#they are more subtle and quiet than the loud and fragile things | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vunblr · 7 months ago

Text

A Heart in Hiding

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Wet Dream, Angst-Hurt/Comfort, Allusions to Hydra's Trash Party, Medical Experimentation, Panic Attack.

Summary: Caught between the shadows of his past and an unexpected connection, Bucky wrestles with his demons and his growing feelings for a new Avenger.

Word Count: About 13.k.

notes: This is a revised version of Unspoken. It's been a while since I wanted to edit this story, and fortunately, I found the time to do it during the holidays. I hope you enjoy it.

The halls of the Avengers Tower felt different lately, with a new energy. Y/n had been living there for a few months now, being the newest addition to the group, providing support both in the field and at the Tower itself. Her mutation was a rare one: healing. It had proven invaluable in SHIELD's eyes long before she joined the Avengers, who welcomed her gladly when Fury introduced her to the team.

Steve, ever the diplomat, had been the first to welcome her, offering his steady support with a warm smile and reassuring words. Natasha followed soon after, sharing subtle smirks and the occasional dry quip that made her feel like she belonged. Even Tony, in his typical way, wove her into his world of banter, bestowing her with nicknames almost the moment she walked through the door. The rest of the team? They warmed up quicker than she’d expected.

Except for Bucky.

It wasn’t that he was unfriendly, just... distant. She hadn’t taken it personally at first; he was Bucky Barnes, after all. The man known for his stoic glares, clipped words, and the heavy shadows of his past. Given everything he’d endured, who could blame him for keeping to himself?

In the beginning, their interactions were minimal, little more than practical exchanges during missions or brief moments in the common areas. A muttered “thanks” when she patched him up: a scrape on his nose here, a swollen cheekbone there. Silence charged with meaning when her hands worked carefully on his shoulder and chest, where the tissue around the metal arm often swelled or became irritated. She could feel his discomfort, both physical and emotional, though he never said a word. A shared half-smile over early morning coffee, when the world was still and sleeplessness bound them both. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it felt like the start of something.

Gradually, those fleeting moments began to take shape. He started lingering in the kitchen when she made tea, his quiet “Need help with that?” or “How was your day?” carried an unexpected softness. They began to talk, really talk. What started as cautious conversations grew into something deeper. Sometimes, he would seek her out, not because he needed anything, but simply to show her something: a stray white cat he’d spotted on a morning run, a book he thought she might like, or a new recipe he’d stumbled upon online.

For a while, they settled into an easy rhythm. It wasn’t loud or obvious, but it felt meaningful, a fragile connection that made her think something real might bloom between them.

But suddenly, everything changed.

At first, it was small: responses shortened to brief nods, his gaze slipping away when she spoke. The conversations dwindled. The moments of shared closeness became few and far between. His presence grew colder, his body language tighter, as though he was retreating behind the walls she’d thought he was beginning to lower.

It bothered her more than she wanted to admit. She wasn’t the type to let things fester, but with Bucky, every instinct she had seemed to falter. How did you confront someone who had mastered the art of retreating? Had she overstepped? Done something wrong? Every time she tried to bring it up -softly, carefully- he deflected with a grunt, a short answer, or a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

And every day, the distance between them widened.

-----

Bucky couldn’t pinpoint when things changed with her. At first, he appreciated how she treated him: no pity, no coddling, just simple, genuine conversations that made him feel, for once like a person, normal. For the first time in years, he found himself wanting to talk to someone besides Steve.

He welcomed it at first, the way her smile lingered a little longer when he mumbled a response, the warmth in her eyes during their shared moments. Their conversations became something he looked forward to, something he craved. But as the weeks passed, something else began to stir inside him. Something terrifying.

It wasn’t just gratitude for their growing friendship. No, this was deeper, more intense. Attraction. Wanting. And the more he felt it, the harder it became to face her.

Because every time he allowed himself to think about her, the guilt crashed over him like a wave he couldn’t outrun. She didn’t deserve the weight of his past or the darkness he carried. He had been the Winter Soldier for too long, a weapon of destruction in Hydra’s hands, leaving behind a long trail of pain and death. The faces of the people he’d hurt, and the trembling voices of those who had begged or screamed haunted him, etched into his mind like scars that would never fade.

And then there was the abuse, the kind he never spoke about. It wasn’t just physical; Hydra had taken everything from him: his freedom, his identity, his will. His body had been theirs to use, to break, to control. Late at night, he could still feel the ghost of their hands, the cold, clinical way they had stripped him of his humanity. The thought of it alone made him sick.

How could he even begin to think about her in that way? She was light and warmth, a reminder of all the good he no longer believed he deserved. And Bucky? He was a mess of scars, guilt, and trauma he hadn’t even begun to unpack.

So, he did what he always did when emotions threatened to overwhelm him: he shut them down. He stopped talking to her, stopped letting her get too close. It was easier to be cold and act indifferent than to deal with the storm of feelings inside him. It was better for her to think he didn’t care than to see how broken he really was.

-----

Things started to grow awkward -tense, even- during their group meetings before the missions. What once had been only indifference from Bucky turned into something sharper. It started with a sarcastic comment here or there, muttered under his breath, but loud enough for her to hear. She tried to brush it off at first, assuming he was just being moody as usual. But when it became a pattern, when his remarks grew more pointed, more dismissive, she couldn’t ignore it anymore.

He had started suggesting in front of everyone, that she didn’t have to participate in certain missions.

"Maybe sit this one out," Bucky had said during the last briefing, his tone flat, eyes avoiding hers as he leaned back in his chair. "We don't need anyone getting in the way."

Her eyes narrowed, the heat of anger rising in her chest. She wasn’t new to dangerous missions and wasn’t some kind of rookie that everyone had to look after. And Bucky knew that. They all did. She had a support role, yes, but she had been in the field countless times before, proving her worth more than once not only to them but also to SHIELD. To have him throw those words at her -especially in front of the team- was humiliating. Infuriating.

"You don’t get to decide that, Barnes," she shot back sharply. "I’ve done just fine without your input."

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained cool. "Yeah, because healing a few cuts and bruises is the same as being in the thick of it."

Her fists clenched at her sides. "You think that’s all I do? Patch people up? I’ve been in more firefights than you can count, Barnes, and I’m still standing."

"That’s not the point," he retorted, crossing his arms over his chest as he finally looked at her, with a hard expression. "I’m just saying, you’re better off hanging back. Let the people used to the danger to handle it."

Her eyes flared, fists clenching at her sides as she stepped forward. "Excuse me?! Used to the… I’ll show you danger, you-"

Before she could finish, Steve quickly stepped in, raising a hand to calm the rising tension. “Hey, hey, let’s all take a breath here,” he said firmly, trying to diffuse the situation. “We’ve got bigger things to focus on right now.”

A silent exchange passed between everyone present, but no one intervened. The air crackled with unspoken tension.

And this had become their new normal. Meetings had devolved into subtle jabs and snarky comebacks, with Bucky seemingly intent on pushing her buttons, while she fired back with increasingly sharp remarks. Each time he tried to brush her off or suggest she wasn’t needed, she fiercely stood her ground.

He couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t just about keeping her at arm’s length, it was fear. Fear of her getting hurt in the field, and, more than that, fear of how much he cared about the possibility. Every time she suited up for a mission, a painful knot twisted in his gut, one he couldn’t untangle no matter how hard he tried.

So, as a defense mechanism -more like a stubborn teenager than the grown man he was- he resorted to belittling her, hoping it would be enough to keep her out of harm’s way.

-----

Their sleeping quarters were close. Too close, sometimes.

One night, she was torn from sleep by the sound of muffled screams. Bucky. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard them, but tonight, they were louder, more desperate. She lay in bed for a long moment, listening to his struggle through the not-so-thin walls. She wanted to go back to sleep and tried to convince herself he’d eventually be fine. But the raw sound of his torment lingered in the mind, making it impossible for her to settle.

After an hour or so had passed, and although everything was silent now, she realized the sleep wasn’t going to come back. With a quiet sigh, she got up and padded down the hall to the kitchen. Maybe some tea -and a piece of the achtzig schlag she baked that afternoon, whom was she kidding- would help, as small comfort to chase away the unease from being waked like that.

But when she reached her destiny, she stopped short. Bucky was already there.

He stood by the sink, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants, his broad back greeting her as she entered. His metal hand gripped the edge of the counter, while the other hung limply at his side with an empty glass loosely grabbed between his fingers. His head was bowed and his shoulders tense, as if the weight of the world rested there. She couldn’t tell if he’d noticed her presence, she could see his face reflected on the glass of the big window, but his gaze was fixed blankly on the sink, lost in whatever hell his nightmares had dragged him through.

For a moment, she hesitated. He barely spoke to her anymore, and when he did, he was a complete ass. But standing there, in the dim light of the kitchen, he didn’t look like his usual self. He looked... more than broken. Vulnerable. The heavy rise and fall of his chest, the slight tremor in his fingers, told her he hadn’t escaped his nightmare, not entirely.

“Bucky,” she called softly, reverting to his nickname, the one she hadn’t used in weeks. He didn’t respond, didn’t even flinch. Just kept staring into the sink as though it might offer some kind of solace he desperately needed.

She stood there, debating if she should leave him alone, letting him find his own way out of whatever haunted him, or stay. Something in the way he stood there, utterly still, as if frozen in time, made her choose the second option. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her comfy cotton nightgown, and she stepped closer.

“Bucky,” she said again, a bit louder.

This time, his shoulders tensed, the only sign he’d heard her. Slowly, he turned his head, just enough to glance at her out of the corner of his eye. His face was a mask of exhaustion, and shadows were carved deep under his eyes. There was a flash of something in his expression, maybe surprise, maybe frustration, but it faded quickly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Bucky turned back to the sink, exhaling heavily as if it took effort to breathe. "You’re up late," he muttered hoarsely, breaking the silence. He didn’t look at her.

"So are you," she replied, keeping her tone light despite the tension in the air. She wasn’t sure what else to say. She wanted to ask if he was okay, but something told her he wouldn’t answer that. Instead, she moved to the stove, setting a kettle on to boil.

He remained silent, not moving from his spot. The awkwardness lingered between them, but she kept herself busy, preparing tea as if this was an everyday occurrence. Bucky stood there silently, while she pretended not to notice the storm brewing inside him.

She turned back to him as the kettle let out a soft whistle. “Want some?” she asked, holding two cups with a gentle smile. “I picked up a strawberry blend the other day. It’s really good.” The gesture was casual, the same as it had been just a couple of months ago, before everything started to shift.

For a long moment, there was no response. He stood there, staring into the sink as if he hadn’t heard her. Then, to her surprise, he gave a slight nod, the motion so subtle it almost wasn’t there. His eyes, still shadowed by whatever nightmares lingered from his sleep, flicked toward her but didn’t quite meet her gaze.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

She nodded, poured the tea, and placed one mug on the counter in front of him before leaning against it, cupping her own mug in her hands.

“Strawberry’s a weird choice for tea, right?” she asked, trying to keep things light. “I wasn’t sure about it at first, but it kinda grows on you. Tony said it smelled like candy.”

He didn’t answer, his eyes were fixed on the steaming cup in front of him, and his jaw was clenched tight. She smiled softly, hoping to ease the tension. “Steve liked it, too. He said it reminded him of-”

“Shut up.” His voice was low and sharp with frustration. “Just… shut up.” He whispered again.

The words hit her like a slap, and her smile faltered immediately. For a moment, she just stood there, unsure how to respond.

“Right,” she mumbled, dropping her gaze. “I’ll... leave you to it.”

She started to turn, deciding it was better to give him space, but before she could leave the kitchen, his voice stopped her.

“Wait.”

She paused, mid-step, and slowly turned back. Bucky wasn’t looking at her. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the cup of tea, his expression tight, conflicted.

“I... I’m sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck, a familiar gesture of discomfort, that this time it felt heavier. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. You don’t deserve-”

He finally looked up, and his blue eyes were clouded with something raw. “I... had a nightmare,” he admitted, the words coming out slowly, as if they were too painful to say aloud. “One of the heavy ones.” His voice cracked on the last part, and for a moment, he seemed smaller, haunted.

She shifted slightly, watching the tension in his posture, on the way his fingers gripped the edge of the counter as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded. She hesitated, but the concern pushed her forward. “Do you... want to talk about it?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched instantly, the muscle twitching as his eyes flicked away from hers, focusing again on the cup of tea. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she thought he might snap at her again. But instead, there was only silence. A heavy, suffocating silence that told her everything she needed to know.

The dream still clung to him. It wasn’t just a memory, it was something darker, something visceral. In the back of his mind, the flashback played like a twisted reel. He remembered the cold steel table beneath his back, the harsh, sterile lights overhead. The sensation of the reinforced restraints biting into his skin. Voices around him, detached and clinical, as faceless scientists in white coats discussed the "procedure." A sharp pain had torn through his body, worse than anything he had felt before, as they tested the limits of his tissue regeneration. They cut deeper with each slice, watching his flesh heal itself in real-time, timing the speed of recovery as though he was no more than a lab rat.

He could still hear the sound of the blade cutting through muscle and bone and the smell of the antiseptic mixing with the coppery tang of blood. No anesthesia, it wasn’t needed. Bucky’s grip tightened on the counter and she saw the way his whole body tensed, the flicker of torment in his eyes that he tried to hide behind his blank expression.

She took a small step forward. “It’s ok. You don’t have to talk about it,” she said softly, offering him an out without pushing him further.

She hesitated, lingering on the dark circles under his eyes, and the exhaustion that etched into every line of his face. He looked like a man fighting a battle he couldn’t win, worn down by nights that stretched too long and memories that wouldn’t fade. She bit her lip, debating, before taking another small step forward.

“I could help… if you want. With the nightmares.”

Bucky furrowed his brow, snapping his eyes to hers. He didn’t respond right away, and for a moment, she wondered if she’d pushed too far. The air between them grew heavier, thick with the weight of things left unsaid.

“I mean,” she added quickly, keeping her voice soft, “my powers... they don’t just work on physical injuries. I can soothe the mind too, if the person is willing. I could help you sleep.” Her words trailed off, unsure if this was what he wanted -or needed- to hear. She shifted slightly, glancing down before meeting his gaze again. “You look like you could use a break from it all, even if it’s just for a little while. You don’t have to keep carrying this alone.”

For a long moment, Bucky just stared at her. His posture was still tense, every muscle taut like he was bracing for an attack. She half-expected him to shut her down, to retreat behind that wall of silence and dismiss her with another biting comment. Instead, his expression softened ever so slightly, and the hardness in his eyes dimmed as he weighed her words. She saw the exhaustion behind the mask he always wore, the misery that had become his constant companion.

He swallowed hard, his voice rough and low when he finally spoke. “I don’t know if it’ll work,” he muttered. “Nothing’s worked before.”

Her heart clenched at his words, at the defeat in his tone. "We won’t know unless we try," she said softly, watching his reaction.Bucky’s jaw tensed, and for a moment, she thought he might refuse. But then, with a reluctant sigh, he muttered, “Fine.” The word was gruff, a reluctant concession more than agreement. He glanced at her from under his brow, his lips quirking into the faintest of smirks. "Just... don’t expect too much."

With that, he turned and led her toward his quarters.

Once the door was shut, she sat on the end of his double bed. "Alright. Lay down and rest your head on my thighs."

Bucky eyed her warily, tightening his jaw. He wasn’t used to this kind of vulnerability, this kind of intimacy. After a long moment, though, the exhaustion and lingering unease from the nightmare tugged at him too strongly. With a resigned sigh, he climbed onto the bed and lay on his side, hesitating briefly before resting his head on her thighs.

“There,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the soft fabric of her clothes. “Don’t think this means I’m letting my guard down completely.”

Despite his gruff tone, she could feel the weight of his weariness. His body was tense, but the warmth of her legs seemed to be doing its work already.

She began running her fingers gently through his hair. "That’s exactly what I need you to do," she whispered. "Don’t fight me, Bucky. Relax and let me take care of you."

He inhaled deeply, her scent filling his senses, calming him. The tension in his shoulders began to ebb away, though he stubbornly clung to a sliver of resistance. "I don’t need to be taken care of," he grumbled, even as his eyelids grew heavier.

“Whatever you say, hun,” she teased softly.

Bucky let out a low grunt, his eyes fluttering closed as her fingers traced soothing lines through his hair. The sensation sent calming waves through his body, unraveling his nerves one strand at a time. He didn’t have the energy to resist anymore, he was too drained from the nightmare, too tired of fighting his own mind.

"I’m not your hun..." There was a hint of amusement in his voice, despite himself. He buried his face deeper into her lap, inhaling her scent again. It was soothing, pulling him further from the chaos of his mind.

“Oh, shush,” she said, brushing the protest aside, still moving her fingers through his dark locks.

For once, Bucky complied. He fell silent, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat becoming the only sound in the room. The quiet, steady thump-thump echoed in his ears, an oddly comforting melody amidst the storm of his thoughts.

"Your heartbeat..." he murmured almost sleepy, "It’s kind of nice." The confession slipped out but for once, he didn’t regret it.

Her hand paused for a fraction of a second before resuming its gentle motion. “Oh? I’ve never heard that one before. Maybe because regular people can’t hear it without... closer contact.”

A wry smile tugged at the corner of Bucky’s lips at her remark, but he didn’t respond verbally. Instead, he allowed himself to lean into her touch, the soft strokes through his scalp lulling him into a state of calm he hadn’t felt in a long time. His hand drifted almost unconsciously to her thigh, tracing small circles over her skin.

She continued her gentle ministrations, pouring her power into the touch. Slowly, bit by bit, Bucky’s muscles softened, and the weight of his nightmares slipped away as her presence guided him somewhere safe. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to feel it. The calm. The peace. The quiet.

-----

After a while she sighed, exhausted from using her powers to push against the weight of his severe trauma. Now, she had to figure out how to leave without waking him. He was sleeping deeply, his mind finally at peace after months of restless nights. Yet, despite his slumber, he wasn’t entirely defenseless. His subconscious remained alert, picking up on the slightest changes around him.

As she carefully prepared to slip away, Bucky's eyes flickered open, revealing half-lidded blue irises clouded with drowsiness. Without a word, his hand reached out, as if instinctively sensing her intention to leave. His grip was light but firm, curling his fingers on her thigh with an unconscious possessiveness.

"Shhh," she whispered, wincing internally as she resumed running her fingers through his hair, hoping to soothe him back to sleep. She knew it was a lost battle; any attempt to leave would only rouse him further. Resigned, she reached for some unused pillows and cushions nearby, pulling them close as she reclined, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep while sitting up.

The rhythmic strokes of her fingers seemed to draw him back from the edge of wakefulness. Bucky nuzzled into her touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he settled back into a deep slumber. As she adjusted her position, using the pillows to support her back, he instinctively shifted with her, seeking out the warmth of her body. His arm wrapped loosely around her waist, pulling her closer as he mumbled incoherently in his sleep.

At some point, she fell asleep too, physically drained from using all her energy to ease his haunted mind. The last thing she remembered before succumbing to slumber was the weight of his head still resting on her lap, her hand gently tangled in his soft hair.

-----

Bucky stirred slightly in his sleep, brushing his nose against the soft fabric of her cotton nightie. Her scent filled the air around him, a mix of sweetness and warmth that seeped into his senses, pulling him deeper into the haze of his dreams. A low groan rumbled in his chest, reverberating through her thigh, dangerously close to her mound. His hand clenched reflexively, fingers digging into her leg without conscious thought.

In his dream state, his mind began to wander, unraveling the careful control he kept during his waking hours. Images of her flooded his thoughts, her curves, her laugh, the sense of safety she gave him. But beneath those tender, innocent thoughts stirred something he tried so hard to suppress: raw longing.

His breathing quickened as his subconscious registered the intimate contact, even as he remained lost in the depths of sleep. His hips twitched involuntarily, pressing his growing arousal into the mattress, seeking relief.

In his dream, she was there, waiting for him, glowing and inviting. He felt her softness under his hands, the curve of her waist beneath his fingers, and the way she melted into his touch. His lips brushed against her inner thighs, teasing, tasting, drawing out soft moans of pleasure that only made the fire inside him burn hotter.

In the real world, his hips twitched involuntarily, pressing against the mattress as his body sought relief. His chest heaved, and low, almost inaudible whimpers escaped his parted lips. Lost in the dream, he chased an elusive release, each shift and grind against the sheets a reflection of the ache deep within him.

And then, it all came crashing down.

Bucky’s eyes snapped open, blinking rapidly as his breath caught in his throat. Reality quickly surged forward, sweeping away the fantasy. The warm weight of her hand still rested gently on his head and her fingers tangled in his hair. She was peaceful, her chest rising and falling steadily, blissfully unaware of the storm he had just woken from.

His body went rigid and a flush crept up his neck, as the remnants of his dream lingered in his mind. Worse than that, was the sticky mess staining his underwear.

Fuck.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he extracted himself from her lap, careful not to disturb her. He rolled off the bed and landed heavily on his feet, moving stiffly with mortification. His hand instinctively moved to his groin, tugging his underwear slightly to reveal the copious evidence of his release. A low curse escaped his lips as he took in the sight, and shame heated his face. Without a second glance, he padded to the bathroom, humiliated.

Minutes later she stirred, feeling her legs lighter, trying to make sense of her surroundings. The memories of offering to soothe Bucky’s mind with her powers came back to her, along with the feeling of being trapped, unable to leave without waking him. But now, as she blinked and stretched, she realized he was gone. Her back and neck throbbed from the awkward position she had slept in, so she slowly got up from his bed and took the opportunity to return to her own room, crawling into her bed to continue sleeping, unaware of the events that transpired before she awoke.

Meanwhile, Bucky remained in the bathroom, leaning heavily against the sink. A storm of guilt, shame, and relief swirled inside him. Guilt for what had happened so close to her, shame at the explicit nature of his dream, and relief that he’d managed to sneak away without waking her. He buried his face in his hands, rubbing at his temples, trying to shake off the lingering echoes of the fantasy that had caught him off guard so thoroughly.

------

They didn’t cross paths during the day, except late in the afternoon when Tony handed Natasha some VIP invitations to a charity event for her and Y/n. Bucky was sitting across the room on the couch, but his enhanced hearing made it impossible not to overhear. Natasha has found it amusing to join in a bachelorette’s auction at the event and, naturally, she dragged the healer into it to help raise more funds.

When she entered the room, Bucky couldn’t help but steal glances at her and the vivid memories of his dream came rushing back. The black dress with a low neckline -and were those mesh stockings?- did nothing to dissipate the discomfort.

Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on him, manspreading on the couch looking unsurprisingly grumpy. She walked over and plopped down next to him, leaning in slightly. “Hey,” she greeted chirpily. “I didn’t see you all day. Did you rest after our session? Any nightmares?”

Bucky’s frown deepened as he took in her revealing dress, and his gaze lingered for a second too long before flicking up to meet hers. “Well I actually had a nightmare.” he barked bitterly, narrowing his eyes as he turned away again.

“Oh Bucky, really?” she asked, absentmindedly resting her hand on his arm. “You seemed fine when I fell asleep... I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”

He let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “Fine? No, I wasn’t fucking fine,” he snapped. His eyes drifted down to the swell of her breasts, barely contained by the thin material of her dress, reigniting the memories of his dream and sending another wave of heat through his body. He scoffed, turning his head to hide the flush creeping up his neck. “Maybe you thought you did something, but you didn't. It was a waste of my time,” he muttered under his breath.

She recoiled, and her heart stung at his words. She’d felt the connection, sensed the calm that had washed over him during their session. She truly believed she’d helped. His harsh tone caught her off guard, and the hurt was unmistakable in her voice as she stood up abruptly.

“Oh, I see. We’re on square one again, where you treat me like shit. You know what Bucky? I’m tired of this. I don't know what your problem is, but I don't care anymore. Go fuck yourself.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and stormed toward the private quarters area, leaving him there, sitting in stunned silence.

------

The time to go to the charity event had arrived, and she and Natasha were all dressed up with the final touches, ready to be auctioned off in the playful bachelor and bachelorette game.

Tony, ever the social butterfly, was already acting as the host, ironing out the final details of the evening’s festivities. Steve, the ever-reliable friend and gentleman, had offered to tag along to ensure everything stayed civil and vanilla. Sam showed up at the last minute, his trademark grin plastered on his face. He winked at her and Natasha, flirting playfully and joking about bidding himself.

She smiled at his lightheartedness, but her attention kept drifting toward the couch across the room where Bucky sat, even if he had started to act like an asshole again. He’d been silent since they exchanged those heated words, barely looking up from his spot. His broad frame seemed more hunched than usual as if the weight of the night ahead was pressing down on him.

Sam, ever the instigator, swaggered over to where Bucky sat, giving him a playful nudge. “What’s up, Tinman? You look like you're about to blow a fuse,” he teased, not missing the tightness in Bucky’s jaw.

He didn’t respond immediately, flicking his eyes briefly toward Sam before dropping back down. He was clearly in no mood for jokes, but Sam wasn’t one to back down that easily.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know about this,” he added, grinning. “I left you, like, four texts reminding you about the event. Figured you might want to leave the grumpy soldier routine behind for one night.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “Yeah, I saw them,” he muttered under his breath. The truth was, the event had been gnawing at him all day. Seeing her walking in earlier, dressed to the nines, had stirred something deep and unsettling in him. Her sleek black dress with that low neckline, and those mesh stockings… he had barely been able to look at her without feeling a hot flush creep up his neck.

But it wasn’t just the sight of her that was bothering him. Something darker was creeping up from the edges of his memory, something happened a long time ago.

The room around him faded as a distant echo of laughter, sharp and malicious, filled his ears. He blinked, trying to shake it off, but the memories flooded back with unwanted details. He saw himself, chained and silent, paraded like an animal in front of an audience of Hydra’s elite. The “auction,” as they had called it, was a twisted form of entertainment where the highest bidder won him for the night. They'd done whatever they wanted to him. Their hands were rough and unforgiving, their words venomous. He’d been stripped of everything, even the ability to fight back. His mind replayed the worst moments, the feeling of hands on him, unwanted touches, and the physical pain when they decided to test his limits. Bucky remembered the smirks on their faces as they violated him in every way they saw fit, knowing he was powerless to retaliate. His body might heal, but his mind was left in tatters every time. He could still hear their voices, cruel and mocking, as they reminded him how easy it was to break him down, to own him.

Suddenly, he was back on the couch, his hands clenched into tight fists as his breathing quickened. His heart pounded in his chest, and he had to swallow down the bile rising in his throat. The memory of his dream from the night before twisted with these recollections, blurring the line between the past and present. Bucky had felt trapped then, just like he felt trapped now. And the thought of her being up there, in front of all those people, being "bought" for the night just for fun triggered him.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain still. It was irrational, he knew that. But the line between the past and the present blurred too easily for him sometimes, and the fear -no, the shame- of what he had endured at Hydra’s hands refused to let him breathe freely.

Sam smirked, unfazed by Bucky’s short response. “Don’t sweat it, man. You can just sit back and watch me win a date with one of these fine ladies tonight. I’m feeling lucky.” He flashed an exaggerated wink at the women, earning a raised eyebrow from Nat in return.

Tony clapped his hands, signaling that it was time to start heading out. As everyone began moving, Bucky remained glued to his spot on the couch.

Completely oblivious to the turmoil inside Bucky’s head, Sam leaned casually against the back of the couch, a teasing grin tugging at his lips as he tried to coax his friend into joining them at the event. He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, clearly seeing the tension but refusing to let Bucky sit it out. “What, you’re scared you can’t handle a little charity event?” he taunted, his tone light but with just enough edge to poke at Bucky’s pride. “Steve’s already going, and you know how much he loves playing the perfect gentleman. You really gonna let him be the only one representing the ‘old-timer squad’?” He smirked, knowing this tactic might work. “Thought you were tougher than that.”

Bucky huffed as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had to get over this shit, Sam won’t leave him alone, and… fuck, he had to man up. “Fine,” he muttered under his breath, his voice was barely audible but enough for Sam to catch the reluctant agreement. “But don’t expect me to enjoy this.”

-----

The limo was packed, the air inside was thick with anticipation and, in Bucky’s case, a simmering sense of discomfort. She was squeezed up against the side of the car, her body brushing against his, while Sam sat across from them, legs casually sprawled out, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“Well, look at us,” Sam said, stretching his arms out theatrically. “All dressed up for a fancy night out. Bucky, you clean up pretty well for a guy who spends most of his time brooding in corners.”

Bucky shot him a glare but didn’t bother to respond, focusing on keeping his breathing steady as her leg pressed against his. She had no idea how much that little contact was messing with his already frayed nerves. The warmth of her body beside him felt too familiar after what happened last night. He shifted slightly, trying to create some space, but it was impossible in the cramped space.

“Aw, come on, Buck,” Sam continued, clearly enjoying himself. “Don’t tell me you’re still sulking about coming along. I mean, it’s for charity, man. And if anyone here knows how to be charitable, it’s you.” His grin widened as he leaned forward. “Especially when it comes to these two fine ladies.”

Steve, who sat beside Sam, chuckled, shaking his head as he turned his attention to them. “He’s right, though,” Steve said warmly. “You both are amazing women, but tonight you’re especially lovely.”

She blushed under Steve’s compliment, offering a playful smile in return. “Thanks, Stevie. But really, all credit goes to Nat here for dragging me into this.”

Natasha smirked, lounging next to Bucky in a striking red dress. “You’ll thank me later when we clean house in that bachelorette’s auction.”

Bucky, meanwhile, was doing his best to avoid looking directly at her. The black dress was more than enough to set him on edge, the low neckline and mesh stockings flashing in his peripheral vision like a neon sign, reminding him of the dream that wouldn’t leave him alone. He clenched his jaw and stared out the window, trying to focus on the passing streetlights instead.

“You good back there, man?” Sam teased again, noticing his tense posture. “You look like you’re about to crack a tooth.” he leaned back, crossing his arms with a cocky grin plastered across his face.

Bucky clenched his jaw harder and flexed his metal fingers, the soft whir of gears barely audible over Sam’s incessant teasing. “Keep talking, Sam,” he muttered in warning. See where that gets you.”

Sam wasn’t letting up. “Oh, come on. I’ve seen that look before. That’s the ‘I’ve got feelings but don’t know what to do with them’ look.” His grin widened, clearly enjoying how riled up Bucky was getting. “You worried someone’s gonna outbid you tonight?” he teased, relishing the tension. “Not that you could, you know, since you didn’t even sign up to participate.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed, the muscle in his jaw twitching. He shot Sam a dangerous look but swallowed the sharp retort burning at the back of his throat. Sam had no idea how close to the truth he was coming, and the last thing Bucky wanted was for anyone -especially her- to figure it out.

She caught Sam’s teasing and frowned, flicking her gaze toward Bucky. She couldn’t miss how his whole body had gone rigid like he was just one wrong word away from snapping. Then it hit her. Considering the way he had been treating her -distant and cold like she barely existed- the only plausible explanation for Sam’s comments... Was he into Nat?

The thought dug deeper than she expected, feeling a sharp pang in her chest that she couldn’t ignore. She tried to brush it off, but it nagged her. She hesitated, sinking her teeth into her lower lip before leaning in slightly. Her voice came out edged with reluctant empathy. “Don’t mind him,” she muttered, only for Bucky’s ears. “I’m sure Nat will be fine.”

Bucky’s head snapped to her, surprise flashing in his eyes before quickly turning into something darker, stormier. She had no idea what was going on in his head, and the fact that she thought all this was about Natasha hit him like a sucker punch to the gut.

“That’s not-” He stopped himself. There was no point in trying to explain, not here, not now, and certainly not with Sam hanging on every word. He let out a slow breath “Just drop it, okay?” he answered gruffly.

She blinked, startled by the rawness in his tone. If he wanted to be difficult, she could meet him halfway. “Fine,” she replied coolly. “Not like it’s any of my business anyway.” She leaned back, crossing her arms as if to physically distance herself, her eyes focusing on the passing city through the window.

Sam, sensing the tension in the air, raised his eyebrows but -for once- chose not to stir the pot further. He shot a questioning glance at Steve as if wordlessly asking, What’s going on here?

Steve caught Sam’s look and responded with a subtle shake of his head, his lips pressed into a thin, knowing line. His gaze flicked between Bucky and her, then back to Sam, silently conveying the message: Don’t push it. There was understanding in Steve’s eyes, whatever was going on with Bucky ran deeper than just nerves or irritation. His expression was clear: Give him space.

-----

Finally, the limo of awkwardness reached its destination, pulling up to the entrance of the lavish event. The tension inside was palpable, and everyone seemed eager to escape the cramped space. As soon as the doors opened, there was a collective sigh of relief as they stepped out into the open.

She practically bolted out of the car, and Natasha followed her with a smirk, clearly more amused than bothered by the tense ride. “Bathroom break?” she suggested, raising an eyebrow to her, who nodded gratefully. Together, they made their way toward the entrance, heels clicking softly on the pavement as they prepared to retouch their makeup and shake off the tension.

Meanwhile, the guys lagged, hanging around the entrance for a moment before stepping into the crowd of finely dressed people. The venue was swarming with posh elites, champagne flutes in hand, chatting in clusters that screamed wealth and sophistication. Bucky stuffed his hands into his pockets with stiff shoulders as he surveyed the sea of unfamiliar faces, feeling out of place and more than a little on edge.

Sam, ever the social butterfly, immediately started mingling, flashing his charming smile at a passing couple. "Nice place," he muttered to Steve, grabbing a champagne flute from a passing waiter. "Think Tony outdid himself this time?"

Steve gave a small nod, scanning the room for any sign of trouble, though it was more habit than genuine concern. “Yeah, it’s impressive,” he replied, though his attention drifted toward Bucky, who had slowly gravitated to the crowd's edge, looking like he’d rather be elsewhere.

“Don’t disappear.” Sam called out, clapping him on the shoulder as he joined Steve in surveying the room. His grin was teasing, but light-hearted enough to let the tension from the limo ride dissipate.

Bucky just rolled his eyes, staying quiet but sticking close to the group as they moved into the crowd. He wasn’t in the mood for mingling, but he’d already made it this far.

The event officially kicked off with Tony taking the stage, with his usual confident grin plastered across his face. He grabbed the microphone and began his speech with his typical charm. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to an evening of generosity, glamour, and, let’s be honest, some good old-fashioned fun,” he announced, flashing a playful smirk. “Tonight’s about raising money for a great cause, but it wouldn’t be a true Stark event without a bit of spice, right?” The crowd chuckled, their champagne glasses shimmering under the soft lighting as they eagerly awaited the night’s entertainment.

Meanwhile, Natasha and Y/n emerged from the bathroom, looking radiant and refreshed. As they walked back toward the main hall, Tony’s voice echoed across the room. “And now, for the part you’ve all been waiting for: our very own bachelor auction! The first of the two events we have tonight! Get your wallets out and let’s start bidding, people! Remember, it’s for charity, but hey, you get to take home a prize for the night too,” he said with a wink, his tone playful but persuasive.

Nat looked at them, unimpressed. “I don’t know why the guys didn’t want to join, they would’ve wiped all wallets with only a wink”.

The stage lit up, and the male candidates for the auction stepped forward, each one more enthusiastic than the last. Tony, never one to miss a chance to stir up excitement, started hyping them up. “Look at these guys! We've got muscles, brains, and a whole lot of… charisma.” He pointed to one of the bachelors. “Ladies, I hear this one’s an excellent conversationalist... and check out those thighs! Perfect for sitting on, am I right?” The crowd erupted into laughter, but there was already a buzz as bids began flying.

She had been chuckling softly at Tony’s ridiculous commentary when she caught a glimpse of Bucky out of the corner of her eye. Something was off. He was standing rigidly, his jaw set in a hard line, and his gaze was locked onto the stage but somehow distant, as if he wasn’t there. His seemed pale, drawn tight in a way that made her stomach twist with concern.

As he stood there with his arms crossed, a sudden wave of nausea hit him. It started with the sound of Tony's playful words, the laughter in the crowd, and the sight of the men being paraded in front of eager eyes. All of it melted together into something darker, something far too familiar.

Without warning, his mind transported him again back to the past. The dim, suffocating atmosphere of one of the sickening Hydra parties. He could feel the cold bite of chains against his skin, the way they had displayed him like an object, barely clothed, barely human. He had been the prize, the thing to be won, over and over again, with leering eyes and depraved hands deciding his fate. The room around him started to warp, blurring as his vision tunneled. His heart rate spiked, and his breath quickened, chest tightening painfully.

Bucky’s grip on his own arms grew stronger, his metal fingers pressing into the flesh of his opposite arm so hard that he was bruising the enhanced skin. He tried to remind himself where he was, tried to tell himself that this was different. But the flood of memories was relentless, dragging him down into the depths of his trauma.

He could feel it, the sensation of being used, of having no agency. The faces of those who had taken pleasure in his pain flashed before his eyes. His breath came in short, ragged gasps and his body started trembling. Sweat prickled along his brow as his surroundings closed in on him, the chatter and laughter of the event fading into a distant, haunting echo.

Suddenly, the present broke through just enough for Bucky to realize he couldn’t breathe. Panic was closing in on him like a vice, squeezing tighter and tighter. The telltale signs of an impending panic attack flared: his heart hammered in his chest, and the room seemed to spin out of control.

He pushed himself off the column. His movements were sharp, almost desperate, as he weaved through the crowd like a wounded animal seeking refuge. His breath was shallow as his steps quickened. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to escape the noise, the eyes, the memories. The room was suffocating, and every second spent in it felt like another piece of his soul was being ripped away. He made a break for the exit, his jaw was clenched so tight that his teeth hurt, but his mind focused on one thing: getting the fuck out.

Before she could fully register it, she saw him push off the column. His normally composed demeanor was nowhere to be found. Bucky’s face was contorted, and the shallow, rapid rise and fall of his chest gave him away. He was unraveling, right there in front of everyone.

Her own breath hitched as she watched him cut through the crowd with increasing urgency. His retreat was too quick, too desperate, and she felt a sudden, overwhelming tug of alarm.

Something was wrong, really wrong.

Without thinking, she stepped away from Natasha, focusing on the exit he had disappeared through. Her anger faded into the background, replaced by an unshakable need to make sure he was okay. There was something in the way he had bolted, something haunted. She speeded up, her heels clicking loudly against the floor as she headed toward the doors, scanning the surroundings, hoping she could find him before he disappeared completely. Maybe it was instinct or something else entirely, but she couldn’t let him go through whatever it was alone, not again.

Eventually, she pushed through the heavy ballroom doors, leaving the noise of laughter and clinking glasses behind her as she stepped into the quiet night air. The sudden shift in the atmosphere was jarring, the lively event inside faded into a dull hum, barely audible as she found herself standing in a meticulously manicured topiary garden. Tall, artfully shaped hedges loomed around her, casting long shadows under the moonlight, the only light coming from lanterns lining the stone pathway. She quickened her pace, rounding one hedge and then another, hoping to glimpse him. But the garden stretched on, and after a few minutes of searching, her stomach sank. Was he gone?

She bit her lip, frustrated and worried as she stood still for a moment, closing her eyes to listen, trying to tune in any sound beyond the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant murmur from the party. Nothing. The garden felt too large, too quiet. She sighed and started retreating inside when a movement caught her eye.

Just off to the side, almost hidden beneath the shadow of a thick, overgrown bush, she spotted a dark shape. Her heart stuttered as she stepped closer, the form coming into view. There, huddled in the dirt, with his back pressed against the stone wall, was Bucky. He looked utterly wrecked.

His blue suit was smeared with the mud formed in the recently watered soil, as though he’d been sitting there for a while. His hair, previously pulled back neatly into a bun, was disheveled, with loose strands clinging to his forehead and others tangled and tugged free as if he'd been pulling at it in desperation. His hands were fisted in the damp earth by his sides, and his shoulders were slumped in defeat. He didn’t move as she approached, didn’t even acknowledge her presence. It was as if he had retreated into himself, blending in with the shadows like he wanted to disappear entirely.

Her breath caught. If there were remnants of her initial anger, they melted away entirely now. What was left in its place was pure concern. She had never seen him like this, so broken, so raw.

“Bucky?” she called softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she knelt, hesitating just a foot away. He didn’t respond, his eyes were fixed on the ground, and his breaths kept coming in shallow, uneven bursts. Her heart clenched. He was hiding not just physically, but emotionally too. He retreated into that dark place, one she had seen before, but never like this.

“Hey…” she tried again, with a gentle tone, trying to reach him through the fog of whatever nightmare gripping at him. “Bucky, it’s me.”

For a moment, he did nothing. He remained hunched, with his knuckles white from where his fists were clenched in the mud. But then, slowly, he blinked, and his gaze shifted ever so slightly toward her. The look in his eyes was a mixture of panic and shame, as though he didn’t want her to see him like this.

“It’s… I’m fine,” he croaked, though his voice betrayed the lie. He wasn’t fine. He was far from it.

She inched closer, hovering uncertainly, wanting to reach out but unsure if he’d pull away. “You’re not,” she said softly, locking her eyes on his. “You’re not fine, Bucky.”

He swallowed hard, his throat worked against the emotion he was trying to keep down. “Just… leave me alone, please,” he muttered, his voice thick with strain, like it took all of his strength to form the words. “I don’t… I can’t-” His breath hitched, and he turned his head away, curling inward even more as if trying to shield himself from her gaze.

Her heart ached. She couldn’t leave him here, sitting in the dirt, drowning in whatever demons had resurfaced tonight.

Without thinking, she reached out, her fingers lightly brushing against his hand. He flinched at the contact but didn’t pull away. Encouraged by the slight opening, she gently took his hand in hers, squeezing just enough to ground him.

“I know maybe I’m not the number one person you want to be with right now, but I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, her voice firm but soft.

Bucky’s breath hitched, and his fingers twitched in her grip. He looked down at their joined hands as if struggling to process the kindness in her touch. He didn’t speak, but the tension in his shoulders slowly began to loosen, the rigid line of his back slightly relaxing.

She stayed quiet, giving him the space to come back from whatever dark place his mind had taken him to. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. She could feel the weight of his unspoken turmoil pressing down on them both, but she didn’t let go, even when the minutes dragged on.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Bucky let out a ragged breath. His voice, when it came, was low and hoarse. “You shouldn’t have followed me.”

Her lips pressed together. She could hear the self-loathing in his tone, the way he seemed to think he was a burden, something she shouldn’t have to deal with. “I couldn’t just leave you like that,” she said gently. “Not when I knew you were hurting.”

He winced at the word, like it physically pained him to admit that she was right. “You don’t understand,” he muttered, his eyes darting away, staring blankly at the ground.

“I don’t have to,” she countered, tightening her grip on his hand, as a quiet reassurance. “You don’t need to explain anything. I just…” She hesitated, then sighed softly. “I just don’t want you to feel like you’re alone. Because you’re not.”

Bucky’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, clearly fighting some internal battle. The vulnerability in his eyes was stark, a raw edge she wasn’t used to seeing in him. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

She frowned. “You don’t get to decide what you deserve, Bucky. Not when you have people who care about you.” Her tone softened as she met his gaze. “And I care about you. So, I’m here. Whether you like it or not.” Without waiting for him to respond, she lowered herself onto the dirt beside him, her dress immediately catching the mud, smearing across the delicate fabric, and her legs. Little branches snagged at her hairdo, but she didn’t care.

Bucky clenched his jaw at her words. After all the terrible things he'd done, he didn’t deserve her -her kindness, her care. How could anyone care for him after what he’d been made to do? But what mortified him more was how he’d been with her recently, pushing her away, when he knew his feelings for her were growing too strong to handle. He had been cold, cruel even, thinking it would be easier to keep his distance.

But here she was, not giving up on him. He felt his chest tighten with a tangle of guilt and longing. He didn’t deserve this.

And yet, he couldn’t deny the comfort her presence brought him. Slowly, he felt his body ease, his rigid frame relaxing slowly as her warmth seeped into him. His shoulder brushed hers, hesitantly at first, then stayed. This time, he didn’t fight it. He didn’t want to.

The warmth of her body and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, all felt soothing. He let himself be pulled into the comfort she offered, no longer caring if his attraction to her showed. It wasn’t like he could hide it now, or cared, anyway.

His trembling fingers, rough and scarred, brushed against her leg, just a light, accidental touch, but enough to send a shiver up his spine. He wasn’t sure if she noticed, but he did. And this time, he didn’t retreat.

Bucky’s breathing slowed and deepened, and his chest started to rise and fall in sync with hers. His head dipped slightly, not quite resting on her shoulder, but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her body. His fingers shifted again, this time curling just slightly around her thigh. It was a small, almost imperceptible movement, but it felt monumental to him. For once, he wasn’t recoiling, wasn’t hiding behind walls of shame and guilt. He was just… there, with her, feeling what he felt, even if he couldn’t say it out loud.

He glanced up at her again, and his blue eyes met hers. For the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t look away. His gaze lingered, searching for something, understanding, acceptance, maybe even something more. And what he found there, in her eyes, was enough to make the knot in his chest loosen just a little bit more.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t push him. And in that silence, in the simple act of being there for him, Bucky felt something shift inside him. Without thinking, he let out a soft sigh, as his body shifted again, and he finally dipped his head to rest it lightly on her thighs. The movement was tentative as if he were bracing for her to pull away, to break the fragile moment. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t move. She stayed right there, solid and steady, grounding him once again.

When he fully rested his head, her fingers found his hair almost instinctively, gently threading through his disheveled locks. The touch was soft, soothing, and familiar, much like the night before when she had used her healing powers to ease his nightmares. But this time, she didn’t channel any of her energy into him, at least, not yet.

For a few minutes, she simply caressed his hair, her fingertips brushing lightly against his scalp, tracing calming patterns. Bucky’s tense muscles began to relax further, and his body sank into the comfort of her touch. It was grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

After a while, her fingers paused in his hair. Her voice was soft, hesitant but caring as she asked, “Do you want me to…?” There was no pressure in her words, only a quiet offer, giving him the choice.

Bucky was silent for a long moment, his body still against her, but the tension returned to his shoulders, subtle but unmistakable. He knew what she meant, what she could do for him if he let her. He shook his head once, slowly, almost reluctantly. “No,” he whispered, “I… I need to feel this,” he added, his voice rough but steady. “I can’t run from it every time.” It was difficult to say, but he meant it. Then, she let her hand continue to stroke his hair softly, offering comfort in the simplest way possible. She respected his decision, knowing how much strength it took for him to face these demons on his own terms. “I’m still here,” she whispered, while her touch never faltered. “If you ever need me.”

Bucky didn’t respond with words, but he relaxed against her once again, his body yielding to the quiet, unspoken understanding between them. Even without her powers, the weight of her presence was enough for him to hold on.

-----

Eventually, the quiet that had settled between them started to fade, replaced by the creeping awareness that they couldn’t stay huddled in the garden forever. The world beyond their little bubble -the event, the people, the expectations- slowly edged its way back into their consciousness.

She shifted slightly, pausing her fingers in Bucky’s hair as she glanced around. The faint buzz of the distant crowd could still be heard from the ballroom, and the glow of lights from the building cast long shadows across the topiary.

“We should… probably get out of here,” she whispered reluctantly, breaking the comforting silence.

Bucky didn’t move immediately. His head still rested on her lap, as if he could will the world away for just a little longer. But eventually, with a low sigh, he pushed himself up, raking a hand through his tousled hair. “Yeah. We can’t… be seen like this,” he muttered, gazing at the mud-streaked ruins of his suit.

She glanced down at herself and grimaced. “I look like I’ve been rolling around in the dirt with you,” she teased softly, brushing at her dress, though the stubborn stains refused to budge.

The topiary garden felt worlds away from the glittering ballroom, but their predicament remained clear: how were they going to make it back to the compound without being seen? They exchanged a glance, an unspoken acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all, just as the crunch of footsteps on gravel reached their ears.

They barely had time to react before Sam appeared from behind a meticulously trimmed hedge, coming to an abrupt stop in his tracks when he saw them. His eyes widened, taking in the sight of both of them covered in dirt, hair wild with sticks on it, and rumpled clothes. He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, leaning against the nearby wall as his smirk grew wider by the second. “Well, well, well,” he drawled out, clearly enjoying the scene. “Looks like somebody took ‘blending in’ a little too seriously.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Honestly, I don't even wanna know what y’all were up to, but good luck explaining that to the rest of the team.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but Sam held up a hand. “Nope, no explanations needed. You two look guilty enough as it is.” He winked and gestured behind him. “But seriously, you might wanna get out before Steve or Nat see you. Unless you wanna be the talk for the next month in the compound.”

Bucky cursed in frustration, rerunning a hand through his already messed up hair, making it even worse. Beside him, she winced internally, knowing they looked like a pair of absolute messes.

“Sam, got any ideas for getting us out of here discreetly?” she asked with a groan.

Sam didn’t miss a beat, and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “Discretion? Yeah… you two in the bushes covered in dirt totally screams discretion.” His grin widened as he glanced between them. “But sure, I can help. Just let me figure out how to sneak out two people who look like they’ve been rolling around in the mud like… well, you know, two horny teenagers.”

She felt her face heating as she shot a horrified look at Sam. “No, that’s not-” she started, but his laughter cut her off.

“Oh, c’mon, I’m just messing with you,” he said, winking at her. “But seriously, you two need to work on your subtlety if you’re gonna sneak off for some ‘alone time.’”

If looks could kill, Sam would’ve been obliterated on the spot by Bucky’s death glare. His fists clenched at his sides, and his voice was a dangerous growl. “Shut it, Wilson. Unless you wanna be the next thing that ends up in the bushes.”

Sam just raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Alright, alright! Chill, Tinman. I’m just saying, you gotta work on your cover story for when you walk back in looking like that.”

She wanted to disappear into the ground, mortified. But Sam, as always, had an answer. “Tell you what,” he said, slapping Bucky on the back. “I’ll create a distraction. You two sneak around the back, and I’ll make sure no one’s looking when you head out.” he shook his head, clearly relishing the moment. "But I gotta say, this is one hell of a way to ditch a party," he quipped, waggling his eyebrows mischievously. "mud wrestling, hm?"

She groaned, burying her face in her hands while Bucky shot him a withering glare, muttering another string of curses under his breath.

“Next time, let’s stick to indoor adventures, shall we? He added, flashing a grin. Before either of them could respond, Sam turned on his heel. "I'll think of something," he called over his shoulder, already planning his grand distraction.

------

The night was still and the distant hum of the city was barely audible as Bucky and her walked along the deserted road. The event had been settled on the outskirts, far enough from the city that they had no choice but to hoof it for a while. Neither of them had spoken since Sam’s grand distraction allowed them to slip out unnoticed, both too absorbed in their own thoughts.

He walked a few steps ahead, with his hands stuffed in his pockets, hunching his shoulders as if trying to make himself smaller.

The silence stretched on, heavy but not uncomfortable. Eventually, she huffed softly, the heels she’d stubbornly kept on finally becoming too much. Without a word, she stopped, bending to slip them off. "God, that’s better," she muttered, dangling the shoes by their straps before picking up the pace again to catch up with Bucky.

His gaze focused on her for a moment -disheveled, dirty, barefooted-. She was a mess, and the tension in his chest twisted painfully, and the guilt crept into his mind again, not only because of how he had treated her but also from what transpired that night.

Without saying a word, he shrugged off his suit jacket and gently placed it around her shoulders. Her skimpy dress had been fine for the party but wasn’t doing much to protect her now.

She looked up at him, with a flicker of surprise in her eyes, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she accepted the jacket, sliding her arms into the oversized sleeves. The fabric was heavy, enveloping her in warmth, the sleeves hung so long that only the tips of her fingers peeked out. As she adjusted the jacket, she took in his scent, subtle notes of cedar and leather. It was distinctly Bucky, and she liked it.

“It’s warm... thanks,” she murmured. Despite everything, she couldn’t help but enjoy the comfort of his presence wrapped around her, even if only through the fabric of his jacket.

He kept his gaze straight ahead. After a beat, finally, he broke the silence. “I’m sorry you missed the event because of me,” he said softly.

Her steps faltered slightly, tightening her fingers around the sleeves. She hesitated before speaking, biting her lip as a bitter truth spilled out. “I’m sorry I’m not Natasha.” Bucky’s head whipped toward her, and for a moment, his guard slipped. She shook her head, exhaling sharply. “I should’ve sent her after you, instead of following you myself.”

Bucky frowned. That was the second time she brought up Nat. “Where did you even get that idea?”

She sighed, as her insecurities pushed her to finally explain. “Well, because of what Sam said on the limo. About you being all grumpy because you couldn’t bid in the auction.” She hesitated, and her voice wavered slightly. “I thought he meant... you wanted to bid on Natasha.”

Bucky cursed under his breath, with barely contained frustration. “Why the hell would you think that?”

She quirked a brow, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “What else was I supposed to think? You’ve been treating me like the plague, Bucky. Like you couldn’t stand to be around me.” She uncrossed her arms and ran a hand up and down through the strap of her dress, exhaling in frustration. “And then, when Sam made that joke, it just… fit, you know? it was obvious he was talking about Nat.” She glanced away, as if admitting it aloud somehow made her feel even smaller.

Bucky’s tensed his jaw, and a storm brewed behind his eyes as he stepped closer to her. “That’s not what’s going on. Not even close.”

“Then what is going on?” Her voice wavered as her hand fell to her side.

His hands clenched and unclenched, wrestling with the words he’d buried for so long. Fuck it. "It’s not Natasha," he said finally. "It’s you. It’s always been you."

She blinked, caught off guard. “Me?” The word came out barely above a whisper, soft and disbelieving. Her heart raced, pounding so loud she was sure he heard it.

Bucky’s gaze held hers, full of rawness as if saying the words had cost him more than he wanted to admit. "Yeah, you," he muttered, running a hand through his messy hair in frustration. "Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you? I… I didn’t know how to deal with it."

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first, her heart still pounding hard as she tried to find her voice. “Honestly? From where I’m standing, I kind of thought you couldn’t stand me with the way you’ve been acting.”

Then, deciding she’d had enough of this back-and-forth, she gathered her courage. "Would it help," she began in a softer and more vulnerable tone "if I told you I like you too?"

Bucky froze. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. His eyes flickered with a mix of emotions; hope, fear, and something close to desperation.

“I...” He dragged a hand over his face. “I don’t know how to answer that.” He paused, dropping his gaze to the ground before slowly lifting back to meet hers. “Part of me wants to tell you that’s what I’ve wanted to hear... for so damn long. But the other part...” His fists clenched at his sides. “I’ve got so much... so much shit I haven’t even begun to unpack. And I don’t wanna drag you into it. I’m damaged goods, and you deserve better than I can give. Shit, probably the only thing I can do right now is only take.

She stayed quiet for a moment, watching him wrestle with his emotions. Then she shook her head. “I’m a grown woman, Bucky, and I’m very capable of making my own decisions. I’ve decided... I want to give us a try if you are ok with that.”

His expression shifted as he stared at her, “I don’t know how to do this.” he whispered. His heart was pounding, torn between fear and longing. He hesitantly hovered his dirty hand between them, and when she reached out and took it, the tension in his chest eased. “I can’t promise… I’ll be easy to deal with,” he added, so low his voice was barely audible.

“I’m not asking for easy, Buck,” she replied, gently squeezing his hand. “I’m asking for you.”

Something shifted in his chest. He felt the weight of all his fears and doubts, but her touch made it seem lighter somehow, like maybe he wasn’t as broken as he thought. Slowly, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and for the first time in what felt like forever, it reached his eyes, softening the lines of exhaustion and pain that usually darkened his features. “Okay, let’s…” he murmured. He stepped closer, narrowing the gap between them, locking his eyes on hers. Her hand was still in his, warm, grounding and suddenly, without thinking -no more doubts, no more hesitation- he decided to man up.

In one swift, unguarded moment, he leaned in. His vibranium hand cupped the side of her face, brushing her cheek as he tilted her chin up. He paused just a heartbeat, his breath mingling with hers, before closing the distance. His lips found hers, soft but insistent, a kiss that spoke of everything he’d been too afraid to say. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was something deeper, something that tasted of hope, of taking a chance.

When they finally parted, his forehead came to rest gently against hers, their breaths still mingling in the cool night air. Neither of them spoke, the silence was more comforting than any words could be. His thumb absentmindedly brushed her cheek, and she leaned against his caress.

For a while, they just stood there, forehead to forehead, until Bucky felt her body tremble slightly against him. He frowned, realizing that despite his jacket draped over her shoulders, they were still out on a desolate road in the middle of the night, and she was dressed for a gala, not a walk through the cold. “You’re freezing,” he muttered, glancing down at her bare feet and legs showing under the hem of his suit.

“Nah, I’m fine,” she started, but her teeth chattered slightly, betraying her words.

Bucky raised a brow, unconvinced. “Come on, climb on my back,” he said, turning around and squatting slightly as if to make it easier for her.

“What?” she blinked, shaking her head. “No way, I can walk.”

He shot her an exasperated look. “I’m not asking, doll. It’s cold, and you’re barefoot. Besides,” he added with a teasing smirk, “I could probably run five miles with you on my back without breaking a sweat.”

She let out a reluctant laugh, still feeling self-conscious. “I don’t know, Bucky…”

“Seriously? I can bench-press a car, and you’re worried about a piggyback ride?” His grin widened, confidence oozing from his voice. “Come on, let me show off a little, after all the crap I put you through."

She hesitated but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. “Okay, fine,” she sighed, giving in. “But if you drop me…”

“I won’t,” he cut in with a grin, glancing back at her over his shoulder. “Scout’s honor.”

With a roll of her eyes, she finally climbed onto his back, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as his hands gripped her legs effortlessly. His warmth surrounded her instantly, and as she rested her chin on his shoulder, she felt her tension slowly melting away. Then a thought hit her, and she glanced down at her muddy legs. “Your shirt…” she muttered, a little hesitant. “It’s going to be a mess.”

Bucky didn’t even slow down, letting out a low chuckle, and his voice was a deep rumble she felt against her chest. “You think I care about the shirt?” He glanced over his shoulder, with mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Your thighs are around my waist. Pretty sure I’ve got more important things to think about.” She couldn’t help but blush at his cheeky remark and hid her face on his nape.

As they walked, Bucky’s steps slowed faintly, his gaze was fixed on the path ahead, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. “You really sure about this?” he asked softly. “Sitting in the mud with me while I’m falling apart… that’s not the kind of life I want for you.”

She rested her chin on his shoulder again, tightening her arms slightly around him. “I stood with you in the mud because I wanted to. No one forced me. And if that’s part of being with you, then I’ll deal with it. I’m not afraid of your mess.”

Bucky stayed silent momentarily, letting her words sink into his mind. His heart clenched, torn between the comfort of her closeness and the nagging doubt that never fully left him. “You say that now,” he muttered, “But it’s not always gonna be just mud. There’s… stuff I don’t even know how to talk about.”

She tightened her arms around him, brushing her lips against his ear. “Then don’t talk about it yet,” she replied softly. “Just... let me be here. Let me decide what I can handle.”

His throat tightened. The weight of her words felt both heavy and freeing, a strange contradiction he wasn’t sure how to process. “I’ve spent so long trying to push people away,” he admitted, “I don’t even know how to let someone in anymore.”

Her lips curved into a small, soft smile against his neck. “Good thing you’ve got time to figure it out, Buck. I’m not in a hurry.”

The path ahead was uncertain, messy, and strewn with shadows, but for the first time in a long time, Bucky felt that maybe he didn’t have to walk it alone.

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky hurt/comfort #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader

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belovedniki · 15 days ago

Text

—“Crossing the line”

summary: Roommates and longtime friends, you and Ni-ki have always shared a quiet bond, until the simmering tension finally boils over. As you take control, guiding your usually reserved friend into submission, the lines between friendship and desire blur. Will Ni-ki find the courage to let go and embrace the intoxicating pleasure of being yours? A slow burn of trust, teasing, and praise leads to a night neither of you will forget.

warning/tags: roomates au, smut, sub!ni-ki/dom!reader, praise kink, unprotected sex, cumming inside, male masturbation, edging, overstimulation, ni-ki is pathetic

w.c: 2k

— You and Ni-ki had been inseparable since day one of moving in together. The easy jokes, late-night study sessions, and shared meals made your apartment feel like home. He was more than just a roommate, he was the friend who knew every random fact about you, the one you could call at 2 a.m. when sleep wouldn’t come.

That’s why it felt strange when you started noticing the little things: the way his gaze lingered a bit too long when you laughed, or how his hand brushed yours and didn’t pull away.

You and Ni-ki spent most evenings sprawled across the couch, binge-watching your favorite shows or messing around with video games. You teased him endlessly about his terrible skills, and he laughed, mock-offended but never really mad. It was effortless, like the friendship you’d always wanted.

Still, lately, there were moments when you caught him staring at you, just a little longer than usual. Like the night he helped you with your essay and his fingers brushed your wrist as he handed you a pen. Or how he’d sit a little closer than before, his shoulder occasionally touching yours.

You tried to ignore it, chalking it up to imagination. After all, best friends didn’t feel this way.

One night, after a particularly intense study session, you both collapsed onto the couch, exhausted but happy to be in each other’s company. Ni-ki pulled off his hoodie, revealing his toned arms, and you couldn’t help but notice how his skin glowed under the soft lamp light.

“Want to take a break?” you asked, nudging him with your foot.

He smirked. “Definitely. But I’m warning you. I’m still gonna beat you at Mario Kart.”

“You wish.”

You grabbed the controller and sat closer, your thighs almost brushing. The heat between you was subtle but unmistakable.

After a while, Ni-ki paused the game, stretching and letting out a long breath.

“You’re really something,” he said quietly, eyes locking with yours.

You smiled, heart skipping. “Stop it.”

He laughed nervously but didn’t look away. Instead, his gaze dropped to your lips for a moment before flickering back up.

The room suddenly felt smaller.

You reached out, your fingers lightly brushing his arm, testing the boundary that suddenly felt so fragile between you. His eyes widened for a second, a silent question hanging in the air.

Without thinking, you leaned in, just a little closer, your breath mingling. Your heart hammered so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Ni-ki’s eyes fluttered shut, lips parted slightly. Your own lips trembled in anticipation.

But then, just as your faces were inches apart, he pulled back sharply, breaking the spell.

“I—sorry,” he stammered, cheeks flushed bright red. “I shouldn’t... I mean, we’re roommates. Best friends. It’s stupid.”

You blinked, suddenly unsure how to respond. He stood up, running a hand through his hair nervously.

“I’m gonna grab some water,” he muttered, then disappeared down the hall.

You sat there, silent, the almost-kiss lingering like a charged secret between you.

Later that night, you woke up to the soft creak of the living room door opening.

Curious, you tiptoed out and found Ni-ki sitting alone on the couch, face flushed in the dim light, hand moving slowly beneath his sweatpants.

Your breath hitched.

He hadn’t noticed you.

Your presence was a quiet witness to the raw vulnerability he never let show.

He bit his lip, eyes closed, fingers tracing over himself as if trying to soothe a longing only you had awakened.

You stood frozen at the doorway, the dim light casting shadows on Ni-ki’s tense body.

His breaths were ragged, chest rising and falling fast.

His fingers moved deliberately, slow at first, then faster, desperate for release.

Between shaky breaths, he whispered your name, voice thick with need.

“Please... y/n... I'd be such a good boy for you.”

His eyes squeezed shut as if fighting to keep control.

“Tell me how good I am... I need you.”

His lips trembled as he spoke, his fingers trembling with urgency.

“Tell me I’m yours... that I’m your obedient boy.”

Your heart hammered, cheeks flushing deep as you watched him, so vulnerable and desperate.

And yet, you didn’t move.

You just stayed at the door, knowing this secret craving of his, this longing to be dominated and praised by you.

The memory of him moaning your name, begging to be yours, hadn’t left your mind since that night.

You didn’t speak about it. He hadn’t noticed you standing there — or at least pretended not to. But something shifted.

He became more careful around you. Quieter. Nervous. His eyes lingered longer, lips parting like he wanted to say something, but never did.

And tonight?

Tonight you’d had enough.

“Sit,” you said firmly as he followed you into your room, thinking you were just hanging out again. Your voice didn’t ask, it commanded.

He blinked. “W-what?”

You closed the door slowly, locking it, your eyes never leaving his. “I said sit, Ni-ki.”

He swallowed hard but obeyed, dropping onto the edge of your bed. You walked over and sat next to him, gaze sharp.

“You remember the other night?” you asked, voice soft but dangerous. Fingers tracing his jaw.

His breath hitched.

“I—uh…” he looked anywhere but at you. “I didn’t know you saw—”

“I did,” you cut him off. “I saw everything. Heard everything.”

His face flushed.

He swallowed. “I–I didn’t mean for you to see me like that...”

“Didn’t you?” You raised an eyebrow. “Sounded like you wanted me to.”

Ni-ki’s cheeks flamed, gaze falling to the floor. “I… I think about you. A lot.”

His voice was so soft, almost shameful.

You tilted his chin up. “Yeah?” you murmured, stepping in between his legs. “What do you think about, Ni-ki?”

His lips parted, but no words came out. His knees were already trembling, and all you’d done was look at him like you knew him.

“You think about me using you?” you asked, voice like silk. “Telling you what to do?”

He nodded, barely.

You leaned, letting your breath brush his ear. “Say it.”

“I think about you,” he gasped, already fidgeting, fists clenching at his sides. “About being on my knees for you. About… about being good for you.”

You smiled.

“Then be good now.”

You sank to your knees in front of him instead, watching his jaw drop in disbelief as you palmed him through his pants.

“Fuck,” he breathed, hands clutching the sheets beside him like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“You’re so sensitive,” you teased gently. “Are you always this needy for me, Ni-ki?”

He nodded fast, eyes glossy, hips lifting slightly into your hand.

“I like it when you’re like this,” you whispered, tugging his waistband down. His cock sprung free, already flushed, twitching with need.

“Such a pretty cock,” you said, licking your lips. “You really want me to suck it?”

“Yes—please, please, I—” His voice cracked. “I need you.”

“Shh.” You kissed the tip. “You don’t have to beg. You’re being so good already.”

You wrapped your lips around him slowly, watching the way his head tilted back, a deep moan escaping him like he hadn’t been touched in years.

He gasped when you bobbed down further, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.

“Feels so good,” he whined. “Fuck—don’t stop, I–I’ll be good, I promise, please—”

You hummed, letting the vibrations make him shudder.

“You are good,” you said softly, looking up at him. “You’re my good boy, aren’t you?”

His whole body tensed at that.

“Yes,” he whimpered. “Yes, I am—fuck, I am.”

You sucked harder.

Ni-ki was unraveling, panting, hands still clenched in the sheets like he was scared to touch you without permission. His hips twitched and you held him still, sucking him deep with a slow rhythm that had him shaking.

“C–can I cum?” he pleaded, eyes wide, full of desperation.

You pulled off with a wet pop.

“Not yet.”

His face fell in disbelief.

“I want to feel you cum inside me.”

The way he looked at you, like you’d just given him everything he ever wanted.

“Please,” he begged. “I’ll do anything. Just—please, let me…”

You straddled him slowly, guiding him to lay back, your voice low.

“You’re gonna be good, and take all of me, okay?”

He nodded frantically, pupils blown, arms already trembling beneath you.

“Use me,” he whispered.

You smirked. “Gladly.”

You hovered just above him, grinding slowly, letting his leaking tip drag through your folds. Ni-ki’s mouth fell open, hands twitching at his sides like he was begging for permission to touch.

“Please,” he whimpered. “Let me feel you—please, I need it so bad, I–”

You sank down onto him in one slow, teasing movement, inch by inch until he was fully buried inside.

His moan broke into something closer to a sob.

“Fuck—fuck, you feel so good. So warm, so tight.” His head thudded back against the pillows, chest rising and falling fast.

You leaned over, cupping his jaw. “Look at me while I fuck you.”

He obeyed immediately, gaze locked with yours, pupils blown wide with lust and adoration.

“You’re doing so good,” you praised, rolling your hips slowly. “Taking me so well, baby.”

His hands finally gripped your thighs, but not to control—just to anchor himself.

“I dreamed about this,” he breathed. “About you riding me. About you using me.”

You clenched around him on purpose, watching his mouth fall open in shock.

“You love it, don’t you?” you teased. “Being my good little toy?”

He nodded so fast it made you laugh.

“Say it.”

“I love being your toy,” he whimpered. “Please, use me more. I can take it.”

You picked up your pace, grinding faster, riding him with purpose. His moans grew louder, more frantic. You leaned down, whispering against his ear.

“Who do you belong to, Ni-ki?”

“You. You. Only you—fuck, I’m yours, please, don’t stop.”

You kissed his jaw, your hips snapping harder now, the wet sounds of your bodies filling the room. His hands clutched at you desperately, like he needed you to stay there forever.

“Gonna cum for me, pretty boy?” you whispered, grinding down and rolling your hips just right.

“I—I can’t hold it,” he whined, tears rolling down. “Please, can I cum? Please, let me—”

“You wanna cum for me, Ni-ki?”

“Yes! I want to cum so bad—please, I’ve been good, I’ve been so good—”

You smiled, dragging your nails gently down his chest.

“Then cum for me.”

That was all it took.

His whole body tensed, hips jerking helplessly beneath you as he came deep inside, moaning your name like a prayer.

You kept riding him through it, dragging out every second of his orgasm while chasing your own, the heat in your core tightening.

“Gonna cum with you inside me,” you groaned. “You want that?”

“Please,” he cried, overstimulated but needy. “Please cum, please, I want to feel it.”

Your climax snapped through you like a whip, your walls pulsing around him as you cried out, slamming your hips down one final time.

You collapsed over his chest, both of you gasping for breath. His arms shakily wrapped around your waist, like he needed to keep you close even in his blissed-out haze.

“You were perfect,” you whispered, brushing his sweaty hair back.

Ni-ki let out a small laugh, dazed and soft. “I’ve never been that good before.”

You kissed his jaw. “You were better than good. You were mine.”

He smiled lazily, voice barely audible. “Still am.”

my second work, kinda nervous 😜

Apologizing once again for my English, I promise I've been studying 🥹 let me know if you noticed any mistakes!! I'll be quick to get better for upcoming works 🫶🏼

#belovedniki #ni ki imagines #ni ki enhypen #niki scenarios #niki smut #ni ki x reader #enhypen niki #niki au #ni ki #enhypen maknae line #enhypen smut #enhypen hard hours #enhypen #kpop smut #kpop hard hours #kpop au #mlw smut #praisekink

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drunkenlionwrites · 2 months ago

Text

Verso relationship headcanons

Pairing: g/n reader x painted Verso

Warnings: MDNI, canon setting, mild spoilers for the game, some nsfw smutty headcanons in the last part

Writer's note: i have few ideas and wanna write a few little somethings, so just wanted to define Verso a little bit more for myself before I start doing all this. Support banner by @cafekitsune

Verso doesn’t chase people, but he stays beside you. When he first meets you, he’s watchful, quiet. He listens more than he speaks, and his presence feels calm but unreadable. At first, you think he’s simply reserved. Later, you realize: he’s always looking for someone to hold onto.

He surprises you with how funny he is. Not the loud, outrageous kind of funny. Verso’s humor is dry, clever, and timed just right. He’s the guy who’ll quip softly under his breath at the worst possible time just to get you to laugh in the middle of a crisis.

You were the one who made the first move, or thought you did. In truth, he was quietly encouraging you the whole time. The small glances, the subtle closeness, the soft way he said your name - it was all intentional. He just never wanted to rush you.

Touch is sacred to him. He never takes it for granted. When you hold his hand, his fingers curl around yours so gently, like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile.

He’s not overtly clingy, but if you sit next to him, he’ll gradually lean in until your shoulders are touching. If you lie down beside him, he’ll shift closer until his forehead rests against yours, or you're tucked securely under his chin.

He kisses you slowly, thoughtfully. Like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he’s not sure he’ll get to do it again. It’s always careful, but never cold.

He holds you in his sleep. Always. Even if he starts on the other side of the bed, he’ll be curled around you by morning. You’ve woken up to find his hand in your hair, his face tucked against your neck, his breath soft and even.

He likes to do things with you. Even if it’s quiet work - making memos, cleaning weapons, preparing rations - he feels more grounded when you’re nearby.

He’s surprisingly good at small, domestic tasks. He braids rope better than anyone in the camp, and he brews tea like it’s a ritual. If you’re injured, he’s the one you want redressing your wounds: he’s gentle, precise, and always murmuring quiet reassurances.

He remembers everything. Your favorite way to eat eggs. Favorite pastry. Which side you sleep on. The fact that you get cold when the wind shifts. He rarely says anything about it, he just adjusts accordingly.

He doesn’t share easily, but he does with you. Not in big confessions, but in moments: a story, a sigh, a half-finished sentence. You learn to read the things he leaves unsaid.

You don’t know why he sometimes stares at the campfire like he’s mourning something. Or why he hesitates before kissing you goodnight. You don’t know what he carries, but you feel it. You’ve told him before: “Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.” He didn’t answer, but he kissed your forehead and held you until morning. NSFW headcanons:

Verso is gentle until he’s not. He starts off slow. Careful. Every touch is like a prayer. But once you’re his, once you ask for more, there’s a darker edge beneath the surface. He holds nothing back. He can’t.

He doesn’t treat sex casually. Whether it’s your first time or your fiftieth, there’s always an air of meaning behind it. You’ll catch him staring at you mid-act like he’s memorizing the way your body arches, the way you say his name.

He always puts you first. You won’t even have to ask, he’s attuned to every breath you take, every small sound, and he reads your reactions like scripture. Your pleasure is his anchor, his obsession. He needs to make you feel good like it’s the only way he can prove he’s real.

He doesn't do dirty talk per se, bu oh does he talk. He’s not loud, but when he speaks? It's all in that low, close voice that feels like it crawls down your spine. “There… that’s it. That’s what I wanted to hear.” “Tell me what you need. I’ll give you anything.” “You’re perfect like this… you know that?”

He wants to hear you. If you’re shy? He’ll tease it out of you slowly, murmuring praise in your ear, coaxing your voice with his touch. If you’re vocal? He drinks in every sound like it’s a gift.

He struggles sometimes with vulnerability afterward. You might see him get a little quiet after, especially if it was intense or loving. He’ll hold you like he’s afraid to let go but won’t always say why. He’ll just ask, “Was that okay?” with more weight behind it than he lets on.

He does have a praise kink -for yours, not his. He needs to be told he’s doing good. That he’s wanted. That he feels real to you. Whispering, “I want you,” or “You’re mine,” will wreck him every time.

Giving oral? An art form. Verso takes his time, devotes himself to it like it’s sacred. Expect strong arms pinning your thighs down while he loses himself between them. He’d do it for hours if you let him. He loves the way you come undone.

He’s into eye contact. Intense, soul-searching, “don’t-look-away-from-me” kind of eye contact. He wants to see you fall apart and wants you to see how much he feels for you when you do.

Loves it when you take initiative. If you climb into his lap, straddle him, or whisper in his ear that you want him? He gets so still. Like his breath catches in his throat. He’ll blink once, then reach for you with shaking hands, like you just gave him the stars.

Loves aftercare. Whether it was sweet or intense, he’s all about holding you close afterward. Pulling the blanket around both of you. Stroking your back. Kissing the top of your head and whispering, “You’re everything to me.”

There’s always something just beneath the surface. A tension, like he’s fighting something, holding back too much emotion or too much truth. But in these moments, it slips out: The way he touches you like you’re a memory he’s terrified of losing.The way he gasps your name like he’s grateful to be saying it.The way he holds you after like he might never get the chance again.

He never says it during sex, not I love you. Not directly. But it’s in every touch, every look. You feel it more than you hear it.

#verso x reader #verso x you #verso expedition 33 #verso dessendre #verso smut #verso headcanons #clair obscur: expedition 33 #clair obscur #clair obscur verso #clair obscur headcanons

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mrsvante · 2 months ago

Text

Where We Left Off

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: college au, friends to lovers, angst

summary: you’ve spent years dancing around the inevitable. soft glances, blurred lines, and too many nights pretending not to want more. but when the game finally ends, nothing feels casual anymore. not his touch. not his kiss. and definitely not the way he says you’ve always been his.

warnings: mutual pining, years of tension, soft but filthy smut (tongue technology in action 😜), oral f, riding, unprotected sex, tenderly possessive, angst, yearrrrrning, morning after fluff

word count: 4,413

It starts the way it always does.

With his name flashing softly across your screen, cutting through the quiet in the way only he ever manages to.

Late, always too late, when the world outside your apartment has gone still and soft and heavy with sleep. That dangerous, in between hour where decisions are made more with instinct than logic.

You shouldn’t answer.

You tell yourself that every time, every night he calls after midnight, every moment you watch his name glow like a siren, luring you back into waters you swore you’d never tread again.

But you never hesitate. Not when it’s him.

Your thumb slides across the screen before your mind can even form the word no, and you press the phone to your ear, already sinking deeper into the warm cocoon of your blanket like it might somehow shield you from what you know is coming.

“Hello?”

Your voice is soft from sleep, wrapped in that lazy, intimate heaviness that only exists when the world has gone quiet.

But his cuts through even that.

Low. Rough.

Not broken, Yoongi never lets himself fall apart that easily, but tired in a way that makes something twist inside your chest.

“Can I come over?”

Simple. Familiar.

A question he doesn’t need to ask, but always does anyway. As if giving you the option makes any difference at all.

You could say no.

You should say no.

You should remember what you promised yourself after the last time he left in the morning without a word, pulling the door closed with a softness that still somehow managed to echo in your ribs.

You should remind yourself that graduation is weeks away, that soon you won’t live across campus from each other, won’t share classes and coffee shops and the invisible tether of we can always figure it out later.

Later is running out.

And yet…

Your resolve falters, just like it always does.

Because Yoongi, in all his quiet, unassuming gravity, has always been your exception.

You close your eyes briefly, swallowing around the thick knot forming in your throat. You know exactly how this will end. You’ve known since freshman year. Since that night he fell asleep on your dorm bed halfway through studying, his arm slung lazily over your waist, lips parted as soft breaths tickled your neck.

Since the mornings after, when he’d make you coffee and act like he didn’t remember the way he kissed you until you couldn’t speak, only to pull you right back in when no one was looking.

Since the first time you both agreed—out loud, serious faces and fragile hearts—that going back to friends was the right thing to do.

It never stuck.

Not really.

Not with him.

You sigh, already moving from your bed, already unlocking the front door without bothering to flip on the hallway light.

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice quiet but steady.

“Come over.”

••••••••

You leave the door cracked for him, because that’s what you always do. He never knocks, never has to. You hear the soft scrape of the door as it opens, then closes, sealing the night and whatever this is back inside.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Neither do you.

But you feel him.

The quiet weight of his presence as he toes off his shoes and pads down the short hallway like muscle memory. The subtle shift in the air as he enters your living room, where the only light is the pale glow of the TV playing something neither of you care about.

When you finally look up, he’s already watching you. It’s painfully familiar. Hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his worn hoodie, hair messy and falling into his eyes.

No pretense. No shields.

Just Yoongi, standing there like he’s still nineteen and knocking on your dorm room door with ramen and a physics textbook, asking if you wanna pull an all nighter.

But you’re not nineteen anymore.

And neither is this.

He looks… tired.

But not in the way you expected.

You sit up straighter on the couch, tugging your blanket tighter around your shoulders like armor. “So,” you start, voice sharp and cool despite the way your pulse races. “Why aren’t you with her right now?”

Yoongi blinks, caught.

Or maybe not caught, just surprised you went straight for the throat tonight.

“Her?” he repeats slowly.

“Sade, your girlfriend,” you clarify, your tone too bitter to pass for casual. “Thought she was the one keeping your bed warm these days. Why come running here, Yoongi? Did she stop answering your late night calls?”

You regret the words the second they leave your mouth.

They sound crueler than you intended.

But part of you—the part that’s been carrying this bruised thing between you for too long—wants them to sting.

Yoongi’s jaw tightens.

For a second, you think he might turn around and leave.

For a second, you almost want him to.

But instead, his shoulders drop, and something shifts in his expression.

“We broke up.”

The words land heavy and sharp, punching all the air out of your lungs at once. You stare at him, momentarily stunned silent.

“…What?”

His lips twist, humorless and soft.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, gaze dropping briefly to the floor before flicking back up to you. “A few weeks ago.”

You scramble to collect yourself, to school your features into indifference.

You fail miserably.

“Oh,” you say, voice tight.

“Why?”

You mean for it to sound casual, but it comes out hollow. Too fragile.

Yoongi steps closer, slow and deliberate, until he’s standing just in front of you. Close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to hold his gaze.

He looks at you for a long moment, eyes soft but heavy, like he’s weighing every single word he’s about to say.

When he speaks, it’s low. Unshakable.

“Because she wasn’t you.”

Your breath catches.

You blink, once, twice, trying to process as he kneels in front of you, resting his hands on your knees like he needs to anchor himself there.

“I tried,” he says, voice quieter now but somehow more intense. “I really did. To move on. To pretend I didn’t feel it every fucking time you looked at me, every time we crossed paths on campus, every time I caught myself thinking about how no one ever makes me laugh the way you do. How no one else feels like home the way you do.”

You can’t breathe.

You can’t move.

His fingers slide up your thighs gently, curling over them as he leans in just slightly, not enough to kiss you yet, but enough that his breath fans across your lips.

“It’s always been you,” he whispers, the confession slipping out like a sigh and crashing directly into your ribcage.

“It’s you or no one. And I’m so fucking tired of acting like I’m okay with anything else.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. Your heart is hammering too violently, your thoughts dissolving under the weight of his closeness.

And Yoongi, usually so patient, so slow and deliberate, doesn’t wait anymore.

He surges forward and kisses you like he’s been holding it back for years.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

It’s desperate and deep, all tongue and teeth and soft, broken sounds caught between your mouths.

His hands slide up, burying in your hair, pulling you closer as you clutch his hoodie with shaking fists, kissing him back just as fiercely.

There’s no hesitation now.

No pulling away.

No more pretending.

You melt into him completely, letting years of longing bleed out through every press of lips and swipe of tongue, until all that’s left between you is heat and the terrifying, beautiful certainty of finally.

When he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath is shaky, his voice roughened with emotion when he whispers, “No more running.”

You nod, your lips brushing his as you murmur back, quiet but sure.

“No more pretending.”

And this time, you both mean it.

You feel it in the way he shifts immediately after, pushing you gently but firmly until your back meets the couch cushions.

His body comes over yours in one fluid movement—balanced on his forearms so his weight doesn’t crush you, but close enough that his presence consumes everything.

He looks down at you like he’s memorizing.

Like he’s apologizing.

Like he’s claiming.

“Been thinking about this for so long,” he breathes, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, each press slower than the last.

You hum softly, sliding your hands beneath his hoodie, smoothing over his warm skin with shaky fingers.

“Since when?” you whisper, arching slightly when his hips press lower, slotting perfectly against yours.

He hesitates, eyes flickering—exposed, honest in the dark.

“Since freshman year,” he admits, voice raw. “That stupid night we stayed up finishing that music theory paper… when you fell asleep on my lap.”

You remember.

Of course you do.

You remember the way his fingers ghosted through your hair as though he didn’t realize he was touching you so tenderly.

You remember the scent of his hoodie and the sleepy, startled look in his eyes when you woke and your faces were too close. You remember not speaking about it. Not daring to.

But now…

Now, he kisses you again. Slower, sweeter, pulling your bottom lip gently between his teeth before releasing it, his voice breaking on a confession you know has been years in the making.

“Thought I could ignore it,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “But then you kissed me sophomore year, after that party… and ruined everything.”

You gasp softly, laughter and ache mingling as you clutch at his sides, your fingers pressing into his skin.

“That was your fault,” you murmur, smiling through your breathlessness. “You said I looked pretty that night. You never said shit like that back then.”

Yoongi laughs into the kiss, soft and boyish, and devastatingly fond.

“You always looked pretty,” he says quietly. “I just got brave enough to admit it.”

You laugh with him, but the sound fades when his hands slip lower, sliding beneath your sleep shorts.

Warm palms on bare skin, slow and fervent as they coast along your thighs, spreading you open with a gentleness that makes you tremble.

The air shifts again.

Laughter dissolves into soft, shaky breaths.

You rut up against his fingers instinctively, eyes fluttering closed, until his voice—low and commanding—pulls you back.

“Look at me.”

You obey.

Of course you do.

His eyes are molten when they meet yours, heavy with restraint and years of unsaid things.

“No more hiding,” Yoongi whispers, his voice nearly breaking. “I want to see you.”

Your throat tightens at the weight of it. At the way this suddenly feels so much bigger than anything that’s come before.

And when he slides his fingers beneath your panties, dragging through your slick heat, you gasp, hips chasing his touch instinctively.

“Fuck, you’re wet already,” he mutters, his mouth brushing across your jaw, your cheek, your lips. “So eager for me, huh?”

You nod, helpless.

“Yoongi—” you breathe, shivering when his fingers circle your clit with agonizing slowness.

“I know, baby,” he soothes, kissing you tenderly even as your body writhes. “Been waiting too. Let me take my time.”

And he does.

For long, torturous minutes, he touches you ardently—circling, stroking, slipping inside until your thighs shake and your head falls back in desperation.

By the time he pulls away to rid himself of his sweats and boxers, you’re wrecked. Lips kiss swollen, eyes hazy, chest heaving.

But there’s no rush.

Even when he’s bare before you, flushed and heavy, cock already leaking, there’s only devotion in the way he watches you as you strip his shirt from your body, leaving you naked beneath the faint glow of the TV.

Yoongi’s gaze devours you.

His lips part, eyes darkening as they drag slowly down your body, his voice rough when he finally speaks.

“Fuck… you’re so beautiful.”

You shiver beneath the weight of it, and when you swing your leg over his lap, settling into him slowly, deliberately, his hands fly to your hips, steadying you.

The shift is immediate.

The press of him beneath you makes your breath hitch, and your fingers cradle his face, pulling him in until his eyes—dark and swimming with tenderness—meet yours.

“Keep looking at me,” you whisper, voice breaking with emotion.

“Don’t look away.”

His lips curve faintly, his throat working as he nods.

“Never.”

You kiss him again—soft, loving—as you shift, grinding softly until the thick head of him nudges at your entrance.

You don’t tease.

Don’t hesitate.

You rise slightly, guide him to where you need him most, and sink down slowly, achingly slow, until he’s seated deep inside you.

Yoongi releases a shaky groan, head dropping to your shoulder as his arms wrap tight around your waist, holding you to him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“Fuck, fuck…” he murmurs, voice shredded.

You hold still for a moment, your own breath shallow, your hands threading through his hair as you press soft kisses to his temple, waiting for the fullness to become something bearable.

When he finally lifts his head again, his eyes are molten—wide and soft and devastating.

“You feel like everything,” he says quietly, like he almost can’t believe it.

“Always have.”

Your heart clenches, but you don’t cry.

Not yet.

Instead, you start to move, slow, rolling motions, your hips circling gently, pulling him deeper with every glide.

His hands roam everywhere—up your back, cupping your ass, sliding across your ribs like he’s desperate to feel every part of you at once.

But his eyes never leave yours.

“That’s it,” Yoongi whispers, his lips ghosting across yours. “Stay with me. Don’t look away.”

You don’t.

You couldn’t if you tried.

You ride him slowly, grinding and tilting until the rhythm becomes everything—until pleasure builds so steadily it threatens to unravel you both.

“Yoongi…” you gasp, your body trembling as the knot inside you pulls tighter.

His grip tightens, his own hips lifting to meet yours in sync.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers roughly, worshipfully. “Always.”

That’s what undoes you.

Not the stretch.

Not the perfect drag.

It’s the words.

You cum with a soft, breaking cry, clutching him tightly as your walls pulse around him, your entire body going rigid and then liquid all at once.

Yoongi follows moments later, hips stuttering as he releases deep inside you, his hold on you tightening as he presses his forehead desperately to yours, whispering your name like a vow.

You collapse together, breathless, shaking, still joined—arms wrapped tight, lips brushing in the tender quiet that follows.

••••••••

You’re still breathless when it happens.

Still full of him and clinging to his side, loose limbed and warm, hearts beating in sync beneath thin layers of sweat and soft, uneven breaths.

Yoongi kisses you lazily, lips brushing yours over and over like he can’t bear to stop, even when the kiss is more air than contact.

But there’s something shifting beneath his softness now. Something simmering, low and heady, and impossible to miss. You feel it in the way his hands, once gentle and still, start to roam again.

Up your back.

Down your thighs.

Across your hips, fingers dragging possessively as though relearning your skin even though he was just inside you.

“Yoongi,” you murmur softly, voice spent, already anticipating the haze of sleep.

But he pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes have gone dark again.

Not harsh or demanding.

Just… starved.

“I need more,” he says, voice low and frayed with something deeper than want. “I need to taste you.”

Your breath stutters.

Before you can respond, or can even fully process the shift in him, he’s sliding down your body.

Slowly, deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch.

He takes his time, giving his full attention to your breasts. Wrapping his lips around your sensitive nipples as he grips the weight of them in his hands, kneading, licking, nipping.

His lips and tongue leave wet, open mouthed kisses across your belly, your hips, your inner thighs. Pausing only to murmur softly against your skin, words that melt straight into you.

“Thought about this too much,” he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper but loaded with years of longing. “Every fucking time you smiled at me.”

He kisses higher, lips dragging just beside where you need him most.

“Every time you laughed at my stupid jokes…”

Higher still, his breath hot as his nose brushes your sensitive skin.

“Every night you left my room after those late study sessions…”

You gasp softly when his tongue flicks out, tasting the mess between your legs, your release mingled with his, and he groans low in his throat, the sound filthy in the quiet room.

“Fuck, this—” he rasps, mouth already moving again, kissing and licking as if your taste alone is holy.

“This is ours. Do you know that?”

Your hands fly to his hair as he buries himself there, his tongue dragging slowly and firmly through your folds, lapping up everything you gave him like it’s exactly what he’s craved all these years.

“You and me,” he murmurs brokenly against your pussy, his words lost slightly in the wet sounds of his mouth and tongue working in lazy, devastating strokes.

“It’s always been this.”

You whimper, your hips lifting helplessly into his mouth, thighs trembling as his hands press them wider, keeping you open for him.

His tongue flicks softly over your clit—once, twice—before wrapping his lips around it and sucking gently.

The noise that rips from your throat is wrecked.

“Yoongi—oh, fuck—”

“That’s it,” he whispers, pulling back just briefly to kiss your inner thigh, his lips sticky and glistening. “Let me have it. Let me make you fall apart again.”

He doesn’t stop.

His tongue returns with purpose now, flicking and circling and stroking until your body arches sharply, fingers twisting tightly in his hair as your orgasm begins to creep up your spine, liquid and insistent.

And all the while, he keeps talking. Soft, filthy truths spilled against your cunt as though he can’t hold them in anymore.

“I wanted you for so long.” He mumbles, sucking on your clit.

You shiver, a broken sound spilling from your lips as your walls flutter around his tongue. He continues with his confessions, “Thought I could be patient. Thought I could stay quiet.”

Your head is spinning with pleasure, fingers tightening in his hair.

“But you ruined me. You ruined me for anyone else, and I love you more for it.”

Your vision blurs.

Everything tightens, the pleasure cresting with terrifying speed as Yoongi shifts, sliding two fingers deep inside you while his mouth never stops moving.

You cry out his name, breaking apart all over again.

This time wetter, messier, with his fingers curling perfectly inside you and his tongue flattening against your clit until you’re shaking uncontrollably beneath him.

But Yoongi doesn’t stop right away.

He kisses you through it, slow and soothing, lapping up every drop as though committing the taste to memory.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are slick and swollen, his cheeks flushed.

His eyes are half lidded and heavy with something that looks suspiciously like love.

“I love you,” he whispers hoarsely, sliding up your body again until he can kiss you properly, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“I love you, I always have.”

You kiss him back weakly, too wrecked to speak, your arms winding tightly around his neck as you pull him down fully on top of you.

His weight feels perfect there.

Settling.

And when he buries his face in your neck again, breathing deep like he can’t get enough, he murmurs the softest thing yet.

Words you barely catch as you drift toward sleep.

“I’m never letting you go.”

You don’t respond.

You just kiss him again—slow, lingering, grateful and terrified all at once. Because this time, you both know there will be no going back.

And you don’t want to.

Not when forward means him.

••••••••

It’s the sun that wakes you.

Gentle, unhurried, slipping through the slats of the blinds in soft golden ribbons that stretch across the sheets and pool warmly against your bare skin.

You shift slightly, limbs heavy with a familiar ache — thighs sore, muscles lax and humming faintly from hours spent tangled beneath Yoongi.

For a moment, you forget.

Not truly. Not really.

But enough.

Enough that the haze of sleep has you floating, suspended between the past and now, until you feel him.

Heavy and warm and wrapped around you like he belongs there. His arm, thrown lazily across your waist, fingers curled possessively against the soft swell of your stomach. A thigh slotted firmly between yours, hooking you close, anchoring you even as sleep clings to him.

His face, pressed to the curve of your neck, lips parted against your skin as his slow, steady breaths fan out across your collarbone.

And his scent, warm and familiar. Skin, faint sweat, a hint of your shared release still clinging faintly to the sheets and to him.

It hits you then, soft but deep.

The realization settling slow and sweet beneath your ribs.

Oh. This is real now.

The thought is tender now, not terrifying.

Not anymore.

You shift, turning carefully until you’re facing him, until you can see him properly in the muted morning light.

Yoongi stirs almost immediately. Brow furrowing softly, and his grip tightens instinctively, pulling you closer before his eyes even flutter open.

A quiet, gruff sound escapes him. Thick with sleep, the barest edge of whine beneath it.

“Mm… where you going?”

You can’t help the soft smile that curves your lips.

Your fingers lift automatically, carding gently through his messy hair, pushing the strands from his eyes as they finally blink open, bleary, half lidded, but heavy with affection.

“Nowhere,” you murmur quietly. “Just wanted to see you.”

A slow, sleepy grin tugs faintly at his mouth. Lopsided and warm and boyish in a way that makes your chest ache. He hums in response, nuzzling slightly deeper into your touch, eyes flickering lazily over your face like he’s cataloguing every detail.

Neither of you speak for a while.

You just look.

Like maybe you’re both still trying to believe it.

That this happened.

That this is.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. His voice soft, so careful, but tinged with something fragile beneath the playfulness.

“Last night…” he trails off, eyes flickering between yours. “That wasn’t just—”

“No,” you interrupt gently, shaking your head before he can finish.

You cup his cheek softly, your thumb brushing tenderly along the curve of his jaw, anchoring him.

“Of course it wasn’t.”

Something inside him visibly eases at your words.

His shoulders, always tight even in sleep, loosen fully as he exhales slow and deep, his eyes slipping closed briefly as if letting himself feel it for the first time.

“Good,” he whispers when he opens them again, pulling you even closer until your foreheads press softly together, noses brushing.

“Because I meant everything I said.”

Your lips brush his when you smile again—faint but sure, full of quiet certainty.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I believe you.”

The kiss that follows is slow. Languid and lazy. Your lips sliding gently, no urgency left.

It feels like gratitude.

Like peace.

When you finally part, Yoongi’s eyes shine brighter in the morning light, clearer now, like sleep and secrecy have finally burned away.

“Are we…” he starts softly, but hesitates.

You tilt your head, teasing, eyes glinting playfully.

“Are we what?”

His lips twitch, though his voice stays serious beneath the hint of amusement.

“Together now?” he asks, and there’s something unexpectedly shy about the way his fingers fidget against your hip as he says it. “Like… for real?”

Your heart twists in the best possible way. Not with fear or uncertainty. But with overwhelming fondness and the soft, slow flood of relief.

“Do you want to be?” you ask quietly, though you both already know the answer.

Yoongi doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice certain and steady, eyes never leaving yours. “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine.”

You kiss him again, this time faster, grinning against his mouth as his arms wrap snugly around your waist, pulling you fully onto his chest.

“Okay,” you murmur, lips still brushing his. “Then we are.”

Yoongi hums, satisfied, his hands sliding beneath the blanket to cradle your hips as he buries his face in your neck again.

“Good,” he murmurs sleepily, his voice muffled but teasingly possessive.

“Was tired of pretending you weren’t mine anyway.”

You laugh softly, warmth blooming deep in your chest as you card your fingers through his hair again, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of his head.

“Same,” you whisper, softer now. “So tired.”

He hums again, low and content, before mumbling against your throat,

“Stay here a little longer. Just wanna hold you.”

You do.

You stay pressed together in the lazy quiet, legs tangled beneath the sheets, until the sun climbs higher and hunger finally forces you both from bed.

••••••••

Later, the kitchen is filled with soft laughter and sleepy bickering.

Yoongi teases you mercilessly as you accidentally burn the eggs, while you roll your eyes fondly when he struggles to work your ancient coffee machine, grumbling like he hasn’t made coffee with it for years.

It’s easy.

So easy, it makes you ache.

You share a plate, sitting pressed hip to hip on the counter, his knee bumping yours, his arm slung comfortably across your shoulders as you lean into him.

Every few minutes, he kisses your temple or tucks your hair behind your ear like he can’t help himself.

“Still feels like us,” he murmurs eventually, voice thick with affection and sleepy wonder as he glances down at you.

You smile softly, fingers brushing lightly against his thigh.

“It’s always been us,” you whisper, steady and sure.”We’re just picking up where we left off.”

He doesn’t argue. He just leans in and kisses you slow and sweet, right there in the kitchen, still in yesterday’s clothes, half finished breakfast forgotten.

As though this, right here, is everything he’s ever wanted.

And everything he’s finally allowed himself to have.

masterlist

#bts fanfic #bangtanarmynet #bts fanfiction #bts au #fanfic #bts angst #friends to lovers #yearning hours #slow burn #min yoongi fic #bts yoongi #min yoongi x reader #yoongi fanfic #bts smut #bts fluff #angst with a happy ending

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chadobi · 2 months ago

Text

“Just Another Night in the Lab”

Bayverse Donatello x Reader

I’m little stressed because it’s my first post so i hope you will enjoy this! Lov u guys!

———————————————————

The soft hum of Donnie’s equipment buzzed in the background like a familiar lullaby. Screens flickered gently around the darkened corners of the lab, casting pools of pale blue light over scattered tools, schematics, half-built gadgets, and a lone cup of cold coffee.

You were sitting on the counter, swinging your legs back and forth rhythmically while typing something on your tablet — cross-referencing files Donnie had asked for. Your brow was furrowed, and your hair was slightly tousled from hours in the lair. You looked… normal. Comfortable. Like you belonged there.

Donnie glanced up from his microscope for what must’ve been the fifth time in three minutes.

He tried to be subtle about it, eyes flicking toward you, then quickly away when he caught himself staring again. His heart was doing that annoying stutter thing it had started doing around you lately — like it didn’t know how to beat properly when you were nearby

You didn’t notice. Or maybe you did. Either way, you didn’t say anything.

“Hey,” you asked softly, looking over. “Do you want me to sort these files alphabetically or by scan frequency?”

Donnie blinked. The question was simple, but it took a second longer than usual to register. He was distracted by how your voice always sounded a little softer in the lab — like it didn’t want to disturb the quiet magic of his world.

“Uh… scan frequency,” he said quickly. “Yeah. That makes more sense for the pattern we’re trying to isolate.”

You nodded and went right back to it, completely unaware that Donnie’s brain had short-circuited because your smile had lingered for half a second too long.

⸻

He returned to his microscope. Or at least pretended to. Every nerve in his body was suddenly tuned to you — your breath, your tiny sounds of concentration, the occasional tap of your stylus on glass. You weren’t even doing anything particularly special. Just helping. Just being here.

And that’s when it hit him.

You weren’t extraordinary in some loud, showy way. You didn’t try to impress him. You didn’t fawn over his inventions or stroke his ego. You simply showed up. Sat beside him. Helped when he needed it. Called him out when he got too lost in his own head. You gave your time freely — and not to the tech genius or the mutant, but to Donatello.

And God, he loved you for it.

The realization landed like a circuit overload — silent, undeniable, irreversible. His heart didn’t just flutter this time. It ached. In the best way.

He looked over again.

You had your legs crossed now, fingers flying across the screen. There was a little smudge of ink on your cheek from where you must’ve rubbed it earlier. You were mumbling something under your breath. A calculation, maybe.

And he was so gone

“Y/N?” he said quietly.

You looked up, tablet still in hand. “Yeah?”

His throat went dry. He had a million smart things to say and not a single one made it to his mouth. So instead, he took a breath, reached for a clean cloth, and walked toward you.

“There’s a mark,” he murmured, gently brushing the smudge from your cheek with the cloth.

You froze — just for a second — then relaxed under his touch. “Oh. Thanks,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

His hand lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Your eyes met.

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the lab. The moment stretched — warm, fragile, perfect.

And then you smiled. That quiet, honest smile that had wrecked him from the very beginning.

“What?” you asked, teasingly. “Do I have another smudge?

“No,” he whispered. “I just… I’m glad you’re here.”

Your smile softened. “Me too, Donnie.”

He didn’t kiss you that night. He didn’t need to.

Because in that one small, quiet moment —

You knew.

And so did he.

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riddlesrizzler · 2 months ago

Text

slytherin boys x bunny! reader

mattheo riddle

Mattheo with a bunny!reader tried to keep his distance at first. He told himself he was doing the right thing-staying away from someone so gentle, so bright. Someone who looked at the world with wonder instead of war. But no matter how far he ran, she was always there-curling up at the edge of his world like a whisper of spring, and suddenly, he didn’t want to run anymore.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader wakes up one morning to find a plush pink bow tied neatly to the strap of his satchel. He scowls at first, but doesn’t take it off. The next day, there's a glittery heart drawn beside his name on his class notes. By the end of the week, he’s got a pink pen in his pocket and a stuffed bunny on his bookshelf-and he’s smiling more than ever.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader learns quickly that soft doesn’t mean submissive. She’s sweet, yes-but when someone flirts with him too boldly in front of her, that dainty little bunny on his lap bares her teeth. And suddenly, he’s cradling a very grumpy fluffball who thumped in warning and bit someone’s hand, and gods help him-he’s never been more in love.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader pretends to be annoyed when she falls asleep in random places-in his laundry basket, on top of his Charms textbook, once even curled in his sock drawer. But he always finds a way to cover her with a spare hoodie or gently nudge her awake so she can shift back and crawl into bed beside him.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader starts leaving her little gifts without thinking-bits of chocolate, shiny trinkets, notes scribbled on torn parchment with things like you made today better. He never used to believe in softness or light. But she made him want to protect something fragile-for the first time, he wanted to be someone good.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader finds his temper cooling just from her touch. A gentle nuzzle against his shoulder, a little hand in his, and suddenly the storm inside him softens. She doesn’t have to say a word-her presence is a balm, a gravity that pulls him back to earth, every time.

Mattheo with a bunny!reader never imagined he’d end up slow dancing in the common room with a girl who still sleeps with plushies and ties ribbons in his hair when he naps. But now, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. She’s his quiet rebellion against everything dark he thought he’d become.

theodore nott

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader wasn’t expecting company that afternoon behind the greenhouses. He lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke into silence-and then she appeared, soft and scowling. “That’s disgusting,” she said with a scrunched nose, holding out a strawberry hard candy like a peace offering and a challenge all at once. He raised a brow. He didn’t take the candy. Not then. But the next day, he brought one back to her.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader didn’t know what to do with someone who always looked so sweet and happy, who hummed while brushing crumbs from his shirt and offered him flowers she braided into a chain. She asked questions he’d never heard out loud-Are you lonely? Do your hands ever shake when you're angry?-and didn’t flinch when he didn’t answer.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader acts completely indifferent when she hops into his lap in bunny form during study hall. He just adjusts his book, continues reading, and mutters “You’re warm. Stay still.” The others don’t dare say a word, not after she bit that Slytherin girl who reached for her without asking.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader has a subtle way of softening around her. He doesn’t coo or coddle-but his fingers find her ears absentmindedly, his eyes soften when she looks confused, and when she forgets what she’s saying mid-sentence, he finishes it for her, every time.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader keeps her secret without question. No teasing, no pushing-just quiet understanding. When she’s too overwhelmed to shift back, he tucks her behind his scarf or inside his coat and dares the world to try him.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader doesn’t write love letters. But his margins are filled with doodles of bunnies and sleepy-eyed girls, small and hidden and sketched in ink. His favorite one is folded into the back pocket of his journal, right next to a strawberry wrapper she once pressed into his hand.

Theodore Nott with a bunny!reader pretends he doesn’t like sweets, but there’s always a tin of fruit chews in his nightstand now. He tells himself it’s for her. But some nights, when she’s not there and the silence stretches too long, he eats one and remembers the way she smiles when she unwraps them for him.

lorenzo berkshire

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader thought she was a literal stray bunny the first time he saw her. She’d been hiding beneath the Ravenclaw table, nibbling a half-eaten scone. He dropped to his knees, cooed way too loudly, and offered her a sugar cube from his pocket. She bit him-not hard-but enough. He was in love immediately.

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader gets way too excited whenever she shifts into her bunny form. He scoops her up with zero warning, presses kisses to her head, and narrates her actions in a ridiculous voice like “And here we see the majestic floof, preparing to pounce-wait, no, she’s napping again.”

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader once built her a literal pillow fort under his bed so she could have a “bunny burrow,” complete with fairy lights, a snack stash, and a tiny “no Slytherins allowed” sign-except for him, obviously. He even added a little bell she could ring when she wanted attention. She’s never used it, but he listens for it obsessively.

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader is incredibly protective in the loudest way possible. Someone talks over her in class? He raises his hand and says, “Sorry, I think you interrupted my girlfriend.” She gets anxious at a party? He immediately offers to leave and take her to the kitchens for hot cocoa. She’s never felt more safe-or more seen.

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader rambles to her constantly. About his dreams, about which Bertie Bott’s beans are a scam, about the time he got stuck in a suit of armor. Even when she’s in bunny form and can’t respond, he swears her ears twitch in judgment. Still, she listens. Always.

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader doesn’t just shower her with affection-he matches her softness, too. When she’s quiet, he’s quieter. When she’s overwhelmed, he’ll sit beside her, pinky barely touching hers, and wait until she’s ready. His chaos doesn’t smother her; it wraps around her like sunlight.

Lorenzo Berkshire with a bunny!reader once tried to knit her a scarf. It was a disaster-lumpy, uneven, too long. She still wears it in the winter. Even in bunny form, dragging it behind her like a cape. He nearly cried the first time he saw it.

draco malfoy

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader at first, truly didn’t know what to make of her. She was all softness and sincerity in a world where everything was sharp edges and expectations. It unnerved him-how unafraid she was to be gentle. How her kindness wasn’t performative, just instinctual. He avoided her. She followed anyway.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader started noticing her in the smallest of ways. The way she tugged her sleeves over her hands when she was nervous. How she always gave the house-elves compliments. How she'd disappear some evenings only for a tiny white bunny to appear in the library, curling up beside his chair like she belonged there. And somehow, she did.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader won’t say he’s protective-he insists he’s just aware. Aware of how her ears twitch when she’s anxious. Aware of who makes her uncomfortable. Aware that if anyone so much as breathes wrong in her direction, they’ll find themselves on the receiving end of a venom-laced glare. He says nothing. They back off.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader doesn’t laugh often, but she has a way of drawing it out of him in quiet bursts-usually when she does something utterly nonsensical, like falling asleep in his trunk in bunny form or trying to duel Peeves over stolen snacks. He hides his smile behind a book. She pretends not to notice.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader keeps her warm without thinking. Slips his scarf around her neck before she asks. Pulls her toward the fire when she’s cold. In bunny form, she often wakes up curled into the fold of his cloak. He pretends it’s inconvenient. It’s not.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader won’t say he likes the bows she ties on his quills or the sparkly stickers she sneakily places on his notebooks. But he never takes them off. Even when Blaise teases him. Even when Snape raises an eyebrow. He just shrugs and says, “They’re charmed for luck.” No one questions it.

Draco Malfoy with a bunny!reader once asked her, in a low voice and without looking at her, if she wasn’t scared of being so soft in a world like theirs. She smiled, leaned in close, and said, “Softness isn’t the opposite of strength.” He hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

blasie zabini

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader first noticed her in a moment no one else did. Everyone else was buzzing through the corridors, but she was sitting on the windowsill, nose tucked in a book, sunlight in her lashes. He didn’t speak. Just paused, observed, and quietly made a space for her in the back of his mind-like a pressed flower in a journal.

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader isn’t one for grand gestures. His care shows up in small ways: offering her his scarf when she shivers, holding open a door with a slight nod, leaving a soft, folded note beside her tea that reads, "Don’t forget to rest." She never hears him approach-but he’s always there when she needs him most.

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader was caught off guard the first time she appeared in bunny form. She’d gotten herself stuck behind a stack of books in the library, ears twitching in embarrassment. He didn’t laugh. Just knelt down, scooped her up carefully, and said, “You’re alright,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader doesn’t talk much, but his silences are never empty. When she curls up in his lap in bunny form after a long day, he strokes her fur slowly, and even though no words are spoken, she always feels understood. His presence is quiet comfort-the kind that says, “I’m not leaving.”

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader likes how she balances him. Where he’s reserved, she’s warm. Where he pulls away from the world, she hops straight into it. He never imagined someone like her fitting into the quiet corners of his life-but now he doesn’t know how he went so long without her curled against him like a heartbeat.

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader is endlessly patient. When she gets overwhelmed or forgets things in her flustered way, he never mocks her. He gently brings her back to the present-touching her wrist, murmuring, “Hey, look at me. You’re okay.” And she always is, when he’s there.

Blaise Zabini with a bunny!reader has never needed to raise his voice to protect her. His gaze alone makes people back off. But when someone once reached to touch her bunny form without asking, he stood between them and said, low and clear, “Don’t.” No threats, no heat-just the calm certainty of someone who won’t let anything hurt what he loves.

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bbokaricentral · 2 months ago

Text

stray kids as angst tropes

(repost) Stray Kids as angst tropes Summary: stray kids as angst tropes I think they would be. Pairing: OT8 x g/n reader (indivual)

Bang Chan – "Right Person, Wrong Time"

You were born to love, to weave your heart into the fabric of another’s soul like a delicate thread spun too tightly. That’s how it felt when you met Chan. He was a fire—gentle at first, but burning so brightly that you thought it could never fade. His words were warm, soft, like the first rays of sun breaking through the cold of winter. Every glance he gave you, every laugh you shared, felt like a spark that would set your entire world alight.

But love, it turns out, is a flame that doesn't always stay. And while you were falling, Chan was reaching for the sky, chasing something far beyond the horizon you could see. You knew he would leave, that the fire that once lit your heart would burn out without you even noticing.

It wasn’t the distance between you two that tore you apart. It was the space he had inside of him, filled with his dreams, his ambitions, a world that didn’t have room for you. You were the moon, always shining softly, always reflecting his light, but you could never touch the stars. And he was the stars, beautiful and untouchable.

The day came when you saw him for the last time. It was quiet, too quiet, like the world had paused to listen. He held you in his arms, and for that brief moment, you could almost believe that things could be different, that you were enough to keep him grounded. His lips met yours, soft and lingering, but it felt like goodbye.

“I won’t forget you,” he whispered into your hair, the words hanging between you like fragile glass.

Lee Know – "The One That Got Away"

Lee Know had always loved you, but his love was a silent thing. It wasn’t loud or grand, not the kind that demanded attention. It was quiet, the kind that hid in the shadows of laughter, in the subtle brush of fingers, in the words left unsaid. He had always been there, your closest friend, always in the background, like a melody you didn’t quite recognize, but couldn’t live without.

He watched you—his heart ached with the weight of a love that was never his to claim. He watched you grow, change, become someone else’s. You walked through life, hands intertwined with someone else’s, and Lee Know? He stood still, in the backdrop, the silent witness to the love story that wasn’t his.

By the time he found success, the world he had dreamed of was too loud for the quiet ache in his chest. You had become someone else’s, and he was left with nothing but the ghost of what could have been. Your laughter with him sounded different now, edged with something Lee Know couldn't place. It was like the notes of a song played in reverse, the melody twisted, distorted, broken.

He saw you with him, the man who had taken your heart, and it broke him more than any failure ever could. You were supposed to be his, but now he was just a bystander in a life he could never be a part of.

Changbin – "Friends With Benefits, But You Want More"

There are moments, fleeting and rare, when love isn’t just a feeling but a weight, a burden you carry without realizing. You and Changbin were tangled in this strange in-between—a place where desire met fear, where affection clashed with apathy. You were always clingy after, always needing more. The way your fingers trailed over his skin, the way your body sought his warmth—it wasn’t just physical. You wanted something deeper, something real.

But Changbin? He wasn’t a man who believed in more. To him, it was simple: take what you need, give what you can, and then walk away. His heart wasn’t something to be claimed. He wore it like armor, keeping everyone at a distance, especially you.

But you didn’t get it. You thought, maybe if you loved him enough, if you held on tight enough, he would finally understand. But love, it seemed, was never something he needed from you. He didn’t want more. He didn’t want to be tangled in a mess of feelings he didn’t know how to unravel.

“I love you,” you said, the words slipping out before you could catch them. You couldn’t take them back, not once they had already escaped into the world, hanging there between you like a confession and a curse.

The silence after was sharp, like the breath between a lie and the truth.

Changbin pulled away from you, his hands cold against your skin as if the warmth you shared had never been real. His eyes were steady, but they didn’t reach you. “Please, don’t ruin this, __,” he said, his voice tight with something you couldn’t place—regret, fear, guilt, maybe all three.

You reached for him, your chest aching with the desperate need for him to stay. “Don’t you ever want to be... more?” you asked, but the words felt foolish as they left your lips, as though you were the only one who believed in the possibility of something deeper.

“No,” he said, like a verdict, like a death sentence. “And I won’t ever will.”

Hyunjin – "Starcrossed Lovers"

You and Hyunjin were like two stars, always destined to collide and burn out, no matter how bright you shined. There was a cruel poetry to your love—a dance of light and shadow that had no ending but destruction. Every lifetime you shared felt like the beginning of something beautiful, only for it to be swallowed by the universe before you could reach it.

It was a paradox of love. You both wanted the same thing—each other—but the universe had other plans. You were always falling, always reaching for each other, and yet always just out of reach.

Every kiss with Hyunjin felt like the last, as if time was conspiring to make it brief, to make it painful, to make it impossible. He was everything, and yet, he was nothing you could ever truly hold.

Each time you touched, each time you kissed, you knew it would slip through your fingers like sand. It was beautiful, but it was always over too soon. You could see it in his eyes—he knew too. The love was endless, and yet, it was doomed.

Han – "Unrequited Love"

Han had always loved you, even when you didn’t see it. It was the quiet kind of love that lived in the spaces between words, in the moments where his eyes lingered a little too long, in the way his heart skipped when you smiled at him. He was your friend, your confidant, your shoulder to cry on. He never told you how he felt. Instead, he loved you in silence, hoping that somehow, you would see him the way he saw you.

But you didn’t.

When you walked down the aisle, Han’s heart cracked, but no one saw it. He was the best man at your wedding, standing there with a smile plastered on his face, clapping as you married someone else. But inside? Inside, he was drowning. The words of congratulations felt like daggers lodged deep in his chest.

Felix – "Right Person, Not Enough Time"

Felix was the kind of love you didn't recognize until it was slipping through your fingers, like the last thread of a dream fading into the fog. From the moment you met him, you knew he was different—like a soft song that filled the empty spaces in your life, his kindness radiating warmth even on the coldest of days. He wasn’t loud or boisterous, but when Felix smiled, it felt like the world had softened just for you. His presence was a gentle lullaby, a promise of comfort, of quiet happiness.

He was the right person, no doubt about it. His love was like an ocean—vast, endless, and soothing. It wrapped around you without you even realizing, its waves crashing softly against the shore of your heart. When he was around, everything felt like it would be okay. The weight of the world, the noise of the life around you, seemed to fade into nothingness. All that mattered was the way his eyes lit up when they found yours, the warmth of his hand in yours, the way his laugh could make even the darkest days seem a little brighter.

But time... Time was always the enemy.

You never had enough of it. You could feel the clock ticking, the seconds slipping through your grasp as the world rushed forward. Felix was the right person—but life wasn’t built to hold onto things like him. His future was already written, and you were just a chapter he had to turn past. You couldn’t keep him, no matter how much your heart ached to do so.

One night, when the sky was heavy with the weight of an impending storm, you found him standing in your doorway. His expression was unreadable, his gaze distant, like he was already somewhere far beyond you.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking as he stepped toward you. “I love you. I always will. But... I can’t stay. Not anymore.”

Your heart splintered at the sound of those words. You wanted to scream, to beg him to stay, but you knew you couldn’t ask him to be yours—not when time was already taking him away from you. Felix wasn’t meant to stay. He was meant for the stars, for a future that was too big, too bright for you to be a part of.

He kissed your forehead softly, his touch lingering as if it was the last thing he could give you.

“I’ll never forget you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, and then he was gone.

Seungmin – "Friends to Lovers, But Someone’s Afraid"

Seungmin had always loved you. It was obvious to anyone who looked closely enough. But he had a way of hiding it, wrapping his feelings in layers of jokes, distractions, and misdirection. He was afraid. Afraid that if he showed you how much you meant to him, you might slip away. So instead, he stayed in the safe confines of your friendship, never daring to cross the line that could destroy everything.

You had tried to make a move before, tried to show him how much you cared, but every time, he pulled away. It hurt more than anything, to see him walk away from the love you knew you both shared.

"I can’t," Seungmin would say, his voice always tinged with regret, but never enough to overcome the fear that held him back.

I.N – "Love Hurts, But I Can’t Let Go"

I.N was the kind of love that hurt from the start—sharp, raw, and jagged. You screamed at him, pushed him away, tore him apart with your words. You hurt him, manipulated him, used him—but still, he came back to you. His love was like a bruise that wouldn’t heal, tender and aching, but somehow, he kept reaching for you.

He was desperate. Desperate for your love, for your attention, for your approval. Every time you hurt him, he crawled back, weaker but never broken. He loved you with a kind of reckless abandon that made you want to run, but you didn’t. Not completely. You stayed, knowing he would never leave, no matter how badly you treated him.

And maybe, in some sick way, you needed him to stay. Because without him, there would be nothing but an empty void where love used to be.

"I can't breathe without you," he whispered one night, eyes glazed with desperation.

You wanted to leave, but how could you? How could you leave someone who would never leave you?

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pankesitopank · 2 months ago

Note

Ateez reaction to their girl bestie being sad because she’ll “never get to wear jewelry from her boyfriend” since she’s never been in a relationship before? I’m all for secret crush ifykyk 👀

Cw:fluff fluff fluff!!!!!, secret crush (them to you), emotional comfort, best friends to lovers kinda, soft angst, slow burn feelings, love confessions (sort of)

note: OMG IT TOOK ME SO LONG WITH THIS. SORRY. THIS WEEK KILLED ME.

Sorry, sorry, sorry, again, but between not feeling inspired, I had to take the worst exam of MY LIFE!!! I hope it's what you had in mind, for me it ended up really cute.

I'm on my way to finish the other requests I have left!!!!!!!

HONGJOONG

You didn’t mean to say it aloud.

It slipped past your lips like a secret too heavy to hold in your chest, quiet and fragile in the soft lighting of Hongjoong’s studio, where you always ended up when the weight of the world felt just a little too sharp. He’d turned in his chair when he heard you sigh—deep and hollow, like something had cracked inside you—and asked, in that careful voice of his, “You okay?”

You shrugged, chewing on your nail. “Just tired.”

But he didn’t look away.

And that’s when it came out, barely more than a whisper. “ fuck I’ll probably never get to wear anything from a boyfriend.”

He blinked. Once. Twice. And you immediately regretted it, eyes wide as you rushed to explain.

“I mean—I didn’t mean it like that. It’s stupid. I just—like, I see all these girls getting bracelets or necklaces or cute rings and they always look so happy and loved and I’ve never—” You stopped yourself, suddenly hating your own vulnerability. “Forget it.”

But Hongjoong didn’t forget things like that.

He turned back to his desk slowly, like he was giving you space, but you noticed the way his fingers fidgeted with the chain around his neck—something he did when he was thinking too fast to speak. You assumed the moment had passed. That he’d let it go.

He didn’t.

A week later, he texted you late at night. Come by the studio if you’re still up.

You found him sitting on the couch, a velvet pouch between his fingers.

“What’s this?” you asked, confused but curious.

He looked up at you, expression unreadable for a heartbeat before softening. “Open it.”

Inside was a delicate silver bracelet—dainty, feminine, with tiny charms that matched your aesthetic so well it stunned you. A small crescent moon. A charm shaped like a tiny pen. A heart. It was exactly the kind of thing you would’ve chosen for yourself if you’d ever dared to imagine someone giving you one.

You looked up at him, jaw slack. “Hongjoong, what is this?”

He leaned back, arms crossed—not smug, but careful. Guarded. “It’s not boyfriend jewelry. Not unless you want it to be,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “But I don’t like hearing you say things like that. Because you deserve that kind of love. And if no one else is brave enough to give it to you…” He swallowed. “I am.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Because suddenly, that night in the studio didn’t feel like a casual comment anymore. It felt like the turning point.

And when he clasped the bracelet around your wrist himself—his hands shaking just a little—you knew this wasn’t just a gift.

It was a confession.

SEONGHWA

Seonghwa noticed the shift before you ever spoke it.

You were quieter than usual, lingering in doorways like your thoughts were too loud to settle. It wasn’t dramatic or attention-seeking—if anything, it was subtle. But Seonghwa was the kind of person who paid attention to silences more than words.

So when you looked down at a display case in a store and mumbled, “I guess I’ll never get something like that from someone,” he didn’t laugh it off.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and asked gently, “Why not?”

You shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “I’ve never even been in a relationship. No one’s ever looked at me like that.”

He didn’t reply at first.

Just walked next to you a little more quietly than before, thoughtful in that way that meant something was building in his mind.

Two days later, you found a small white box on your doorstep, tied with a silver ribbon. No note. No explanation. But the moment you opened it, your heart stopped.

Inside was a pair of earrings—small, intricate, and glimmering with soft white stones that caught the light like dew. Beautiful. Understated. Exactly your style.

You didn’t have to wonder for long.

Your phone buzzed with a message from Seonghwa.

“They reminded me of you. I hope that doesn’t sound weird.”

You blinked down at your phone, warmth blooming in your chest.

“It doesn’t,” you typed back. “They’re beautiful.”

Another pause, then his reply came.

“I think you deserve to feel beautiful. Even if no one’s said it enough.”

Your hands trembled a little as you picked up the earrings again.

Because Seonghwa didn’t say things unless he meant them with his whole heart.

And maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t just a kind gesture.

Maybe it was a beginning.

YUNHO

You’d meant it as a joke. Sort of.

You and Yunho were walking through a mall, passing a cute boutique with charm necklaces, and you’d pointed at a heart-shaped locket in the window with a dramatic sigh. “Imagine getting something like that from a boyfriend. Must be nice.”

Yunho laughed, bumping your shoulder. “You’re so dramatic.”

You snorted. “I’ll die single and jewel-less. The curse of being everyone’s favorite ‘just a friend.’”

He rolled his eyes, but you missed the way his smile faltered.

That night, he stayed up scrolling online stores, second-guessing every color and style. It was insane—he knew it. But the idea of you feeling unloved made something twist painfully in his chest.

A week later, you were hanging out in his room when he suddenly shoved a little bag into your hands.

“What’s this?” you asked, frowning.

“Just open it.”

Inside was a charm necklace—simple but meaningful. A tiny star and a single letter charm. Yours.

You stared. “Yunho…”

He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s not a big deal. I just—I don’t like hearing you talk like that. Like no one wants to give you things. Because I do. I’ve wanted to for a while.”

Your heart nearly burst.

Because Yunho never said things without laughter in his voice—but this time, he was completely serious.

And you didn’t even notice when your fingers slid into his, holding tight.

YEOSANG

Yeosang didn’t say anything when you told him.

You were lying on the couch beside him, scrolling through pictures of couple jewelry on social media and murmured, half-laughing, “damn i don't think I’ll ever get to post stuff like that… I'm kinda jel”

He didn’t tease.

Didn’t joke.

He just turned to you with that unreadable look—the one that made your heart race for reasons you tried hard to ignore—and nodded slowly.

“You’ll get it one day,” he said softly. “Someone’s going to see you and just… know.”

You scoffed. “nah I think I’m invisible when it comes to love, relationships and all that, you know?”

Yeosang frowned, then looked down at his phone, typing something quickly. He left the room for what it felt like 20 or even 30 minutes.

And returned with a tiny velvet box in hand.

He placed it in your lap without ceremony, settling beside you like it was nothing.

You opened it carefully, and nearly choked.

Inside was a gold-plated bracelet, etched with tiny stars and the first letter of your name. Dainty. Beautiful. Thoughtful.

You stared at him. “Yeosang—what—why?”

He didn’t meet your eyes at first. Just said, “Because you’re not invisible. And I hate the idea of you thinking no one sees how special you are.”

Your voice cracked. “Is this… friend jewelry?”

His gaze finally met yours, something burning beneath the surface. “Only if you want it to be.”

And you knew, right then, that he’d been watching you all along. Quietly. Deeply. Hoping for the chance to give you more than you ever thought to ask for.

SAN

You said it while you were fiddling with your necklace, eyes glazed over with that far-off, sad little smile San hated more than anything.

“Sometimes I think I’ll never get to wear something from a boyfriend… or from anyone at this point”

It wasn’t bitter. Just… resigned. Quiet. The way people say things they’ve made peace with, even though it still hurts.

San froze for a second. You didn’t notice.

Because if you had, you would’ve seen how his hand clenched around the soda can he was holding. How his smile slipped just a little. How your words—so casually dropped—landed in his chest like a stone in still water.

“Why would you think that?” he asked, carefully neutral.

You shrugged, curling your knees up to your chest. “I’ve just never dated. No one’s ever looked at me like that… like someone to love for more than… what? a month? two weeks? I don’t know”

He scoffed before he could stop himself. “That’s bullshit.”

You blinked at him.

“Seriously,” he added, this time softer. “If you think people aren’t looking at you like that, you're not looking hard enough.”

And he meant it.

Because San had looked at you like that for more than a year.

But every time he got close to telling you, something held him back. Fear, maybe. Or timing. Or that stupid, selfish part of him that wanted to stay your best friend forever if it meant never losing you.

So he said nothing.

But he did start working on something.

He’d seen the way your eyes lit up when you passed the booth at the street market that sold handmade accessories—specifically, the braided string bracelets with beads. You’d lingered there too long. Touched one. Smiled softly. Then walked away like you didn’t deserve it.

San went back alone the next day.

And a week later, he handed you a tiny paper bag with a shiny red string bracelet inside. Simple. Beautiful. Beads spelling your name in a soft rosie gold letters.

You stared at it like it was magic.

“Sannie…?”

He grinned. “I know it’s not fancy or anything, but I made sure it’s strong enough to last… is waterproof too.” He added with a soft smile

Your throat tightened. “Why?”

His gaze met yours. “Because I want you to wear something from someone who actually sees you.”

And there it was.

Not quite a confession.

But definitely not just a gift.

MINGI

You didn’t even realize you’d said it until Mingi went completely silent.

You were lying on his bed, scrolling on your phone while he played soft music from the speaker. Something slow, jazzy, romantic—almost painfully romantic—and that’s probably why your voice came out so wistful.

“How I would like to wear those cute little couple jewelry or something cringey like that. I’ll probably never, I think… that kinda sucks.”

He turned to look at you, his smile quite gone but not completely so you don't notice.

“Why would you say that?”

You shrugged, brushing it off. “It’s not a big deal.”

But Mingi took things like this personally.

Because when Mingi cared, he cared. And you were his person. His ride or die. The one who’d seen him through anxiety spirals and late-night breakdowns. The one who brought him snacks to the studio and sat on the floor just to keep him company.

You deserved the world.

So if he couldn’t be your boyfriend—not yet, not while he was still hiding all this love in the corners of his smile—then damn it, he’d be the next best thing.

The next time you visited his place, there was a small black box on your spot on the bed.

You eyed it suspiciously. “What is this?”

He flopped down beside you, playing it cool. “Just something I saw and thought of you.”

Inside was a necklace—silver, with a pendant shaped like a tiny lightning bolt. Simple. Sleek. Fierce. Just like you.

“Mingi��”

He waved a hand. “Don’t overthink it. I just figured if no boyfriend’s stepped up, I’ll do it for him.”

You raised a brow. “So… you’re my fake boyfriend now?”

He shrugged. “Only until someone real shows up.”

Your chest ached. “And if no one does?”

He turned, eyes suddenly serious. “Then I’ll keep doing it. Forever, if I have to.”

And you didn’t know it yet, but Mingi had bought a matching necklace too.

He just hadn’t had the guts to wear it in front of you yet.

WOOYOUNG

You said it as a joke.

Of course you did—because sadness made you awkward, and teasing made it easier to hide the ache in your chest.

You’d been watching a K-drama together, some swoony scene where the guy slipped a ring onto the girl’s finger under fairy lights and fireworks, and you’d muttered, “Lmao couldn’t be me. I’ll die fucking alone with naked hands”

Wooyoung had laughed at first. Then stopped. Then looked at you like you’d grown a second head.

“Why would you say something so cursed?”

You grinned. “Only facts come out of my mouth.”

He shook his head violently. “No. Nope. Rejected. Banned. You? Never getting a boyfriend or a cute lil ring or some shit like that?? Please.”

You shrugged, sipping your drink. “Guess I’m just not that type.”

He got weirdly quiet after that.

The next time he came over, he was jittery. Twitchy. Acting like he was hiding something. And after an hour of pacing and pretending like he didn’t have a small box in his pocket, he finally shoved it into your hands.

You opened it, expecting a prank.

What you got was a silver ring—minimalist, delicate, with a tiny red gem that sparkled like fire.

Your jaw dropped.

“Wooyoung…?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Okay so like, I’ve had this for a while. I saw it and thought it looked like you. Fire-y. Cute. You know.”

You blinked. “You’ve had it?”

“Yeah. I was gonna wait for your birthday or something but then you said that dumb thing about no one giving you jewelry and I panicked.”

You laughed—but you were blushing now, heart racing.

“And… are you giving this as a friend?”

His eyes flicked up to yours. “Do you want it to be?”

And in that moment, all the teasing in the world couldn’t hide the truth in his eyes.

JONGHO

Jongho heard your voice from the kitchen.

He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop—you were on the phone with a mutual friend, just talking casually, but the words hit him like a punch to the gut.

“No girl, you know I’ve never dated… I don’t know, I feel like I’m just not the kind of girl guys give attention like that… like, you remember, I dated a few guys but none of them lasted long enough to be introduced to my parents, imagine... much less lasted for a sad one month anniversary or some gift like a box of chocolates, a teddy bear or a necklace, ring, some earrings, y’know? Like, I've tried, you know that, it never works for me, maybe I'm just not anyone type I dont know girl.”

You laughed after, like it was nothing.

But Jongho couldn’t let it go.

Not because he disagreed—but because he completely disagreed. In his eyes you are more than cute. More than worthy. You are strong, loyal, radiant. The kind of person who made his chest tighten just by walking into a room.

That night, he sat at his desk for hours, scouring websites until he found the exact thing.

Two days later, he handed you a small, square box without saying much.

You frowned. “What’s this?”

He shrugged. “Open it.”

Inside was a pair of earrings—small hoops with a delicate, carved vine detail. Elegant but bold. Feminine but powerful.

“Jongho…” You blinked at them. “They’re gorgeous.”

“I know,” he said simply. “So are you.”

You looked up fast.

He held your gaze, voice steady. “Don’t think about yourself like that again. You deserve everything. And if no one else gives it to you…” His expression softened. “I will.”

And that was the first time you realized Jongho had been looking at you not just as a best friend—

—but as the person he was quietly, completely falling for.

#ateez x reader #ateez fluff #ateez hongjoong #ateez seonghwa #ateez yunho #ateez yeosang #ateez san #ateez mingi #ateez wooyoung x reader #ateez jongho #ateez hongjoong x reader #ateez seonghwa x reader #ateez yunho x reader #ateez yeosang x reader #ateez san x reader #ateez mingi x reader #ateez wooyoung #ateez jongho x reader

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brinasheqrt · 1 month ago

Note

could u do a fic where brina is feeling self-conscious about herself (due to hate on thr internet) and reader notices and gets a little protective and comforts her? thxx!!

Unfiltered

pairings - sabrina carpenter x fem!reader

warnings - online hate, insecurity, mild body image issues.

wc - 2.6k

an - remember you are beautiful , don’t let anyone tell you differently <3

You weren’t sure when exactly Sabrina stopped laughing at your jokes.

Maybe it was yesterday. Maybe the day before. Or maybe it was subtle—something that had been building in her bones like cold weather moving in unnoticed until suddenly you were caught in a downpour.

What you did know was this: she wasn’t okay.

It started with her phone.

She was glued to it more than usual, thumbs flying over the screen like she was trying to fight a war with words. You caught glimpses—Twitter, Instagram, TikTok—scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. Her face unreadable. Blank. That was the worst part. Not sadness, not anger. Just… nothing.

You didn’t want to pry, so you gave her space. But by day three, the silence had grown teeth.

She didn’t hum in the kitchen anymore. She didn’t curl up next to you on the couch like she always did, throwing her legs across your lap like they belonged there (which, they did). She didn’t ask for coffee runs or beg you to sing with her in the car.

And that morning, when she came out in an oversized hoodie, hair tied up in a loose bun, makeup-free and avoiding your eyes, something twisted deep in your gut.

“Hey, sunshine,” you said, soft, hopeful.

She gave a thin smile. “Hey.”

But it didn’t reach her eyes. It didn’t even get close.

You decided enough was enough.

⸻

It was later that afternoon when you found her in your shared bedroom, sitting on the floor next to the bed with her back against the wall, knees tucked up to her chest. Her phone was face-down beside her. Her eyes were red.

“Brina?” you asked carefully, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you.

She didn’t look up.

You crossed the room and sat down beside her slowly, knees stretched out in front of you, heart pounding.

“What’s going on, baby?”

Her throat moved like she swallowed something heavy. “Nothing.”

You waited. Silence filled the space between you like smoke—thick and choking.

“I don’t believe you,” you said, your voice gentle. “You’ve been quiet all week. You’ve been pulling away from me, from everyone. I know you. And I know when you’re hurting.”

She wiped at her eyes, quick and embarrassed, like crying was something she should apologize for.

“I just…” She hesitated. “I read some stuff online. About me.”

Ah. There it was.

You turned slightly to face her more fully. “What kind of stuff?”

Her lips parted, then closed again like she didn’t want to say it out loud. But then, her voice broke open like glass.

“People saying I’m annoying. Fake. That I’m only successful because I ‘sleep around’ or ‘play the industry’ or ‘use people.’ That I look plastic. That I should stop trying to be sexy because I look like a little girl pretending.”

You stared at her, stunned. Stomach roiling.

“They called me a whore,” she added quietly. “They said I ruined things with other people. That I think I’m better than everyone.”

Her voice cracked on the last word and you moved instantly, pulling her into your arms, cradling the back of her head like she was fragile glass.

“Jesus, Brina,” you whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t want you to think I was being dramatic,” she mumbled against your chest. “Or insecure. I know I shouldn’t care, I know—people are always going to talk—but…”

“You’re human,” you said, holding her tighter. “Of course you care. And those people are full of shit.”

She gave a shaky exhale but didn’t respond. Your hand found her hair, stroking it gently, trying to ground her.

“I just feel like maybe… maybe they’re right,” she whispered.

Your whole body tensed.

“No, no, no,” you said fiercely. “Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you even think that.”

She looked up at you, eyes shimmering. “What if I am annoying? What if I do come off as fake? What if I’m not actually talented and everyone’s just been nice to me out of pity or because of who I know? What if I don’t deserve any of this?”

The words hit like a punch to the chest.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t shout. But your next words came with a sharp edge.

“Look at me, Sabrina.”

She blinked.

“Look at me.”

She did.

“You are one of the most real, genuine people I’ve ever met. You are kind. You are hardworking. You are talented as hell. You pour your soul into your music. Into your performances. Into your fans. You give people something to hold onto when the world is falling apart.”

Her breath hitched.

“And what have you gotten in return?” you continued, eyes burning. “Hate. Misogyny. Judgment for daring to be confident. Or beautiful. Or sexual. Or soft. For existing in the public eye.”

You took a breath, trying to steady yourself.

“They don’t know you. They don’t see you singing under your breath while brushing your teeth. Or how you check on me when I’ve had a rough day even when you’re the one falling apart. They don’t see the nights you stay up rewriting lyrics because they don’t feel authentic enough. Or the way you kiss the top of my head like I’m the safest thing in the world.”

Her eyes filled again, but this time, not from shame.

“I see you,” you whispered. “I see every part of you. The messy ones. The scared ones. The brave ones. I know the weight you carry, and I’d carry it with you every day if it meant you didn’t have to feel like this again.”

Her lip trembled.

“I hate them,” you said quietly. “I hate what they’re doing to you. I wish I could grab every person who’s ever said something cruel and make them say it to your face. I wish I could shield you from all of it.”

She leaned into you fully then, curling into your arms like something small and breakable.

“I hate that I believed them,” she whispered. “Just for a minute. I let them in.”

You held her tighter.

“You’re allowed to feel it,” you said. “But don’t unpack and live there. Please. Come back to me.”

You felt her shoulders start to shake. Silent sobs. Grief, shame, exhaustion—years of it spilling out like she’d finally let the dam break.

You rocked her gently. “I got you,” you murmured over and over. “I got you, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

⸻

You spent the rest of the day wrapped in each other on the bed. No makeup. No mirrors. No phones. Just the safety of your arms and your heartbeat against her cheek.

You made her tea. Lit her favorite candle. Played the album she never let anyone hear yet. She let you. You both cried a little more.

Later, after sunset, when her face had softened and the redness had faded from her eyes, she turned to you and asked, “Why do you love me?”

You smiled sadly and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Because you’re Sabrina. Because even when you’re breaking, you still look at me like I’m home. Because you never gave up on your voice, even when the world told you to be quieter.”

You kissed her forehead.

“Because the world doesn’t deserve you, but I get to love you anyway.”

A soft breath escaped her lips, and she leaned her head into your shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

“I’m really lucky you found me,” she whispered.

“No,” you said, kissing the top of her head. “I’m the lucky one.”

⸻

The next day, she posted a picture on Instagram.

No makeup. Hoodie. Teary eyes, soft smile. Caption: “Still standing. Still singing. Still me.”

She didn’t check the comments.

But you did.

And this time, the love drowned out the noise.

Just like you promised it would.

#sabrina carpenter #sabrina carpenter x reader #sabrina carpenter x you #sabrina carpenter angst #angst #sabrina carpenter fluff #fluff

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princessseeun · 2 months ago

Text

Saint

pairings: bandmember!jay x m!reader

genre: fluff

🎵I'll Call You Mine - girl in red🎵

Jay didn’t believe in halos.

Not in the literal sense, at least. He didn’t think people could glow or that kindness was anything more than sugarcoated pity. But then again, Jay also didn’t believe in the idea of someone like M/N. Not until he saw him—sunlight pooling on his face as he stood on the courtyard stage, holding a clipboard and guiding underclassmen with a smile that looked too effortless to be real.

Jay had watched from the rooftop, his guitar case propped beside him. The courtyard echoed faintly with laughter and M/N’s voice. The whole school loved M/N. Teachers adored him. Students followed him. Jay didn’t.

He stared too long instead.

Jay liked loud things: distorted amps, screeching solos, his bandmates yelling over each other during rehearsal. But when he was alone, when it was just him and his Stratocaster, the world fell away. The noise became melody. And the noise in his head? It finally quieted.

That’s when he thought of M/N the most.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. A crush. An itch. Something that would fade.

Until one afternoon, M/N walked in on him playing.

Jay had claimed the old music room as his own. The school barely used it anymore—too dusty, too forgotten. That day, he was mid-riff, lost in a melody he'd been playing on loop for weeks. It didn’t have lyrics yet. Just emotion. Longing, maybe.

The door creaked open.

Jay froze.

M/N stepped in. “Sorry—oh.”

He smiled. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Jay blinked. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Neither are you.”

Touché.

Jay swallowed. “You heard that?”

M/N nodded, stepping closer. “It was beautiful.”

And Jay, for the first time in a long time, didn’t know what to say.

After that, M/N started showing up.

At first, it was just once. Then twice. Then every Tuesday and Thursday after classes. He'd sit cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by crumpled lyric sheets and half-eaten convenience store snacks Jay never remembered bringing.

They talked.

Jay learned M/N liked chamomile tea, carried hand sanitizer everywhere, and secretly hated math. M/N learned Jay’s guitar was named Stella, his favorite chord was E minor, and he bit his nails when he was nervous. (btw im not sure if this is accurate🥰)

M/N never pried. Never asked why Jay seemed distant or why he avoided eye contact when their fingers brushed.

Jay noticed everything. Especially the way M/N looked at him when he played.

Like Jay was something soft. Like he wasn’t a rumor or a mistake waiting to happen.

“You ever write lyrics?” Jay asked one day, handing M/N a blank page.

M/N shrugged, sheepish. “Not really.”

“Try.”

M/N did. They weren’t perfect. But they were honest.

Jay took the page, read it twice, and smiled.

“Mind if I use this?”

M/N’s eyes lit up. “Seriously?”

Jay nodded. “It fits the melody.”

“What melody?”

Jay strummed, slow and careful, the notes curling like smoke in the quiet room. The same melody M/N had first walked in on.

Jay met his eyes. “The one I started the day I saw you.”

M/N blinked. “Jay...”

Jay looked away. “Forget it.”

“I won’t.”

They didn’t label it.

Jay still kept to himself in the halls. M/N still smiled at everyone else. But after the final bell, it was their world. Jay would play. M/N would hum. Sometimes, they’d sit side by side in silence, words too fragile to speak.

One afternoon, M/N fell asleep on Jay’s shoulder. Jay didn’t move for an hour.

He just listened to the quiet and pretended his heart wasn’t beating loud enough to shake the walls.

Then came the festival.

Jay’s band was set to perform. It was their first time playing publicly.

M/N helped with setup, clipboard in hand as always, guiding chaos into order. Jay watched from backstage, fingers twitching with nerves. Not about the performance.

About the song.

“Saint,” it was called. M/N had helped him write half of it. The lyrics weren’t subtle. They spoke of halos, gentle smiles, and someone who didn’t judge the cracks in him.

Jay found M/N just before going on.

“Hey.”

M/N turned. “Nervous?”

Jay shook his head. “Terrified.”

M/N smiled. “You’ll be amazing.”

Jay stepped closer. “It’s about you, you know.”

M/N blinked. “I know.”

Jay leaned in, voice low. “Can I kiss you after?”

M/N flushed. “Only if the song’s good.”

Jay grinned. “Then I guess I’ll play my heart out.”

He did.

The crowd cheered. The lights blinded. But all Jay saw was M/N, standing near the stage, eyes shining.

When it was over, Jay barely made it offstage before M/N was there, arms wrapping around his neck.

“You were amazing.”

Jay pulled him close.

“So was the kiss.”

Later, they sat backstage. Jay’s fingers were sore. M/N leaned on his shoulder, humming the song.

Jay looked up.

Maybe he didn’t believe in halos. But he believed in M/N.

And that was enough.

#enha x male reader #enhypen x male reader #male idol x male reader #kpop x male reader #enhypen #jay x male reader #park jongseong #park jongseong x reader

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cami040405 · 2 months ago

Note

hello!! I love how you wrote your reader x Brahms and was wondering if u could do more wholesome content of them? I seriously can’t get over your one shot “reach for me” DVSKSJWVW - I’ve been going back and rereading it a few times loll

Hope u have a wonderful day <3

Oneshot: The Warmth of Quiet Things - Brahms Heelshire x Reader

Summary: On a rainy morning at the Heelshire estate, you find Brahms quietly sitting by the fire, soothed by the storm outside. Wrapped in a blanket together, you share a warm, peaceful moment as Brahms offers you a cup of tea—his way of caring and connecting.

A/N: I'm very happy and flattered that you liked the way I wrote Brahms, I really like the character and I hoped that Greta would end up with him at the end of the movie. I hope you enjoy this little oneshot, feel free to ask for more whenever you want.

The rain had started in the early morning hours, tapping gently against the tall, arched windows of the Heelshire estate like a polite visitor asking to be let in. The manor, old and creaky in all the usual places, seemed to exhale a heavy sigh as it settled into another grey day.

You didn’t mind the rain. In fact, you kind of liked it now. Living in this strange, secluded house with Brahms had made you appreciate the slow hush of rainy days—the way time seemed to stretch and soften around the edges, like the world had pressed “pause.”

Wrapped in one of Brahms’s oversized knit sweaters (which you’d long since claimed as your own), you padded barefoot through the hallway, following the scent of cinnamon and faint traces of burning wood. The fire was already crackling in the sitting room hearth. You paused in the doorway, quietly smiling.

Brahms was there.

He sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, legs curled under him like a boy too big for his own body, hair still damp from a recent bath. He was dressed in one of his softer cardigans, something pale and worn and stretched at the sleeves from the way he tugged on them when nervous. And he looked peaceful—for once—not caught in that storm of silence or sharp-eyed suspicion.

He was watching the flames, shoulders slack, as if the fire was telling him a story only he could hear.

You stepped in gently, your presence carefully announced by the floorboard that always groaned no matter how light your step.

He turned to look at you, and his eyes softened immediately.

“Morning,” you said, settling down beside him. You were close enough that your knees brushed his.

“Too loud to sleep,” he mumbled. “The rain... it’s loud in the walls.”

“It is,” you agreed, reaching for the blanket folded nearby and draping it over both of you. “But it’s kind of nice too. Safe. Like the house is singing.”

Brahms tilted his head slightly, considering that.

“You like the rain,” he murmured, more a statement than a question.

“I do. It makes me want to stay inside with you and do nothing all day.”

At that, he smiled. A small one—but real. You were always surprised by how expressive his face could be, even with such subtle movements. Sometimes it felt like you were watching a sun rise over the ocean after a long, cold night.

“I made tea,” he said shyly, then leaned over to grab the mug he’d placed carefully on the rug.

It was your favorite kind—he remembered. Even though he didn’t drink tea himself.

He handed it to you with both hands like it was something fragile, like offering you something meant more than the tea itself.

“Thank you, Brahms,” you said, brushing your fingers against his as you took it. “You’re getting really good at this. Taking care of me.”

“I like doing it,” he replied quietly. “Makes me feel... normal. Not broken.”

Your heart clenched, tender and aching all at once.

“You’re not broken,” you said gently, resting your head on his shoulder. He stiffened at first—physical affection still took getting used to—but then he relaxed, even leaned a little into you.

“You’re not,” you repeated. “You’re just… different. And that’s okay.”

There was silence for a while. Just the fire snapping softly and the rain drumming gently on the roof.

“Will you stay?” he asked suddenly. The question came out rough, like it scraped against something inside him. “I mean… forever. Here. With me.”

You turned your face into his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him—lavender soap, old books, and the faintest trace of cinnamon from the tea.

“Yes, Brahms,” you whispered. “I’ll stay. I want to stay.”

He let out a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh, wasn’t quite a whimper. Just raw relief. And then he leaned his head against yours, fingers trembling as he reached out to hold your hand beneath the blanket.

Neither of you said anything else. You just watched the fire together, wrapped in warmth and quiet, while the rain sang its lullaby against the windows.

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dakilynn · 2 months ago

Text

In the moment

The common room was lit by the soft glow of the TV, the volume low enough not to wake anyone, but loud enough to fill the room with background noise. Someone had tossed on a movie — one of those cheesy action comedies no one admitted to liking, but no one turned off either.

You were sandwiched between Gaz and Soap on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in your lap that had long since been picked clean. The room smelled faintly of snacks, laundry detergent, and the kind of comfort that only came with rare stretches of downtime.

Soap’s arm was stretched lazily along the back of the couch, not quite touching you — but close. Close enough that when you shifted to get comfortable, your shoulder brushed against his chest. He didn’t move away.

It was late, the movie was dragging, and your eyes were growing heavier by the second. You didn’t mean to lean against him. Didn’t mean for your head to rest lightly against his shoulder, or for your hand to end up against his side. It just… happened.

Soap froze for a second, like a soldier surprised by a truce. Then slowly, carefully, he relaxed into it — as if the weight of you against him was something he didn’t realize he needed until it was there.

He tilted his head just enough to glance down.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice low and thick with amusement, “ye pickin’ me over the couch, or’s that popcorn crash hittin’ ye hard?”

You didn’t answer — not really. Just a soft, sleepy sound as you nuzzled in slightly closer, your breath warm through the fabric of his shirt.

Soap grinned, warmth blooming in his chest. He let his hand rest gently against your arm, thumb brushing back and forth without thinking.

“Yeah,” he murmured, barely above a breath, “ye’re trouble, ye ken that?”

You didn’t hear him.

But the way your fingers curled lightly into his shirt said maybe, just maybe… you felt it.

For once, everything was quiet — no gunfire, no missions, no yelling through comms. Just the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing and the subtle weight of you against his side.

Soap let his head tip back against the couch cushion, eyes flicking from the movie to the curve of your cheek resting against his shoulder. His arm, now fully around you, held you close like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You trusted him. Enough to fall asleep on him like this — soft and warm and unguarded. And for the life of him, he didn’t know what to do with that.

He should’ve been teasing you already. Should’ve made some dumb comment, nudged you awake, passed it off like nothing.

But instead, he just sat there, holding you like something fragile and rare. Something he didn’t want to mess up by breathing too loud.

He looked down again, his voice a quiet murmur, almost like a confession.

“Christ… ye’re gonna wreck me, aren’t ye?”

“Aw, would you look at that,” Gaz’s voice cut through the quiet like a smirk made audible.

Soap startled slightly, just enough tae glare at him while trying not to jostle you. “Keep yer voice doon, she’s sleepin’.”

“No kidding,” Gaz replied, plopping down across from you with an obnoxiously smug grin. “On you, mate. That’s new.”

Price wandered in next, raising a brow at the sight before him. “Didn’t think I’d live to see Johnny ‘restless leg’ MacTavish sit still for more than five minutes.”

“She’s the exception,” Ghost said from the doorway, deadpan as ever — but the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement.

Soap rolled his eyes, but his hand instinctively tightened around your shoulder protectively. “Ye lot finished?”

“Oh, not even close,” Gaz said, already pulling out his phone. “But don’t worry — I’ll only send this to everyone.”

“Ye send that and Ah swear tae God—”

“She’s got good taste, you know,” Ghost added dryly, ignoring the bickering. “Bit of a soft spot for idiots with accents.”

Soap flipped him off without looking away from you, who let out the softest sigh in your sleep and curled closer.

And suddenly, none of the teasing mattered. None of it ever did, not when you were in his arms like this.

He smirked, voice low but sure.

“Yeah, well… guess Ah’ve got good taste too.”

You woke slowly, blinking against the soft flicker of the TV light and the warmth that surrounded you.

At some point, someone had started another movie — something loud and full of explosions, the unmistakable sound of a Marvel fight scene playing out in the background. The screen lit the room in pulses of red and blue as Iron Man soared across it. The room smelled faintly of fresh popcorn again, another bowl passed around between the others. Soap must’ve snagged more during the switch.

The rest of the team was still there, scattered across the common room. Gaz and Ghost had taken the floor with a mess of blankets and pillows that hadn’t been there earlier. Price was half-dozing in one of the armchairs, his arms crossed and head tilted back. The atmosphere had shifted from casual hangout to full-blown sleepover.

And through all of it, you were still curled up against Soap — your cheek pressed to his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you. His fingers were carding gently through your hair, slow and absent, like he’d been doing it for a while without even thinking.

Your heart stuttered.

He was so warm. So solid. So... there.

You didn’t move — not yet. Just let yourself breathe him in, the faint scent of his cologne and the warmth of his shirt beneath your cheek grounding you. His hand was still gently combing through your hair, over and over in a rhythm that made you want to melt.

It felt dangerous — how easy it was to let yourself relax here, to sink into him like you belonged. Like you hadn’t spent weeks pretending this wasn’t exactly what you wanted.

God, when had it started?

Maybe it was that mission in Berlin — cold as hell, adrenaline high, and your gear soaked through after sprinting five blocks to cover a civilian. You’d barely caught your breath when Soap had dragged you behind a crumbling wall, shoved his vest off, and thrown it over you like a damn human furnace.

“Can’t have ye freezin’ tae death, love,” he said wi’ that grin that always hit a wee bit too deep. “Ah need my favourite teammate alive, yeah?”

You’d laughed, even as your fingers had gone numb. But something about the way he’d said it — like you mattered more than the mission, more than just being a name on his comms — had stuck with you ever since.

That was the moment.

Right then, in the middle of that busted street with his ridiculous warmth and stupid perfect smile, you’d started falling. Slowly. Quietly.

And now… now you were lying on his chest while he played with your hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stayed still for a moment, pretending to still be asleep, because... god, this was nice. His fingers combed through your hair with such care, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it, like touching you this way had already become second nature.

“Ye’re awake,” he murmured suddenly, voice quiet and low — that lilting Scottish brogue wrapping around the words like warmth.

You hesitated before answering, your voice still husky from sleep. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you…”

“Didnae mind. ,” he said quickly, and then softer, “Still don’t.”

You lifted your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. They were soft and so uncharacteristically open it made your breath catch. One of his hands was still tangled lightly in your hair, the other resting along your back, grounding you.

“…You’re comfortable,” you offered, like that was a reasonable explanation for literally draping yourself over him in front of your entire team.

Soap’s grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Comfortable, huh? High praise, that.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, but didn’t move away. If anything, you let your head drop back to his chest, cheeks warm.

“Ah mean it,” he said after a beat, quiet again. “Could get used tae this.”

Your breath caught, heart fluttering in a way you really hoped he couldn’t feel.

“…You already have,” you whispered before you could think better of it.

Soap froze for half a second — and then his chest rumbled beneath you with a low, surprised chuckle. His fingers brushed back a loose strand of hair from your cheek, slower this time, more deliberate.

“Yeah,” he said, almost like it was a realization. “Reckon Ah have.”

Neither of you said anything for a long moment. The movie played on in the background — another crash, more shouting — but it all faded beneath the steady beat of his heart under your ear.

His fingers kept moving through your hair like it was something sacred.

You weren’t sure you’d ever felt so safe and so exposed at the same time.

He exhaled softly, like he was working up to something.

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to — not when his fingers lingered at your jaw, not when his thumb swept across your cheek like he was trying to memorize you by touch alone.

The others were still half-awake around the room, but none of it mattered. Not the movie, not the popcorn, not Gaz’s smug little grin or Ghost’s subtle glances. For once, it was quiet in your head. No adrenaline, no noise. Just you and him.

Soap let out a slow breath, like he was trying to steady himself. Then he shifted just a little, enough to tilt your chin up gently. Just enough that you had no choice but to look at him.

His eyes flicked down to your lips.

“Kin ah—?”

“Yeah,” you whispered before he even finished the question.

And then he kissed you.

Soft. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to want this as badly as he did — like he’d been holding back for a long, long time. His lips brushed yours once, twice, then deepened slowly, hand cradling the back of your neck like something precious.

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself. There was a low sound in his throat, barely audible — something between a groan and a sigh, like relief and hunger tangled into one.

The kiss didn’t last long. Just enough to make your heart stutter and your thoughts spin. Just enough for him to pull back and rest his forehead against yours, breathing a little harder.

“Fuck,” he murmured, “been wantin’ tae do that for ages.”

You swallowed, your voice barely a breath. “You’re not the only one.”

“Thought I was imaginin’ it,” he said low, his thumb brushing lightly over the curve of your shoulder. “The way ye looked at me sometimes.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You weren’t,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I just… didn’t want to ruin anything.”

His chest rose and fell beneath you, slower now. More controlled.

“Ye wouldnae have ruined a thing,” he said after a pause, the words sounding rough — like he hated that you’d ever thought otherwise. “I’ve been tryin’ not tae scare ye off.”

“You couldn’t,” you murmured, and meant it.

You shifted just slightly, enough to look up at him again — your chin resting on his chest, eyes meeting his. His face was so close. Closer than it had ever been.

It wasn’t just warmth in his eyes now. It was something deeper. Something careful. Something real.

“Maybe we’re both just really bad at this,” you said with a small, nervous laugh.

Soap’s grin curved slow, a little crooked. “Aye. But at least we’re shite at it together.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, the knot in your chest finally starting to unwind. “Mm. Chaos with company doesn’t sound too bad.”

His hand slid to the back of your head again, fingers threading through your hair like it was second nature. “Then let’s no’ wait for another bloody mission tae screw it all up.”

You tilted your head, a teasing glint in your eyes. “Is that your way of asking me out, MacTavish?”

He smirked, thumb tracing an idle line along your spine. “It’s my way o’ sayin’ I like this. You. Us. And I’m no’ daft enough tae let it slip through my fingers.”

You bit your lip, heart skipping just a little. “So what you’re saying is… you’re hopelessly into me.”

“Completely buggered,” he said, deadpan — but his eyes were warm, gleaming with affection.

You grinned and nuzzled closer, your voice a little smug. “Good. You’re stuck with me.”

His arm tightened around you, hand spreading steady across your back. He dropped a kiss to the top of your head — slow and a little too soft to be casual.

“I’ll take stuck o’er lonely any day, love.”

From the floor, Gaz groaned just loud enough to be heard. “Bloody hell, finally.”

Soap didn’t even look over. “Jealousy doesnae suit ye, Kyle.”

“I’m just saying,” Gaz said with a smirk, “we’ve all had a betting pool going for weeks.”

“…Who won?”

“Ghost,” Gaz replied, shaking his head. “Guy bet on tonight. The exact day, Johnny.”

Soap looked toward the man in question, who merely gave a slow shrug from his spot near the door. “She looked at you different this morning,” Ghost said simply. “Figured you’d finally grow a pair.”

Soap gave a dramatic sigh, holding you tighter. “Yer all absolute nightmares, swear tae God.”

“You’re welcome,” Price added without opening his eyes.

You just smiled against Soap’s chest, letting the warmth of his arms and the ridiculousness of your team settle over you.

Home wasn’t always a place.

Sometimes… it was a person.

And right now? It was all of this.

It started subtly.

A slow shift here. A quiet adjustment there. One of his legs stretched out on the couch, and you instinctively curled closer, fitting against his side like you’d done it a hundred times. His arm stayed draped around you, but at some point, his hand had slipped under the hem of your hoodie — not in a bold way, just resting against the bare skin at your waist, thumb brushing tiny, lazy circles that made your stomach flip every time.

You’d long since given up pretending you weren’t melting into him.

“You alright there, love?” Soap murmured near your ear, his voice low and teasing as he leaned down a little, breath brushing your skin.

You tilted your head up just enough to meet his eyes. “Perfect.”

He grinned, eyes gleaming. “Aye, ye are.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warming, and nudged him lightly with your elbow. “You’re such a menace.”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t already ken.”

A handful of popcorn flew across the room, smacking Soap right in the chest.

“Oi!” Gaz called from the floor without looking away from the screen. “Some of us are tryin’ to hear the plot, not listen to you two flirt like you’re in a bloody rom-com.”

“We’re watching a Marvel movie,” you said with a grin. “A little flirting is practically mandatory.”

“Yeah, well, save it for the post-credits scene,” Gaz grumbled, though his smirk betrayed him.

“Let ’em be,” Price said from his chair, voice thick with amusement. “We’ve all seen this one before.”

Ghost made a vague noise of agreement, more focused on the screen than anything else — but even he didn’t sound annoyed.

Soap chuckled low in his throat and shifted just slightly, guiding you so your head was back on his chest and his hand returned to its spot in your hair like it belonged there. You settled against him again with a quiet sigh, your fingers curling into the hem of his sleeve.

Eventually, the movie settled into a quieter scene — something with dialogue and swelling music — and for a while, everything just felt… still. Safe.

You could feel the way his heartbeat slowed under your cheek, the way his body relaxed completely around you. Like he wasn’t just letting you in — he was choosing to stay. And when his lips brushed the top of your head again, soft and unhurried, you didn’t need words to know what it meant.

You weren’t just teammates anymore.

Not really.

By the time the third movie started playing, the rest of the team had mostly gone quiet. The popcorn bowl sat half-finished on the coffee table, and someone had turned the lights down even lower, the room bathed in soft blue from the screen.

You didn’t remember shifting again, but now you were fully tucked against Soap’s side, one leg loosely draped over his, your fingers idly curled in the fabric of his shirt near his ribs. His arm was snug around your back, and his other hand had stilled in your hair, resting comfortably against your crown. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek was hypnotic.

Neither of you spoke.

There was nothing to say.

The room was warm, the movie a low hum in the background, and Soap — Johnny — was still, quiet, content beneath you like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Already half-asleep, you felt Soap’s chin dip slightly as he rested it on top of your head, his breath slow and steady. You shifted just enough to press your face into his chest, your fingers curling tighter into his shirt.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

Just held you like you were the softest thing he’d ever touched.

As sleep pulled at the edges of your thoughts, you felt it — his lips pressing once, featherlight, against your hairline.

Then his voice, barely a whisper, rough and almost lost in the sounds of the movie.

“Night, bonnie.”

And then there was nothing but warmth, quiet breathing, and the steady thrum of two hearts beating in time.

The rest of the team took notice, but no one said anything. No need.

Price was the first to stand, quietly gathering empty bottles and snack wrappers with a tired sigh. Ghost nodded toward the pair on the couch, expression unreadable but gentler than usual.

Gaz grinned as he looked back at you, curled up against Soap like you belonged there. “Didn’t think he’d ever let someone that close.”

“Looks like she’s the exception,” Price murmured, flipping off the floor lamp as they quietly filed out of the room.

The door clicked shut behind them.

On the couch, the movie played softly, long past the point where either of you could follow the plot. Soap’s grip stayed firm around your waist, even in sleep, as if his body refused to let go of what it had finally found. Your hand was curled into his shirt, your breath feathering softly against his neck.

Neither of you stirred.

Wrapped in quiet warmth and each other, you slept on — tangled together in the soft hush of something just beginning.

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