’s not a lightning bolt. It’s not an explosion. It’s worse—or better. It’s everything. The moment stretches, distorts. A pressure builds in your chest, like gravity has decided to anchor you only to him.

You can’t breathe.

The world doesn’t blur—it sharpens. Every detail. The rise of his chest as he inhales, the exact shade of his deep blue eyes, the way his fingers twitch like they know something his mind hasn’t caught up to yet. You feel it in your bones, in your blood, like a long-lost note finally striking true.

Your mouth parts, but there’s nothing to say.

He takes a step forward, unsure. Almost afraid.

And you realise—you weren’t searching for Bucky. Not really.

You were being led to him.

“D-Do I know you?” His voice carries down the corridor—low, deep, wrapping around you like silk and smoke.

“No,” you whisper, even as every part of you screams yes.

He’s still a few feet away, and you’re not even sure he heard you—but his head tilts, just slightly, like he did. Then he takes a step. And another.

Drawn forward like the tide answering the moon.

His movements are slow, deliberate—like he’s caught in the pull of something he doesn’t understand, only knows he has to follow. Eyes locked to yours, wide and dark, shimmering with a quiet awe you can’t name.

He doesn’t stop until he’s standing right in front of you—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Close enough to forget how to breathe. But you don’t need to breathe. Not now. Not when he’s here.

He is your oxygen. Your gravity.

He is everything you will ever need.

Everything you want.

He is everything.

“Hey—there you are.” The voice crashes into you like a wave shattering glass.

You jolt, snapping your head toward Bucky as he rounds the corner, a sheepish grin on his face, completely unaware of the world he’s just torn apart.

“Bucky,” you mutter, as if reminding yourself of his name.

Bucky frowns, curiosity sharpening his gaze as it flicks between you and the man beside you. “Bob?”

You whip back to Bob, eyes widening at his outstretched hand—fingertips hovering just a breath from your arm.

You flinch as if burned, stepping back before he can touch you—and his eyes snap up, darkening with something raw and wounded. The crack in your chest widens, because you feel it too. The sting of refusal. The ache of distance. The desperate, inexplicable need to feel his skin against yours—a need neither of you understands, but both feel deep in your bones.

“What’s going on?” Bucky’s voice is tight as his eyes settle on you.

You meet his gaze, a sharp pang of guilt slicing through your chest—because the face you love isn’t the one your heart seeks anymore. Your eyes? They’re drawn only to Bob. To memorise every line, to trace every curve. To know him more intimately than your own reflection, more deeply than the shadows behind your closed eyelids.

“I was—I, uh—looking for you,” you say, forcing your gaze to stay with him.

His posture stiffens, guarded—something you know all too well after years together. His brow furrows as his sharp eyes dart between you and Bob. He can sense it—whatever it is. The shift in gravity, the subtle movement beneath the earth. He knows there’s something more, but he doesn’t know what. Or maybe he doesn’t want to.

He fixes his gaze on you. “Are you okay?”

You nod slowly, then glance at Bob—you can’t help yourself—and it feels like surfacing from deep underwater, finally able to breathe. “Bob,” you whisper.

Bucky clears his throat. “Right. Of course. You two haven’t met yet.”

He wraps an arm around your waist and Bob’s eyes flare with heat—anger. He moves as if to shove Bucky away, but you find his gaze and silently plead for restraint.

You swear his eyes darken a shade, but he holds back. Jaw clenched, shoulders rigid—tense—but no longer coiled to strike.

“Bob,” Bucky says, eyes flickering between the two of you—clearly not missing the silent exchange or the way Bob’s body tensed. “This is my fiancé.”

Time stops—or at least, it feels that way. Bob’s eyes don’t leave yours, that same wounded look returning—only now, it’s splintered into something far more devastating. Like he’d caught a glimpse of heaven—just for a moment—before being ripped from the sky and cast down. Down through the clouds, through the earth, all the way into fire.

He was so close. So close to having everything. To having you.

Now all that’s left is ash in his mouth, and a slow, burning fury aimed at the man standing beside you. A man he calls a friend. A teammate.

“I need to go,” you whisper. “I—I feel sick.”

Bucky’s arm tightens protectively around you. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You shake your head, eyes stinging. “I need to leave. Can we go—” your voice breaks as you glance up at him, wide-eyed and pleading, “—please.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll take you home, doll.” Then he turns to Bob. “Yelena’s looking for you. Come on.”

Bucky guides you back through the same door you’d slipped through earlier, back into the chaos of the ballroom. The music, the chatter, the laughter—it all feels like it’s coming from underwater. The world keeps spinning, blissfully unaware that your axis has tilted.

A few guests nod or greet Bucky as he passes, but he doesn’t stop. He can feel the way you’re swaying beside him, the way your weight leans harder against him with every step. He’s moving fast now. He knows something’s wrong.

So do you.

Your vision swims. The lights blur into streaks of gold and silver, voices folding into one another like crashing waves.

Somewhere in the distance, you hear Yelena. Then Alexei. Then—Bob.

Bob.

You spot him behind Yelena, eyes wide and wounded, standing like a ghost at the edge of your unravelling world.

He’s the only thing that makes sense in the chaos.

The only thing that’s clear.

And all you want to do is reach for him.

But you can’t.

Not here. Not now.

Not ever.

Because you love Bucky.

Because you chose Bucky.

“Bucky,” you murmur, barely audible, “Need t’ go…”

His arm tightens again. “I’ve got you.”

“Is she okay?” Yelena’s voice cuts through the noise.

“I don’t know,” Bucky answers, urgency creeping into his tone. “I need to get her out of here—now.”

You try to blink, but your eyes don’t open again.

The music and chatter twist into a storm—deafening, chaotic, pounding against your skull.

You try to move, to breathe, to see—but nothing works.

Your eyelids are too heavy.

Your lungs feel like they’re filling with water.

Your chest is caving in under the weight of it.

Everything is too heavy. Too loud. Too much.

Then—

The world cuts out.

Everything stops.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Yelena’s voice is muffled, but still clear.

“Keep it down,” Bucky hisses, his voice low—laced with urgency and… grief.

“I came here to ask if you knew what happened to Bob last night, because he’s been acting weirder than usual,” Yelena snaps, no softer than before. “But I did not come here for bullshit—I get enough of that from Alexei.”

Bucky exhales a long, tired breath. “Maybe we need to talk to Alexei.”

“Why the hell would we do that?” Yelena demands. “Whatever he’s been on about these past few days isn’t real. He’s off with the fairies—literally. Do not tell me you actually believe in all that stupid soulmate crap.”

There’s a pause. A thick, heavy silence as you try to peel your eyelids open. But you can’t. They’re too heavy.

“You didn’t see what I saw, Yelena,” Bucky says, voice strained. “The way they looked at each other... it felt—I don’t know. Like something cracked open. They were just standing there, but it was like all the air got sucked out of the room. I could feel it—the whole world shifting.”

“You sound like Alexei,” Yelena replies, deadpan. “So you’re either on drugs, hit your head, or you’re trying to be funny.”

“Why would I joke about the woman I love being inextricably bound to another man?”

Your eyes snap open. Heat licks up your spine and burns behind your eyes as your vision adjusts to the harsh morning sun.

“Okay. So, drugs. Or you bumped your head,” Yelena says, voice carrying through your bedroom door.

“Yelena,” Bucky pleads, voice cracking. “Please. I don’t know what happened, but I know something did. I need your help.”

She sighs. “Okay, fine. But you asked for this.” There’s a pause before she adds, “I’ll call Alexei.”

Your mouth is dry and your whole body aches with stiffness as you sit up, rubbing at your burning eyes. The sun through the window is too low and too bright for it to be your usual wake-up time—so you know you’ve overslept.

You throw back the duvet and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, curling your toes into the plush carpet you and Bucky picked out together. You’d chosen it the second you stepped into the flooring store. The saleswoman warned you off it—something about loose threads and visible tread marks—but it was just so unbelievably soft, you couldn’t imagine choosing anything else.

The day it was installed, you and Bucky spent the first fifteen minutes making carpet angels, laughing like idiots, and revelling in the feel of it beneath your skin. Then you spent the next hour defiling the brand-new flooring. There’s still a stain you never managed to get out—thankfully hidden beneath the bed.

Your stomach twists with nausea, bile climbing your throat until you gag. You scramble to your feet and rush into the ensuite, gripping the basin for dear life as you cough up nothing but stomach acid.

Tears well up, spilling hot and fast down your cheeks before your mind can even catch up.

You feel wrecked. Totally and utterly ruined. Chewed up and spat out by the universe.

You don’t understand anything. It’s like you’ve been dropped into the centre of the labyrinth without a torch. But there’s a rope inside your gut—tugging, steady and sure—pulling you in a direction that promises escape. Only, it’s not leading you toward where you should be going. Not to Bucky.

No, the rope is dragging you toward someone else. Your mate. The man from last night. Bob. The only thing your body seems to crave.

“Fuck,” you mutter, letting your heavy eyelids fall shut as you slowly straighten.

You avoid your reflection in the mirror as you strip off and step into the shower. You can’t look at yourself right now. You’re not just confused—you’re scared. Something inside you has changed, irrevocably. And you know that the moment you admit it, you’ll lose the power to stop it.

Once you’re showered and slightly less of a wreck, you wrap yourself in a comfortable pair of sweats and an old hoodie—one you haven’t worn in a while, since you usually prefer to steal Bucky’s. But not today. You tried to put on one of his sweaters, but the smell made you gag. And then you started crying again. Because yesterday, his scent was one of the most comforting things in the world to you. But not anymore.

Now, all you can think about is Bob—where he is, what he’s doing. And you know he’s thinking about you too. You can feel it.

After another few minutes of tears, you dry your cheeks and take a deep breath before stepping out of the bedroom and padding down the hall. When you reach the lounge room, the low chatter dies instantly, and three pairs of eyes turn to you—wide and full of concern.

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, brows drawn tight. “How are you feeling?”

“Great,” you mutter sarcastically, avoiding his gaze.

“You do not look great,” Alexei says flatly.

Yelena rolls her eyes. “Thank you, Alexei. She knows.”

You curl up on the far end of the three-seater lounge, putting as much distance as possible between you and Yelena. Bucky is on the two-seater, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and Alexei is perched on one of the dining room chairs with his back to the TV.

It’s on, but the volume is muted.

“So,” your eyes flick toward Yelena, “what’s all this about?”

She sighs, her gaze darting to Bucky before settling back on you. “I came over to ask Barnes if he knew what happened to Bob last night, because he was acting strange—stranger than usual. But instead, I get told a bunch of bullshit about this ridiculous soulmates thing that Alexei has been going on about. And now I’m being forced to entertain the idea that it might be real. So... explain.”

You frown. “Explain what?”

“Whatever happened with you and Bob last night,” she says, waving a hand like the answer should be obvious.

You blink a few times, brows pulling tighter as you glance down. The room thickens with silence, tension rising in the air. The only sound is Alexei’s heavy breathing.

“What do you mean... he was acting strange?” you ask softly.

Yelena sighs again, tipping her head as if searching for the right words. “He was... weirdly calm. And not the kind of quiet, anxiety-ridden, dissociative ‘calm’ he usually is. He was actually peaceful. It was kind of alarming. So Ava stayed up all night to keep watch. We thought it might be the ‘calm before the storm’—you know, before one of his other personalities came out to play—but... nothing. He went to bed and slept. No noise, no darkness. Ava even phased into his room to check he was still there. And he was—sleeping peacefully.” She pauses. “He was... talking, though. Kept saying your name.”

You swallow—hard. “My name?”

She nods.

“Okay,” you mutter. “That doesn’t really mean... anything.” You glance at Alexei, like he might save you. “Right?”

“Doll,” Bucky says softly, voice tight, eyes still locked on the floor. “You were sayin’ his name all night too.”

You choke on nothing. Your chest tightens, lungs aching, heart leaping into an erratic rhythm.

“Alexei,” Yelena says sharply, turning toward her father. “Assuming this ridiculousness is real—how do we know for sure?”

Alexei raises his brows, eyes fixed on you. “She knows. And so does Bob. There is no magical way of asking the universe. They just know.”

Yelena’s head snaps back to you, her eyes wide, expectant. “So?”

A few silent tears slip down your cheeks, and you blink quickly, trying to keep the whole dam from breaking.

“Oh,” she murmurs, rearing back slightly. “I’m sorry.”

You let out a weak, watery laugh. “Why are you sorry?”

She shrugs. “For being harsh, I guess? I don’t know. I’m just... confused. It’s hard to believe any of this is real, but—”

“Why else would it affect them so much?” Alexei cuts in, gesturing toward you. “Whether or not you believe it, you cannot deny something has happened. Look at her. You think this is what happens when she simply meets someone new? Of course not—that would be crazy.”

“Couldn’t it be something else?” Yelena presses, brows knit. “Like, maybe Bob’s powers just—”

“You said it yourself,” Bucky interrupts, “he’s been better lately—especially last night. You really think that’s a coincidence?”

“Did not the crazy lady say it to you?” Alexei asks, eyes locking on you. “That you and your mate were something special?”

You nod slowly, sniffing and wiping the wetness from your cheeks. A beat of silence stretches between the four of you as you try to compose yourself, pressing down the guilt and that strange new sensation pulling you toward your mate.

“So... what do we do?” you ask, your voice hoarse as it slices through the quiet. “How do we stop it?”

“Stop it?” Alexei echoes. “You do not stop it. It’s not possible.”

Your bottom lip quivers. “But Bucky—”

“This isn’t about me,” Bucky says, eyes dark as he finally looks up. “If Bob could control himself after just meeting her, then this could be—this could help him control his powers. He might be able to use them without the other two showing up.”

You frown, narrowing your eyes. “What are you talking about?”

He doesn’t answer you. Instead, he turns to Yelena. “She could help him. This could help the whole the team.”

Frustration bubbles beneath your skin, spreading like wildfire through your veins and making your heart pound. “This isn’t about the team, Bucky,” you snap. “This is about you and me.”

Nausea swirls low in your gut, your body physically rebelling at your own words—this attempt to reject your mate. Because you don’t want to. Not really. But you know you should. You chose Bucky. And you’re going to stick with that.

Even if it kills you.

“Barnes...” Yelena says softly. “I’m not sure if—”

“This isn’t about me!” he exclaims, turning toward her sharply, his expression stormy. “Not anymore.”

You watch him with wide, watery eyes. “Bucky. Please. I don’t—I don’t want this... I don’t—” Your voice catches, breath halting as you fight for the words. “I don’t want... him.” It burns to say it, but you know it’s what Bucky needs to hear. “I want you. I choose you.”

His face softens, blue eyes turning almost cerulean—the way they do when he’s close to tears.

You turn to Alexei. “Couldn’t I just... help Bob? Be there for him to help control his powers and—and still be with Bucky?”

Alexei chuckles—low and soft, full of quiet contrition. “You could try. But it would be difficult... being so close to him, wanting him in a way you cannot explain, and holding yourself back. Not to mention the physical and emotional pain you would put him through.”

“So,” Yelena pipes up, “this could make Bob worse?”

Alexei shrugs. “Theoretically, yes.”

“Can’t we just try it?” you ask, your voice cracking halfway through as more tears spill down your cheeks.

Yelena scoots closer and gently places her hand on your knee. She’s not entirely sure what to do—your body language is still guarded—but you offer her a soft smile as her thumb begins to trace small, calming circles.

“We can try it,” she says quietly.

Bucky nods, watching you with a heavy expression and the faintest spark of hope behind his eyes. “It’s worth a shot.”

Alexei leans forward, his eyes crinkled and mouth pulling into an awkward grimace. “Well... there is one more thing.”

You all turn toward him, frowning.

“Do you remember what I said last night? About... it being different when you touch?”

You nod slowly.

“If you want to try just being his friend, then you cannot touch him,” he says. “Not at all. And you will want to—badly. But you cannot.”

Yelena lifts a brow. “Why?”

There’s a pause—an awkward silence while Alexei searches for the right words.

“You will not be able to... resist, as you say. When you first see him, it is all spiritual. Like fate. An invisible string pulling you together, but...” he hesitates, brow furrowed. “When you touch, it is more... physical.”

You suck in a sharp breath. “Physical?”

“Yes.” He nods. “Like... sexual. You will not be able to—”

“No, no,” Yelena cuts in, eyes wide as they flick toward Bucky. “We do not need to unpack this. She just won’t touch him.” She looks at you pointedly. “Right?”

You nod. “Exactly.”

Never mind that your fingertips are already burning. That your whole body is buzzing, restless with the ache to be near Bob again. The idea of his skin against yours sparks like a live wire and makes every nerve ending flare to life. You feel lit up—like something dormant inside you has snapped awake. Like a part of you was missing, and now that you’ve found it—felt it—you can’t breathe without it.

Yeah... this is going to be fine.

The day has been long. Maybe the longest you’ve ever lived through.

You tried to read. You tried watching TV. You even went for a run—which turned into a walk, which turned into a slow lap around the block before you forced yourself back inside. Because all you really wanted to do was find Bob. Go to him. Be near him.

It’s strange. Unlike anything you’ve ever felt. You know him—somehow. Like he already belongs to you, and you to him, even though you’ve only met once. Barely exchanged a handful of words.

Your whole body aches for him in a way you don’t understand. You feel like you’re fading without him, like staying away too long might cause you to unravel entirely. The idea of never seeing him again makes your stomach churn.

But you can’t let it show. You have to remember you chose Bucky. He’s your person—not this stranger with eyes that feel like home. You gave your word. You said yes.

So you’re going to marry Bucky.

Even if it’s not what you want anymore.

Even if he’s not what you want anymore.

“You sure you’re feeling better?” Bucky asks, stopping at the door to the bathroom.

You’ve been standing in a towel, staring at your reflection for at least five minutes now, trying to will yourself into being stronger. To shake this feeling. To silence the strange, restless hum beneath your skin—like stardust catching fire. Like gravity itself has shifted, bending around you, pulling your soul toward Bob’s with a force so fierce it almost hurts.

You clear your throat. “Much better, I promise.”

He gives you a small smile—weak, but still there.

There’s a beat of silence. A stretch of unfamiliar energy between you, tense and fraying at the edges. As if the universe itself is rejecting the bond you once believed was written in the stars.

But the stars had nothing to do with you and Bucky. Not really.

Now you know what it truly feels like when the stars choose. When they bind one soul to another.

“I love you,” he says softly, his voice hoarse. “Regardless of everything. Whatever you choose—I love you. I always will.”

Your eyes fill with tears—easily, instantly.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I wish I could—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in, nearly choking on the word. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“But—”

“Doll, I’m serious.” He steps forward, hesitating before reaching out with his flesh hand. You take it, and he gently pulls you a step closer.

“I know what I said before—about the team. That shouldn’t have been what I was worried about. But it was easier, you know? Easier to focus on something practical than to face the truth. Which is… I think I’m going to lose you.”

You shake your head, tears already spilling. “No, you’re not—”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, forcing a tight, sad smile. “Maybe it’s meant to happen. Like… literally written in the stars, right? And if being away from him is hurting you, I won’t be the one who makes you stay. That’s the last thing I want.”

He looks away, jaw working, before he meets your eyes again. “So just… forgive me. If I shut down. If I don’t know how to deal with this. If I can’t always stick around when—if—you choose him.” His voice trembles. “Because it’s going to hurt, doll. More than I probably know how to handle. But I meant what I said—I’ll let you go.”

He blinks fast, but a few tears escape anyway, carving slow trails across his cheeks. “If that’s what’s right—for you, for him, for fate or the universe or whatever this is—then I won’t fight it.”

He pauses, breathing deep.

“But you have to promise me something.” His voice steadies, just a little. “Don’t hurt yourself for me. Don’t hold back. Don’t settle. Don’t lie to yourself just because you made a promise before everything changed. Before you knew what this really was. Can you promise me that?”

You swallow hard, your breath catching in short, shallow gasps as you try not to scream. All you can do is nod.

“Good,” he whispers, his fingers brushing the ring on your left hand.

Then he leans in, eyes fluttering shut as he presses a soft kiss to your damp cheek.

A sob breaks free from your chest, more tears falling fast as he slowly turns and walks away—leaving you standing there, crying for what feels like the thousandth time today.

Not because you don’t love him.

But because you don’t want him.

And you hate yourself for that. Hate that you’re doing this to him.

But there’s nothing in you strong enough to stop it. So all you can do now is try not to hurt him more than you already have. Try to make it work.

Which is exactly why you’re going to the tower tonight.

To see Bob. To talk to Bob.

Because this thing—whatever it is—it involves him too.

And that’s something everyone else seems to have forgotten.

After drying your eyes—and then your body—you change into a fresh pair of sweats and another old hoodie. You pull on a pair of sneakers, run a brush through your hair, and head out the door. You don’t care about looking good right now. You don’t even care about looking decent. You just want to see Bob.

The walk to the tower is quiet. Bucky doesn’t try to hold your hand, and you don’t notice until you’re standing outside the looming building—when nerves start to creep in and you suddenly wish you had something to hold on to.

You glance his way, mouth parting—to ask for his hand, for comfort—but then you feel it.

That pull.

It threads through you like a live current, drawing you forward, calling to you like a heartbeat echoing in someone else’s chest. Like the ache of a memory you’ve never lived.

“You ready?” Bucky asks softly.

But his voice barely reaches you. It sounds distant, like he’s speaking from another room—or underwater. Muffled beneath the steady thrum of your pulse.

You nod, eyes fixed ahead as you step through the doors. Into the elevator.

You wait—still, silent—breath caught in your chest.

Then the doors open.

The moment you step into the common room, the air changes.

Alexei, Yelena, Ava, and John are gathered near the TV, the low hum of a movie playing as they speak in hushed tones—careful, like they’re trying not to break something fragile. But none of them are the first thing you see.

It’s Bob.

He’s sitting alone on the far couch, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced loosely as he stares at nothing in particular. Like he’s been waiting in stillness. Like he knew.

His head lifts before you even take a full step into the room.

The moment your eyes meet, the rest of the world exhales. Or maybe it holds its breath—you can’t tell. All you know is that everything inside you goes quiet. The noise, the ache, the confusion—it all stills beneath the gravity of him. The pull.

You don’t move at first. Neither does he. It’s like your souls got there before your bodies could catch up. Like the space between you is still catching fire.

And then, gently, you walk toward him. Just a few steps. He rises slowly, hands by his sides, eyes locked on yours with a look so open, so raw, it nearly undoes you.

No one speaks.

Not until Ava lets out a soft, wide-eyed breath from the couch. “Holy shit.”

The others glance between you and Bob, exchanging looks, but no one interrupts. No jokes. No commentary. Just the quiet understanding of people who have just witnessed something that feels... bigger.

You stop in front of him. Close, but not touching. His breath hitches. Yours does too.

Still, neither of you says a word.

You don’t need to.

Because whatever this is—this ancient, aching thing that lives between your ribs and beneath your skin—it’s speaking loud enough for both of you.

Yelena clears her throat, gaze lingering on Bucky. “Okay… yeah. I get it now.”

You blink rapidly, like you’ve just slammed back into your body after falling out of it. Slowly, you step back, eyes flicking toward the rest of the team—but refusing to snap straight back to Bob.

“This is crazy,” Alexei says, his grin so wide and his eyes so bright it looks like he might actually combust.

John pulls a face, nose wrinkled, confusion and mild disgust written all over him. “I can, like… feel it too.” He looks at you, alarmed. “Why?”

You shrug, breath caught in your throat, your voice nowhere to be found.

There’s a beat of silence, thick and humming with the weight of unspoken words and the flood of questions swirling through everyone’s minds.

Then John claps his hands together, loud and abrupt. “Okay, so… how do we figure out if she can control him?”

That snaps the room back into motion.

“I don’t think it works like that,” Ava mutters, folding her arms.

“How the hell would you know?” John fires back.

Alexei lifts a brow. “She is not here to control Bob.”

“Oh. Okay. Did you read that in one of your magic manuals?” John scoffs.

“Walker, please,” Yelena sighs. “Now is not the time to argue.”

They start talking over one another, voices rising and overlapping like a wave about to crash.

And then—

“Wait.”

The single word is soft. Barely audible.

Bob.

Everyone turns, and the room falls back into a heavy silence.

He shifts slightly on his feet, shoulders drawn tight, eyes fixed on the floor for a beat before flickering up to you. His voice is uncertain, but steady enough. “I… I’m confused.”

There’s a pause.

“What do you mean?” Yelena asks gently.

Bob swallows, glancing around the room before his gaze returns to you.

“Well… whatever this is, I feel it. I know it. I know—” His voice falters as he looks at you again, softer now, “I know you. You’re… mine.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t look away.

He blinks, grounding himself.

“But… I don’t understand what’s happening. Why it’s happening. Or… what you’re all talking about.”

You open your mouth, but Bucky speaks first, stepping forward.

“She’s not staying,” he says quietly, almost scared to say it out loud. “Not really. She’s… choosing me.”

Bob’s brows pull together, dark blue eyes widening.

“I mean… she’s here to help,” Yelena jumps in, a little too quickly. “Just to help. While we figure things out.”

“Help,” Bob repeats, like he’s trying to fit the word into a sentence that doesn’t quite work.

You finally speak, voice low. “I’m not leaving you. Not completely. But I also… I made a promise. And right now, I’m trying to keep it.”

Bob’s eyes search yours—not angry. Not desperate. Just… aching with the effort of holding something too big for his hands.

And somehow, that’s what hurts the most.

Because those words taste like acid in your mouth. Burning your tongue like white-hot lies.

You don’t want to keep your promise—not now. Not when he is standing there, looking at you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world. You don’t want to walk away to protect someone else, even if that someone else has your heart in his hands too.

All you want is this. Him. The man in front of you.

You want to hold him. To reach across the impossible space between you and wrap your fingers around his and never let go. To tell him that whatever force carved your souls from the same star had it right. That you don’t care about the plan or the past or the path you promised to walk.

You just want to stay.

You want to lace your soul into words and place them in his hands.

To tell him that you’ll keep him safe.

That you’ll be the light when his world goes dark.

That you’ll be steady when everything else shakes apart.

That he doesn’t have to be alone anymore.

That you’re his.

Because you are. You always were. Even before you knew.

And walking away from that feels like trying to cut the sky in half and pretend the stars won’t notice.

“I—I don’t understand,” Bob says, his voice firmer now, edged with something darker. Something dangerous. “She doesn’t want this.”

You exhale sharply, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer. “Bob, please.”

His eyes snap to you, wide and shining with everything he can’t bring himself to say. But you don’t need words. You don’t need promises. You just need him.

“You don’t want this,” he repeats, softer now. Almost broken.

You swallow hard. “I do. This is what I’m… choosing.”

His brow pulls tight. “Why?”

“I made a promise,” you say again, as if saying it enough times might make it true. “And I want to keep it.”

You don’t.

“But I’ll still be here when you need me. We can still… be together. Just… not completely.”

Bob’s eyes shift to Bucky, dark blue bleeding into molten silver. “She’s choosing you?”

The energy in the room changes again.

The air goes still. No static hum. No crackle of power. Just… silence.

Heavy and unnatural—like being buried underwater. A crushing pressure that squeezes your lungs until you forget how to breathe.

Bob’s jaw tightens. You can see it—feel it—in the tension radiating off him. In the flicker of silver that sharpens, flares, then fades again in his eyes.

“You’re lying,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches.

“I can feel you,” he continues, voice raw, trembling just beneath the surface. “That’s what this is, right? This connection? I feel you, and you feel me. So I know you don’t want this.”

“Bob—”

His hands clench into fists at his sides. “No. Don’t say it again. Don’t say it’s your choice. Don’t say it’s a promise. Because that’s not what you’re feeling.” His voice cracks, then drops into something lower. Rougher. “You want me. I know you do.”

A faint pulse of cold slips through the room—sharp and unnatural, like a draft from somewhere that shouldn’t exist. It kisses your skin, raises every hair on your arms, and sinks deeper, like ice threading through bone.

Ava shifts her weight uneasily. John glances toward Bucky, tense.

“I don’t understand,” Bob says again, and this time his voice is breaking. “Why are you lying to me? Why are you choosing something that hurts you? That hurts us?”

You open your mouth, but the words aren’t there. They’ve drowned somewhere in your throat, tangled in the ache behind your ribs.

“I can feel your heart,” he whispers, silver light blooming behind his irises again. “And it’s breaking.”

There’s a pause. A beat where no one dares to speak. No one breathes.

Then Yelena steps forward, her voice steady. “Bob, please. You need to—”

But he cuts her off, eyes flashing silver as his anger sharpens, gaze snapping to Bucky. “Why won’t you let her go?”

Bucky swallows and takes a step back, his blue eyes wide and watery, flicking between you and Bob. “I—”

“She’s not yours,” Bob says, his voice so deep it echoes through the room—through your mind. “You can’t keep her.”

The room tenses. Silence coils thick around you, something ethereal seeping into the air like gasoline waiting for a spark.

“Bob,” Yelena tries again, louder now, more urgent. “You need to calm down. Now.”

You glance at the floor—at Bob’s feet. Shadows crawl across them, creeping upward, inch by inch, slowly consuming him.

Panic flickers across his face. He knows he’s slipping. The power inside him swells—cold, fierce, pressing outward.

His breath comes faster, fists trembling. “I’m… I’m sorry—”

The air snaps, taut like a wire pulled too tight. His power spirals, wild and uncontained, slicing through the room in jagged bursts like shards of ice.

The darkness creeps higher with every breath, swallowing him slow—leaving nothing in its wake but shadow, nothing but void.

“This was supposed to help,” John snaps. “She was supposed to help him, not make it worse!”

Alexei steps forward, eyes locked on you. “You need to go to him.”

You shake your head, slow and small, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I—I can’t.”

Ava backs away, her body flickering as she prepares to phase.

“Bob, look at me,” Yelena says, steady but firm. “Breathe. You are not alone.”

But his eyes stay on you. That look—raw heartbreak etched into every line of his face, love twisted with fear and confusion—

It fractures something inside of you.

“We need to get out of here,” Ava calls from a few feet away.

John starts backing up, his eyes wide and locked on Bob—as if waiting for a sign to turn and run.

“We cannot leave him,” Alexei says. “We go in, if we have to.”

“Bob,” Yelena pleads. “You’ve got this. Please. You can control this.”

Everything starts to blur.

The shouting becomes a wall of noise, voices crashing over each other, words slurring until they’re nothing but static—a low, violent hum in your ears. The blood rushes louder. Your head throbs, a sickening, rhythmic pounding like your skull is splitting apart from the inside out.

You want to scream.

You want to tear at your skin just to feel something real, to make the pain physical—tangible—because at least that would make sense. You want to tell them all to shut up. To stop talking. To just let you breathe.

You want to drop to your knees and scream into the void until it spits him back out.

Bob.

Bob, whose body is almost completely swallowed by shadow.

Bob, whose eyes—silver and scared—are locked on yours, pleading. Begging.

Bob, who holds your heart in his shaking hands. Who owns your soul, even now. Even as you’re walking away from him.

The one thing you need… and the one thing you’re denying yourself.

And for what?

For the heart of someone else? For a promise that was never meant to cost this much?

You would burn the whole damn world to save him.

You’d tear the universe apart just to keep from breaking that heart.

But this? This is breaking yours too.

Bucky’s voice cuts through the chaos—barely louder than a whisper, but somehow it reaches you. Steady, but breaking.

“It’s okay,” he says, eyes locked on yours even as his own brim with tears. “Go to him. I’ll be okay.”

You shake your head, lips trembling, a silent protest caught in your throat. But deep down, you know he means it. You feel it—the weight of his acceptance, the way he's choosing love over possession. Choosing you, even if it breaks him.

“I don’t want to let you go. God, I don’t. But I can’t be the reason he breaks.”

Your chest aches so deeply it nearly folds you in half. But there’s something else there too—something small and warm and unspeakably grateful. You don’t deserve this kind of kindness. But he’s giving it anyway.

“You still have a part of me. Always will.” His voice falters, but his eyes stay soft. “But he needs all of you right now. And I… I just want you to be safe.”

A sound escapes your throat, half a sob, half his name. You take a shaky breath, tears sliding down your cheeks as you step toward him—not to stay, but to say thank you without words.

His smile is soft. Cracked around the edges. Brave in the way only someone who’s breaking can be.

“It’s okay. I promise.”

You nod once. Swallow hard. Squeeze your eyes shut—steadying yourself. Then turn back toward him.

Bob, who’s almost gone—his form nearly swallowed by the creeping dark, his features carved in flickers of silver and shadow. He stands there like a man on the edge of oblivion, barely tethered to this world. Just a silhouette of the boy you love, wrapped in light and ruin.

His eyes find yours, and for a second, everything stills.

Even now, almost lost to the void, he sees you. Only you.

You take a step forward, your body trembling with the weight of it all—the fear, the guilt, the unbearable ache of loving something you might be too late to save.

“Bob,” you whisper, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, like a lifeline.

The darkness claws higher, curling up his neck like smoke. But his eyes—those bright, breaking eyes—shine through it all. The fear in them cuts through you like a blade. Not fear of what’s happening to him.

Fear that you won’t come.

That you’ll leave.

That he’ll lose you, too.

“It’s okay,” you say—to him or yourself, you’re not sure.

You lift your hand and move forward, closing the space with slow and careful steps—like one wrong move could shatter the world.

One step, then another—until you’re standing toe to toe with him. The shadow writhes beneath your feet, hungry and alive, but the moment you enter his space, it curls back. Like it knows you. Like it fears you.

Or maybe it just recognises what he loves.

The air is ice. He’s trembling. His face—barely visible now—flickers in and out of shadow like a dying flame. You reach for him, slow and sure, your fingers brushing the centre of his chest.

Right over his heart.

And the darkness parts.

Just slightly—splitting like oil pulled from water, leaving a sliver of fabric beneath your touch. His heart stutters. Yours lurches.

Then you press your palm flat.

And a soft light blooms.

Not blinding, not loud—just a soft, golden glow that seeps from beneath your hand like a memory. Gentle and warm. It spreads slow, steady. The shadow recoils, peeling back inch by inch, retreating from the light, from you.

Everything stops.

The void is gone.

Your ears are filled with the sound of your own pulse as you stare into those dark blue eyes—like the ocean kissed the sky and gave birth to this colour just for him.

He looks so fragile now. So tired. Wrecked not just by the strain of his powers, but by the weight of you. Of your touch. Your choice.

You, choosing him.

For a moment, you just stare at each other—memorising every line, every flicker of emotion—though you already know his face by heart. You’ve always known him. In dreams. In shadows. In the quiet corners of your mind. Drifting through memories and half-sleep, like your souls were stitched together before time ever started.

Always there. Always waiting.

“You okay?” you whisper, your voice faint, barely real.

He nods.

Then you collapse into him, arms winding around his waist, clinging like you’ll never let go.

And you won’t.

Not ever.

There’s still guilt. A lingering ache for the hurt you’ve caused. A hollow echo of someone else’s heart breaking.

But right now, all you feel is Bob. His arms around you, pulling you in like a lifeline. His face tucked into your neck, curls brushing your skin like a secret only he gets to know.

All you want is Bob.

All you need is Bob.

You can’t believe you ever thought you could live without this.

Without him.

Trying to choose someone else would’ve destroyed you. You see that now.

You feel it.

At some point, you shift to the couch. The others are gone—when exactly, you’re not sure—but you’re grateful. You need space. Time. And Bob needs rest.

Which he finally gets. For a few hours.

You settle at one end, sinking into the soft cushions, with Bob’s head resting in your lap. His arms wrap around your thigh like a vice—steady strength even in sleep. You play with his curls, trace the line of his jaw, and rub gentle circles along his back as he drifts.

You’re exhausted, but sleep eludes you. You don’t want to waste a single second with him. Never before have you wanted someone so fiercely. All you need is to feel him here—safe, alive, with you.

So you stay awake. Occasionally you shift, easing pins and needles or aching muscles, but Bob barely stirs. He nuzzles into your lap, your lower belly, holding on as if you’re the only thing keeping him from unravelling.

It should feel strange, wrong even. But nothing has ever felt more right.

You know this man better than you know yourself—of that, you are certain—and no part of you hesitates or doubts. This is real. The most real thing you’ve ever known.

You know it’ll be complicated. Awkward with the team, even more so with Bucky. You’ll have to hide it from the world for a while. But none of it matters—not one bit—when the boy in your lap breathes softly against your skin. His lashes dark on flushed cheeks, lips parted with a stray drop of drool on your thigh, and that aching, desperate pull in your chest growing stronger with every breath.

He sleeps until the sun starts to set, and you stay with him. At one point, you turn on the TV and pick a random movie, but your eyes rarely leave Bob. You don’t need him to wake—you’re perfectly content just being near him—but when his lashes finally flutter open, your breath still catches.

He stretches slowly, shifting against you like a cat basking in the sun all day. Then he rubs his eyes and sits up, blinking blearily, a soft smile curling at the edges of his lips.

“You stayed,” he murmurs.

You nod.

Without him, your body feels cold, but you resist the urge to cling to him. He needs space to wake fully, to stretch his limbs and shake off the last vestiges of sleep.

“Where are the others?” he asks.

You shrug. “Not sure. They’ve been gone all day.”

He nods slowly. “Did you—Did you leave at all?”

“No,” you say softly. “Stayed right here.”

He shifts closer, one hand finding yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world—as if his hands have known yours for years.

His brow creases. “You must be starving.”

You bite your bottom lip, weighing up your next response. Because yes, you’re hungry—but there’s something else you’re craving. Something more urgent, more raw than anything you’ve ever known. Something you need more than you want. Something Alexei warned you about, and you didn’t quite believe—until now. Now it claws at your chest, primal and fierce, relentless and aching.

“There’s… something else,” you say slowly. “I don’t know if you—”

“I do,” he cuts in.

Your lips part, breath catching in quick, uneven gasps as you hold his gaze—captivated, utterly pinned by the raw hunger burning in his eyes.

His brows lift ever so slightly, a subtle twitch—a silent question hanging in the air. You nod.

Then he moves forward, hands cupping your jaw—careful but urgent, as if he can’t quite believe you’re real.

The world fractures—time fractures—and everything narrows to a single, blazing point where your lips slam together with the force of a thousand storms.

It’s raw. Fierce. Like the universe just exploded inside your chest.

His mouth devours yours—claiming, desperate—fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. You burn and tremble, caught in a tidal wave of need and relief that steals your breath.

The air hums with electricity, silence shattered by ragged gasps and the wild pounding of your hearts—syncing, breaking, snapping together like a sacred, unspoken vow breaking free.

Every nerve screams alive, every touch sending sparks crashing like fireworks. It’s hot, heavy, frantic—a beautiful chaos that feels like coming home after being lost forever.

You taste everything—fire, desperation, the sharp tang of longing—and drown in it, surrendering to the moment where nothing else exists but this.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads collide, breaths mingling in ragged gasps. His eyes are dark, wild, shattered open, and in that look, you know this bond has broken through every barrier, every shadow, every doubt.

You’re his.

And he’s yours.

“I need you,” he whispers, voice rough, cracking, as his hands slip beneath your shirt.

“I know,” you breathe, arching into him, trembling. “I need you too.”

“Do we have to?” Bob sighs, face buried in the crook of your neck, his curls tickling your bare skin.

You giggle, placing a kiss to his shoulder, perfectly content beneath the weight of his body—his completely naked body.

“I mean,” you murmur, fingers trailing down the dip of his spine, “you’re already late. Is there really any point in going at all?”

He lifts his head, deep blue eyes shining with adoration as he looks at you. “Exactly,” he says, soft lips twitching. “Besides, I can think of a thousand other things I’d rather do.”

He shifts, and you feel it—hard and heavy, pressing insistently against your lower belly.

Your lips curl into a smirk, heat blooming low and hot between your thighs. “And what exactly might these other things entail?”

He chuckles, sliding down slightly, tracing his tongue between the valley of your breasts.

“So many things,” he murmurs against your skin, “all of them involving me inside of you… in one way or another.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut as his mouth wraps around your nipple, drawing a breathy sigh from your lips. “That sounds…” you gasp when his teeth graze the sensitive bud, “very good.”

He looks up again, lips parting from your skin as he gives you a soft, boyish smile. His eyes are bright—almost pale blue in the morning light spilling through the windows—and he looks so damn pretty. His curls are mussed, his cheeks are pink, and his skin is pressed flush against yours in the most delicious way. Even after weeks of having him—weeks of giving yourself to him in every possible way—you still can’t get enough.

“Does that mean we’re staying?” he asks, hands gliding up your ribs toward your breasts.

You giggle, flinching at the ticklish drag of his fingertips across your bare skin. There’s nothing you want more than to stay right here with him—forever. You don’t care if his teammates are waiting. You don’t even care if they blame you for holding him hostage. All you want is to stay tangled up with Bob until something human forces you to stop devouring each other—either sleep or hunger, the usual culprits.

“Yeah,” you whisper, a dopey, lovesick smile curling your lips, “we’re staying… but on one condition.”

His brow furrows, and he sits up a little further, his hard cock grinding against you in the most distracting way.

“Bob,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut, hands flying to his shoulders to hold him still.

He laughs softly, low and cheeky. “Yes?”

“I need you to fuck me,” you say, cheeks flushing pink—despite the fact that he literally just did, not five minutes ago. “Again,” you add. “And again, until I can’t walk.”

When your eyes open, you find his—dark and hungry, a stark contrast to the sweet, boyish softness from just seconds ago.

“And then I want pancakes,” you say with a small smirk.

His lips curve before he surges up and crushes his mouth to yours. Your chest aches. Your stomach swirls. Every coherent thought in your head vanishes. You’ve kissed Bob hundreds—maybe thousands—of times by now, and still, every kiss is earth-shattering. Every kiss steals your breath, stops your heart, and reminds you that this man was made for you.

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips.

You let out a breathless sigh as he trails kisses down your jaw, his mouth sucking a bruise into the soft skin of your neck. “I love you too.”

Mates are rare. They're not just lovers or partners—they’re soul-deep bonds that tilt the earth, shatter reality, and leave everything else dull by comparison. They’re not easy. They break hearts just as easily as they heal them. But when you find yours, there’s no doubt. No fear. No force on earth strong enough to pull you away.

Because despite everything—despite the hurt, the heartache, and the chaos—you know with absolute certainty that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

With Bob.

END.

#y'all don't hate me!!!#i'm so sorry #bob x reader #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds x reader #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#lewis pullman x reader #new avengers #new avengerz #marvel #imagine #oneshot #one shot #fanfic #fanfiction #the void #sentry

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wolvietxt · 6 months ago

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𝓟ATCHWORK.

pairings : frank castle x fem!reader warnings : injury, crying, non-sexual nudity, angst, size diff, hurt/comfort, teasing, fluff, happy ending summary : you take care of your boyfriend frank after he shows up at your door, bloody and bruised wc : 1.2k a/n : um hello punisher fandom i’m only on season one i’m so sorry #fakefan😥

the knock at your door came just after midnight, faint but insistent. you had a sinking feeling even before you opened it, knowing who it would be. frank always showed up like this - silent and battered, like a ghost returning to haunt your quiet life. except you really did love this ghost. but tonight was worse. the moment you saw him leaning heavily against the frame, his face pale under streaks of blood, your breath hitched.

“frank,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “oh my god, what happened?”

he grunted in response, brushing off your concern with a slight shake of his head. “‘s not as bad as it looks,” he muttered, but the way he swayed on his feet told a different story. instinctively, you reached out, your much smaller hands pressing against his chest to steady him. he was so solid, so big, but he felt fragile in this moment, like he might collapse if you let go.

“come inside,” you said, your voice wavering as you pulled him in. he barely made it two steps before you had to slip under his arm, guiding him toward the bathroom. “you shouldn’t even be walking. why didn’t you call me?”

“didn’t wanna… bother you,” he rasped, wincing as you helped him sit on the closed toilet lid. his broad shoulders hunched forward, and he sucked in a sharp breath when you knelt in front of him, slowly nestling in between his legs.

“bother me?” your voice cracked, tears already pricking at your eyes. “frank, you’re bleeding all over my bathroom. how could you think…” you trailed off, shaking your head as you reached for the first aid kit under the sink.

his lips twitched, a ghost of a smile despite the situation. “baby, you’re cryin’ already,” he murmured, his tone soft, almost teasing. “i’m the one all cut up, and you’re the one fallin’ apart.”

“shut up,” you sniffled, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand before focusing on the deep gash along his side. “it’s not funny.”

“maybe a little funny,” he said, but his voice was gentler now, his dark eyes watching you with something like affection. the size of him made you feel even smaller as you worked, your hands trembling as you cleaned the wound. “you don’t gotta do this, y’know.”

“stop saying that,” you mumbled, dabbing at the cut with antiseptic, trying to focus on stopping the bleeding rather than frank’s cooing at your sniffles. “you’re always saying that, like i’m not here because i want to be. you think i’d let just anyone bleed all over my floor?”

his chuckle was low, rumbling in his chest. “guess not.”

once the wound was cleaned and stitched, you leaned back on your heels, letting out a shaky breath. “all done. but you need to get cleaned up. you’re covered in…” you gestured vaguely at him, your lips quivering as you tried not to cry again.

“hey,” he said softly, his massive hand reaching out to cup your cheek, another of his little scoffs threatening to slip. he was trying to be as serious as possible for you, not wanting you to think he wasn’t taking you seriously, especially after putting you through so much. his thumb brushed away a stray tear, and the contrast of his rough skin against your softness made your heart ache. “don’t cry, sweetheart. it’s okay. i’m okay.”

“you’re not okay,” you whispered, your voice breaking. your train of thought stopped abruptly when you noticed the corners of his lips slightly turning up. “frank! stop smiling. just let me help, okay?” you whined, lifting your head away from his hands.

“okay, sweetheart,” he didn’t argue, too tired to fight you on it. you stood and turned to the tub, starting the water and letting it run warm. the quiet sound of it filled the room, grounding you as you grabbed a clean towel and set it aside. when you turned back to him, he was watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

“come on,” you said, helping him to his feet. he towered over you, his sheer size making the act of guiding him to the tub feel almost absurd. but he let you, his movements slow and careful as he sank down onto the edge. his knees jutted up from the small space, his frame too large for the confines of your tiny bathroom.

“stay there,” you murmured, kneeling again to untie his boots and tug them off. your fingers worked quickly, but you were hyper-aware of his gaze, the weight of his attention making your cheeks flush.

once he was down to his boxers, you helped him ease into the water, your hands fluttering nervously as if you might break him. he let out a low sigh as the warm water enveloped him, his head tipping back against the edge of the tub.

“better?” you asked, perching on the side of the tub.

he hummed in response, his eyes slipping shut. after a moment, his head tipped forward, resting against your thigh. the vulnerability of the gesture stole your breath, and your hand hesitated mid-air before you rested it gently on his damp hair.

“you’re too good to me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

“stop saying that,” you replied softly, your fingers threading through his hair. “you deserve someone to take care of you, frank. you deserve…” your voice caught, the words sticking in your throat.

he tilted his head slightly, looking up at you with an amused glint in his eyes. “you’re cryin’ again.”

“shut up,” you sniffled, swiping at your cheeks. “it’s your fault. you’re so… stubborn.”

his laugh was soft, barely more than a huff of air, but it made your chest ache. “didn’t mean to make you cry, sweetheart.”

you shook your head, your hand still brushing through his hair. “you didn’t. i just… i hate seeing you like this. you act like you don’t matter, but you do. you matter to me.”

for a long moment, he didn’t say anything, his dark eyes searching yours. then, slowly, he lifted a hand out of the water, his fingers brushing against your knee. it was such a small, tender gesture, but it spoke volumes.

“you’re somethin’ else,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion.

the two of you stayed like that for a while, the water growing cooler as his breathing slowed, the exhaustion finally taking hold. you didn’t move, didn’t dare disturb the fragile peace that had settled over the room. he looked so different like this, his usual hard edges softened by the quiet intimacy of the moment.

as his head grew heavier against your thigh, you leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “get some rest,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “i’ve got you, frank. i’ve got you.”

and for the first time, he didn’t argue.

taglist form in pinned post, just added frank castle ><

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roseandxanderfics · 3 months ago

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“Stay With Me” — Tim Bradford x Single Mom Reader

Summary: A routine call turns personal when Tim responds to a terrified 4-year-old reporting their mom collapsed. He finds you barely conscious—and realizes you’ve been fighting alone far too long.

————————

The 911 call came in just after seven. Late enough that most emergencies were winding down, but not so late that anyone relaxed. Tim Bradford had been running paperwork, thinking about grabbing dinner, when the dispatcher’s voice clipped through the radio.

“Child caller. Four years old. Mother unresponsive. Possible medical.”

That was all it took. One word—“four”—and Tim’s blood turned cold. He barely heard the rest before snatching up his radio.

“1-Adam-07, patch me through. I’m on it.”

⸻

The kid’s voice was barely a whisper when it crackled through.

“H-hello?”

Tim inhaled sharply. “Hey, buddy… This is Officer Tim. Can you hear me?”

“Uh-huh.”

That tiny sound hit him harder than it should’ve. “Good job, Eli. I’m coming to help you and your mom right now, okay? Real fast. Can you tell me… is she breathing?”

“I dunno… I scared.”

Tim forced his voice steady. “It’s okay to be scared, kid. You’re really brave. Can you touch her? Tell me if she feels warm or cold?”

Rustling. Sniffles. Then a small, broken sound. “Cold… Tim, s’cold.”

Tim’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as he flipped the sirens on. God, please…

“I’m almost there, Eli. Can you unlock the door for me?”

“I try.”

⸻

By the time he screeched to the curb, his heart was hammering. The neighborhood was quiet—too quiet. Dim porch lights. Empty driveways.

The front door creaked open a sliver. A tiny face peeked out—tears streaked, cheeks blotchy.

“There you are, buddy,” Tim murmured, crouching low. “You did so good. Where’s Mom?”

Eli didn’t answer. Just… pointed.

Tim pushed the door wide and stepped inside—one hand instinctively hovering over his holster, the other reaching back for the kid. “Stay close, okay?”

The house was small. Lived-in. Crayon drawings taped to the fridge, a stuffed bunny abandoned on the couch. And there—on the kitchen tile—was you.

You were pale. Too still.

“Shit,” Tim breathed, rushing forward. He pressed two fingers to your neck, searching—there—a faint, thready pulse.

He grabbed his radio. “Dispatch, I’ve got the subject. Female, early thirties. Pulse is weak. Roll EMS, now.”

“Copy, 1-Adam-07. EMS en route.”

Eli whimpered behind him. “Mommy?”

Tim glanced back, softening. “Hey, buddy. She’s okay. She’s breathing. I need you to be my big helper now, alright?”

The kid nodded, lip trembling.

“Can you grab me that blanket?” Tim pointed. Eli scrambled, dragging it over with tiny hands. Tim tucked it around you, jaw tight.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he murmured—half to you, half to the kid. “Just stay with me.”

⸻

Minutes felt like hours. Tim didn’t leave your side, one hand checking your pulse over and over, the other resting protectively over Eli’s shoulder.

EMS burst through the door—young, efficient. They worked fast, lifting you onto the stretcher. Tim stayed kneeling until they moved past.

Eli’s eyes filled again. “I come?”

Tim didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, kid. You’re with me.”

⸻

The ride to the hospital was quiet. Eli sat curled in Tim’s lap, face buried in his chest, fists gripping the dark fabric of his uniform.

“She okay?” the little voice finally asked.

Tim swallowed hard. “She’s gonna be. You did good, Eli. You saved your mom.”

⸻

The ER was bright. Too bright. Tim hated hospitals. Hated the smell, the noise. But he stayed. Watched as nurses buzzed around you, checked monitors, whispered words like “dehydration” and “exhaustion” like they were medical diagnoses and not just proof that life had beaten you down.

⸻

You woke slowly. Blinking against the light, brow furrowing.

“Easy,” a deep voice murmured. “You’re okay.”

You turned your head—and saw him.

The cop. Tall. Broad. Blue eyes way too gentle for a man who probably carried a gun for a living.

“Your son’s right here,” he added, voice soft. “He’s… he’s been really brave.”

Eli popped his head up, face blotchy. “Mommy!”

Your eyes welled instantly. “Eli… oh god…”

Tim helped him onto the bed, watching as tiny arms wrapped around your neck.

“I… I’m sorry,” you rasped. “I didn’t mean—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Tim cut in. “You’ve been running on empty. Doc says exhaustion, dehydration… You’ve been doing too much on your own.”

You blinked at him. “I don’t… even know your name.”

“Tim.” He smiled faintly. “Tim Bradford.”

A beat of silence.

“You stayed.”

“Yeah,” he exhaled. “Didn’t feel right to leave.”

⸻

They discharged you hours later. Tim was still there—Eli wouldn’t let go of him.

“I’ll drive you,” he said gruffly, like it wasn’t a question. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

⸻

Your house felt colder when you returned. Tim helped you in, set Eli on the couch, and knelt in front of you one last time.

“I meant what I said. You’ve been doing too much alone.”

You stared at him, exhausted tears threatening. “That’s… just how it is.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” he muttered. “I’ll… check in tomorrow. Groceries. Whatever you need.”

You tried to argue—but Eli’s head flopped onto Tim’s shoulder mid-yawn.

Tim smiled, slow and soft. “You good if I hang around until he’s out?”

You nodded, too tired to fight it.

⸻

And just like that… Tim Bradford became the first safe thing you’d known in a long, long time

#tim bradford #tim bradford x reader #the rookie #comfort #hurt/comfort #the rookie x reader

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3000s · 2 months ago

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@fadel-dani He is only 23 years old, a third-year IT student, and he and his family were displaced several times during the genocide.

When Israel destroyed his university, he was deeply affected because he had excelled in his studies and aspired to become a successful and well-known engineer.

When his family returned to their home, after being displaced five times, bombs fell on their house. They miraculously survived the explosion, but Fadel was unfortunately injured and fainted.

Fadel woke up in the hospital and learned that due to the complete collapse of hospitals in northern Gaza, he and his family had been transferred, under extremely dangerous conditions, to a hospital in southern Gaza.

Furthermore, he learned that while unconscious, he had undergone surgery to remove metal shrapnel that had penetrated his body during the bombing. Due to the extreme danger and the collapse of the healthcare system, some of the pieces could not be removed on the spot. A doctor assessed his health and informed his family that he needed to receive treatment in another country as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, his travel and surgeries require travel and treatment expenses, and his family cannot afford them due to their deteriorating economic situation caused by the war. Therefore, Fadl created a campaign to enable him to travel and receive treatment as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, his campaign is progressing very slowly, having only raised 2,952 euros out of a target of 30,000 euros. I ask everyone to stand by him and help him.

He bled profusely that day. His normal blood count is low because he has thalassemia. The cost of the medication is too high for them, and he has fainted several times.

So far, they have waited more than 400 days to reach their fundraising goal so he can receive the necessary surgery. 400 days of physical and psychological suffering, feeling shrapnel from the Israeli bombing that destroyed his childhood home embedded in his body.

His campaign (gazavetters #197) has been verified, and you can help him raise funds to receive medical care as soon as possible by sending some money here:

#free gaza #free palestine

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lostingrayrain · 8 months ago

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hello hello!! i bought homicipher the day it came out and i'm so in love with it.. but there's no content whatsoever and i'm so sad 😭😭 could you write literally anything for any character.. i just need to see more homicipher content!!! 😭😭💗

I GOT YOU ANON I've clocked in like 20 hours since the release on November 1st omg....

I've been cooking up something for my first Homicipher post.....here's some general thoughts on the relationships/dynamics with the main guys.

Characters: Mr. Crawling, Mr. Silver Hair / Mr. Silvair, Mr. Gap, Mr. Hood, Mr. Machete, Mr. Scarletella

Word Count: 1454

Warnings: sfw, some mentions of canon-typical violence

Mr. Crawling

He loves you!! He loves you so, so, so much!!!

Do you love him?

He asks you that. A lot. He loves to be reassured that you adore him. And he's always vocal about how much he adores you.

He follows you everywhere, like a lost puppy. It's honestly so endearing and sweet. He's constantly on the lookout for you.

He also adores physical touch, once he knows it's fine. Other than the little headpats, he likes to touch your legs, especially your calves. In times of rest he's incredibly cuddly and loves to nuzzle into you.

Pet his hair and he'll melt immediately. It's so relaxing to him.

He's usually with you, but when he's not he's often on the lookout for gifts and trophies to bring to you. He just wants to make you happy, in any way possible. The second there's anything you mention liking or being fond of, it's a priority for him to see if he can scrounge it up.

If you'll let him, he'd love to touch your hair. He will play with it and make silly nonsensical braids and giggle quietly to himself all the while.

He's a bit of a chatterbox. He loves to talk to you. Any time he's been away he likes to give you little reports of what he's done or what he's seen. And he wants to hear all about your day or your dreams, too. There's never a time he won't want to hear what you have to say.

Mr. Silver Hair / Mr. Silvair

You are so very interesting to him! He wants to study you.

But not hurt you. Normally, he probably would have already dismembered you to watch how your body pulls together again, but since you're friends with Mr. Chopped, he's put aside that urge.

Instead it's been replaced by something else, though he doesn't really understand what it is. He's never felt it before. Or maybe he has? Maybe he doesn't remember? Could you help him remember?

Whenever you’re feeling ill, he finds that he wants to make you feel better. He’s trying hard to learn how to keep you together just as you are.

He’ll get you to lie down when it seems you’re feeling faint, and carry you to bed when you collapse in the middle of an errand. Before he realises it, he's massaging your hair. Think nothing of it. Your head hurts, right? So it makes sense to pet you.

He likes to watch you sleep. He can’t put a finger on why. He likes to tell himself he’s doing armchair research when he’s really just….zoning out.

He's extremely perceptive and observant. He's always checking your reactions to things and events to figure out what you like or don't like, or to try to understand how you're feeling in the moment.

He's the type to politely ask if it's okay to touch you before doing so.

He would never hurt you unless your urges became unbearable, in which case it's self-defense, right? He'll make sure you'll turn back to normal and he'll be there for you every step of the way.

Mr. Gap

He's probably...one of the strangest denizens of the otherworld. You're still not sure if he has a body. But he has helped you on multiple occasions. You've found yourself growing fond of him.

You often see him peeking at you from various holes and gaps. Sometimes he tries to get your attention, sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he just watches.

When you find a bag in the underworld, you begin carrying it around with you.

He's usually inside, but sometimes not. You have no idea where he goes.

He'll often bring back little gifts like weapons or food, like some bizarre cat. When he finds out you like candy, he tends to focus on that.

He always asks for your heart before he gives you anything, and you always say no, and he always grumbles.

But somehow you'll always find those same things coincidentally in your path or somewhere in the room after you wake up, if you've taken a nap.

He likes to scope out newspapers and magazines too, and show them to you, especially if they feature himself. He's so proud of that.

Over time, his requests for your heart grow less and less frequent. Sometimes, you forget he used to ask you for it at all, until he suddenly pipes up with the query again.

Is his wanting your heart the same thing as wanting your love? Things to ponder.

Mr. Hood

He's quiet and reclusive but he's there for you whenever you need him.

You need or want anything? Just ask. He'll give it to you immediately with hardly a question.

No harm will ever come to you whenever you're with him, and he hardly lets you out of his sight. He's incredibly protective of you.

He loves to carry you in his arms or on his shoulder, whether you're small or not. It's no bother to him. He's more than strong enough.

Hand touches are so pleasant to him -- whether you're touching his hands, or he's touching your face. He's secretly touch-starved. As long as you don't shy away, he'll continue to hold onto you.

He enjoys quizzing you on your knowledge of the otherworld language. When things are slow, he’ll randomly ask you if you know the names of certain things.

Whenever you both encounter something new during your travels, he’s quick to ask you if you know what it is or outright tells you what it’s called.

He seems a bit self-conscious of having minimal form. What is under his robe? If you don't ask he'll be grateful. He doesn't know himself.

But if you're not repulsed by his anomalous form, that's just -- incredibly touching.

He claims to not understand love, but he'll never abandon you.

Maybe he doesn't understand. Maybe he's forgotten.

But there's something about you that comforts him, and makes him feel safe. Quite paradoxical -- he's the one doing the protecting, after all. But your presence soothes him.

Mr. Machete

He's just looking for a way to not be bored. And being with you -- somehow, it's fun.

Maybe because he's usually alone, so he doesn't often have anyone else to talk to. It's...fun to banter with you, even if sometimes your words confuse him.

It's unquestionable that he's the brawn, you're the brain of this duo. Maybe the beauty and the beast, too?

He's always, secretly, been a little bit of a coward. The second things don't look like they'll turn out well for him, he ditches and flees.

But, oddly, you give him the courage to stand against things or monsters he would have thought were impossible to defeat.

Sometimes, you die -- whether by accident or because something else got to you before he could. But he always sighs and waits for you to wake up again. If you're mad, it's a little funny. You were just too slow that time.

He likes sparring with you. You have to get faster, right? Your weapon is pretty funny, too. So small and yet somehow you manage to not get overwhelmed by him. He's not holding back. He never would. Right?

He likes to pick you up and sling you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Likes to hug you like a teddy bear, too. You're soft and warm. You feel nice against him.

He's not the type to ask, but if you made any indication of not liking anything, he'd stop. He doesn't want to break you.

Mr. Scarletella

You are his queen. He literally worships the ground you walk on.

You are so fascinating to him. He just can't believe he's found someone as perfect as you. Someone who likes to destroy and kill people, just like him? Immaculate.

You haven't and never will give him your name. That's fine. He can live with that, as long as you're with him.

You've likely given him something else to call you. It's not quite your name -- maybe it's not your full name, and he knows it, because he can't quite grasp your essence. But it's enough to be able to give a sound to the person -- thing -- he likes most in this world.

He likes to say that not-quite name, and he says it often, just to get your attention.

He's fascinated by everything about you -- including how small you are in comparison to him. He loves that he can easily dwarf your form and loom over you. It's exhilarating in a completely different way from mindless violence.

Speaking of which, his favourite thing is without a doubt to commit violence with you. There's a new urban legend steadily growing in the human world, of a pair of murderers characterised by their red and white umbrellas. You're the perfect perfectly awful duo, truly.

Even when he's not with you, he's always somehow got an eye on you. Most of the otherworld residents know by now who you belong to, and they'd never lay hand on the one cherished by the red umbrella man.

#homicipher #homicipher x reader #mojibake #mozibake #文字化化 #mr silvair x reader #mr silver x reader #mr silver hair x reader #mr crawling x reader #mr hood x reader #mr machete x reader #mr gap x reader #mr scarletella x reader #ask #anonymous

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sergeantbuckybarnes · 14 days ago

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what it is and what should never be // bob reynolds

Summary: A mission goes sideways, and you end up in a coma. The team works against the clock to save you, but… do you really want to be saved?

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Thunderbolts!Reader

Word count: 8.2k

Warnings: reader is an ex-widow, mentions of abandonment, mentions of past trauma and bob's past addictions, mentions of death, slight violence (bob lost his temper and attacks walker), angst, friends to lovers, few fluff moments, thunderbolts* are family, happy ending!!

A/N: As always, remember English is not my first language. Thanks to @ladybirdbeewrites for proofreading this!

Although I got the djinn lore from Supernatural, I bent it a bit so it would fit better with the story.

I used google translate for the Russian parts, so I'm sorry if it's not perfect.

marvel masterlist | main masterlist

“The east wing is clear.” John Walker’s voice rang through the earpiece as you walked along the concrete hallways.

“North wing is clear, too. I’ll check the west side.”

You had carefully examined the floor plan; in theory, the warehouse should be deserted. However, experience taught you that anything could happen. Every corner may hide something or someone, so you always had to be on alert.

The flashlight in your hand dimly illuminated the path as you cautiously made your way through the corridor until you reached a sturdy metal door. The first thing you noticed was that the lock had been forced, which was a terrible indicator.

Your pulse increased, but you did not hesitate. Carefully, you pushed open the door, which creaked slightly as it opened, and stepped into the darkness. The air was dense and smelt like dampness and old wood. You used the beam of your flashlight to look for any movement or suspicious presence.

In the silence, you heard a faint noise and then noticed a moving shadow in the far corner. You paused, keeping your gun poised and your finger on the trigger.

“I think someone's here.” You spoke as quietly as you possibly could through the comms, in case whoever was here couldn't hear you, but loud enough for John to hear.

A violent crash broke the silence again, followed by a resounding crash of crates falling, echoing off the walls and sending shivers down your spine. The jolt caused you to instinctively take a step back, your heart pounding in your chest. The flashlight flickered for a moment, emitting intermittent flashes of light.

When the light stabilized again, your gaze was drawn to a little figure running rapidly amid the crates… a small, scared rat.

You let out a laugh as the tension dissipated and an exhale of relief escaped your lips. With one hand on your chest, still feeling your pounding heart, you brought the other to your earpiece. “False alarm, it was just a—”

Before you could finish your sentence, something violently shoved you against the wall, causing the gun and flashlight to fall to the floor, out of your reach. Your eyes widened when you felt something pressing against your chest. You fought to free yourself, but your attempts were futile.

Amidst the darkness, hypnotic blue-glowing eyes seemed to pierce your psyche. Your legs began to quiver, as if they were made of jelly, unable to support themselves. Then a hand as cold as ice was placed against your forehead, and you felt the air collapsing in your lungs, making breathing difficult.

Your ear picked up John's voice through the earpiece, clear yet frantic. “What's happening?! Are you okay? Y/N! Answer me!”

And then your body collapsed to the floor, and everything went black.

Sunlight peeked through the windows, and the golden threads of the early morning hit your face. You grumbled and attempted to roll over to continue sleeping, avoiding the light of day.

But something was stopping you.

With resignation, you slowly opened your eyes and, still drowsy, realized the reason you couldn't move— a warm, muscular arm wrapped around your waist with a firm yet gentle grip. You shifted your gaze slightly and saw a head of brown hair, strands over the pillow, partially covering his face.

Did you go out last night and end up in some stranger’s bed?

That wasn't like you.

You gripped the stranger's arm and carefully pulled him away from your body. The man let out a muffled grunt and shifted in the bed, trying to find a new position that felt comfortable. After a few seconds, he stopped moving and his body relaxed again. You let out a deep sigh and slowly sat up in bed, but then a wave of dizziness hit, making your head spin.

Despite the persistent headache, you became more aware of the details surrounding the room.

And that's when panic began to invade you.

This wasn’t your bedroom.

You weren’t at the Watchtower. Or any of its rooms.

Where were you?

The more you tried to remember how you got there, the worse the pain in your brain got.

Carefully, you slipped out of bed, searching for a path to the bathroom. Each movement was slow, trying not to make a sound that would wake up the man still lying in the bed.

You looked at yourself in the mirror and everything seemed in order; your reflection showed a familiar image, albeit with your eyes a little hazy due to the headache. You opened the medication cabinet, desperate for some Tylenol to relieve this persistent and unexpected migraine.

“Babe?”

Babe?

That voice… What did it sound so familiar?

You closed the medication cabinet door, and in the mirror's reflection, you saw him.

“Bob?” you asked, your voice filled with bewilderment.

He was standing there in a basic white t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants that hung loosely over his hips, highlighting his V-line.

But something was off.

He didn’t resemble the Bob you knew. His hair was a little longer, and a faint stubble shaded his jaw. His shoulders weren’t hunched, and there was an air about him – and an undeniable confidence, that you had only seen on rare occasions, mostly when Sentry took control.

“Do you feel alright?” he asked as he approached you.

“I’m sorry, I’m slightly confused right now.”

‘Slight confused’ was an understatement. You had no fucking clue what was happening.

He chuckled softly. “Told you you were drinking too much last night.”

What?

“Here.” He handed you a glass of water and a pill of Tylenol from the bottle you had been holding just a few seconds before. “It will help make you feel better.”

Confusion overtook you, and for a moment, you wondered if it was all part of some kind of dream or if you were losing your mind.

“You said that I drank too much last night?”

He tilted his head as he gazed at you. “You really don’t remember?”

He reached for his toothbrush and squeezed a generous line of toothpaste on it, and began brushing his teeth.

“This must be your worst hangover. Topping that time when you ended up singing loudly at the top of your lungs in the middle of the street.”

You pursed your lips. “I don’t sing.”

He rinsed the toothpaste from his mouth. “Oh, but you did. Yelena had you recorded on video.”

That sounded like something she would do.

“Maybe next time you’ll listen to me and take it a bit easier, but for now, what about some banana pancakes?”

You huffed. “I don’t want banana pancakes, Bob.”

“Okay, now you’ve got me worried. Are you feeling nauseous?” His hands cupped your jaw gently while he examined your features.

“What? No, I–”

You paused, motionless for a moment. Your breath caught in your throat as your gaze fell on Bob’s hand, where a gold wedding band sat snugly on his finger. Then your eyes turned to your left hand, where the sparkling diamond on your left finger shone softly in the bathroom light.

Your heart skipped a beat.

“Oh my god,” you blurted out, your voice more frenzied than you’d intended. “Are we married?”

Did you get so drunk last night that you ended up marrying Bob, like in those cliché movies?

He didn’t appear concerned about the whole ordeal; on the contrary, your words made him burst laughing.

You didn’t understand why he was so chill about everything.

“Why aren’t you panicking?”

“Trust me. I already did,” he remarked with a chuckle as he exited the bathroom. You followed him, your mind racing. “On our wedding day, three years ago.”

You blinked, trying to process what he just said.

Three years ago?

He walked into the kitchen, which was adjacent to the living room. It was a large space, with modern yet modest furnishings. It felt cozy, like a home.

“Those cocktails struck you hard, huh? You really forget we’re married?” he asked as he beat some eggs, and you could sense his tone was playful. He must have assumed you were messing with him. “So much for ‘I could never forget you, babe.’”

“I don’t sound like that,” you said, mildly annoyed at his attempt at mimicking your voice.

Your gaze scanned the living room more intently, as if you were about to find an answer to what was going on. It was then that you noticed one of the framed pictures on the shelf. You approached and cautiously held the frame in your hands.

You nearly stopped breathing, your chest hitching.

Two people smiling at the camera. Their happiness was palpable, and it was not simply because they were smiling or because it was their wedding day. It was something deeper.

You couldn't recall a time in your life when you'd felt this happy. And you knew Bob well enough to know that he had probably not felt it either. You felt a twinge in your heart again, but this time for a completely different reason.

You placed the photo back on the shelf, and your eyes fell on the framed photo right next to it.

You, Bob, Yelena, and Kate.

From the background, it looked like a restaurant, and from the partially visible slice of cake with candles, you assumed you were celebrating a birthday.

Another thing that was off.

Kate Bishop wasn't even that present in your lives. If you remembered correctly, you had only met her once or twice since moving to New York.

And then there was a third framed picture.

The camera had captured a woman, surrounded by children, about five or six years old, give or take. The bottom part of the frame had a gold plaque engraved with the words: ‘The best teacher in the world.’

What was going on here?

The aroma of freshly prepared pancakes drew your attention from the photos to Bob at the kitchen island. He had two plates ready, each topped with maple syrup and blueberries.

Your stomach grumbled.

“Oh, I thought you said you didn't want my banana pancakes?” he said, moving the plate out of your grasp with a sly smile on his face.

You rolled your eyes. “Are you serious?”

“You wounded me, baby… But a kiss might heal me, and I’ll let you enjoy this delicious breakfast,” he said, while taking a bite from his plate.

Although you had never voiced it aloud or confessed it to anyone in particular, you found Bob really cute. He was sweet, caring, considerate, and kinda awkward, which only made him even more attractive in your eyes.

He was very different from other men you had met before – in a good way. Maybe that was the reason you were so drawn to him.

You usually would pull yourself out from missions to stay back at the Watchtower with him. At the beginning he would apologize for you having to babysit him, and you would tell him that he didn’t need a babysitter and that you enjoyed his company.

You weren’t sure if he truly believed you, but you liked being around him. It would probably be an odd thing to say, considering everything he had been through and what he was dealing with, but he brought calmness to you.

Then you started to spend more time together – going out around the city, reading, training… And at some point your feelings for him gradually evolved from friendship to something deeper.

“Well, I’m waiting.” He was leaning on the counter, studying you with a smile.

You stood on your tiptoes, one hand around the back of his neck and the other placed against his chest, before pulling him down toward you and meeting his lips.

Bob instantly wrapped an arm around your waist, while the other hand cupped your jaw. Your hand on the back of his neck moved higher, and you let your fingers get lost in his brunette curls. His lips were soft and warm, and everything you’d always imagined.

You dived in with the intention of it being a small, chaste kiss. But the instant your mouth collided with his, it felt like you could never get enough of him.

When you felt like your lungs were giving out, you pulled back, foreheads pressed together while trying to regain your breath. Your gaze met his blue-eyed one, and you bit your bottom lip when you noticed his flushed cheeks.

“Sorry,” you muttered a bit sheepishly. You certainly gave him more than he anticipated.

“Oh, no, no… That was–” He took a long breath. “Wow.”

You smiled at his reaction. “So, did I earn those pancakes?”

“What the hell happened?” Bucky was fuming, running his fingers through his hair while he went in circles around the room. “You go on a recon mission and come back with Y/N in a coma?”

“I told you what happened,” John said, gritting his teeth.

“Oh, yeah. A tall man with tattooed skin that emitted blue light. That explains everything.”

“It’s not like we haven’t seen worse,” Ava commented.

“We definitely haven’t seen anything like this before.”

“Did you at least kill that motherfucker?”

John remained silent for a second while the others watched him expectantly. “No.”

“Why the hell not? Did you let him escape?”

“I did shoot him, like twenty times… everywhere. And that thing did not even flinch.”

“Great,” Bucky sighed, pinching his nose in frustration. “So what, another O.X.E subject?”

You were lying in one of the beds in the medical wing, connected to a monitor that measured the frequency of your heartbeat.

Yelena sat at your bedside, holding your hand in hers while looking at you. She hadn’t moved or said anything since John Walker stepped out of the elevator with your unconscious body in his arms, after the recon mission you were assigned to went sideways.

“What happened to Y/N?”

Bob was in his room, reading the new book you had bought him at the bookstore you two went to every Thursday, without fail. It had become a weekly routine that Bob looked forward to.

You had assured him the mission was simple and wouldn't take long, so you could go when you got back. You had promised him, and he had taken you at your word.

Although he wouldn't admit it if asked, he had been constantly staring at the clock, as if staring at the hands would make time pass faster. The Watchtower was still under construction, and its walls were not entirely strengthened, so it was easy to hear the others' voices. He could tell from their frantic tones that the mission had not gone as planned.

They all looked at him, like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Uh, she… she got hurt in the mission, but she’ll be alright.” Ava tried to dismiss it, but the unsureness and dread in her voice gave her away.

Bob knew they were lying to him, but decided not to comment on it. Instead, his glance darted toward your unconscious form on the bed, a flicker of something crossing his face before shifting back to Walker. “Where were you?”

John tilted his head, watching him with narrowed eyes. “What?”

Bob took a few deliberate steps forward, his motions were measured. “You went together to that mission. Why weren’t you with her?”

“We split up to cover more ground. The warehouse was supposed to be empty!” John exclaimed angrily, tired of everyone blaming him for what had happened.

“You should’ve known better.” Something was starting to shift in Bob’s demeanor. The first indicator was the tone of his voice. The second, the faint flickers of gold in his eyes. “And you were supposed to protect her… I would have protected her.”

John huffed, and without realizing the emotions that were building up inside Bob, he lit the fuse. “Respectfully Bob, fuck off.”

And that was it.

He launched at him, slamming him against the wall so hard that a small crack appeared. His hands were around his neck, squeezing it tightly, cutting off his breath. John's eyes widened in panic as he struggled against the grip, his fingers clawing at Bob's wrists.

Bucky, Ava, and Alexei reacted almost immediately, attempting to push him back, even though they knew it would be in vain.

“Bob, hey, let him go. It wasn’t his fault,” Ava shouted, her voice shaking with panic.

“It was his fault. She wasn’t supposed to get hurt.”

“We know you care about her, we do too… We’re going to help her, but this isn’t the solution.”

Ava’s words didn’t cause him to quiver; it was when Yelena placed a hand on his bicep that something slightly shifted.

“She wouldn’t want this.” Her voice came out quietly. “Remember what she taught you during training.”

Something clicked inside him.

You had spent hours with Bob in the training room, helping him control his powers, guiding him through every step.

You were always patient, never pressuring or rushing him.

There had been times when he almost lost control – like right now. And you were always there to ground him.

You believed in him.

You believed he could do better.

He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Inhale and exhale. He repeated the sequence several times until the tension in his muscles slowly dissipated.

Finally, he unwrapped his hand from John's neck, and he collapsed to the floor, gasping for air. Ava and Bucky quickly rushed over, helping him to his feet and guiding him to one of the nearby beds in the medical wing.

Alexei placed a hand on Bob’s shoulder, and he turned to the Soviet super soldier, who looked at him sympathetically. “It’s alright, kid. No one is at fault here.”

Four days.

That’s how long it had been since you returned from the mission unconscious and the incident in the medical wing.

Things had only worsened.

Bob hadn't left the room since then; the emotions of what had happened to you, along with his attack on Walker, had overwhelmed him.

However, when sleeplessness seized him at night, he would leave the room, making sure not to be seen, and go check on you. He would sit in the chair Yelena occupied in the mornings, hold your hand, and beg you not to leave him.

Someone had once told him that people in a coma could hear and feel what was going on around them, and he hoped it was true.

John had not left his room either. Partially to avoid running into Bob, and partially because he was tired of the accusatory looks the rest of the team was giving him, blaming him for what had happened.

And you.

It appeared that the coma you were in was more complex than the team and Dr. Ashford had initially anticipated. Because yesterday, she had to deliver the most unpleasant news in the medical field: you were dying.

She was unable to explain the cause. But the evidence was there, in the samples she took every day, in how your skin grew paler and paler, and how your heartbeat grew slower and slower.

Something was destroying you from within.

And they didn't know how to stop it.

“A genie?”

“A djinn,” Bucky corrected, emphasizing the term.

Bucky had told Sam about your situation, hoping that his friend would have some insight, after all, he had dealt with his fair share of strange things before. Unfortunately, Sam didn’t have an answer either. But he promised he and Joaquín would dig into it.

What they found, however, was not what Bucky would have expected at all.

“According to the lore Joaquín found, they are rare cave-dwelling hermits that have the power to produce powerful hallucinations inside the minds of humans,” Bucky explained. “Most people don’t believe they actually exist, but according to Walker’s description of the thing that attacked Y/N, it’s our best guess.”

“That doesn’t explain why she’s in a coma, or why she’s dying.”

“Here comes the tricky part. When it touched her, it poisoned her. The lore also states that djinns usually feed from their victims.” He halted as he noticed the horrified expression on Ava’s face. “Which is probably what would happen if Walker weren’t there to bring Y/N home.”

“Wait. Did Wilson and Torres explain why Walker couldn’t kill it? Is it immortal or something?”

“Apparently, it can only be killed in a very specific way. There were so many debacles that they couldn’t confirm which was the real one.”

“What are the hallucinations about?”

Everyone turned their attention toward Yelena. She had barely said anything these past few days, and she had barely left your side either. The dark circles under her eyes were a clear indicator of exhaustion from a lack of sleep. They knew how bad it was affecting her – the probability of losing you.

You and Yelena go way back.

Back when you were just two scared children in the Red Room.

Back when Yelena got back from the blip, only to learn that Natasha was gone, and Alexei was MIA.

You were there for her through everything. Not because you had to. Not because you felt obligated to, just because she gave you your life back.

You were there because you wanted to. Because you chose to.

You were her safe place — where she could be real and vulnerable, without being judged or pitied.

You were her sister.

“Oh, yeah, that. Contemporary lore depicts them as genies —”

“AHA! Genies! What have I said? I love those blue-skinned floating wish-maker tricksters.”

“Alexei, shut up, please!” Yelena said exasperatedly, her voice sounding tired.

“As I was saying, they’re depicted as genies able to read a person’s mind to learn what their heart desires the most,” he explained, repeating the information he had been taught. “But they don’t truly grant wishes. It’s just a ruse to inflict their poison. You believe you’ve gotten what you wanted, then your physical body dies in the real world.”

“But she must know she’s trapped in a… I don’t know, a fantasy reality?”

“Difficult to know for sure. Djinns are powerful enough to convince their victims that they are actually living in the reality they implanted.”

“So that’s it? She stays in that made up world while that fucker’s poison kills her here?”

Bucky paused. Doubting if he should say it or not. Not wanting to give her false hope. But Yelena caught on his hesitation, her eyes narrowing slightly as she questioned what he was holding back.

“Barnes, spit it out.”

Bucky sighed. “There may be a thing, but I cannot assure it would work,” he said, “Joaquín found this thing called African dream roots. Apparently, if you take them and go to sleep, you can enter people's dreams and interact with them.”

“Not the craziest thing we’ve heard so far,” Ava commented.

“I’ll do it,” Yelena said, without hesitation.

“Yelena –”

“I’m not giving up on her, Dad… I’ve already lost one sister; I am not losing her too.”

She could not bear it.

Not again.

Yelena opened her eyes, slightly dizzy. She was struggling to adapt to her environment. Her gaze scoured the cozy living room; there was no trace of you anywhere, and for a brief moment, she thought those herbs Bucky had given her had been ineffective.

But there was something off about the atmosphere, which Yelena could sense in her bones.

Unlike the rooms of shame where The Void had trapped them, this felt more manufactured, yet safe at the same time, as if these four walls painted in earth tones protected you from the outside world.

“Yelena?”

She turned when she heard your voice.

You stood in the doorway, your head tilted slightly, a puzzled expression on your face.

Yelena regarded you for a few seconds without saying anything. You didn't seem scared or in danger. You were... normal.

That was what struck her the hardest.

“What are you doing here?” you asked when you realized that she had no intention of saying anything.

“What am I doing here?” She repeated your question in amazement after a few seconds, when she appeared to have sprung out of her trance. “I came to rescue you.”

“Rescue me? From what?”

“The genie!” she exclaimed.

“The what?” you asked, perplexed.

“You were attacked during a mission. You’re dreaming, this isn’t real.” She got straight to the point, explaining the situation as simply as possible.

“It’s real enough to me.”

Your words jolted Yelena back. She blinked a few times. “Y-you… You know?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Of course, I know. Look around, Lena.”

“Then why haven’t you freed yourself? Bucky said —”

You interrupted her before she could finish her sentence. “Because I don’t want to.”

Yelena looked at you, not expecting that response.

“All the pain, the suffering, all that we have lost…” You walked toward the kitchen island and took a seat on one of the stools. “I’m tired of carrying that weight on my shoulders every day.”

“What your heart desires the most,” she mumbled under her breath, quiet and barely audible yet clear enough for you to hear.

“What?”

“What’s so special about this place, Y/N? What do you have here that you cannot have in the real world?”

“My parents are alive, they actually love me, and never abandoned me.” Your voice cracked a bit, and Yelena could notice the unshed tears building in your eyes.

“Oh, pchelka.”

She knew that was a difficult subject for you. When you told her that you wanted to dig into your past and find out how you were taken, she knew deep in her gut that whatever you found wouldn’t be good. Nevertheless, she still supported you in your decision.

She helped you gather all the information you needed, and then she held you in her arms when you discovered that you had not been kidnapped — your parents abandoned you, they actually sold you to those Sovietic scumbags.

“There’s no pain in here, Lena,” you said. “No pressure to save the world, or for the world to like us. No Valentina. No Avengers. Just living a normal life.”

“The picket white fence, is it what you wished for?” she asked. Curiously, you’ve never talked about this before – how you imagined your lives if your circumstances were different.

Her eyes caught a glimpse of your hand, more specifically, of the shiny stone. “You’re married?” she exclaimed, a bit too loudly, “Who’s the lucky guy?”

You didn’t answer her. You just looked at the shelf where the photos were, and she followed your gaze.

“Bob?” There was surprise in her tone. “You like Bob?” She directed her glance back toward you.

“What’s wrong with liking Bob?”

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” she quickly assured, “It’s just that… I don’t know, you never said anything.”

You shrugged, a slight smile on your lips. “It's not like we’re very good at communicating how we feel.” Your gaze returned to her, and a hint of vulnerability crept into your words. "But, yeah, I like Bob. More than just a friend, I guess.”

“Well, you’re going to be thrilled then, ‘cause he likes you too. The real one,” she stated, emphasizing the word ‘real’.

Maybe it was wrong. Yelena knew this wasn’t her confession to make. But desperate times needed desperate measures. Besides, if Bob was one of the reasons you wanted to stay here, he could also be the reason for you to leave, since you could have him anyway.

You rose swiftly from the stool. "You don't need to lie to trick me. I told you that I'm not leaving."

“I’m not lying,” she said, offended that you expected her to lie to you about something like that. “He attacked Walker ‘cause he blames him for what happened to you. He hasn’t left his room for days… Except at night, when he sneaks out to see you in the medical wing. The thing is, he cares profoundly about you, and we are really concerned about him and what’s going on in his mind.”

Yelena paused for a moment, considering whether to voice her next words. She knew she might regret them later, but she couldn’t ignore the ache she was feeling in her chest. “Yesli ty ostanesh'sya zdes', ty egoistichnaya suka.”

Her words struck you hard. She’d never been so crass with you before, and part of you couldn’t believe she’d aimed those words at you. “Excuse me?”

“You’re dying out there, dammit! Dr. Ashford doesn’t think you’ll make it to the weekend. The team is in disarray—Walker is feeling guilty, and Bob is doing even worse than when we met him. Bucky, Ava, and Alexei are on autopilot, not stopping searching for a way to help you… And me? Do you even care about me? You think your choices don’t have an impact on the lives of others?” she outburst, tears overflowing in her eyes due to the intensity of her emotions. “I know our lives aren’t perfect, and we haven’t always had it easy, but we have each other. And that is real… Is that not enough for you?”

“I get it, trust me, I do. All this —” She waved her hands, signaling your surroundings “— Having what you wish for the most, it’s enticing, and it’s unfair that it isn’t real, but you’re not alone, and you still can be happy. You want Bob? He is waiting for you. You want a family? You’ve got us. You got me… Family doesn't end in blood, but it doesn't start there either. Family cares about you, not what you can do for them. Family’s there through the good, bad, all of it. They got your back even when it hurts. That’s family.”

She approached you, her hands cradling your face as she brushed away the tears that had silently fallen from your eyes. “I love you. Pozhaluysta, sestrichka, vernis' domoy.”

You let out a sob, followed by another, and so on. You wrapped your arms around Yelena, clutching her tightly as if she would vanish at any minute. Your face pressed into her shoulder, tears streaming down your cheeks. With a broken voice, you kept whispering your apologies, while she held your shivering body.

Waking up from a coma is a strange sensation, something you've never experienced before. The closest thing you could equate it to is the Red Dust breaking the mental grasp on your brain, and yet, they are two completely different things.

You rubbed your eyes with the side of your hand, your vision slowly adjusting to the light and your surroundings.

The first thing you heard were sighs of relief, followed by Alexei's strong arms wrapping around you in a hug, squeezing you against his chest. “My pchelka! You are back. Oh, we were so worried.”

Bucky and Ava stood at the foot of your bed, watching the scene, their expression showing relief but unsure of what to say.

“I’m sorry for scaring you, guys,” you murmured, your voice a little hoarse. “I got a little caught up in all that… fantasy reality.”

“It’s alright, kid,” Bucky said, as if it wasn’t a big deal, but you knew it was. How worried they had been these days, thinking they wouldn’t be able to save you. “Could have happened to any of us.”

“Important thing is, you’re back,” Ava added, offering you a reassuring smile.

You rolled onto your side, your gaze settling on Yelena, who was already awake, her eyes fluttering open from whatever she drank to enter your dream. As your eyes wandered around the room, you realized that Bob and John were nowhere to be seen.

As if she could read your mind, Ava chimed in, “They’re in their rooms.”

You started getting out of bed, detaching yourself from the heart monitor and removing the IV from your arm, but Yelena swiftly stopped you. “Woah, where do you think you’re going, miss?”

“I have to—”

“What you have to do is wait for Dr. Ashford to examine you.”

“I’m fine, I feel fine.” You looked at her, pleading, “There’s something I need to do first.”

Yelena glanced at you, and you could see the internal conflict in her eyes. For a second, you thought she was going to fight you on this one, but she merely sighed and let go of her grip on your shoulders, giving you the go-ahead.

You walked down the halls with a specific direction in mind, and when you arrived, you paused in the middle of the hall to stare at the door.You had a fleeting moment of hesitation, but you shrugged it aside and knocked softly on the door.

Not a sound could be heard behind the door. Perhaps he wasn’t there. Perhaps he was refusing to recognize the knocking. Then you heard feet shuffling on the floor, and the creak of the door hinges as they opened.

“And now what?” His voice was rough and tired at the same time. The frown he was sporting on his face completely vanished when he saw you, replaced with a startled expression. “Y/N?”

You observed the red markings on his neck, and your gut twisted as you remembered the talk with Yelena.

“I woke up,” you said meekly, awkwardly moving your hands. “They figured it out… Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you.”

John furrowed his eyebrows, looking at you confusedly.

“Yelena told me what could have happened if you didn’t get me away from that thing, so thank you for not abandoning me there… Also, don’t crucify yourself, alright? What happened, it wasn’t your fault,” you reassured him. “There was no way we could have known.”

An awkward silence fell over both of you. John continued to stare at you without saying anything, and you stood on the threshold of his door, fumbling with your hands, unsure what else to do.

You knew John Walker wasn't good with words, but this wasn't exactly the reaction you were expecting.

After a few more seconds, and unable to bear the awkwardness any longer, you turned on your heels to leave.

As you were about to turn the corner, he called out your name. You stopped and turned around, and he said, “I’m glad you’re back.”

You offered him a smile in response, and you made your way to the other side of the tower.

Again, you found yourself in front of a closed door.

But this one was different.

You could feel your palms sweating and your heart thumping against your ribs.

You'd been in Bob's room numerous times before, so why did it feel different now?

The truth was, you were scared. Scared of being face to face with him—with the real Bob—after the short experience you'd had in the Fantasy Universe.

You knew things were different here. Bob wasn’t yours, and you didn’t even know for sure if he harbored any feelings for you. You just had Yelena’s word for it, and while you knew your sister would never lie to you, how could she even know how Bob felt in the first place?

When he opened the door, his reaction was nearly identical to Walker’s – stunned, eyes wide open in surprise. The sight of you standing on the threshold of his bedroom door caught him completely off guard; he plainly did not expect to see you there.

He probably didn’t even know the team had a plan to reach out to you. Yelena mentioned he wasn’t coping well with the circumstances, so it made sense if they hadn’t told him, in case things didn’t go well.

Your heart plummeted when you looked at him. Tiredness was etched onto his features, his eyes were heavy and swollen due to exhaustion. He was more hunched than usual, shoulders slumped by the weight of the past four days.

“This is your fault,” you thought, “He thought you were dying, you idiot. How do you expect him to look?”

“Hey,” you said weakly.

“You– You’re here,” he murmured, puzzled. He rubbed his hands over his face repeatedly to ensure his eyes weren’t deceiving him and that his lack of sleep wasn’t causing him to become delirious.

“I am.”

Without a warning or a second thought, he threw his arms around you, engulfing you in his embrace, drawing you close to his chest, allowing his emotions to sweep him away.

You were here.

You were fine.

You were alive.

He tightened his grip on you, relishing in the comfort you always provided to him.

“I thought I had lost you.” His voice was quiet, barely a whisper, muffled against your head, but enough for you to hear.

“You’re never going to lose me.”

He drew back slightly, his eyes studying you carefully to ensure you were in perfect condition. “How do you feel? Has Dr. Ashford checked on you? How did you wake up?”

“Bob, I’m fine,” you said calmly, lifting your hands from his side to rest on his shoulders, bringing an end to his rambling. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

Bob shook his head. “No, no, that – that it wasn’t your fault. Walker shouldn’t have —”

“It wasn’t Walker's fault, either.”

Something more serious took over Bob’s gaze. “Yes, it was. We’re a team, and he was your partner in that mission —”

“We were covering more ground separately, and I got ambushed, and I couldn’t react in time. Shit happens all the time during missions; it’s part of the job.”

He still looked unsure. He knew you could defend yourself, of course. You were a very skilled fighter, he had seen it firsthand. Still, the fact that you got hurt and that you had been on the verge of death until just a few hours ago, was something he couldn’t shake off his mind… and his heart.

He grabbed your hand and drew you to his bed, where you both sat on the edge.

“What happened?” he asked, “You didn’t wake up, and Bucky, he… uh, he said you got —” he stumbled over his words, trying to find the right way to say it. “That it was a genie that attacked you?”

You explained what happened in the warehouse the best way you could, based on what you recalled, which wasn't much. You were still confused about it, and you didn’t know all the details regarding this genie situation.

You could wrap your mind around the Red Room, HYDRA, OXE, and even Thanos. But the concept of a tattoo-covered humanoid entity with the ability to read minds and apparently grant wishes while putting you in a coma-state… that was a lot to take in.

“What did you dream about?” Bob asked curiously, “I mean… What was your dream life?”

You swallowed. Although you had a close friendship with Bob, and you had told him things about your past, the same way that he had told you things about his,this particular topic had only been discussed with Yelena.

“You know I grew up in the Red Room, right?” you asked, and he nodded. He remembered the first time you made skin contact while in the vault, and he unintentionally sent you to one of your shame rooms. “Well, there were girls from all parts of the world; some of them were orphans, some of them were kidnapped and taken away from their families… A few years back, I was going through a hard time and I was feeling this –” You paused, unsure whether to voice the word on the tip of your tongue.

Bob noticed your hesitation, and he surmised what you meant to say. “Void?”

You pressed your lips into a thin line and nodded. “Yeah, I wanted to know more about my past. I thought I needed to… to move forward, I guess. Yelena advised me it was a terrible idea and that certain things are better left unknown, but I didn’t listen. So, I started digging and I found my biological mother. I was ecstatic, a bit nervous, but for a moment something inside me felt complete, y’know?”

Bob's gaze met yours, and while what you were saying to him sounded nice, your expression and tone of voice spoke a very different message. “It didn’t go well, didn’t it?”

You averted your eyes and shook your head. “She was surprised to see me, that much obvious. But the first thing that came out her mouth was, ‘Oh, you’re still alive.’” Your voice cracked a bit, and you took a long breath, attempting to maintain your composure. “It didn’t take a genius to figure out that I was not kidnapped.”

Bob took in your words and what they meant, “She – Did she… She handed you over to those people?”

“Yeah.” It was quiet and barely audible, but enough for Bob, who immediately wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you toward his chest, in an attempt to offer you comfort.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his face pressed against your head. “She didn’t deserve you.”

“I didn’t think that her loving me was something I craved so much. Not until I woke up in that place and I found that we were actually a happy family – me, her, and my dad. I didn’t know you could miss something you never had.”

Bob paused for a second, taking in your words, then tentatively said, “Maybe that thing… What did you say its name was? Maybe it was all a ruse, to mess with you.”

“I don’t know. Apparently it can read your mind, to see what someone wishes for the most, so they gave it to them,” you said. “Besides, there were other things… Other things that I also want.”

“What were they?”

“A normal life. No Avengers, not fighting for my life every day… Nothing of this.”

“You mean the team?” he asked, swallowing the lump in his throat before proceeding with his next question. “I wasn’t – The team wasn’t part of your life?” He corrected himself quickly, but you picked up on it.

“Well, Yelena was part of it,” you admitted. You didn’t get the chance to meet that version of her, but you remembered the picture in your living room. “And… you were there too.”

You could feel his body going stiff.

“I was?” He sought for confirmation, almost unable to believe it. In Bob’s mind, the idea that he was part of your dream life seemed too good to be true.

You hummed in response.

Then you decided to be brave and dropped the ball, bracing yourself for the worst. “We were married.”

Bob's arms that had been wrapped around you fell limp at his side, and you immediately missed the warmth and comfort. Something ached in your chest, and you could feel his piercing gaze on you, but you didn’t dare to look at him, so you kept your eyes on your hands.

“We – we were… married?” he stuttered, the ‘married’ part getting slightly stuck in his throat.

You just nodded, and hummed again.

“Is that… That’s what you want?” The incredulity in his voice was obvious. “That’s your dream life?”

When you ask someone about how they imagine their dream life – a life they will most likely never have – they would mention amazing things, good things; most of the time unrealistic things. You told him that you dreamt about your parents being part of your life, loving you; and he could relate to that part. Living a life where he wasn’t a burden and wasn’t constantly reminded of how he always made things worse sounded nice.

But him being part of your dream life?

He didn’t understand it.

Out of all the things you can wish and dream for, you wanted him?

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You could have had anything,” he said, stating the obvious.

“I know.”

“And you… You wished for me?”

“Maybe I just want you.”

You finally lifted your gaze to meet his. You could feel the war going on behind his dark blue eyes.

“Was he any different from me?” he asked.

“The ‘you’ from my dream?”

He nodded.

You tilted your head, as if you were deep in thought. Then a small smile spread across your face. “Nah, you were still yourself. Same Bob who stole my heart.”

A flush crept up his neck; he couldn't recall the last time his heart pounded so fiercely against his ribcage.

You reached out your hand, softly grazing his cheek. His eyelids fluttered shut at the sensation, and a low gasp escaped his lips. For a moment, the warmth of your palm appeared to soothe the turmoil in his head.

“You’re already everything I ever dreamt of, why would I change anything?”

Bob opened his eyes, his gaze piercing into yours, looking for any sign that this was all just a joke or that you were just playing with him. But he knew you better than that, and your eyes reflected genuine care and affection.

His gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips, and he started to lean in, slowly. He could feel your breath hitting him in the face. His lips finally brushed against yours in a timid, delicate kiss, still feeling a bit unsure. Then you scooted your body closer to his, your thighs bumping, and one of your hands slipping into the back of his neck and his brunette curls. His hair was shorter here, but still silky.

His mouth was still addictive, his taste leaving you craving more of him.

This kiss was so much better than the ones you’d shared in the dream world, because this one was real.

“Wait, now that I think about it…”

He pulled back slightly, a slightly worried expression etched on his face.

“Have you thought about letting your stubble grow a bit?”

He blinked, surprise clouding his features. “Stubble?”

You shrugged, a teasing smile on your face. “Just a thought,” you said as your fingertips traced his jaw. “Would make you look extra hot.”

His cheeks heated, turning red as your compliment washed over him.

“I can do that.”

…

Hours later, you were lying in bed. The sky had turned black, and the city lights cast shadows across the walls of the dimly lit room.

Your head was resting on Bob's chest, and the steady rise and fall of his chest brought you a sense of calm. His body emanated a welcoming warmth, and you relished in it. One of his hands was entangled in your hair, fingers playing with the strands, while one of your hands was intertwined with his free hand, fingers laced together.

“Can you tell me more about the dream?” he asked a bit hesitantly.

“There isn’t much to tell,” you said, sincerely. “I was a teacher. There was this picture of me and my students in our living room.”

“Is that the path you would have taken?” he asked softly, “If you had had a choice.”

“I don’t know. I never really thought about it. I think –” you paused for a second, trying to find the right words for what you want to express. “I think my subconscious chose that because I didn’t have the easiest childhood… No one protected me, so a part of me felt the need to protect other kids from going through what I did,” you explained. “I’m not sure if that makes sense.”

“It does,” he said sincerely, dropping his hand from your hair to squeeze your shoulder in reassurance.

“Oh, and we lived in Florida,” you added.

“Out of all the places you could have chosen for us to live, you chose Florida?”

“Stop belittling my dream life,” you said, clutching his side in mock offense. Then, your eyes shifted, playfulness aside, your gaze rose to meet his. “Would you like to go back someday?”

“To Sarasota Springs?” he asked, and you nodded. “Not really. There’s nothing left for me there anymore… Everything I want is here.”

Your heart did somersaults, his eyes shone, and a blissful smile spread across your face. You adjusted your body slightly so you could reach his mouth to press a quick kiss on his lips, but Bob had other intentions, and he grasped your jaw, keeping you in place and deepening the kiss, not wanting to let you go just yet.

You could get used to this.

“I'm glad you dug yourself out. Most people wouldn't have had the strength, they would've just stayed,” he said when you parted lips.

If he had been in your situation, he knows he would have stayed; he would not have had the strength to let you go. A dream world in which you were his wife, and lived a normal life, free of the burden of his past addictions or his childhood trauma was indeed a dream life.

“I would have… I mean, I wanted to…” you admitted, knowing how easily you fell for everything. “But Yelena helped me realize something. Maybe this life isn’t perfect, and it might be difficult at times, but we’re not alone, and there are still things worth living for.”

#robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #bob reynolds #robert reynolds x you #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds imagine #robert reynolds imagine #bob reynolds oneshot #bob reynolds fic #marvel #sentry #void #thunderbolts*#lewis pullman

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