#thread: a map through time and space

[cardsknight]

@auras3ye asked "What are you gonna do about it?" // Over the Garden Wall Starters -- Accepting

"I'm gonna do the very best I can ..." he muttered with dry sarcasm; it was a defense mechanism, really, his sense of humor -- it tended t mask the absolute chaos and panic he felt in moments like this when he actually didn't know what he was doing.

Like, you know, being in a strange place ... with the WRONG MAP.

FFS.

"You wouldn't ... happen to know ... where the nearest bus terminal is, would you?" At least there, he could find accurate maps, right?

[zaynessbeloved]

The door had barely clicked shut before his hands were on you.

Still sun-warmed and tasting faintly of salt, you barely had time to laugh before Rafayel’s mouth captured yours—hungry, molten, reverent. He pressed you back against the nearest wall like he couldn’t bear the space between you a moment longer, his fingers skating over your skin slick with sunscreen and sun, and want, barely held back all day.

“You’re cruel, you know that?” he moaned against your lips, his voice low and soaked with longing, words curling around you like silk. “Wearing that little thing… knowing what it does to me…”

His hand slid around your waist, fingers teasing the strings of the bikini he’d picked for you months ago—delicate, barely there, the color designed to make your skin glow. He’d forgotten you even still had it. You hadn’t. You’d saved it.

And judging by the state of him now—kiss-bruised mouth, flushed cheeks, eyes molten and dragging across your chest like they were starving—he hadn’t been prepared for the way you looked in it. Perfect. Divine. His.

“You looked like a dream out there, cutie…” he breathed into your skin, his lips trailing down the column of your throat, damp and shivery. “Like something the sea spat out just for me to worship. You should’ve seen yourself.”

“I did,” you murmured with a sly smile, letting your fingers toy with the hem of his linen shirt, sticky now with salt and sweat, clinging to the hard lines of his torso. “You made sure of it, the way you couldn’t stop staring.”

He groaned deep and low, and rutted his hips against yours gently, letting you feel just how true that was.

“I tried to behave,” Rafayel whined, dragging his teeth gently across your shoulder, tongue flicking out to soothe the sting. “I was so good, cutie. I played in the sand. I let you win that race to the pier even though you cheated. I even let that lifeguard flirt with you for two whole minutes without setting the entire coastline on fire.”

You laughed, breathless and heat-drunk, and tugged him closer, nails ghosting down his back until he shuddered against you.

“You’re not very good at pretending you didn’t enjoy every second of it,” you whispered.

“Of you? Sun-kissed and smiling and wearing the damn bikini I hand-selected with trembling hands and the purest intentions?” he nipped at your jaw and moaned like he was in pain. “Cruel. Absolutely heartless. I should file a complaint to the gods, really.”

“Mhm, still…here you are,” you murmured, dragging your tongue just behind the shell of his ear, delighting in the way he gasped, “begging to be punished.”

His head dropped to your shoulder with a whimper, his hair damp with sweat, strands sticking to his flushed neck. His body was so warm pressed to yours, all taut muscle and bare chest, the heat between you clinging like second skin. Your bikini still clung wet and snug to your hips, a contrast to the way his hands roamed like he was trying to undo every tie with touch alone.

“I’m not begging,” he breathed, hands skimming lower, lower, drawing your thigh up around his hip so the contact turned dizzying. “You already know I need you so damn bad, don't ya?.”

“Mmhm.”

“Cutie…” his voice dropped, silk dipped in sin. “You taste like sun and salt and every dream I’ve ever had. I need to touch all of you. Right now.”

And he did—every inch, every curve, every place you’d teased him with that wicked little smirk across the shoreline. His palms were firm and reverent, sliding along the slick warmth of your skin, mapping the path from ribcage to hip with a devotion that bordered on religious. He pressed open-mouthed kisses wherever his hands traveled—under your jaw, the valley between your breasts, the soft curve of your stomach—his moans constant, muffled against your skin.

“You were made for this,” he whispered between kisses, dazed and drunk on you. “For the sea. For me.”

Your fingers threaded through his lavender strands, now damp and curling slightly at the ends, and pulled until he looked up at you—eyes blown dark, lashes wet, lips kiss-swollen and parted with want.

“Take me to bed,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He groaned again, like the words had physically knocked the breath from his lungs.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he murmured, lifting you easily into his arms, mouth already on yours again, deeper this time, messier, made of sun-warmed desperation and hours of wanting you too much.

“Hold on tight, cutie,” he whispered against your lips. “Because I plan on making you forget your own name.”

He carried you like second nature, strong arms cradling you with all the reverence of a man handling his most precious work of art. His skin glistened, sun-slicked and flushed, his breath shallow where it brushed against your collarbone. The bedroom was already heavy with heat, both from the weather and from you—your body still humming from a day of being watched, worshipped, wanted.

He laid you out on the bed like you were the only masterpiece he’d ever cared to study, eyes roving across your still-wet bikini, the one he hand-picked as a gift a while back, his name practically stitched into the way it hugged your hips. You stretched languidly against the sheets, smirking, and that was all it took—he was on you in seconds.

“You’re cruel, you know that?” he murmured against your stomach, lips trailing down with soft, reverent kisses that made your thighs twitch. “Wearing that little thing… knowing what it does to me…and still smirking like you’re enjoying seeing me at your feet, desperate for a taste of you.”

“I won’t lie, you look so good like this,” you breathed, fingers tangling in his damp hair just to feel the weight of him, the heat, the tremble. “All flushed and needy.”

His hands slid up your sides, palms wide and hungry, and his mouth pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses over your belly, then down, tongue flicking at the curve of your navel. He moaned like he was feasting, like the taste of sunscreen and you was too much for him to bear. Then his teeth tugged at one of the delicate strings of your bikini bottoms, slowly, dramatically, until it came loose with a whisper.

You laughed softly, curling your legs around him. “Using your teeth now?”

“I was being polite before,” he groaned, biting softly at your hip. “But I’ve gone too long without tasting you, cutie, and I’m this close to losing the last of my sanity.”

He moved to come up for a kiss, eyes glassy, mouth parted—and just as his lips neared yours, you pressed your foot firmly to his chest.

“Ah—” he choked on his breath, eyes widening as you pushed him back with just enough strength to keep him pinned where he was. “Oh, you’re evil.”

You smiled, slow and wicked. “Mhm, you love it.”

“I do,” he groaned, falling back against the sheets with a dramatic flair, flushed and completely, hopelessly gone. “Gods, I do. Look at what you’re doing to me.”

You trailed your toes down his chest, letting your heel press to the waistband of his swim shorts. He shivered, hard. Then arched a brow at you, pupils blown wide, chest rising with sharp, shallow breaths.

“You’re going to kill me, cutie,” he whispered. “One day, you’ll smile at me like that, and I’ll just drop dead.”

“Mmm, even so,” you murmured, spreading your thighs in invitation, “you’re still breathing now, no?”

He stilled. Then slowly, like a predator tasting victory, he lowered himself again, hands curling under your thighs, dragging you down the bed with a strength that stole your breath. His eyes were locked on yours as he placed a kiss at the inside of your knee. Then another. Then lower.

When he reached your inner thigh, he hummed a sound that was more growl than sigh.

“I love you,” he murmured like it was a curse, voice cracking. “I love you so much it hurts. You’ve ruined me.”

And then he devoured you. His mouth was hot and slick, tongue moving with practiced, fervent devotion—every stroke tailored to the exact sound he wanted to rip from your throat. He moaned into you, like the taste of you could keep him alive for centuries. Like this was a high he’d never come down from.

Your fingers found his hair—his wild, tangled, damp purple strands—and twisted. His breath stuttered. You pulled, and he groaned, hips grinding into the mattress like he was unraveling just from the pleasure of giving.

“Rafayel—” Your voice broke.

“Mmm, say it again,” he whimpered, mouth not stopping for a second. “You sound so pretty when you’re about to come for me, cutie.”

You whined, eyes fluttering shut as your body writhed under the spell of his mouth, his fingers now working in tandem with his tongue, curling and coaxing every ounce of heat from your core.

And just as you were teetering on that delicious edge—he stopped.

You blinked, dazed and breathless. “What…?”

His mouth was glistening, chin wet, eyes dark and electric. That familiar smirk pulled at his lips as he slowly crawled up your body like a storm, all heat and weight and tension.

“You didn’t think I’d let you stay in charge forever, did you?” he purred, his voice like velvet dragged over flame.

You swallowed, eyes wide.

“Now,” he murmured, nudging your legs open wider with his knee, pinning your wrists gently above your head, “be a good girl and let me show you exactly what you do to me. Let me make you feel so, so good, yeah?”

Of course he loved seeing you like this—sprawled out beneath him, glowing from sweat and sun, pupils wide with need, lips parted with unspoken pleas. Your body arched toward his, trembling on the edge of that final fall, but he denied you just a little longer, dragging it out like the artist he was, savoring every second of your unraveling.

His gaze devoured you, dark and gleaming, like watching you come undone beneath him was a masterpiece he’d been dying to finish.

But you… gods, you knew how to coax him. Your fingers slid down, lazy and deliberate, tracing the thick outline of his arousal through the soft fabric of his swim shorts. Just enough to make a point. Just enough to make him twitch in your hand.

He whined, a sharp, guttural sound that melted into a growl as his hips jerked forward instinctively.

“Oh no you don’t,” he breathed, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head again, harder this time, his frame hovering over you like the storm he always carried inside him. “You don’t get to tease and touch and pretend you’re not trying to kill me here, cutie.”

You barely had time to smirk before his mouth crashed into yours—wild and open and hot, all teeth and tongue and heat. He kissed you like a man starved, like he needed the taste of your moans to stay breathing.

Your bodies tangled, slick and desperate, the remaining pieces of clothing falling inevitably and rapidly to the floor. His hand found himself, stroking with a shudder before guiding his cock to your entrance—and you barely managed a gasp before he thrust in with a single, delicious motion, hips slamming flush against yours with no patience left to spare.

You bit into his neck with a cry, half praise, half plea, legs wrapping tight around his waist as he drove into you without restraint, without pretense, chasing something raw and sacred in the heat of your joined bodies.

But it was what came next that made you clench around him with a sharp, helpless moan. You felt it first—the frantic movement of his hips, the tremble of his breath against your throat—and then you heard it. Words. Not in your language. Not in anything you could understand.

Lemurian.

He was whispering it into your skin, into your mouth, your neck, your chest. Rough syllables, fevered and low, thick with worship and desperation, tumbling from his lips between gasps and groans. The ancient rhythm of his native tongue wrapped around your body like a spell.

You didn’t know what he was saying—gods, you wished you did—but the sound of it, the way it trembled out of him like prayer, ignited something deep and primal in your chest.

“Rafayel—” your voice broke, almost pleading. “Say it again.”

He growled, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his temple as he thrust harder, deeper. And then it came. A string of Lemurian, slower this time, more deliberate—followed by the only words you did understand. The ones he had taught you in the hush of a moonlit night, laughing as you struggled to pronounce them, only to melt when you finally did.

“You’re mine.”

It hit you like a wave crashing through your core—his voice, his rhythm, the way he buried himself so deep inside you it felt like you would never be whole without him there.

Your body tightened, back arching violently as you cried out his name, your release crashing into you in full, blinding waves.

Rafayel groaned, deep and broken, as your body clenched around him like a vice, and he followed—hips stuttering, voice hoarse and filled with reverence as he spilled himself inside you, still murmuring Lemurian into your skin like a prayer offered to the gods.

When the storm finally passed, he collapsed onto you, his breath ragged, face buried in your neck.

“Mine,” he whispered again, softer this time. “Always, cutie.”

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

Eternal Sunshine

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: Bob has come to the terms he likes you, he’s perfectly fine with the dynamic you two have going on, just friends. But when the guy on the team who gets on his nerves constantly decides he wants a flirty dynamic with you, his calm facade falters leading to a crabby, sassy and mean Bob.

WC: 2.4K

A/N: This was a request! Feel free to also requests to my inbox!

⸻

Bob Reynolds was used to being the quiet one.

In a team like the Thunderbolts, a group built on loud opinions, clashing egos, and wildly divergent moral compasses… Bob faded into the background like a shadow on the wall. He preferred it that way. Yelena and Alexei could never go more than ten minutes without yelling at each other, their arguments somehow both absurd and serious. Ava hovered on the edge, arms crossed, her energy signature humming like an angry hornet whenever things escalated too far. Bucky playing the “adult” all the time, didn’t talk unless he had something worth saying, which usually meant one deadpan line that had the rest of the group wheezing.

John, of course, was in the center of it all, loud, brash, entirely too confident in a way that made Bob a little bitter.

And then there was you.

You were a ray of sunshine. Quippy with Yelena, as energetic as Alexei, could coax an actual smile out of Ava, somehow vibed with Bucky’s dated refrences better than Bob ever had, And were also far too friendly with John. Which, while fine on paper, was becoming Bob’s personal hell in real time.

But Bob didn’t get jealous. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. You floated between them all so effortlessly it was like you belonged to the chaos, like you were born to thrive in the eye of the storm.

To Bob, you were something else entirely.

You were sunshine essentially. Not the blinding kind, not harsh. You were that golden hour stuff, soft and warm and everywhere, even when you’re not looking.

Being around you was like standing in sunlight after years underground. So golden and soft you forget how long you lived without it, overwhelming to the point where it’s almost too much, but you can’t go back once you’ve felt it.

You were a steady balm against the splinters of reality he still hadn’t fully adjusted to. The memory blackouts, the unbearable quiet between missions, the fear of remembering too much. Your kindness was never forced, never pitying. It snuck in quietly, like sunlight bleeding through old curtains, softening the edges of the thing inside him that still threatened to split open.

And for a while, it felt like maybe you saw him that way too.

Until John started calling you sweetheart.

At first, it was a joke. A teasing nickname thrown around. Coming back from a mission from just you and John had brought you suddenly closer. You honestly hadn’t seemed to mind. You rolled with it, elbowed him, rolled your eyes, laughed when he leaned into your space. But Bob noticed the subtle shifts. The closeness. The easy intimacy. how you looked up at him sometimes like he was actually funny. Things no one should even look into that much.

Bob tried to ignore it.

But during a team mission debrief.

You were seated beside John, both of you bruised and still glowing from the adrenaline high. The tablet sat between you, flickering with tactical footage. You leaned in close, shoulders pressed together. John’s fingers brushed yours as he pointed out something on the map. You rolled your eyes, grinning, and elbowed him in the ribs. John gave an exaggerated grunt and dramatically collapsed against your shoulder like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

The whole thing was so casual. So effortless. So intimate it made Bob’s skin prickle.

He was seated across the couch, tension crawling up his spine, jaw clenched tight enough that he felt his molars grind. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his pants, toying with the loose threads in his pockets to distract himself. No one else seemed to notice. But Bob’s entire world had narrowed to the sight of you and Walker, and the sound of your laugh a sound he hadn’t heard directed at him in what felt like weeks.

“You two done making googly eyes because the rest of us would like to actually assess the footage.” he accidentally muttered too loud, not loud enough for everyone to hear but perfectly aimed in Y/n’s direction.

The tablet went silent. Heads turned.

Yelena arched an eyebrow, slowly swiveling in her chair like a cat sensing drama. “Someone’s cranky.”

Bob didn’t look at her. His eyes were still locked on you. Or maybe John. It was hard to tell.

Bucky glanced over from where he was perched, his expression unreadable. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing.” Bob said, already in too deep to back out with a sharp little smile. “Just waiting for these two to wrap up their audition for Love Island.”

You blinked, your smile faltering. “Excuse me?”

John leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the sudden shift. “Easy, Bob. Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

The room went still at that.

Bob tilted his head. “Mm. That’s one word for it.”

“Oh, come on,” John grinned. “Tell me you’re not jealous.” He repeated

Bob raised an eyebrow. “Jealous? Of what? Your impeccable ability to manspread and mansplain at the same time? Truly awe-inspiring.”

Yelena made a choked noise. Ava sighed deeply like she was reconsidering her life choices. Alexei muttered “burn” under his breath and reached for popcorn that wasn’t there.

“Also I’d need to care first.” Bob blabbered on, mouth moving faster then his ability to think. His voice dropped to a different register, Not just annoyance, but hurt. “And I don’t.”

That was a lie. An obvious one.

Yelena let out a slow whistle.

You stood slowly, your posture stiff, arms crossed over your chest. “Okay. What’s your problem?”

Bob met your eyes and shrugged one shoulder with theatrical indifference. “Nothing.” He snapped.

Bob never snapped at Y/n. Hell, he barely raised his voice. He didn’t let himself feel like this ever. But right now, the heat in his eyes was unmistakable.

John made a face. “Dude, what is your deal?”

“My deal.” Bob said, tilting his head, “is that I don’t usually have to sit through an entire season of the bachelor till 5 pm.”

That earned a laugh from Ava. Even Bucky smirked.

You didn’t laugh. You leaned forward instead, brows drawing together. “Are you seriously upset about… what? Me and John being friends?”

John stood. “You’re pushing it, man.”

Bob also stood up turned to him, lip curling. “Or what? You’ll throw your shield at me and miss again?”

That did it.

Alexei made a low oooh sound from the back of the room like he was watching a bar fight brew. Ava, ever the queen of patience, groaned under her breath and rubbed her temple. Bucky didn’t move, but his eyes narrowed in warning.

And you, your whole face changed.

The humor was gone. The teasing edge wiped clean. What was left was hurt and underneath that, fury.

You stepped between them, planting yourself like a wall. Your voice was tight, controlled. “Why are you being like this?”

But Bob couldn’t answer that.

Because how could he say the truth?

Bob hesitated. Just for a second.

That he’d watched you slowly drift toward someone else while he stood still. That the idea of you smiling at John, laughing at John, made something ugly claw at the inside of his chest. That he missed you before he even really had you.

His face falters realizing there was no reasonable way to end this without confessing so he held up a hand. “I- its-its nothing. I’m sorry Y/n, just- you guys- I’m just lacking sleep, I’m not- I can’t think straight.”

You didn’t say anything. You just kept staring at him, like you were trying to find the real meaning behind this.

Bob didn’t let you.

He timidly kept his head down turning around to quickly escaping the room, expression unreadable but his footsteps tapped against the floor like he was grounding himself. Like he was still trying to play it cool.

But beneath all the wit and all the sass, the truth pulsed steady and unspoken.

He cared.

Too much.

And you were slipping away.

And worst of all… that he cared.

More than he was ready to admit.

So instead, he decided to just let you go. Who was he to take away your happiness even if that happiness was with John.

⸻

Bob had been avoiding everyone for days, but he’d been avoiding you most of all.

After the blow-up in the debrief room, after the sarcasm, the jealousy, the lingering look in his eyes like he wished he could take it all back, you’d given him time. At first. But now, it was getting ridiculous. You barely saw him at meals. He left the gym before you arrived. Every time you entered a room, he seemed to remember something urgent that pulled him out the door.

So when you passed his room and saw the door slightly ajar with warm light spilling out, you didn’t knock.

You pushed it open and stepped in.

The room was dim, lit only by a shaft of sunlight cutting across the floor. Bob was curled up on his side, sprawled sideways on the bed like he’d flopped there and forgotten to get up. He was wearing a hoodie that was definitely older than the both of you, the hood pulled halfway over his head, sleeves covering his hands. A paperback was open on his chest with a cracked spine and dog-eared pages, one hand holding the page like he’d been rereading the same line for twenty minutes.

He looked up, startled.

You crossed your arms. “You can’t avoid me forever.”

Bob sighed and shut the book, fingers tensing around the cover. “Wasn’t trying to.”

You raised an eyebrow and took a step closer. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you were sprinting in the opposite direction every time I breathed near a hallway.”

Bob sat up with a sigh, book slipping to the side. He didn’t make room on the bed, didn’t invite you closer, just said:

“Look, if this is about what I said in the debrief-“

“It is.”

“Then I already said I was sorry.” His tone was airy, deflective. But his eyes didn’t meet yours. “It was dumb. I was cranky. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. You and John can keep doing your little buddy-cop couple thing. It’s fine.”

You blinked. “Bob-“

“I mean, really.” he kept going, faster now like if he said it quickly enough it wouldn’t sting. “You guys flirt. It’s fine. It’s whatever. I don’t have a claim on you. I don’t want to have a claim on you. I-”

“Bob.”

That finally stopped him.

You crossed the room and stood at the edge of the bed, arms folded.

“Sit up.”

“I am sitting.” he muttered, looking up at you with those tired, searching eyes.

“Sit properly.”

He shifted upright, knees pulled close. You sat beside him, close enough that your thighs touched. He immediately stiffened, then relaxed like his body couldn’t decide if this was a threat or a prayer being answered.

You didn’t smile. “Actually tell me why. Please?”

Bob had a long pause and shifted upright. “Because. Look I don’t want to… I don’t know. Make things weird.”

“Too late.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Figured.”

You sat on the edge of the bed, facing him fully. “So? Talk.”

Bob looked at you, then away. He picked at a loose thread on the edge of his sleeve. “Look, what I said in the debrief… it wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You said you didn’t care, remember?” you said. “Said it was fine if John and I were being all coupley.”

“I do care.” he finally whispered. “More than I should. More than makes sense. I’ve been trying not to screw it up. Trying to stay out of your way. And then every time I look at you and John, it’s like- like I missed the shot before I even knew I had it.”

He hesitated.

Then, voice low and rough, he said, “The truth is that I like you. That I’ve liked you for a while. And watching you with him all flirty and close and happy- it messed with my head.”

You stared at him, unmoving. Bob swallowed, pushing on.

“I didn’t mean to be cruel. I thought maybe if I stayed quiet, it would go away. That if I buried it deep enough, it’d stop hurting.” He laughed once, hollow. “Spoiler alert, it didn’t.”

He looked down, cheeks flushed pink. “I didn’t know how to tell you. So I got snarky. Which is not… my best strategy, clearly.”

You smiled, slow and fond. “Definitely not.”

He looked back up at you, and this time, there was no deflection in his eyes. No shields. Just the honest, aching truth.

“I just really like you,” he said softly. “So much it makes me weird.”

Your laugh broke the tension.

“You are weird.” you said, nudging your shoulder into his.

Bob gave a small huff of a laugh and dropped his head against yours. “Yeah, well. So are you.”

Silence washing over.

“Finally.”

He blinked. “Finally?”

You grinned, sliding closer even closer. “Bob. I’ve been waiting for you to say that for a long long time, the team started placing bets when, or if you would ever.”

His face went scarlet. “There were bets?”

“Only small ones,” you said, laughing softly. “Nothing outrageous. I think Ava won the pot, though. She guessed you’d confess first after two weeks of existential dread and a minor breakdown.”

He dropped his head in his hands with a groan. “Oh my goodness.”

You gently pulled his hands away and held them in your lap. “Hey. I’m glad you said it. I’m glad you feel it.”

Bob looked up, uncertain. “You really are?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you leaned in, slow and steady, giving him time to move, to breathe, to change his mind. He didn’t. His eyes dropped to your lips, his breath hitched and then you kissed him.

It started soft. Gentle. His lips met yours like a question, hesitant, reverent. But the moment you made a small sound, barely a hum of contentment, he kissed you again. Firmer this time. More sure. His hand cupped your jaw, the other slipping to your hip to pull you closer like he couldn’t not.

The air shifted. Your hands slid under his hoodie, palms warm against the cotton of his T-shirt. Bob inhaled sharply when you swung a leg over his, straddling him with a grin that said you’ve avoided me long enough.

“Okay,” he murmured against your mouth. “I believe you.”

You laughed softly, breathless. “Told you.”

His hands found your waist, anchoring you to him. He looked up at you, eyes warm and flickering with something new, no fear, no shame, just affection so fierce it made your heart ache.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You absolutely do,” you said. “And I’m not going anywhere. So stop deflecting.”

He nodded, smiling slowly. “Okay.”

Then he kissed you again, slow, deep, unhurried and this time, it didn’t feel like a secret or a maybe.

It felt like the beginning.

⸻

A/N: This is how Bob 100% looked lets be so fr

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You are clumsy and hurt yourself all the time

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter notices before you do. His eyes are sharp, trained to pick up the smallest of changes, the faintest of shadows blooming beneath your skin. He doesn't just see the bruises; he maps them, cataloging each one like constellations he wishes he could erase from your body. Every time he catches you wincing, biting your lip to muffle a yelp after knocking into yet another corner, he sighs. "Again?" he teases, but there's worry threading through his voice, twisting between the syllables like spider silk.

- He starts to hover, though he tries not to. It's instinctive—he's always been the protector, the boy who runs into burning buildings without thinking twice. But with you, it's different. It’s not just about keeping you safe; it’s about keeping you whole, unmarked by the world’s cruelty—or your own clumsiness. So he starts catching you before you fall, pulling you out of the way just in time, reaching out without thinking. Sometimes, you swear he moves before the accident even happens, like he's learned the rhythm of your missteps, predicting the inevitable before it can bruise you.

- When you do get hurt (because of course you do), Peter is relentless in his care. He’s crouched in front of you in an instant, thumb tracing the new bruise with reverence, an almost desperate tenderness in his touch. "You're gonna be the death of me," he mutters, but his hands are so impossibly gentle as he presses a cool compress to your skin. His lips ghost over the hurt, as if he can will it away with a kiss. Sometimes, you wonder if he wishes he could wrap you in webbing, cocoon you in safety so that the world—and your own two feet—could never touch you again.

- He starts making excuses for why he needs to hold your hand. "Crowded street," he'll say, even when it's not. "Slippery floor," even when it's bone-dry. The truth is, he just wants to anchor you, to be the tether that keeps you upright, steady. And when you trip anyway—because, of course, you do—he laughs, shaking his head as he catches you. "You just like falling for me, don't you?"

- But late at night, when you're half-asleep and curled against him, he traces over your skin like it's something sacred. His fingers brush against every fading bruise, every place you've been hurt, and he whispers, "Wish I could take these for you." His voice is raw, aching with the helplessness of loving someone breakable. And you, tangled in the warmth of him, only smile. Because you know that, in every way that matters, Peter has already caught you.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony notices, but not in the way you expect. He doesn’t gasp or fuss the first time he sees you sporting a fresh bruise on your knee. Instead, he raises an eyebrow, tilting his head as if considering a puzzle. "So, what was it this time? Rogue chair leg? Malicious doorframe? Did a coffee table rise against you in rebellion?"

- But beneath the teasing, there's a flicker of something deeper. A calculation, a quiet kind of concern buried beneath the bravado. Tony doesn’t do helplessness well. He can build suits that defy physics, craft weapons that could level cities—but he can't seem to keep you from bruising yourself on the furniture. It frustrates him, gnaws at the edges of his mind, so he does what Tony Stark does best: he finds a solution.

- At first, it’s little things. He adjusts the lighting in your shared spaces, claiming it’s for "ambience" but really so you can see obstacles better. Then come the AI sensors in the furniture, making tables shift slightly if you’re about to walk into them. At one point, you find yourself nearly colliding with a moving bookshelf that, at the last second, scoots out of your way. "What the hell?" you gasp. Tony only grins. "Self-adjusting furniture. Stark tech. You’re welcome."

- But for all his technological fixes, it’s his hands that surprise you the most. Because Tony, for all his arrogance, is delicate with you. When you come to him with a fresh injury, he tuts, shaking his head dramatically—but his touch is careful, reverent. He traces over the bruises like he’s memorizing them, pressing a kiss against each one as if sealing them with something stronger than science. "Y'know," he murmurs against your skin, "if you wanted my attention, there were easier ways than body-slamming a desk."

- And at night, when you think he’s asleep, you feel his fingers drifting over your skin, tracing every hurt like he’s trying to rewire you, make you something invincible. He’s never been good at loving things that break, but with you, he’s learning that maybe some things—some people—are worth protecting, even if he can’t build them indestructible.

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve doesn't laugh. Not at first. The first time he sees you stumble, his reflexes kick in before his brain does, hands catching your waist before you hit the ground. "Careful," he says, voice steeped in quiet concern, but there’s something else there too—something deeper, a weight that lingers in his gaze.

- You realize quickly that Steve doesn't see bruises as just bruises. To him, every mark on your skin is a reminder of fragility, of the world’s ability to harm. He carries the weight of lost battles, of friends who weren’t fast enough, strong enough, and something in him aches at the thought of you being hurt—even by something as simple as a misplaced step.

- So he becomes your shadow. A quiet, steadfast presence at your side, always an arm’s length away. He doesn’t smother, doesn’t hover—but he’s there, a constant, an anchor. When you trip, he catches. When you stumble, he steadies. When you crash into a table, he’s already pressing a gentle hand to your arm, checking for injuries before you can brush it off.

- "You need to be more careful," he tells you, voice soft but firm. You roll your eyes. "Steve, I’ve been like this my whole life." His lips press into a line, but instead of arguing, he takes your hand, thumb sweeping over your knuckles. "Then I’ll just have to keep catching you."

- And he does. Every time. Even in sleep, his arm drapes over your waist, protective even in unconsciousness. You don’t tell him, but you think it’s fitting—because Steve Rogers has always been the one to hold the world together, and now, he holds you.

Thor

- Thor booms with laughter the first time you walk straight into a doorframe. "By the gods, you fight invisible battles, my love!" he declares, pulling you into his chest as if you’ve just won a war. You grumble against him, but he only kisses the top of your head, eyes gleaming with amusement.

- But for all his laughter, Thor is not careless with you. When you trip, his hands are always there, warm and unyielding, lifting you as if you weigh nothing. "The world trembles before you, yet you are felled by a mere step!" he teases, but there is no mockery—only adoration.

- He carries you more often than necessary, sweeping you into his arms at the slightest provocation. "You are too precious for the ground," he says, as if that explains everything. When you protest, he only grins, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Indulge me, my beloved."

- He takes to inspecting your bruises like battle wounds, solemn as he traces them. "A warrior bears their marks with pride," he says. But then, softer, "Though I would gladly take them for you."

- And when he holds you at night, it is as if he cradles the most precious thing in all the realms. Because to Thor, you are not just beautiful. You are his most cherished treasure, and even if you stumble, even if you fall—he will always be there to catch you.

Loki

- Loki watches you with an expression caught between amusement and exasperation, his sharp green eyes tracking the way you stumble through life as though gravity itself is your greatest adversary. He does not rush to catch you—no, he prefers to observe first, to let you flounder, to let the world trip you up just enough to be entertaining but never enough to truly hurt you. “It is almost an art form,” he muses one evening as he traces his fingers over a fresh bruise blooming along your arm. “How you manage to battle furniture and lose so spectacularly.”

- But beneath the teasing, there is something else—something darker, more possessive. Loki is not a man accustomed to powerlessness, and watching you mar yourself on the mundane sends an unfamiliar frustration curling in his chest. He is not mortal, not fragile, and neither should you be. If he could enchant your very skin to be impenetrable, he would. Instead, he does the next best thing—subtle spells woven into your jewelry, charms hidden in the fabric of your clothes. Nothing too obvious, nothing you would notice. Just enough to slow a fall, to dull an impact, to ensure that when you inevitably crash, the world is kinder to you.

- He does not hover, not the way a lesser man might. No, Loki’s interventions are quieter, more insidious. A flick of his fingers when you’re about to knock a glass off the table. A shift in the air that redirects your fall just enough to keep you from truly hurting yourself. He plays it off as coincidence when you point it out, though the smirk curling at the corner of his lips betrays him. “Perhaps Midgard itself has simply decided to stop punishing your carelessness,” he offers smoothly, tilting his head. “Or perhaps, darling, you’ve finally learned some semblance of grace.”

- And yet, for all his feigned indifference, his hands are gentle when they trace over your bruises, long fingers ghosting over each mark as though committing them to memory. “Such delicate skin,” he murmurs, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. You think, sometimes, that he looks at you like a paradox—something fragile and untouchable, something he wants to protect and break in equal measure. He presses his lips to each bruise, his voice silk-soft against your skin. “If only you would let me make you indestructible.”

- At night, when you think he is asleep, he holds you closer than necessary, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other draped possessively over your thigh. His fingers find the bruises even then, absently tracing them, as if even in sleep, he cannot stand the marks of a world that does not know how to handle something as precious as you. And if, in the morning, your injuries fade just a little faster than they should—well. Loki has never been one to play fair.

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint takes one look at you, covered in bruises from yet another misadventure with an unassuming coffee table, and snorts. “Jesus, sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s like you’re in a fight with the furniture and losing every damn round.” He teases, because that’s what Clint does, but beneath the dry humor, there’s a glint of something softer, something close to concern.

- He’s got quick hands, calloused and steady, and they catch you more often than not. He doesn’t even think about it anymore—it’s instinct, muscle memory, the same reflexes that let him shoot arrows with inhuman precision now redirecting themselves to keeping you upright. Sometimes you don’t even realize you’re falling before he’s got a firm grip on your waist, pulling you against him with a smirk. “I should start charging for this,” he muses. “Professional girlfriend-wrangler. Gotta make a living somehow.”

- But he’s not always fast enough. You take your hits, your bruises, your scrapes, and Clint swears every time he sees a new mark on you. He cups your face in his hands one evening, tilting your chin up so he can inspect the latest damage—a dark bruise along your cheekbone from where you’d misjudged a doorway. His thumb brushes over it, his mouth pressing into a tight line. “Y’know, for someone so damn beautiful, you sure spend a lot of time brawling with inanimate objects.”

- He starts carrying a first-aid kit just for you. Not the standard SHIELD-issued one—this one is filled with little things he knows you’ll need. Cooling gel for the bruises, tiny bandages that come in ridiculous designs (because he knows they’ll make you smile), painkillers for the inevitable aches. He patches you up with a surprising gentleness, his hands rough but careful as he works. “I should just start wrapping you in bubble wrap,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Or at least get you some damn kneepads.”

- And in the quiet hours of the night, when you’re tangled together in bed, he presses absentminded kisses to every bruise, every scrape, every mark. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a big deal out of it—just lets his lips linger against each injury like a silent promise, like a prayer. Because Clint Barton knows better than most that the world is unforgiving, that sometimes you don’t get there in time. But here, now, with you—he can at least make sure someone’s always there to catch you when you fall.

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha doesn’t panic when you fall, doesn’t gasp when you hit the ground, doesn’t rush to your side with frantic worry. She simply raises an unimpressed eyebrow as you groan, flat on your back after tripping over absolutely nothing. “You’re unbelievable,” she says, crossing her arms. “A trained assassin would have heard that floor coming.”

- But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t care. She does—deeply, fiercely, in the way only Natasha Romanoff can. She just doesn’t show it in obvious ways. Instead, she adjusts her stride so she’s always close enough to catch you, casually offering an arm when she senses you wobbling. She never draws attention to it, never makes a big deal of it, but you notice. You always notice.

- When you inevitably end up bruised and battered, she clicks her tongue but says nothing, simply sitting beside you with an ice pack in one hand and a knowing smirk on her lips. She presses the cold compress to your skin, her touch deliberate, precise. “You should let me train you,” she muses. “At least teach you how to fall properly.”

- Natasha never coddles, never fusses, but she is always prepared. She has a quiet way of making sure you’re okay—subtle, effortless. When you stand up too quickly and nearly topple over, her hand is already on the small of your back, steadying. When you stumble, she catches you before you even realize you’re falling. It’s instinct to her, the way protecting you has become second nature.

- And at night, when the world is quiet, she pulls you against her, her fingers ghosting over every bruise like a whisper, like a secret. She does not apologize for the world’s cruelty, does not wish you were stronger, does not sigh at your clumsiness. She only holds you tighter, her lips brushing against each mark in silent reverence. Because Natasha Romanoff knows what it means to hurt, to endure, to survive—and if she cannot keep you unbroken, then at the very least, she can be the place you fall.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky notices before you do. His eyes, trained by war and decades of violence, catch every shift in your body, every wince, every faint hesitation in your step. At first, he thinks it’s something worse—that someone put hands on you, that danger came too close. But then he watches you slam your hip into the corner of the counter, trip over absolutely nothing, and he exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re killin’ me, doll,” he mutters, but his hands are already on you, steadying, checking.

- He doesn’t hover—not exactly. But suddenly, he’s always there, always within reach. If you stumble, his hands find your waist before you even realize you’re falling. If you misjudge a step, his arm is already around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest with a sigh. “Y’know, most people walk without gettin’ into a fistfight with the air,” he teases, but there’s something softer beneath it, something like worry.

- When you come home with fresh bruises—scattered across your arms, darkening your knees—he’s quiet. Too quiet. He sits you down, metal fingers unnervingly gentle as he rolls up your sleeves, brushing over each mark like he’s memorizing them. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs, and there’s something heavy in his voice, something weighted with history. He’s seen too much damage in his life, inflicted too much of it himself. He hates seeing it on you.

- But Bucky Barnes is a man who prepares, who anticipates. He starts keeping a first-aid kit on hand, not that he needs it much—he’s better at easing your pain with his own touch, the press of his lips against your bruises, the warmth of his palm smoothing over sore muscles. He doesn’t say much when he does it, just presses kisses against every darkened patch of skin like he’s willing them away. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, you hear him whisper, “Wish I could take ‘em for you.”

- And at night, when the world is quiet, he wraps you in his arms, tucking you close as if that alone will shield you from harm. His metal arm rests heavy over your hip, protective, unyielding. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days,” he murmurs into your hair. And you—smiling, safe in the warmth of him—only kiss his jaw and whisper, “Guess you’ll just have to keep catching me, then.”

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matt hears it before he sees it—the way you hiss through your teeth when you smack your shin against the table, the sharp inhale when you stub your toe against the doorframe. He tilts his head, amusement curling at the edge of his lips. “Again?” he asks, voice laced with something dangerously close to fondness.

- He doesn’t need sight to know where the bruises bloom. He traces them with careful fingers, mapping your pain like he’s reading scripture. His touch is featherlight, reverent. “You keep this up, I’m gonna start thinking the furniture has a vendetta against you,” he murmurs, lips grazing over each sore spot in silent absolution.

- He tries not to be overbearing, but he’s always listening, always attuned to the way your heartbeat stutters when you nearly fall. His reflexes are faster than yours will ever be—so when you trip, his arms are already there, catching you with effortless ease. “You’ve got to stop tempting gravity,” he teases, even as he steadies you against his chest.

- But there’s a weight to his concern, something deeper than amusement. He’s spent too much of his life in pain, too much time enduring wounds that never quite healed right. He doesn’t want that for you. So he starts reaching for you more, keeping you close, a hand resting at the small of your back whenever you walk together, his grip firm when he senses the inevitable stumble.

- And at night, when you’re curled against him, he skims his fingers over your skin, cataloging every mark, every faint ache. “You take too many hits,” he murmurs, voice thick with something unspoken. You laugh softly, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. “So do you.” He huffs out a breath, pulling you impossibly closer. “Guess that makes two of us.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank notices everything. The first time he sees you flinch after knocking into a table, he frowns. The first time he spots a fresh bruise blooming across your arm, his jaw tightens. His first instinct—always, always—is violence. “Who did that?” he demands, voice low, dangerous. And when you tell him it was just a doorframe, just another misstep, he exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”

- He’s not soft, not in the way other men might be. He doesn’t coo over your bruises, doesn’t pepper you with gentle reassurances. But he is there, solid and unwavering. If you trip, his hands are on you before you hit the ground. If you stumble, he pulls you upright with an exasperated sigh. “Gonna wrap you in goddamn bubble wrap,” he mutters, shaking his head.

- He doesn’t say it outright, but his actions betray him. He starts clearing the apartment, making sure nothing sharp or precarious is within your usual walking path. He makes you wear his jacket when it’s cold, grumbling about how “it’ll keep you warm” but really thinking about how it might cushion the inevitable next fall.

- When you come home with fresh bruises, he just exhales sharply, shaking his head. “C’mere,” he mutters, dragging you onto the couch. He’s rough around the edges, but his hands are steady as he presses an ice pack against your shin, his thumb tracing absent patterns against your knee. He doesn’t say much, just sits there with you, brows furrowed, jaw tight. You know he’s thinking about how much he hates this—how much he hates seeing you hurt, even in the smallest ways.

- At night, when the world is quiet and his guard is finally down, he pulls you into him, tucking you beneath his chin. His arms are heavy, unyielding, caging you against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Gotta stop gettin’ hurt,” he mutters, voice gruff, tired. You smile against his skin, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Guess that means you’ll just have to keep catching me.” And Frank—haunted, weary, unbreakable—only holds you tighter.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye watches you trip over your own feet like it’s the greatest tragedy he’s ever witnessed. “You’re kidding me, right?” he drawls, arms crossed, head tilted. “That was a flat surface.” He doesn’t get it—how someone can be so inherently uncoordinated, so effortlessly doomed to collide with the world. He was born to hit every mark, to never miss, to control his body like it’s an extension of his will. And you? You can’t even walk across a room without making it a goddamn spectacle.

- He teases you relentlessly. “You’re gonna give me an aneurysm,” he mutters as you walk straight into the edge of a table, recoiling with a hiss. He crouches in front of you, fingers lazily tilting your chin up so he can inspect the damage. A bruise is already forming, shadowing your delicate skin, and for a brief second—just a flicker—something darkens in his gaze. He brushes his thumb over the mark, contemplative, before grinning. “Y’know, most people get bruises from fights. You? You look like you went ten rounds with a door and lost.”

- But the thing is, Bullseye doesn’t like seeing you hurt—not like this. He’s a man who thrives on violence, who carves his love in blood and broken bodies, but this? This is just the world battering you around, and it pisses him off. He starts standing closer, walking behind you with a hand hovering at your back, catching you before you can even process that you’re falling. He makes a show of rolling his eyes every time, but his grip is firm, his hands steady. “You should not be this much work,” he grumbles, right before setting you back on your feet like it’s nothing.

- The first time you cut yourself on something mundane—a knife, the sharp edge of a cabinet—he reacts badly. His jaw clenches, his hands flex, and for a second, you think he might kill the inanimate object responsible. “Okay, that’s it,” he mutters, dragging you to sit down. He cleans the wound with the kind of skill that suggests he’s done this a thousand times before (he has, just not for someone he cares about). He presses a bandage over your skin, shaking his head. “You’re a menace, babe. An absolute disaster.”

- At night, when he thinks you’re asleep, his fingers trace over every bruise, every scrape, cataloging them like they’re personal offenses. His body is a weapon, built for precision, and here you are—this thing he doesn’t quite know how to protect. He scowls in the dark, arms tightening around you. The world doesn’t get to hurt what’s his. If it does? Well. He might just have to start fighting gravity itself.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc watches you trip over your own feet with a kind of exhausted patience. “Again?” he sighs as you collide with yet another piece of furniture. He doesn’t get mad, doesn’t tease—he just pinches the bridge of his nose like a man trying very hard to accept the absurdity of his reality. “You’re a walking hazard.” But his hands are already on you, steadying, checking, making sure you’re not hurt.

- He starts anticipating your disasters before they happen. A shift in your balance, a misstep, a doorframe you will forget to account for—he’s already moving before you even realize you’re about to fall. His reflexes are freakishly fast, and it’s almost irritating how easily he catches you, setting you back on your feet like nothing happened. “You doin’ this on purpose?” he mutters, tilting his head. “Tryin’ to give me a heart attack?”

- When you come home with fresh bruises, Marc doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—eyes dark, expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he sits you down and rolls up your sleeves, brushing his fingers over the marks like he’s trying to commit them to memory. He’s a man who knows pain, who lives in it, and something about seeing it on you makes his chest go tight. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs, voice low, almost pleading.

- He starts carrying first-aid supplies specifically for you. “It’s not paranoia,” he insists as he bandages a fresh scrape on your elbow. “It’s preparedness.” He takes care of you with the same clinical efficiency he applies to himself—focused, practiced, no wasted movements. But there’s a softness in the way his hands linger, the way he cups your face afterward, pressing his lips to your forehead like he’s trying to will the world into being gentler with you.

- And at night, when his demons creep in, when sleep is a thing that eludes him, he watches over you. His fingers brush over every bruise, every cut, and he exhales sharply, wrapping himself around you like a shield. “You’re not allowed to get hurt,” he mutters against your hair. “Not on my watch.” And even though you know it’s impossible—you are impossible—you let him hold you like he can keep you safe from everything. Even yourself.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster watches you trip over nothing and just stares. “Are you—” He gestures vaguely at you, expression unreadable behind his mask. “Do you want to be a liability?” His whole thing is mastering movement, precision, efficiency—and you? You are chaos incarnate. A living, breathing contradiction to everything he stands for. It offends him on a fundamental level.

- He makes it his mission to “fix” you. Not because he’s particularly sentimental—just because he cannot handle watching you get defeated by furniture on a daily basis. “Alright, sweetheart,” he drawls, arms crossed. “Time for some goddamn coordination training.” And you try, you really do, but it turns out even Taskmaster can’t overwrite whatever curse makes you a constant disaster. He watches you attempt a basic balance drill, sees you immediately wipe out, and just rubs his temples. “Hopeless. You’re hopeless.”

- But despite his endless frustration, he starts catching you without even thinking about it. His body reacts before his brain does—an automatic reflex, like blocking a punch. One second you’re mid-fall, the next you’re in his arms, blinking up at him. He doesn’t say anything, just sets you down and shakes his head. “You owe me,” he mutters, but the way his hands linger at your waist suggests he doesn’t actually mind.

- The first time he sees a particularly nasty bruise along your ribs, something shifts. He’s seen all kinds of injuries—inflicted most of them himself—but something about seeing you marked up like this makes his fingers twitch. He drags his gloved hand over the darkened skin, tilting his head. “You let the world beat you up, huh?” His voice is softer than usual, something contemplative curling at the edges. Then, with a click of his tongue, he straightens. “Guess I better even the odds.”

- And he does. Aggressively. If the world insists on bruising you, he insists on teaching you how to hit back. He drags you into training, makes you learn something—if only so he can stop watching you lose to stationary objects. But at night, when you’re curled against him, he traces every bruise, every cut, his grip possessive. “You’re a goddamn hazard,” he mutters, pressing his forehead against yours. And you, smiling, whisper, “Yeah, but I’m your hazard.”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny finds your clumsiness hilarious. The first time he sees you trip over absolutely nothing, he has to physically restrain himself from bursting into laughter. “Babe, was that—was that the air?” He leans against the nearest wall, clutching his stomach. “Did the air just take you out?” But beneath the amusement, there’s a flicker of concern—because you don’t just stumble; you collide with the world, leaving a trail of bruises like constellations across your skin.

- He teases, but he watches. The moment you lose your balance, he’s there, faster than reflex should allow, catching you with an arm around your waist. “Whoa, easy there, graceful,” he murmurs, voice somewhere between exasperation and affection. He holds you longer than necessary, fingers splayed over your back, and for a moment, the world stills. Then he grins. “Y’know, I think you just fake this so I have to keep holding you.”

- When you come home with fresh bruises, his reaction is always the same—dramatic outrage. “Oh my God, babe. Did someone attack you?” He gasps, placing a hand over his chest in mock horror. Then his eyes narrow. “Was it the doorframe? The table corner?” He shakes his head, feigning deep betrayal. “I knew they were out to get you.” But behind the theatrics, he’s already pulling you into his lap, pressing warm hands over your sore limbs, his heat radiating through your skin like a living balm.

- He insists on carrying you at the most ridiculous times. “No, no, I refuse to let you go into battle against gravity again.” And by ‘battle,’ he means walking through a perfectly normal room. He swoops you up, laughing as you protest, his arms far too strong for someone who acts like an overgrown child. “Babe, let’s be real. This is for your safety.” He winks. “And because I like showing off.”

- At night, when the fire dims and it’s just the two of you tangled together, he traces over every bruise with careful fingers. He doesn’t joke then. He just exhales softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your wrist, the softest parts of you. “You gotta be careful,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. And when you hum sleepily, he tightens his hold. “Not kidding this time, babe. Just… don’t break yourself, alright?”

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed observes your clumsiness with scientific fascination. The first time he sees you walk directly into a doorway, he pauses, fingers tapping against his chin. “Hmm.” His brows furrow as he watches you rub your arm, wincing. “This is a pattern.” And just like that, you’ve become an experiment.

- He analyzes you. It starts subtly—adjusting the furniture so there’s more space between sharp edges, rerouting the lab’s layout so you’re less likely to trip over stray equipment. But soon, he’s measuring things, taking notes, muttering things like, “Your peripheral awareness seems statistically lower than average—fascinating.” He tries to be helpful, really. He even attempts to create a stabilization suit—something sleek, futuristic, designed to predict and correct your missteps. It… does not go well. (You trip anyway, and now the suit is mildly offended.)

- When you inevitably come home with bruises, Reed is deeply troubled. He gently takes your wrist, rotating it carefully as he examines the latest damage. “Your body is too delicate for this frequency of injury,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His mind is already racing, calculations spinning behind his sharp eyes. But then he exhales, carefully brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Perhaps a different approach.” The next day, there’s a custom-designed, ultra-soft padding system discreetly woven into your daily outfits.

- He isn’t always the most physically affectionate, but when you stumble, his body reacts before his mind does. His limbs stretch, elongating with effortless precision, catching you before you even realize you’re falling. “I anticipated that,” he says simply, setting you back on your feet. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t scold—just accepts your clumsiness as another variable in his universe. And when you raise an eyebrow, he merely shrugs. “I prefer solutions over criticism.”

- At night, when you curl into him, he allows himself a rare moment of softness. His hands, always so deft and purposeful, trace absent patterns against your skin, lingering over each bruise. “I wish I could prevent every injury,” he murmurs, voice quiet in the dim light. You smile against his chest, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “I’d still find a way to trip.” He huffs a quiet laugh, tucking you closer. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to keep catching you.”

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben sees you trip over absolutely nothing for the third time in a single day, and his immediate reaction is a mix of exasperation and concern. “Aw, c’mon, sweetheart, you got somethin’ against stayin’ on yer feet?” he grumbles, folding his massive arms as you rub your latest bruise. But the second he catches the way you wince, his voice softens, and he sighs. “Lemme see.” His hands are big, rough like weathered stone, but impossibly gentle as he inspects your skin. “Yer like a walkin’ accident waiting to happen, ain’t ya?” It’s not judgment—it’s worry.

- He’s the only person in the world who doesn’t flinch when you crash into him. You could be falling at full speed, and all that happens is you bounce harmlessly off his broad chest. “See? That’s why ya gotta stick by me, doll,” he teases, catching you before you can hit the floor. “Nothin’ knocks this over.” But there’s something else in the way he holds you close, something fiercely protective. If the world insists on beating you up, then fine. Ben’ll just make sure he’s there to take the hit instead.

- He starts keeping a mental tally of your injuries, gruffly scolding you whenever a new one appears. “Yer gonna make me gray before my time,” he mutters, shaking his head as he wraps your wrist with surprising delicacy. But despite the grumbling, he never complains when you come to him for help, never denies you the warmth of his careful hands. And if you rest against his side afterward, your body pressed to the indestructible wall of him, he won’t say a word about how long you linger there.

- He adapts to you in ways he never outright acknowledges. Moves furniture just a little out of your way, catches things before they can topple over when you inevitably bump into them, subtly places himself between you and whatever hazard might cross your path. “Dunno how ya made it this far without me,” he says, grinning. “Guess that makes me yer personal bodyguard, huh?” But the truth is, it scares him sometimes—how fragile you are. How easily you bruise. How the world isn’t made to be kind to people like you.

- Late at night, when you curl against him in the quiet, he traces his fingers over the faint marks on your skin, his touch achingly gentle. “Y’know,” he murmurs, “for someone so soft, ya sure take a beatin’.” There’s something heavy in his voice, something unsaid. I wish the world didn’t hurt you like this. I wish I could keep you safe. But he doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he just holds you tighter, as if that alone could be enough. And maybe, just maybe, it is.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan is used to being the responsible one, the caretaker, the steady force amidst chaos. But even she isn’t prepared for just how accident-prone you are. “Sweetheart, again?” she sighs as you stumble for the fifth time that day. She moves faster than thought, catching you with an invisible force before you can even hit the ground. “At this rate, I’m going to have to wrap you in a force field just to keep you intact.” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but the concern beneath it is very real.

- She starts using her powers instinctively around you. A glass about to slip from your hands? Caught. A misplaced step sending you toward disaster? Redirected. A force field cushions you from the sharp edge of a counter before you even realize you were about to walk into it. “You don’t even notice you’re doing it,” Johnny teases her one day, watching as she effortlessly prevents you from tripping again. Susan just huffs, crossing her arms. “Well, someone has to keep her in one piece.”

- She doesn’t scold you for your clumsiness. She doesn’t make you feel less because of it. Instead, she watches, learns, and then rearranges the world around you, subtly shifting things to make your life just a little easier. It’s a quiet kind of care, the kind that manifests in softened corners, restructured pathways, and the ever-present, unseen embrace of her protective fields. She won’t stop you from moving through the world the way you do, but she will make sure it doesn’t hurt you as much.

- When she heals your bruises with careful hands, her fingers linger against your skin, her expression unreadable. “You’re so delicate,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “I forget, sometimes, how easily people can break.” There’s something fragile in the way she looks at you then, something she rarely allows herself to show. “You’re lucky I love you,” she finally says, voice lighter, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Because otherwise, I’d have to start charging you for all this medical attention.”

- But there are nights when she lets her guard down, when she pulls you into her arms and whispers against your hair, “You have to be careful, okay? For me.” It’s the closest she’ll come to admitting how much it scares her—how the thought of losing you, of not being there the one time she’s needed, terrifies her. She’s lost too much already. She refuses to lose you.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia thinks your clumsiness is adorable. And hilarious. “Oh, kitten, you poor thing,” she coos, watching as you walk directly into the edge of a table. “The universe really isn’t on your side, huh?” But even as she teases, she’s already moving, already guiding you to sit so she can inspect your latest injury. “Tsk, tsk. What would you do without me?”

- She starts calling you her bad luck charm, but with the kind of affection that lingers like a purr in her voice. “See, it’s perfect,” she says one evening, lazily draping herself over you. “I bring the bad luck to everyone else, and you bring it to yourself.” She grins, tapping your nose. “We’re a match made in chaos.”

- But beneath the teasing, she’s hyper-aware of how easily you get hurt. The first time she sees someone shove past you carelessly on the street, causing you to stumble hard against the pavement, her entire demeanor shifts. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, brushing off your scraped palms. And then, with a smile so sharp it cuts—“Excuse me a sec, love. I’ve got some business to handle.” She returns a moment later, looking satisfied, and you don’t ask why the guy is now desperately patting his pockets for a missing wallet.

- Felicia is grace incarnate, the exact opposite of you in every way. And yet, she doesn’t mind being the one to catch you. Doesn’t mind slipping an arm around your waist as you both walk, keeping you steady without making a big deal of it. Doesn’t mind the way you instinctively grip her when you know you’re about to trip. “Mmm, I like it when you hold onto me,” she muses. “Should I start pushing you more often?”

- One night, as you curl against her, she traces a slow finger over the faint marks dotting your skin. “You bruise so easily,” she murmurs, her usual playfulness absent. “The world must love marking you up, hmm?” Her voice dips, something dark curling in her tone. “I don’t share what’s mine, you know.” She presses a kiss just below one particularly dark bruise, her lips lingering. “Next time something wants to hurt you, it’s going to have to go through me first.”

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen watches you knock over a stack of books and sighs like a man who has witnessed a lifetime of disappointment. “By the Vishanti,” he mutters, rubbing his temples. “You are utterly hopeless.” But there’s something in the way he steps forward, fingers already reaching for your wrist, steadying you with the effortless grace of someone who bends reality itself to his will.

- He doesn’t waste time with teasing—he just starts fixing. He places wards around the Sanctum, subtle protections that nudge objects away from you before you can collide with them. He enchants the stairs so they refuse to let you trip, much to your annoyance. “It’s undignified,” you argue. “It’s necessary,” he counters, arms crossed. “If I wanted to spend my days healing bruises, I’d return to mundane medicine.” But despite his grumbling, he still traces careful sigils over your skin, murmuring spells that ease the aches from your body.

- When you stumble in his presence, he doesn’t catch you, per se—he merely redirects reality so you never truly fall. One moment you’re tilting dangerously, the next, space itself shifts, leaving you upright, untouched. He raises an eyebrow, smug. “You’re welcome.” You groan. “That’s cheating.” He smirks, tucking his hands into his robes. “No, that’s adapting.”

- But sometimes, magic isn’t enough. Sometimes, you come home with new bruises, fresh scrapes, evidence that the world has been unkind despite all his efforts. His jaw tightens as he kneels beside you, pressing cool fingertips against your injuries, golden light shimmering between his hands. He doesn’t speak, just concentrates, the tension in his shoulders betraying more than he’d ever say aloud. “You are a force of nature,” he mutters finally, exasperated. “A clumsy force of nature.”

- And yet, despite all his frustration, all his complaints, it is his cloak that wraps around you when you’re tired, his magic that cushions your steps, his hands that linger, tracing soft patterns against your skin long after the bruises have faded. At night, when you murmur sleepily about how he’s overprotective, he only pulls you closer, voice quiet against your ear. “Someone has to be.”

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

Namor

- Namor watches you as one might observe an impending shipwreck—equal parts fascination and inevitability. “You are…” he begins, pausing as you trip over absolutely nothing and barely catch yourself against the nearest surface. He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “…a disaster.” But there is something almost fond in the way he says it, as though he has already accepted your fate as an unstoppable force of chaos.

- It does not take long for him to forbid you from walking unassisted near the palace’s more perilous edges. “You are fragile,” he declares, tone imperious, brooking no argument. “And you will not test the patience of the sea.” You scoff, rolling your eyes, but he merely crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You think me overprotective? I think you underestimate your own recklessness.”

- When you return to him with yet another bruise blooming across your skin, he does not scold you. He does not chastise. Instead, he looks at you for a long moment, something dangerous and unreadable flickering in the depths of his eyes. And then, with a sigh that sounds suspiciously like surrender, he scoops you into his arms and strides toward the ocean. “What—? Namor!” you protest, but he does not stop. “If the land insists on bruising you,” he says, wading into the waves, “then perhaps you should take refuge where it cannot reach you.”

- The water cradles you as he holds you close, the salt healing, the sea itself shifting to accommodate you. “The ocean does not break so easily,” he murmurs against your temple, his breath warm against your skin. “Perhaps you should learn from her.” And yet, for all his talk of resilience, his hands remain gentle, steadying you as though even he fears how easily you might slip through his fingers.

- There is a moment, quiet and rare, when he traces a fading bruise along your arm with something like reverence. “The land does not deserve you,” he mutters. “It does not know what it has.” And then, softer, almost to himself—“Perhaps I should steal you away.” It is not a threat. It is not a promise. It is simply the thought of a king who does not share his treasures with the undeserving world.

- Johnny has seen pain. He’s seen bodies burn and souls wither, seen the way suffering etches itself into people like a brand. But you—you bruise like a peach, delicate and fleeting, and it makes something in him twist in a way he doesn’t know how to name. He watches you trip, watches you collide with the world, and it’s not the pain that unsettles him—it’s how easily you laugh about it, how you wave it off like it’s nothing. Like you don’t realize how breakable you are.

- “Babe,” he drawls, lifting your wrist, examining the fresh bloom of purple beneath your skin. His fingers are calloused, rough in a way that should be too much, but his touch is gentle. Reverent, even. “You ever think about not throwing yourself at death every other hour?” He says it lightly, but his eyes flicker with something else, something darker. Something that says he knows exactly how fragile life is. And it scares him.

- The first time you fall in front of him, he doesn’t catch you—he doesn’t have the reflexes of a hero, doesn’t have the instinct to soften the world. He’s used to destruction, to things breaking permanently. But he does something else. His hands light up instinctively, flames flickering in his palms, and for the first time, heat wraps around you instead of cold, buffering your impact. “That was new,” he mutters as he helps you up, eyes still glowing faintly. “Guess my body decided I have to keep you intact.”

- He gets angry—not at you, never at you, but at whatever unseen force keeps sending you stumbling into harm’s way. “It’s like you attract pain,” he growls after yet another scrape, another bruise, his fingers flexing with barely restrained frustration. He doesn’t do helplessness well. So instead, he teaches you how to land right, how to fall without it hurting so damn much. “You’re not gonna stop running into things,” he says, resigned. “So at least learn how to hit the ground better.”

- At night, when the fire is low and the world is quiet, he traces the places where pain has kissed you. His hands, so often clenched into fists, smooth over your skin with something close to reverence. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs against your hair, voice softer than he’d ever admit in daylight. You hum, half-asleep, and he exhales, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “I already got enough ghosts,” he whispers. “Don’t make me add you to ‘em.”

Eddie Brock / Venom

- The first time Venom notices your clumsiness, it hates it. “SHE IS DELICATE,” the symbiote snarls, its voice a guttural growl in Eddie’s head. “SHE FALLS LIKE A DYING ANIMAL.” Eddie sighs, rubbing his temples. “Yeah, bud, I see that.” But when you trip for the third time that day, Venom is offended. It doesn’t understand why you keep hurting yourself. “UNACCEPTABLE,” it hisses. And just like that, you have an overprotective alien bodyguard.

- Eddie, for his part, is torn between amusement and exasperation. “Babe,” he says, guiding you away from the eighth table corner you’ve hit that week. “How do you function?” But the teasing doesn’t last long, not when he sees the bruises, the little winces you try to hide. That’s when the humor fades, replaced by something else. Something possessive. “You’re ours,” Venom growls one night, curling around you like living armor. “We do not let what is ours get hurt.”

- Venom actively prevents you from getting injured. When you stumble, inky tendrils lash out, steadying you before you can hit the ground. When you reach for something sharp, something dangerous, the symbiote moves it, shifting reality around you to keep you safe. It gets frustrated when you still manage to find ways to get hurt. “SHE DEFIES LOGIC,” it complains. “SHE SEEKS OUT DESTRUCTION.” Eddie sighs. “Buddy, she’s just clumsy.”

- Eddie pretends to be indifferent, but you know him. You see the way his jaw clenches when he notices new bruises, the way his fingers flex like he wants to fight whatever inanimate object wronged you. “I know it’s not a person,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna punch something.” Venom, unhelpfully, adds, “WE WILL KILL THE TABLE.” Eddie groans. “We’re not killing the table.”

- At night, when you curl against him, Venom wraps around you both, a cocoon of inky black warmth. Eddie traces absent patterns over your skin, his fingers ghosting over bruises with something close to reverence. “Y’know,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead. “For someone so damn fragile, you sure take a beating.” You hum sleepily, and Venom purrs around you, protective and possessive and endlessly devoted. “OURS,” it whispers. And you know, without a doubt, that it will never let you fall alone.

Muse

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa moves like poetry, every step precise, every motion purposeful. He does not stumble, does not falter, does not yield to anything less than absolute control. And then there is you—soft, chaotic, forever colliding with the world like a wayward star. He watches, fascinated and exasperated in equal measure, as you misjudge a doorway again and clip your shoulder against the frame. He sighs, closing the book in his hands. “My love,” he says, voice smooth as still water, “are you at war with inanimate objects? Or do you simply enjoy losing to them?”

- He does not laugh at your clumsiness, though a smile often tugs at his lips when you fumble gracelessly into his arms. “Mm,” he muses, catching you effortlessly. “How convenient. It seems I am your refuge, once more.” There is amusement in his voice, but also something warmer—something indulgent, something fond. He does not need you to be perfect. He only needs you to be his.

- Wakanda’s technology adapts to you with quiet precision. Furniture shifts subtly out of your path. Doors widen at just the right moment. The palace corridors, once an intricate maze of sharp corners and regal opulence, now seem to flow around you like a river carving space through stone. “You think me excessive,” he remarks one evening, tracing a careful finger over the fresh bruise on your knee. “But I am a king, beloved. And it is my duty to protect what is mine.”

- When the bruises come, he treats them with reverence, his hands steady as he applies a salve crafted just for you. “Vibranium enhances healing,” he explains, voice low, rich, soothing. “It will lessen the ache.” But there is something in the way he lingers, something in the way his fingers glide over each mark, that betrays the deeper truth—he hates to see you hurt, even in the smallest of ways. He would raze nations for you, but against your own wayward steps, he is powerless. It frustrates him more than he will ever admit.

- And yet, late at night, when the weight of his kingdom is too much to bear, he finds solace in your presence. Finds peace in the way you curl against him, careless in your softness, in your ease, in your unrelenting humanness. “You are chaos,” he murmurs against your hair, amused and reverent all at once. “And yet, somehow, you bring me peace.”

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra is grace incarnate, a blade honed to perfection, a whisper of red silk against the dark. And then there is you, a creature of unintended violence, of misplaced steps and unintentional collisions. The first time she watches you walk directly into the corner of a table, she merely tilts her head, expression unreadable. “You are… fascinating,” she says at last, watching as you rub your arm with a wince. “And utterly defenseless.”

- She does not understand it at first—the way you allow the world to hurt you, as though you have no instinct for self-preservation. “Your body is a temple,” she tells you one evening, fingers ghosting over the constellation of bruises scattered across your skin. “Why do you let it be desecrated so carelessly?” But there is no judgment in her voice. Only curiosity. Only something sharp and knowing, something that feels dangerously close to care.

- She starts moving differently around you. Not obviously—not the way lesser people might—but in ways that matter. A hand at your lower back, subtly guiding. A sudden shift in position, intercepting your path before disaster can strike. A flick of her wrist that sends a stray object skidding out of your way before you can trip over it. You never see her do it. You only feel the absence of pain, the absence of disaster, and the silent weight of her gaze as she watches you, always watching.

- “Your luck is remarkable,” she muses one evening, twirling a dagger between deft fingers. “That you have made it this far, untouched by the world’s cruelties.” Her voice is unreadable, but her eyes are not. There is something dark in them, something possessive. As though she alone is allowed to mark you. As though the world itself has no right to harm what she has claimed.

- She never says the words, never softens in the ways you might expect, but when she pulls you into her lap, when she traces absent patterns over your skin, when she presses her lips to each fading bruise as though sealing them away—that is her devotion. She is a creature of war, but for you, she will be a shield.

- Muse finds your clumsiness beautiful. He doesn’t see accidents; he sees art. The way you stumble, the way your body meets the world with reckless abandon—it’s a performance, a dance only he can truly appreciate. “Fascinating,” he murmurs after you trip, his eerie, empty eyes drinking in the sight. “Such graceful destruction.”

- He paints your bruises. Not with actual paint—no, he uses his hands, his mouth, his presence. He traces the purple stains blooming beneath your skin, committing them to memory, adoring them. “A masterpiece in flesh,” he whispers, pressing his lips against a particularly dark bruise. “You walk through life like a canvas left to the mercy of the world.” There is no pity in him, only reverence.

- He doesn’t stop you from getting hurt. Why would he? Pain is an artist’s language, and you—you are his magnum opus. He watches as you collide with existence, as you collect the evidence of your mortality, and he loves it. “Every mark tells a story,” he muses, his fingers ghosting over your skin. “A testimony of movement. Of impact.” He smiles, sharp and unhinged. “Of life.”

- But for all his fixation, he is not indifferent. No, when you truly hurt yourself, when you cry out—something in him snaps. The world shifts, reality bending to the will of a mind unmoored. “No,” he breathes, his voice lilting, distant. “No, no, no. This is wrong.” And suddenly, the thing that harmed you—be it a person, an object, the air itself—becomes a target. He erases it. Obliterates it from existence. And then he turns to you, tilting his head. “I prefer when the world marks you softly,” he murmurs. “Only I am allowed to make you truly suffer.”

- At night, he watches you sleep, eyes unblinking, hands still moving, still creating. He maps out every bruise, every scrape, carving them into his mind like sacred scripture. And as you breathe, as you rest in the arms of something not quite human, he leans down, whispering against your skin. “You are a masterpiece in motion,” he murmurs. “And I will watch you fall until the end of time.”

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not tolerate weakness, nor does he suffer foolishness. And yet, you—his beloved—possess both in abundance, an infuriating contradiction wrapped in beauty. He watches as you stumble through his castle halls, colliding with ancient Latverian artifacts, knocking over things that should not be knocked over. “Again?” he drawls, arms crossed, as you nurse yet another bruise. “Must I encase you in armor simply to keep you upright?” The remark is laced with exasperation, but the way his gloved hand lingers against your injured skin betrays something deeper.

- The first time you fall in his presence, Doom does not reach for you. He is not one to coddle. But his magic moves before he can think, catching you mid-collapse, suspending you in the air like a marionette in invisible strings. “Hmph,” he muses, as if analyzing a puzzle. “A clumsy creature, yet I cannot abide the thought of you damaged.” And just like that, you are lowered to the ground, untouched by harm. His voice is softer then, begrudgingly so. “Try not to make this a habit.”

- Doom solves problems, and your perpetual clumsiness is one he refuses to leave unchecked. You wake one morning to find your world altered—corners of tables dulled, Latverian marble floors softened ever so slightly, even the air shifting subtly to break your falls before you hit the ground. You glance at him, suspicion blooming. “Victor,” you say slowly, “did you…modify reality to childproof the castle?” He doesn’t look up from his work, but his lips curl into something smug. “Doom merely enhances what is flawed.”

- He lectures you whenever he finds new bruises. “Do you have no spatial awareness? No sense of self-preservation?” His hands, clad in cold metal, trace the injuries with something dangerously close to tenderness. “You walk through the world as if you are untouchable.” He pauses, voice lowering to something unreadable. “But you are touchable. And that…is unacceptable.” You don’t need to ask what he means. Doom does not lose what is his.

- At night, when the world is quiet and his mask is cast aside, his fingers brush over the marks on your skin. No one else is permitted to witness this: the way his jaw tightens, the way his touch gentles. “Latveria’s queen,” he murmurs, barely audible, “should not bear wounds from her own foolishness.” He exhales sharply, pressing his lips against your temple. “I will not allow the world to hurt you.” A pause. “Not even yourself.”

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter finds your clumsiness adorable. Where Doom sees a problem to be solved, Peter sees endless entertainment. “Babe, you’re like…a baby deer,” he laughs as you trip over absolutely nothing on the Milano’s deck. “Like, you got the vibes of someone graceful, but your body just betrays you.” He catches you before you hit the ground, grinning as he holds you close. “Lucky for you, you got me. I’m like your personal superhero and your crash pad.”

- The problem is, Peter is also kind of clumsy. Which means, sometimes, instead of catching you, he also trips, sending you both sprawling in a tangled heap. “Okay, that one was not my fault,” he insists, flat on his back. “We’re just, like, cosmically doomed to fall together.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Metaphor for love?” You groan, swatting at him, and he only laughs.

- He starts keeping a running tally of your bruises. “Alright, babe, let’s see—knee from the control panel, elbow from Gamora’s sword rack, forehead from the freakin’ doorframe—” He clicks his tongue. “We’re gonna run outta room soon.” But despite the teasing, his hands are always so gentle when he checks you over, his usual playfulness softening into something warmer. “Y’know,” he murmurs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “maybe the universe keeps knockin’ you around ‘cause it knows I’ll always be here to catch you.”

- The other Guardians get involved. Rocket builds you a helmet (“Ya clearly need it, sweetheart”), while Drax solemnly declares that he will “eliminate” any object that dares to harm you. “That is…not necessary,” you assure him as he glares at a particularly sharp table corner. Peter just beams. “See, babe? You got a whole crew of bodyguards. Ain’t that nice?”

- Late at night, when the others are asleep and the stars stretch endlessly beyond the ship’s windows, he pulls you into his lap, fingers tracing absent patterns over the bruises on your arms. “You ever notice,” he murmurs, “how you bruise kinda pretty?” You huff against his shoulder. “That shouldn’t be a compliment.” But he just kisses the top of your head, voice softer than usual. “Still is.” And when he whispers, “Don’t go breaking yourself too bad, okay? I kinda like you in one piece,” it’s almost too quiet for you to hear. Almost.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Nova is alarmed by how often you get hurt. He doesn’t understand how someone can be so beautiful yet so accident-prone. “Babe, you literally survived intergalactic wars with me,” he says, exasperated, “and yet a coffee table is your worst enemy?” You pout. “It came out of nowhere.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s been in the same place forever.”

- He starts using his helmet’s sensors to track your movement. If you so much as stumble, he’s there, catching you before you can even process the fall. “I got, like, cosmic-level reflexes, babe,” he brags, grinning. “You are officially under Nova Corps protection.” You squint at him. “Did you really just use space cop powers to stop me from tripping?” He smirks. “And I’d do it again.”

- But beneath the teasing, there’s worry. He’s lost too much—friends, home, whole planets—and every little bruise on you is another reminder of how easily things can be taken. “I know it’s dumb,” he admits one night, rubbing at the back of his neck, “but every time I see you hurt, even just a little, it just—it freaks me out, okay?” He sighs, pulling you into his arms, holding you tight. “I don’t wanna lose one more thing I love.”

- He doesn’t try to fix you. He doesn’t wrap you in cosmic energy or change the world around you. He just adapts. He positions himself at your side when you walk, places a steadying hand at the small of your back, moves things subtly out of your way before you can even reach them. He doesn’t make you notice. He just…does it. Because loving you means protecting you, even from yourself.

- “Y’know,” he murmurs as you both float above the atmosphere, weightless, surrounded by stars, “you can’t trip in zero gravity.” You smile, pressing a hand to his chest. “Maybe we should just stay up here forever, then.” He chuckles, tilting his forehead against yours. “Tempting,” he whispers. “But, uh… I kinda like keeping my feet on the ground, if it means keeping you from falling.”

[girlinterupptedsblog]

I will make it fit

Summary: rafe saw you for first time at party and he knew he wanted you. but once you saw just how big he is you were sure it wont fit but he makes it fit

Warnings: Heavy smut, alcohol consumption, mild dubcon themes (due to intoxication), size kink, praise/degradation, rough sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation, slight fear play, possessiveness, explicit content (18+).

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The bass of the music thrummed through the walls, shaking the floor beneath your heels as you swayed to the beat. The club was packed, filled with bodies pressing together in the dim, pulsing lights. You had lost count of how many drinks you had, the warm buzz of alcohol coursing through your veins leaving you lightheaded and carefree.

And then there was him.

You didn’t know his name. Had never seen him before. But from the moment you walked in, you felt his eyes on you. Watching. Waiting. The intensity in his gaze sent shivers down your spine, heat pooling in your stomach every time you dared to meet it.

Rafe was a man who took what he wanted. And tonight, it was you.

When he finally pushed through the crowd and reached you, there were no introductions, no small talk—just the press of his hands against your waist, his mouth at your ear, voice smooth and commanding. “Been watching you all night, pretty girl.”

Your heart hammered as his lips brushed against your cheek, your body melting into his firm grip. He smelled like expensive cologne, cigarettes, and something inherently masculine. His hands were steady, unlike your own, which trembled as you reached up to grasp his biceps.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” he murmured, lips barely ghosting over your jawline. “I’d remember someone like you.”

You tried to respond, but words failed you. The alcohol made you slow, pliant, unable to resist the way he was pulling you closer, chest pressed to yours, breath hot against your skin.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was hungry, consuming—his tongue sliding against yours, teeth nipping at your bottom lip as he swallowed the small whimper that escaped you. Your hands found his hair, fingers threading through the short strands as he deepened the kiss, tilting your head back to take more of you. He tasted like whiskey and desire, and you felt your knees weaken under the weight of it.

“Let’s get out of here,” he rasped against your mouth, hands already guiding you through the crowd, out of the club, into the humid night air.

You didn’t question it. You didn’t think. You just followed.

The motel was exactly what you expected. Dingy, the walls thin, the sheets scratchy—but you didn’t care. Not when Rafe was on you the second the door shut, his mouth reclaiming yours as he pushed you back against the mattress. Clothes disappeared, fingers and lips mapping out every inch of you, leaving no space unexplored.

He took his time. Whispered things against your skin that had your head spinning, body trembling. By the time he was settled between your legs, you were soaked, desperate, aching for him.

But then you saw it.

Your breath hitched, wide eyes flickering between his face and the intimidating length of him. “Rafe, I—” You swallowed hard. “It’s not gonna fit.”

He smirked, gripping your thighs, spreading you wider beneath him. “I’ll make it fit, baby.”

Your stomach flipped at his words, his confidence, the promise in his voice. And as he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your knee before dragging his lips up the inside of your thigh, you knew you were done for.

“You just gotta trust me.”

He ran his hands up your sides, soothing, coaxing, his lips never leaving your skin. His fingers found your core, spreading you open with slow, deliberate movements. He was patient, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him before he even thought about giving you more.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp as he kissed up your stomach, his weight pressing you into the mattress. “I got you.”

You let out a shaky breath, head tilting back as pleasure built inside you, every touch making you more desperate, more pliant beneath him. When he finally aligned himself with you, his tip teasing against your entrance, you tensed again, the stretch already too much.

“Shh, baby.” His lips brushed against your ear, one hand gripping your hip while the other stroked slow, gentle circles over your thigh. “Breathe.”

You tried. You really did. But when he started pushing in, your hands flew to his arms, nails digging into his skin as you whimpered. “Rafe—”

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, his forehead pressing against yours. “You can take it, baby. I’ll make sure you do.”

His hips rolled forward just the slightest bit more, and you gasped, eyes squeezing shut. It was too much—he was too much. He kissed your temple, murmuring against your skin. “You’re doing so good, baby. Just a little more.”

You whimpered, body shivering beneath him as he rocked into you slowly, letting you feel every inch, every stretch, every movement. Your walls clenched around him involuntarily, drawing a deep groan from his chest.

“There you go,” he gritted out, voice strained, fingers gripping your hips tighter. “Just like that.”

You weren’t sure when the pain turned into something else, when the stretch became bearable, when it turned into pleasure that had you curling your toes and arching into him. But when you finally let out a breathy moan instead of a whimper, Rafe grinned, his lips brushing yours before he pulled back slightly, watching your face.

“That’s my girl.”

[kneelanders]

qh43 + delicate by t.s.

aka little moments in the timeline of falling for quinn hughes (wc: 686)

dark jeans and your nikes, look at you — falling for him

You and Quinn are hanging out in that easy way you always have, ever since you met a few years ago when you moved to Vancouver — you’re sprawled out on his couch, his head in your lap. He’s still in his grey jeans, his Air Forces kicked to the floor under the coffee table somewhere. Your fingers drift through his hair without thinking, twisting a strand lazily as you study his face, mapping out the freckles and moles you already know by heart.

He cracks one eye open and giggles at you, the sound soft and a little sleepy. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

Your stomach flips — just for a second, just enough to make your breath catch. You shake your head, pretending it’s nothing. “Just zoned out, Quinny.” You smile at him, soft and fond, and you can feel how hard you’re falling, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

do the girls back home touch you like i do? — a quiet confession (there’s no one else)

This time it’s you who’s half-asleep, your head tucked against Quinn’s chest, your fingers tracing over the prominent veins in his forearm. It’s late — so late that your words come out without much thought, softened by drowsiness and warmth. He’s leaving for his stint in Michigan for the off-season in the morning and this thing between you is still so fragile. You’re not sure what makes you ask.

“Do the girls back in Mich touch you like I do?”

Quinn tenses, just for a second, like he wasn’t expecting it. Then he exhales a quiet snort, presses his lips to the top of your head. “No, baby.”

That’s all he says. No teasing, no hesitation, no need for elaboration — just no, as if the idea itself is ridiculous. He squeezes your hip gently, like he’s making sure you’re still there, like he knows you might slip away if he’s not careful.

You hum, satisfied, and press a barely-there kiss to the hollow of his throat. He shivers.

“Good,” you whisper.

‘cause i know that it’s delicate…isn’t it? — making it official

The lake is quiet this late at night, the water dark and endless under the moonlight. The dock creaks beneath you as you sit side by side, your feet skimming the surface, Quinn’s shoulder warm against yours.

It’s been a week of this — lazy mornings tangled in sheets, slow afternoons out on the boat, Quinn pressing a strong hand to the small of your back like it belongs there. And still, you haven’t put a name to it. Haven’t asked the question that’s been sitting between you for months.

But here, now, under a sky full of stars and the safety of this place, you finally say it.

“This whole thing is delicate…isn’t it?”

Quinn exhales, a quiet laugh under his breath. He nudges your knee with his. “Yeah.” A pause, and then, softer: “But I don’t think I want it to be anymore.”

Your breath catches. Slowly, he turns to face you, his eyes searching yours, waiting for you to catch up, to understand.

“I want you,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Think I’ve wanted you since 2021.”

You feel it everywhere — his words sinking into your skin, the air thick with something you’ve been too afraid to name. Your fingers drift up into his hair, threading through the soft curls at the nape of his neck. He shivers, just a little, and the realization settles deep in your chest: he wants this just as much as you do.

You lean in first, heart pounding, lips just a breath away from his — then you hesitate. Just for a second. Just long enough for Quinn to see it, to smile like he knows exactly what’s holding you back.

“It’s real,” he murmurs, like a promise, before closing the space between you.

The dock creaks, the lake hums, and when his lips finally meet yours — warm and certain and all fucking yours — you know:

This isn’t delicate anymore. He’s not going anywhere.

[miniscapes333]

What Would Happen in a Secret Hookup? (18+)

PICK A PILE READING LOVES ;) 👇 [PILE - 1] 👇[PILE - 2]

👆 [PILE - 3]

Disclaimer: The images featured are not mine. All credit and rights belong to their original creators.

PILE 1

There’s a tension in the air long before it happens, an unspoken understanding that this is something neither of you should be indulging in, yet neither of you can resist. It’s the kind of connection that simmers beneath the surface, unacknowledged in daylight but undeniable in the quiet pull of stolen glances, in the way your body reacts when they stand just a little too close. Maybe it’s the secrecy that makes it more intoxicating, the knowledge that the moment you give in, there’s no going back. And when it finally happens when lips find their way to skin, when hands grip a little harder than they should, when your breath hitches in the silence of a dimly lit room it feels forbidden in the best way possible. This isn’t just desire; it’s a slow unraveling, a surrender to something neither of you can put into words but both feel deep in your bones.

Every touch is deliberate, teasing, testing, pushing just enough to drive you insane before pulling back again. There’s a game being played here, one of control and restraint, of teasing glances and fleeting touches that leave behind a trail of heat. They want you to want it to need it and the worst part? You do. The way their fingertips barely ghost over your skin, the way their lips linger at your ear before pulling away it’s maddening. But they know exactly what they’re doing. They know how to make you chase, how to make you beg without saying a word. And when they finally give in? When the teasing shifts into something deeper, more desperate, more consuming? It’s slow and deliberate, drawing every moment out like they want to memorize the way your body reacts, like they want to stretch this secret pleasure for as long as possible.

But the moment never truly belongs to you. No matter how intoxicating it feels, no matter how much you lose yourself in their touch, there’s always something lingering beneath the surface a knowing that this moment is fleeting, that it exists in the space between what’s real and what’s hidden. Maybe that’s what makes it so irresistible. It’s the kind of secret that lingers on your skin long after they’re gone, the kind that leaves you wondering if it was ever meant to be more. And yet, even as you pull away, breathless and wrecked, you know deep down: this isn’t the last time. The way they look at you before they go the way their fingers graze yours just a second longer than necessary it’s a silent promise. A secret never stays buried for long. And this? This is far from over.

PILE 2

There’s something inevitable about this, something magnetic and unstoppable, like the moment before a storm breaks heavy, charged, humming with tension that neither of you can ignore. You both feel it long before you act on it, that slow, smoldering buildup that stretches through glances held too long, through the way their touch lingers just a little longer than necessary, through the unspoken understanding that this whatever this is was never meant to be harmless. It starts in the way they look at you, in the way their body moves toward yours without hesitation, as if the universe itself is pushing you together. And once that last thread of restraint snaps? There’s no stopping it. Their hands are firm, possessive, tracing the shape of your body like they’ve been waiting for this, like they want to memorize every single inch of you.

Every movement is purposeful, each touch sending a slow burn through your skin, as if they’re savoring the moment relishing the way your body reacts to them, the way your breath shudders when their lips graze over your pulse, the way your fingers clutch at them when they press in just the right way. They take their time with you, teasing, tasting, mapping every sensation like they’re determined to master it, to draw out every sigh, every sharp inhale. But there’s also an urgency here, an unrestrained hunger simmering just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over at any second. And when it does when control finally shatters and desire takes overit’s nothing short of devastating. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. It’s rough, desperate, consuming. The way they pull you closer, the way their grip tightens, the way their breath fans hot against your skin it’s a collision, a force of nature neither of you can resist.

But the aftermath? That’s where it lingers. The air is thick with the scent of heat and want, skin flushed, breath still ragged. And yet, even as you lay there, fingers tracing absent patterns against each other’s skin, there’s a knowing between yousomething deeper than just lust, something neither of you are willing to put into words. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe this was exactly what you both needed. But one thing is certain: no matter how much you try to convince yourselves otherwise, this won’t be the last time. The way they look at you, the way your body still burns from their touch? Some things were never meant to be a one-time thing.

PILE 3

It starts with restraint, but it’s the kind that only makes the tension even more unbearable the kind that coils deep, winding tighter with every passing second. There’s something unreadable in their eyes as they watch you, something dark and knowing, like they’ve already played this out in their mind a hundred times before actually reaching for you. And when they do when their fingers finally skim your skin, tracing, testing, tempting you feel it down to your bones. There’s patience here, but it’s the wicked kind. The kind that makes you wait, that teases with whispered words, with lips that barely touch, with the heat of their body just close enough to drive you mad. It’s a game, one they play well, and they enjoy watching you unravel under their touch, under their deliberate pace.

But the second you push back, the second you let them know you’re not just going to take this passively that’s when the fire ignites. The restraint shatters, giving way to raw, unfiltered hunger. Their hands are on you like they can’t help themselves, gripping, pulling, claiming. Everything about this is deep and all-consuming the way their breath mingles with yours, the way their touch turns urgent, the way your bodies fit together like they were always meant to. The need is relentless, a desperate, fevered craving neither of you want to fight anymore. It’s fast, it’s heated, it’s pure, unadulterated passion like the kind you don’t just feel, but the kind that lingers, that seeps into your skin, that leaves you breathless and aching long after it’s over.

And when the fire finally dies down, when the tension finally gives way to the slow, satisfied stillness after, there’s something else that remains. It’s not just lust, not just desire it’s something sweeter, something softer, something dangerous in its own right. Because this wasn’t just physical, and you both know it. The way they touch you now gentler, lingering, almost reverentn tells you that this was more than just a secret hookup. It was a release, yes, but it was also a connection, an unspoken admission that neither of you can take back. And maybe that’s the most dangerous part of all. Because if this was supposed to be a one-time thing, then why does it feel like you’ll both be finding excuses to do it again?

Paid readings availabe - check them out here 🫶🏾

[the-odd-shu]

Lab shenanigans

Characters: Viktor, Jayce, Reader

A thread following the chaotic trio that is, laboratory illustrator!Reader, Viktor and Jayce being unsupervised in the lab.

Note this takes place during season 1:

Gender Neutral!Reader who got hired as the lab illustrator because neither Jayce nor Viktor can draw and they need an illustrator to document all their official papers with recognisable diagrams of their inventions.

The next part

Masterlist

Reader who was just freshly been employed as the lab illustrator, sitting diligently at their new desk whilst Jayce fetches the research folder and Viktor tinkers away in the background.

Reader who lets Jayce set down the heavy folder on their desk, which holds all of the pair's research as well as hundreds of cruedly drawn sketches of inventions such as the Hexclaw and early drafts of the Hexgates, drawn by both himself and Viktor. (They are not drawn well, and it is only because most of the drawings are labelled with big, obnoxoious arrows that you actually know what you're looking at).

Jayce pausing in his explanations of the tech on each page and his promises to pull everything out of storage when you need it for a refence, slowly trailing off when he catches sight of your reaction to the drawings: "Why are you making that face?"

Reader who is diligently flicking through the pages and trying not to crack up at the poorly drawn stick figures, and the messy, uneven parallel lines of wires and robotic arms, and the scribbled oblong that is supposed to be one of the gemstones. They're not half bad attempts from people who focus their energy and time into math equations and flowery research papers, but that doesn't mean they're not amusing to look at.

"What face? I'm not making a face."

Reader turns all of their attention down to the pages and proceeds to fail at smothering their snort as the concept sketch of one of the Zaun suits. They push the folder back along the desk, to create enough space to prop their elbows on the table, to pinch the bridge of their nose hard to try and school themselves into some form of calm.

"Why are you laughing?" Jayce asks, sounding geniunely confused.

Whilst Reader tries to save face by responding, "I'm not. I'm just- uh, coming to terms with how much work I have ahead of me."

Jayce frowns.

The commotion has caught Viktor's attention.

"Well, it is a lot." Jayce allows, "but we won't rush you. The deadline is months away after all, and if-"

His words fade into the background in your mind as Viktor chooses then to roll over on his wheelie office chair to see what's going on, only to immediately grin in understanding. He rolls his chair up on the adjascent side of your desk, mouth pulled into a wicked smirk as he points to a particularly wobbly zaun suit drawing. "That would be one of Jayce's masterpieces."

Jayce lets out an offended noise, whilst Viktor takes malicious joy in flipping through the folder to point out which other drawings were done by Jayce. Most of them are wobbly and uneven, but have clearly been mapped out with steady, slow care.

In retaliation, Jayce swipes the folder out of Viktor's gleeful hands, and pointedly flips to a fresher page dated back to a couple of days ago. You catch a glimpse of the title 'hexcore', scrawled across the top in confident letters, before Jayce is turning the folder back to you and loudly proclaiming the work of art as Viktor's.

[The ‘hexcore’ has been drawn with wobbly, uneven lines that lacked the sleek, parallel look of the actual subject, with poorly recreated runes that did not at all take into account perspective or foreshortening.]

Reader loses it at the attempt, whilst Jayce and Viktor continue to squabble with one another in the background.

I just NEED all three of them to spend countless hours in that laboratory getting stuck in their respective tasks (creative Vs Scientific) and all three of them come out aching and satisfied by the time the janitor comes round to kick them out for the night, despite doing jobs that require different parts of their brains. The overlap of countless, almost unsolvable equations, with the hours of staring at a blank page and slowly but surely coaxing out an image, it just so precious to me somehow.

Bonus points of course, if Jayce and Viktor are getting really into a scientific debate across the room by the chalkboard, flinging enormous words back and forth at one another, whilst Reader slowly dies inside trying to make the metal part of an invention LOOK like metal.

I just need Reader allowing the background muttering and excited exclamations to sooth them as they carefully draw another diagram above a neatly scrawled out text box of the pair's latest concept.

Jayce: “Yes! That could work! What do you think, Y/n?”

Reader: Head snaps up at being addressed. “Uh…”

They blue screen as they come back to reality and realise they haven’t moved in hours and their back and neck desperately ache from the movement. They're suddenly starving, and hungry, and really need to pee, but didn't notice before because they were so engrossed in their work. Kind of like how the other two get about their research.

Viktor being a night owl and working on projects late into the night.

Jayce being smart and taking cat naps on his desk because he's an early bird, but a deadline is coming up and he refuses to be defeated by exhaustion.

And then you have Reader. Who is not being supervised in the kitchen, where they've made their fifth coffee and with shaking, caffeinated hands, they begin pouring in a generous helping of a Piltover energy drink.

Viktor hears the can pop.

He says your name warningly. "You better not be making that culinary monstrosity again."

Instead of responding, they knock back the whole mug in desperate gulps, ignoring the rancid taste and shivering from the mix of burning liquid with the pop of hundreds of tiny bubbles.

The mug gets slammed loudly back on the counter. Viktor sighs heavily and pushes his wheelie chair towards Jayce's desk.

He wakes him up, with a prod of his cane into his side.

"I'm about to have a breakthrough." He explains quickly motioning to his desk. Blary eyed and clearly not fully awake yet, Jayce nods along. Viktor points dramatically to Jayce and then in the direction of the kitchen. "You're on assistant duty for the next half an hour."

The tiredness leeches out of Jayce's face. "They didn't-"

"They did."

"But they've already got caffeine shakes!"

"Tell that to the sound of the kettle bubbling away and the pop of a can lid. It has already happened Jayce. All we can do now it keep the damage to a minimum."

On silent feet, Reader's shadow appears on the other side of the desk. Both men jump. The light overhead casts their face into shadows and somehow makes their eyes glow. It is a terrifying sight.

Viktor recovers first. "We need to put a bell on you!"

"Kinky. Now, whatdoyouwantmetodrawnext?!" Their assistant rushes out in a single breath.

And both scientists pale. It was already beginning then.

The next four hours consists of Jayce struggling to keep his eyes open whilst Reader pokes fun at him and offers up their 'creation', Jayce firmly declining and trying to get on with his work, whilst Viktor keeps to himself and snorts periodically at the banter.

Reader draws and draws and then rubs out, before diligently getting back to drawing again. There is a frenzy to their marks. A wildness to their eyes. The scratch and scritch of their pen, getting lost amongst the sound of cogs turning and screws tightening and Jayce's yawning. So much so that when it suddenly ceases, neither of the scientists notice at first.

Not until Viktor asks for a warm tea, only for the previously eager assistant not to respond. He lets out a fond sigh, Jayce straightening up from his own work.

Reader is passed out on their sketchbook, having FINALLY crashed.

Viktor gets up to make his own tea.

Jayce shrugs off his jacket, and puts it over their shoulders as a makeshift blanket. The man has such broad shoulders that it practically swallows the assistant from sight, but they do not stir.

"That'll give them an awful neck ache tomorrow." Viktor observes aloud.

Jayce snorts. "Maybe it'll be enough of a punishment to stop them making that foul concoction."

"Unlikely."

Jayce just shakes his head and collapses back onto his desk and lays his head down on his arm. "Ten minutes." He mutters out before closing his eyes.

Viktor hums. And by the time he gets his tea back to the desk, his partner is out like a light, just as he had predicted.

"I CANNOT believe you're making me do this Jayce." Viktor exclaims sarcastically.

"Viktor. Please let me get that cog for you. Just this time. Please!"

"Oh no, no, do not get up on my account." Viktor firmly dismisses as he shimmies down his cane, one hand over the other all the whilst making exaggerated groaning noises.

Jayce is practically vibrating in place. "Please! It is literally all the way under that side board. Can I just slide it out for you? You can pick it up yourself."

"Oh no, do not strain yourself!" Viktor insists, sitting himself down on the floor, one hand holding his cane up as he shoves his other arm under the side board.

"VIKTOR!" Jayce all but whines, and takes a step forward.

"Ah!" Viktor immediately reprimands. "Y/n get the spray bottle!"

You've been watching the entire scene in amusement from your desk. Quietly giggling at Viktor's ribbing and Jayce's desperation to be useful. They make a rather amusing duo.

Jayce's eyes have jumped up to you. Frozen mid-step, eyes pleading.

You grin, pointedly reaching across the gap between yours and Viktor's desks to grab said spray bottle.

On the floor, Viktor makes a triumphant noise, before straightening up and brandishing the cog above his head. "Got it!" He exclaims, before slamming the blasted thing onto the side board. Then he tries to clamber back up his cane to his feet. He is unsuccessful as his leg decides not to co-operate this time.

He sighs. "Jayce." He says heavily, "as punishment for making me get down here in the first place-"

"What?! I've literally been-"

"As reprimand for your dastardly crimes. You are obligated to offer me one hand. But ONLY one, or your punishment shall evolve into death by spray bottle." Dramatically, he holds out his hand to his exasperated partner.

In support, you give the spray bottle a little squeeze in Jayce's direction, to which he shoots you a dark look. You merely grin back.

Then Jayce offers Viktor his hand, their fingers wrapping around the others wrist. "Slow." Viktor instructs, as he readjusts his legs into the right position. Jayce nods.

Then Jayce gently pulls Viktor up as Viktor balances between his feet and his cane.

"Thank you." He says, patting Jayce on the cheek, before promptly turning on his heel to retreat back to his desk.

They're so silly, I love them so much.

The next part

[shouyuus]

hi hello, i had the thought of sae with barely there freckles from playing in madrid

thank you for coming to my tedtalk

the way i spiraled for a full half hr during work thinking about this

sfw; im cooked, roasted, oven-crisped, pan-fried, and dipped in sauce for sae this man

you trace them like constellations, fingers slipping from one barely there spot to the next, your breath feathering the baby hairs at the nape of his neck. like this, you think you can map the planes of his shoulders, down the rolling hills of his shoulders, follow the tributaries of his veins all the way to his hands, his palm loose, his fingers languid. sometimes, you think it's terribly unfair, the way he looks -- so much like a careless god, cold eyes and a heartbreak mouth, beautiful and terrible all at once.

he shifts, turns, a tiny frown dug between his eyebrows as he twists to look at you from beneath the halo of your bedside lamp. there's a question in his eyes, but the answer is in the smile ghosting across his lips -- he already knows.

"what're you doing?" he asks. because sometimes, that's simply how i love you is pronounced.

"nothing," you answer, pillowing your chin on his arm and walking your fingers up the solid expanse of his stomach, the hard plateaus of his chest, the startlingly delicate ridge of his collarbones, "just... admiring my boyfriend in all his statuesque glory."

sae scoffs, lets his head fall back onto the pillows, his strawberry hair an unspooling of candyfloss across your silken sheets.

"you're so weird," he says, though his hand comes up to cup at the bend of your hip all the same, tugging you closer so you can pillow your cheek on his chest.

you hum contentedly, curling into him, melting against him like sun-warmed honey.

"if i'm weird, then what's that make you for dating me?"

sae makes a small noise, his fingers tracing abstract patterns into the slip of skin above your sleep shorts, his eyes cast up towards the ceiling. the quiet settles around you both, sweet and soft and first snow. his hand trails up your arm and settles in your hair, threading through it as he considers.

"dunno... even more weird, i guess."

he leans down, presses his nose into your hair.

you laugh, shifting to look up at him. his gaze is steady, hooded, his eyes shining with an almost cat-like lucence.

"you didn't use to have these," you say, letting your eyes flicker to the freckles on his shoulders. he blinks, before turning to lie on his side, your nose and his only inches apart.

"people change," he says, simply. and you nod, reaching out to cup his cheek, letting your thumb trace the line of his cheekbones down to the cut of his jaw.

"yeah, i know," you answer, because sometimes, this is how i love you too sounds.

you lean in to kiss him, just the gaze of lips on lips first, a phantom kiss before the real thing, before he pushes in and makes solid the thing swirling in the negative space between you.

it is a long time before you break apart again, a long time before another word is said. a long time before the light goes out and you're left to the darkness, limbs linked, your ankle slung over his, his arm still pillowed beneath your cheek. his breath is warm on your forehead, and yours sweet against his collarbones.

outside, the dark violet night deepens with the flicker of a hundred thousand unnamed stars, and everything, somehow, is just as it's supposed to be.

[buckyseternaldoll]

I just wanted to say I loooove your bucky fics you write him so well 🥹🥹 if you are taking requests I have one for a bucky x reader where reader is sent to infiltrate/kill the thunderbolt but falls in love instead...cue the angst 🫢 feel free to ignore if it doesn't spark inspiration!!

Sorry for the delay, anon! Work’s been hectic and I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. But I really hope this was worth the wait. Thank you so much for requesting it!

𝓐 𝓑𝓮𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓲𝓯𝓾𝓵 𝓦𝓪𝔂 𝓽𝓸 𝓓*𝓮

Summary: You were sent to kill the Thunderbolts. One bullet, one order, one clean exit. But you didn’t plan to fall in love with the man meant to die.

Disclaimer: suicidal self-sacrifice, blood/gore (not explicit), gun violence, emotional manipulation, grief, PTSD themes, explosive death, mentions of brainwashing/conditioning, guilt, betrayal, angst, reader is a double agent, team betrayal, final letter reading, quiet emotional breakdown, canon divergent

Word count: 6.3k

Author's Note: This involves multiple drafts being scrapped and me having mental breakdown in the midst of building the story 😔 Skipped formatting and not beta-d since it lags soooo much

They brought you in a few months after the Thunderbolts were formed.

You were no one special to them—just another weapon Valentina dusted off from some covert pile. Quiet, capable. A ghost in well-fitted tactical gear. Your aim was clean, your hand-to-hand record even cleaner. No frills, no baggage. You didn’t complain, didn’t ask questions, didn’t smile unless you needed to.

They didn’t welcome you, not really. But they didn’t reject you either.

You just… slipped in. Like water through cracks in the concrete. Like you were always there, just out of frame. A shadow that learned to cast itself beside theirs.

The team was a mess of personalities and pasts—grudges, trauma, sarcasm used like armor. They weren’t a unit. They were chaos stitched together with fraying thread. Nobody had room to hold anyone else’s weight. Not yours.

That was fine.

You weren’t here to belong.

You were here to finish the mission.

And you were very, very good at missions.

They didn’t know that while you watched their six from rooftops and cleared sniper nests with a single squeeze of your trigger… you were also out there every other night finishing jobs. Assassinations, poisonings, clean headshots behind diplomatic curtains. You slipped from the Watchtower like smoke, killed high-profile names while they slept, and came back just in time to pour yourself coffee and sit across from Bucky like nothing had happened.

Nobody questioned it. Not Valentina. Not Ava. Not even Sentry, with all his golden god perception.

You played emotion like a language. Smiled when needed. Looked tired when appropriate. Let your voice tremble just enough in mission briefs to seem human. It was all curated. Fabricated.

The only thing real was the mission.

Sunset Ops: Infiltrate. Observe. Eliminate. Terminate all Thunderbolts assets. Especially Bob Reynolds. Too unstable. Too dangerous.

So you studied them.

Learned how each one moved, fought, cracked under pressure. Mapped out their body language like pressure points on a doll. Even without the full spectrum of feelings, you could read them. You knew when Bob needed silence, when Yelena needed space, when Bucky needed grounding. Memorized the Watchtower’s layout until you could escape it blindfolded with one foot injured. You knew which rooms had faulty cameras. Which corridors echoed too loud. Which doors creaked.

You logged their weaknesses like you were sketching blueprints for destruction.

But somewhere along the way…

You started noticing the wrong things.

The quiet things.

You watched how Ava always kept one boot on when she slept, her back to the wall. How she blinked a few too many times when someone raised their voice, like her mind flinched faster than her body.

How John’s jaw clenched just slightly whenever someone mentioned Steve Rogers, the name sitting in his spine like a splinter.

How Bob could go full days without speaking, without moving much at all—book in hand, presence barely there. But Bucky always passed him tea. No one told him to. No one asked. He just did.

And Bucky…

You didn’t want to notice him.

Bucky Barnes.

He looked like he’d been tired for a hundred years. Like the world still sat too heavy on his shoulders. But he stood anyway. Always. Steady.

He spoke in short sentences, mostly to Valentina, sometimes to the team. But he spoke to you more than anyone else. Always in a voice softer than the one he used in briefings. Almost low. Almost careful.

He was the only one who’d repeat mission points when the room turned chaotic—when Ava and John argued or when Sentry’s grip on reality wavered. He’d calmly re-brief, every damn time, like he didn’t expect anyone to listen the first time. Like he understood.

He hovered behind the girls during recon. Watched corners others forgot. Subtle, silent coverage. When Ava limped, he adjusted his pace. When Valentina snapped too hard, he’d find a way to redirect the energy without saying much at all.

And then it got worse.

He noticed you.

“You changed your hair,” he said one morning, nonchalant but precise. You had—just shifted your part from left to right.

You blinked. “What?”

He shrugged. Didn’t look up from his gear. “Just looked different today.”

It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t even attention. It was just… observation. Like he was tracking you. Like he cared.

And it shouldn’t have made your skin warm like it did. It shouldn’t have made your stomach pull tight.

So you tried harder to ignore it.

You sharpened your knives with more force. You shot straighter. You reported back to your handlers late, but still lied and told them everything was on track. You told yourself it didn’t matter.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Somewhere along the line, it stopped feeling like a mission.

And that scared you more than anything else.

—

You filed daily reports at first.

Detailed. Precise. Flawless.

“Walker has a blind spot on his right after shield recoil. Ava’s new phase control burns more energy than she lets on. Bob’s mental stability slips most severely after missions involving children.”

And Bucky?

You used to write plenty about him too. His reloading patterns. His soft knee from a past break. The way he always checked corners counter-clockwise. You studied him like you were supposed to—like a threat.

But over time… your reports on him thinned.

His name appeared less. Then barely at all.

You didn’t mean to do it. You just… stopped seeing him as an objective. You noticed less of his weaknesses and more of his habits. The way he always smelled faintly like gun oil and cedar soap. The creak of his boots when he walked into the briefing room two minutes early. How he’d look straight at you when he spoke—low voice, never rushed—like his words were meant for you and no one else.

You hadn’t written anything about him for almost three weeks.

And without knowing it… he’d become your weakness.

You just didn’t realize that yet.

—

Your handlers noticed.

They didn’t send questions. They sent silence.

And silence from them always meant danger.

They read your shortened logs like confessions. Words tapering off, softer, lazier. You said less. You felt more. They didn’t like it.

So they decided to act.

Without you.

You didn’t know the countdown had begun.

—

You kept spending time with Bucky.

Accidentally, at first.

The pantry was always cold after midnight, humming soft from overworked fridges and coffee machines. You wandered in for a tea packet and found him there—quietly nursing black coffee, leaning against the counter like he was trying to stay grounded.

He barely looked at you the first time.

Second time, he nodded.

By the fourth, he spoke.

“You always come here this late?”

You shrugged, fingertips brushing the countertop. “I like the silence. And the view’s better from the helipad, but pantry’s warmer.”

He chuckled. Low, quiet, barely there—but it was real.

The next night, he joined you on the helipad.

You told him you liked the way the sky looked from up there. “Makes me feel like I belong,” you’d said, without realizing how honest it sounded.

He didn’t mock you. Didn’t press.

He just sat beside you, thigh brushing yours, both of you watching the stars in silence like the war down below didn’t exist for a few stolen minutes.

After that, he started showing up more.

Lingered in rooms after everyone left. Walked beside you in hallways. Ate slower when you were around. Sat closer during meetings. Spoke softer when he addressed you, voice low enough to catch but not loud enough for anyone else.

And you—without realizing—became his shadow.

You started knowing where he was without needing to ask. If he wasn’t in the debriefing room, you didn’t look lost—you just turned and started walking, already knowing he’d be in the armory, reassembling his sidearm with his brows drawn.

You knew how he took his lunch. How he drank his coffee. You handed him his usual before he even asked. He didn’t comment. Just gave you that look again—a quiet, unreadable one, like he was trying to figure you out but wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

You even started completing his sentences.

Not on purpose. It just happened.

One day in the war room, he said, “We’ll need someone to cover the west corridor if—”

“If Ava’s phasing eats her charge, yeah,” you murmured.

He looked at you. Slightly stunned. The room went quiet.

Alexei, across the table, barked out a laugh. “Is she your translator now, Bucky? Or did you finally clone yourself, huh?”

John snorted. “She’s even got his grunt down.”

You should’ve laughed it off. Should’ve shrugged and played it cool.

But Bucky just stared at you—something unreadable flickering in those tired steel-blue eyes. Not cold. Not suspicious.

Just… aware.

And maybe a little afraid.

Of you.

Or of himself.

—

The mission wasn’t supposed to go south.

Just a recon—clear terrain, tag enemy movement, and get out before anyone noticed you were there. You weren’t expecting the sniper.

No one was.

You’d felt it before you heard it—a shift in air, a crack that split the sky—and then pain. White-hot, slicing past your cheek like fire.

You staggered back, dizzy from the force. Would’ve fallen, exposed, right in the shooter’s path if a wall of metal hadn’t slammed in front of you.

Bucky.

His vibranium arm took the full hit.

You heard him grunt. A second shot followed—this one slicing across his side—but he didn’t move. He stayed in front of you. Stayed.

Return fire crackled across the trees. John and Ava covered the ridge. Alexei roared something in Russian and hurled a metal crate for cover.

But you were still there, pressed to the dirt, cheek wet with blood, staring up at the man who shielded you like you were something precious.

He looked back, breathing hard. “You good?”

You nodded before your voice caught up. “Y-Yeah. I’m—”

You weren’t. Not at all.

—

The extraction was messy. You were all bleeding, but no one died.

Back at the Watchtower, medbay lights hummed above your head as you stood next to Bucky’s cot — your fingers ghosting over gauze, trembling only when he wasn’t looking.

You insisted on treating his side. Brushed off the team medic. You didn’t even realize you were snapping at people until Alexei raised his brows and said, “She’s got it. Let the girl fuss.”

Bucky sat still, legs spread, shirt off. Blood dried across his ribs. His body bore too many scars to count. Some clean. Some jagged. Some that looked like they still whispered at night.

You dabbed the wound in silence, watching how his chest rose with every careful breath. Your fingers pressed gentler than needed, like any extra pressure would break him.

“You always this soft when patching people up?” he asked, voice low.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because your chest had started to tighten.

Your hands shook as you wrapped the bandage, and when your palm brushed his skin… something squirmed in your stomach. Not pain. Not adrenaline. Something worse.

Guilt.

You were trained to kill. Not to mourn. Not to care.

But here he was. Bleeding because of you. Standing in front of a bullet that should’ve ended you. Still speaking to you like nothing had changed.

You didn’t deserve it.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured, glancing down, his hand catching your wrist mid-wrap. “Don’t do that.”

You blinked. “Do what?”

He held your stare. Not hard. Not scolding. Just steady. Warm.

“Don’t blame yourself. I’d take that shot again if it meant you walked away. That’s what we do.”

He paused. Let his words settle.

“You and me—we’ve got each other’s backs. That’s the team.”

The word team punched straight through your ribcage.

You dropped your eyes, breath catching in your throat. The back of your throat burned. The sting climbed behind your eyes.

A team.

That felt… warm.

Too warm.

You bit your tongue. Nodded. Tried to keep your face blank.

But the corners of your eyes stung anyway, and Bucky saw it. You knew he did. He didn’t say a word about it. Just let go of your wrist slowly, like he was giving you space to choose what came next.

He didn’t need to say anything.

Because for the first time, you understood what that twisting in your chest was.

Guilt.

Real, human, gut-wrenching guilt.

You weren’t supposed to feel it. You were rewired not to. But he—without even meaning to—was fixing you.

Bit by bit. Wound by wound.

And that terrified you more than any bullet ever could.

You left the medbay long after he’d fallen asleep. The sterile scent clung to your hands. The bandage wrap still burned in your memory.

You needed air. Or silence. Or something to stop the noise in your chest.

—

The Watchtower was dead quiet after midnight.

Most of the others had turned in. Ava left her boots by the door again, probably already passed out in the medbay lounge. John grumbled something about ice packs and disappeared. Alexei had made a dramatic exit, demanding “at least ten hours of heroic sleep.”

You stayed behind.

The pantry lights were dim—yellowed, humming, casting long shadows across the metal counters. You sat at the small table by the window, hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. The steam was gone. Your thoughts weren’t.

They were loud tonight.

Bucky had taken a bullet for you.

Not just a graze, not an accident. He saw it coming and threw himself in the way. His blood was still under your nails. His voice still echoed in your head:

“We’ve got each other’s backs. That’s the team.”

The word team kept curling up behind your ribs like a hot, painful knot.

You shouldn’t be here. Not like this.

You should’ve been writing reports. Reassessing targets. Preparing for termination. Instead, you were watching the stars reflect off the window and wondering how long it’d take his wound to close.

Your handlers never gave you a deadline for Sunset Ops. The mission was simple: Terminate all Thunderbolts. Clean. Swift. When ready.

No dates.

Just pressure.

But as far as you could tell, the whole thing had gone off course.

Or maybe it went east.

Because Bucky was sitting on your east side now. He sat close, shoulder angled slightly toward you, his left side—the wounded one—facing you. A quiet show of trust.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed the edge of the bandage peeking beneath his shirt—left side, under the ribs. Healing fast, but it still made you wince.

You hadn’t even heard him come in.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t grunt or ask what you were doing.

He just sat beside you, like he always did lately. Like here was the only place he wanted to be.

You didn’t look at him right away.

You were too afraid the tears still burning behind your eyes would show. So you just stared at your cup, letting the silence stretch.

And he let it.

Like he knew.

Eventually, your gaze shifted. Just slightly. Just enough to study him from the corner of your eye. His side—where you’d dressed the wound—was bare beneath his black tee, the bandages no longer needed. The skin had already begun healing. Faint scar tissue. Bruising. But no open wound.

Super soldier perks.

You exhaled, slow and quiet.

Somehow, that made it worse.

You wanted to be relieved. But all it did was make your chest ache.

He turned his head toward you then, as if sensing you needed it. His eyes were tired, but soft. Kind.

He didn’t ask what was wrong.

Instead, he said, “You ever get so many thoughts running at once, they just… start screaming over each other?”

You blinked, startled by how close he came to naming it.

He kept going. “Like… nothing’s clear. Everything’s loud. And no matter how long you sit with it, the decision just… won’t come. ‘Cause it doesn’t feel like any of the choices are good ones.”

Your throat went tight.

He glanced down, mouth twitching at one corner. “Yeah. I’ve been there.”

The silence that followed felt warmer than it should’ve. He didn’t press. Didn’t look at you like you were a ticking bomb.

Just… let you exist beside him.

Then, gently, almost like an afterthought, he added, “You’re a good person.”

You finally turned to him, stunned.

He didn’t look away.

“A damn good teammate,” he continued. “Reliable. Smart. And you don’t leave anyone behind.” He paused. “I’m… glad you’re with us.”

You swallowed. Your mouth was too dry. Your eyes burned.

“And whatever it is… whatever’s going on in your head,” he said softly, “I know you’ll do what’s right. Not just for you. But for everyone.”

His hand came to your shoulder. Light. Steady. A squeeze that was too short, too innocent, too much.

Then he stood.

“Get some rest,” he murmured. “You think better after sleep.”

And he left.

Just like that.

Left you in the kitchen with a cup of cold tea and a heart that was beating too hard, too fast.

You stared at the door after him, numb and shaking.

And that was when you knew.

You fucking loved him.

Not just wanted. Not just admired.

You loved him.

And there was no mission in the world that could bury that now.

—

Everything changed after that night.

Not in some dramatic, cinematic way.

But in the small ways that mattered.

Your body started betraying you.

The first time Bucky brushed past you in the hallway, your pulse spiked so hard your knees went weak. You recovered instantly—assassin reflexes—but the warmth lingered too long on your skin. A ghost of pressure where his shoulder had bumped yours.

Your hands, steady through sniper fire and open blade fights, now trembled when he entered a room. And you hated it. Hated how your heart wouldn’t obey. How no amount of mental commands could slow its rhythm when he sat too close.

You started avoiding him.

Subtly, at first. Ducking out of briefings early. Choosing the opposite training mat. Sitting two chairs over at meal times. But Bucky noticed.

Of course he did.

He didn’t push. Just watched you more.

And the others noticed too.

Yelena had that way of looking at people like she was five steps ahead in the conversation. Bob tilted his head a little too long during recon drills when you answered Bucky’s questions too fast. Ava kept giving you looks like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right shape for it.

Even Alexei, with all his chaotic noise, leaned over one day in the gym and grumbled, “The sexual tension is making my joints stiff. Resolve it before I die of awkward.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because nothing about this was resolvable.

Until Yelena forced your hand.

—

It was a fake debrief. You realized it too late.

Yelena set the time. “Just you and Bucky,” she said. “Team’s scattered. Intel recon. Blah blah. Just go.” She winked as she walked off. ‘Fix your sexual tension, or I’ll do it for you.’ Classic Yelena.

You didn’t think much of it. Your brain had been foggy for days, caught between the magnetic pull and the dagger in your chest. You walked into the room like you always did—rigid, unreadable. But then you saw the setup.

One table. Two chairs.

No files. No mission board. Just… space.

Bucky was already sitting, one hand loosely curled around a pen. He glanced up at you like he’d been expecting this. Like he knew.

You sat.

Silence hung between you, thick and humming. You couldn’t look at him too long without your chest tightening.

Finally, Bucky spoke. Low. Cautious. “Everyone thinks we fought.”

You gave a quiet, humorless huff. “Let them.”

“Yelena doesn’t believe in letting.”

He wasn’t wrong.

The silence returned for a beat, before you broke it. Your voice was quieter than you meant it to be. “I’ve never felt this before.”

Bucky frowned. “What?”

You lifted your eyes, met his. “Anything. Beyond adrenaline, I mean. I don’t know guilt. I don’t know joy. I didn’t know what warmth felt like until… until I met you. All of you.”

You swallowed. Your throat ached.

“My emotions weren’t brainwashed out of me. I was just… rewired. Hydra called it streamlining. Cut out what made me hesitate. Joy, guilt, love—just noise to them. I was left with precision, and silence. Kept the things that made me efficient. But lately…”

You couldn’t say it. Couldn’t put words to the way your stomach curled when Bucky leaned too close, or how your chest hurt when he took a bullet for you.

Instead, you said, “It’s like my circuits are shorting.”

His eyes softened.

“I used to think it was just me,” he said, voice low, gravel warm. “The way I feel things. Too slow. Too much. Too wrong. But you…”

He leaned back slightly, studying you like you were a mystery he’d started to understand without needing all the clues.

“You feel like… familiarity.”

You looked up, startled.

“I didn’t get it at first. Why I felt calm when you were around. Why I stopped checking exits when you were on mission with me.” He paused. “But now it makes sense.”

His voice dipped.

“You’re like me.”

That hit deeper than you expected. Your heart clenched so hard you thought it might bruise.

“You put your back to the wall when you sit down. You remember who limps and who flinches. You memorize everyone else’s scars, but forget to name your own.”

You stayed quiet, afraid your voice would break.

“I don’t know what this is between us,” Bucky said softly. “But it doesn’t scare me.”

You turned your head away. Your chest felt too full, too raw.

Then you felt it—his hand brushing yours on the table. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just there.

“You don’t have to fix anything tonight,” he said. “But I hope you stop running. ‘Cause I’m not chasing you. I’m just… here.”

Your fingers curled slightly beneath his. Just enough.

You still couldn’t say the words. Not yet.

But part of you cracked open.

And part of him healed.

—

It started like a blackout.

You were all in the lounge—sore, half-bored, scattered across couches and chairs. Alexei was snoring with his feet on the coffee table, Yelena had commandeered the remote, John was bickering with Bob over something dumb like fuel ratios, and Bucky was sitting near you, shoulders barely brushing, warm and solid.

And then the lights snapped off.

Not flickered. Not dimmed.

Snapped.

The hum of the Watchtower died. Silence folded in on itself. Thick. Too thick.

Everyone stilled.

“Okay,” Alexei muttered, sitting up. “Not funny. Who touch fuse?”

“No one moved,” Ava whispered, already pulling a blade from her boot.

Your stomach dropped.

The silence wasn’t just silence.

It was controlled. Medicated.

You felt it in your teeth. That hum just under hearing. Synthetic.

Then—

thfft.

A whisper.

A bullet.

Glass shattered above Yelena’s head.

Another shot.

John tackled Bob behind the couch. Ava rolled forward into a low crouch. Alexei stood tall, eyes flaring wild.

Chaos.

Gunfire—soft, silenced, precise—sang through the darkness. Not random. Coordinated. Like they knew every hallway. Every blind spot. Every weak point.

And they did.

Your blood went cold.

“No—no, no, no—” you breathed, heart pounding as the pieces snapped together too fast.

You knew this pattern. This kill sequence. This method of entry.

These weren’t just attackers.

They were operatives.

Yours.

“Everyone GET DOWN!” you shouted, drawing your sidearm. “They’re enhanced!”

Bucky pulled you behind the reinforced wall near the stairwell, instinct taking over. “Enhanced? How the hell do you—”

“They’re on serum,” you gasped. “Not ours. Not the government’s. It’s… it’s Barnes-adjacent. It’s your blood.”

Everything froze around you for a second.

Even the storm of bullets.

Bucky’s eyes locked with yours. “What?”

You didn’t get to answer.

“HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?” Yelena barked across the hall, ducking behind cover. Her voice was razor-sharp. Furious. “How the hell do you know that?!”

You looked at her. Your mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

You couldn’t say it. Not here. Not with blood in the air and Bucky breathing like a loaded weapon beside you.

All you could whisper was:

“I’m sorry.”

You hadn’t meant for it to unravel like this.

You wanted to explain. To beg. To scream that you weren’t who you were anymore.

But the way Yelena looked at you?

Like you were a ghost wearing someone they trusted.

That hurt worse than any bullet.

Ava swore under her breath. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut deep—quiet fury wrapped in restraint. She didn’t yell. Ava never did. But her silence hurt more. John looked like he was ready to knock your teeth out.

But you couldn’t afford guilt right now.

Because they were coming in fast.

Bucky grabbed your arm. “Talk later. Move now.”

You nodded. Shoved everything down.

But he didn’t let go of your wrist.

Even as you ducked bullets, even as Sentry finally emerged—Bucky stayed on you.

You knew what he was doing.

He was protecting you.

Still.

Even now.

He didn’t know.

Didn’t know you brought this death to their doorstep. That you’d once been meant to end them. That those enhanced soldiers out there moved like you, because you trained with them.

They were your people.

And now they were going to kill your team.

Unless you killed them first.

—

The base was a war zone now.

Shots echoed off the walls in too-close succession. Bob had gone full Sentry—gold and energy and rage splitting the darkness like lightning. Ava was phasing in and out of walls, striking when she could. John and Alexei moved with brutal force, backs to each other like mismatched chess pieces. Yelena was leading the counter, deadly efficient—graceful and unforgiving.

And you were barely breathing.

Bucky had pulled you into a weapons cache room on the eastern side of the Watchtower. Emergency lighting flickered overhead, casting him in strips of red and shadow. He looked like a man caught between two mirrors—one past, one future.

He didn’t ask if you were okay.

He just looked at you with those piercing, tired eyes and said:

“It’s them, isn’t it?”

You froze. Couldn’t lie.

He already knew.

You nodded once.

Bucky exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that sounded like it came from years ago.

You both moved in sync—sweeping shelves for guns, blades, anything with weight and range. It was instinctive. Familiar. Like you’d trained together for years.

Because in some ways… you had.

Not literally.

But emotionally.

Same pain. Same silence. Same shadows.

“I didn’t want this,” you whispered, voice thin.

“I know,” he said. Soft. Certain.

You turned toward him. “How can you say that?”

He met your gaze without flinching. “Because I see it in your eyes. The same thing I used to see in mine when I started remembering who I was.”

Your throat tightened.

“You’re not like them anymore,” he continued. “You were. But you’re not now.”

You looked down at your shaking hands. “I was supposed to kill you.”

“I figured,” he said, picking up a loaded rifle without pause.

“I studied you. Every breath. Every weakness. I memorized your scars.”

He stepped closer.

“And then you stopped.”

You froze.

“You stopped seeing me as a target. I felt it.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t need to.

“I trusted the wrong people for a long time,” he said. “But this time? I think I got it right.”

Your eyes burned. “Bucky…”

He offered the smallest, saddest smile. “You’re not broken. Just bruised.”

Something inside you cracked.

But before you could speak again—an explosion rocked the east wing.

They were getting closer.

You both turned toward the hallway. The reinforced door rattled under pressure. Gunfire grew louder. Footsteps closing in. The serum-enhanced agents were breaching fast.

Bucky checked the last clip on his belt. “We won’t hold them all.”

You were already thinking three steps ahead.

No escape routes.

Too many incoming.

And they wouldn’t stop until every Thunderbolt was dead.

Unless someone stopped them first.

You looked down at your belt.

Saw the grenade.

Felt the pin.

And something inside you just… clicked.

You turned to him.

“Bucky.”

He turned too—eyes narrowing at the change in your voice.

You stepped forward. Closer than you’d ever dared.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His brow furrowed. “You already said that.”

“No.” You shook your head. “I mean it now. For everything. For hurting you. For being what I was. For not telling you sooner. For not choosing you faster.”

His eyes flickered—realization starting to settle.

“I never knew what love was,” you said, chest aching with every word. “But I think I’ve been falling into it… every second you looked at me like I was worth saving.”

You reached up—fingers trembling—and touched his cheek. Just once.

He closed his eyes at the contact. Just for a second.

Then you stepped back.

He looked down.

Saw the pin in your fingers.

His breath caught.

“No—wait—”

But it was too late.

You were already walking toward the door. The lock was off. The hallway was crawling with enhanced assassins, heads turning the moment they saw you.

You didn’t raise your gun.

You raised your voice.

“HEY!”

They turned.

Then—

Click.

The pin dropped.

You smiled through the tears.

And you whispered, one last time, only loud enough for Bucky to hear:

“I love you.”

Then light.

And sound.

And silence.

—

You were gone before he could say it back.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was final.

And then…

[BUCKY POV]

The explosion didn’t sound like the others.

It was too close.

Too sharp.

Too personal.

Bucky’s ears rang as he hit the floor from the shockwave, arm curled over his head, the force punching the air from his lungs.

Smoke. Heat. Screams in the hallway.

And the smell.

Blood.

He didn’t get up right away.

Not because he couldn’t.

Because he knew.

His heart already knew before his mind caught up.

When he finally staggered upright, debris crunched under his boots. The hallway outside the weapons room was scorched. Burnt. Red-lit. Torn apart.

So were the bodies.

The enhanced assassins were in pieces.

And so were you.

Bits of tactical fabric. A smear of blood that didn’t match theirs. A melted commlink. One boot. Nothing whole.

Nothing human left to hold.

Bucky didn’t breathe for several seconds.

He just stood there, staring, like the floor had been yanked out from under time itself.

You were gone.

And all you’d left behind was—

“I love you.”

He heard it in his head again. Not a memory. A scar.

Not just in his ears.

In his chest.

The others came running.

Ava first, phasing through the wall with wide eyes.

Then John, Yelena, Alexei. Sentry stumbling down the hall, Bob’s gold aura flickering wildly as he saw the mess.

No one said anything.

They didn’t need to.

Bucky stood in the middle of it, barely blinking. Smoke curling around his shoulders. Blood drying on his neck. His vibranium arm still clenched, shaking slightly.

“She was one of them,” Yelena said first, breathless. “Wasn’t she?”

A pause.

Bucky didn’t look up.

“She was.”

No one moved.

“She was,” Bucky said again, softer now. “But she chose us.”

Alexei rubbed a hand over his face. “She blew herself up, Bucky.”

“She saved us,” Bucky snapped—his voice like breaking glass. “You all saw those bastards. They wouldn’t have stopped. She ended it.”

Silence.

“She ended herself,” John muttered, not cruel—just stunned. “For us.”

No one could speak after that.

Bucky crouched slowly. Picked up the pin from the grenade. Closed his metal fist around it.

He didn’t cry.

Not yet.

He just stood again—taller this time. Cold. Steady. Determined.

“I’m going to finish it,” he said, eyes locked on the smoldering hallway. “Every one of those fuckers that sent her here? That trained her? That broke her?”

His voice dropped.

“I’ll put them all in the ground.”

He started walking.

“Bucky—where are you going?” Ava called.

He didn’t stop.

“To let her free.”

[END OF POV]

—

The funeral was held three days after the raid.

By then, the Thunderbolts had burned the organization to the ground.

Valentina turned a blind eye when Bucky led the charge—files torn apart, facilities reduced to rubble, scientists and operatives arrested or buried beneath collapsed concrete. She didn’t protest. Just signed the paperwork and moved pieces on her board like it was always part of the plan. The team freed over seventy civilians—stolen from their lives, used for testing, stripped of their names.

They had faces. Families. Futures again.

But none of it made him feel any less hollow.

Because you were still gone.

The grave was symbolic.

There wasn’t much to bury.

A few fragments of armor. A nameplate. A pin.

The others stood in silence as the dirt fell—John with his jaw clenched, Ava still and guarded, Alexei weeping more openly than anyone expected. Bob, back in control of his form, said a few soft words. Yelena whispered a goodbye in Russian, kneeling once before stepping back.

Bucky didn’t move.

He stood at the foot of the grave, fists buried in the pockets of his coat, eyes fixed on the carved letters of your name.

His throat felt too tight to speak.

He hadn’t said anything.

Not during the ceremony. Not after the debrief. Not since you—

God.

He hadn’t even told you.

He hadn’t told you he loved you back.

Hadn’t told you how many times he looked for your face in a crowded room, just to ground himself. How you’d become his anchor without him realizing it.

The world around him kept moving. Soil crunching. People whispering. Wind brushing over forgotten flowers.

But he stayed still. Like grief had nailed his boots to the earth.

Until a quiet step pulled him back.

“Bucky.”

Ava’s voice broke through gently.

He turned his head. She approached with quiet steps, something small in her gloved hand.

“I found this,” she said softly. “Yelena and I were clearing her room. Val sent a few people to box her things, but… we stopped them when we found it.”

She handed him an envelope.

Your handwriting. Sharp. Small. Tilted slightly to the right.

His name.

Just his.

He stared at it for a long time before opening it.

And then, with frozen fingers and a heart breaking open, he read.

—

Bucky,

If you’re reading this… It means I didn’t make it.

And no, I didn’t write that to be dramatic. I wrote it because I knew I was playing with borrowed time.

I was going to tell you everything. I was going to stand in front of all of you, explain who I was—who I used to be—and pray you’d all listen before judging. Before hating me.

I was scared.

Not of dying.

Not even of the mission.

I was scared of what it meant to feel.

Because I never really did before.

But then you came in with your tired eyes and your quiet voice and your kindness that didn’t ask for anything in return… and suddenly I couldn’t stop feeling.

I noticed you first.

Noticed how you always stood with your back to a wall, but left your side open when I entered the room. Like you trusted me.

Noticed how your voice got softer when you talked to me. How you lingered in rooms we shared. How you remembered my schedule better than I did. How you watched the stars when you thought no one was looking.

I watched you, too.

More than I was supposed to.

More than I meant to.

And somewhere between the long nights and the briefings and the bruises and the silences… I fell in love with you.

I think I’ve been in love with you longer than I even knew what it was.

I knew they were growing suspicious. I should’ve said something sooner. But I didn’t—I was selfish. I wanted more time. Time with you, with the Thunderbolts. And I’m sorry. I really am.

And if I was lucky enough to survive long enough to confess, I was going to ask the team to let me do one thing first—I was going to destroy my handlers.

I was going to take everything I knew and burn them from the inside out.

Then come back. Then tell you. All of you.

But mostly you.

Because you deserved the truth.

And you deserved someone who chose you.

So here’s my truth.

I loved you, Bucky Barnes.

Not because you saved me. But because you saw me. And I hope, wherever I am now… I’ll keep watching over you.

Like I always did.

Love,

—Yours

P.S. If I ever get another chance—in this life or the next—please let it be with you.

—

By the time he reached the bottom of the letter, his hand was shaking.

His mouth parted. His chest ached like something had caved in.

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in years…

He let himself cry.

Not in rage.

Not in shame.

But in grief.

And love.

[itoshiierae]

STITCHED INTO YOU 🩹🩸

ᡣ𐭩 ft: bonten!kokonoi hajime x underground!nurse reader

ᡣ𐭩 notes: he’s your least favorite patient. you hate the way he talks. the way he smirks. the way he makes himself comfortable in your space like he owns it.… and you also hate the way your body betrays you every time he opens his mouth.

ᡣ𐭩 cw: mdni, nsfw, smut, f!reader, oral (f receiving), creampie, size kink, cursing, praise kink, unprotected sex, brief mention of akane, possessiveness, emotional denial, angst if you squint, overstimulation, soft aftercare, brief wrist grab, slight power play

This clinic wasn’t on any map. There was no sign outside. No receptionist. No insurance paperwork. Just an old, half-sunken building tucked two blocks off the main underground strip-cracked concrete, flickering lights, and a silence thick enough to choke on. Inside, it smelled like sterilized bleach and something older.

The walls weren’t painted gray, they’d just surrendered to it, almost faded until the color gave up. Filing cabinets leaned in the corners like dying soldiers. Metal trays cluttered with half-used supplies balanced on shaky stools. And in the center, under a cracked light fixture that buzzed like a broken heartbeat, stood a single battered examination table.

Your clinic was never holy, just sterile enough to swallow sins. A place where you sutured bullet wounds, stitched over knife gashes, and never once asked where the blood came from. Because some people, you save even when they don’t deserve it. You weren’t there to judge. You were there to stop the bleeding. And some nights, you couldn’t tell whose pain you were numbing more — theirs, or your own.

──★

You heard him before you saw him. The heavy drag of boots on tile. A low chuckle echoing down the hallway like a warning you’d already learned not to ignore. And then, there he was. Kokonoi Hajime. One of Bonten’s golden boys. Bonten was a criminal organization dressed in designer suits and bloodstained ledgers, and he was the one trusted to balance both. Their treasurer. The man who could make money bleed and wear pain like it was stitched in silk.

“You’re late,” you said flatly, snapping on your gloves.

He wore that grin again — lazy and lavish, like he was used to owning the room before he even walked in.

“Had some business to finish,” he said, dropping into the chair like it belonged to him.

You glanced at the wound; a deep, jagged gash running from rib to hip, torn open at a sharp angle like it had been carved, not cut. The bleeding had slowed, but the damage was clean enough to tell it came from a blade, not a brawl. It was probably unavoidable, given the kind of lifestyle he led.

This was the fifth time Kokonoi Hajime had stumbled through your doors in the past two months — always bleeding, always smirking, always carrying enough cash to make you look the other way. You sighed, already reaching for the tray of tools — antiseptic, gauze, suture kit. He wasn’t your favorite patient. But he kept your clinic open. Paid for your silence. And in your world, that was loyalty enough.

Treasure the treasurer. That was the unspoken rule.

──★

You stood between his legs, the sterile scent of antiseptic thick in the air as your fingers adjusted the overhead surgical light, its glow casting harsh white shadows over the angry gash carved along his side. The moment it illuminated his skin, you leaned in, eyes narrowing, inspecting the wound with clinical precision while pretending not to notice how close you were.

“You’re lucky,” you muttered, wiping away the blood oozing out. “Half an inch deeper and you’d be paying for your own funeral.”

He chuckled. “Would’ve made for a hell of a headline though, yeah?”

You didn’t laugh, just continued threading the needle with steady, cold, precision almost like this was just another routine stitch and not the fifth time you were sewing him back together.

“You talk too much,” you muttered.

The first stitch sank into his torn skin. He hissed through his teeth, muscles tensing beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in closer like he craved the pain, or maybe just the attention wrapped inside it.

“You’re good with your hands,” he murmured.

“Do you tell all your nurses that?”

He grinned wider. “Nah. Just the ones I wanna keep.”

You pulled the last stitch tight, snapped off your gloves, and turned away.

“You’re done. I’ve got other patients coming soon.”

You didn’t make it two steps before his hand wrapped around your wrist — not tight, but firm. Possessive in that quiet, undeniable way that didn’t need force to be felt. It’s his silent way of saying you’re not going anywhere.

“You fix me up,” he said softly, “You don’t get to walk away after that.”

You froze.

The warmth of his grip, the weight of everything unspoken between you, it all hit at once. And then, barely above a whisper, sharp with something fragile underneath: “I’m not your property.”

He smiled — slow, crooked, like he already knew how this would end.

“Maybe not yet,” he murmured, voice low and full of promise,“but you will be… after this.”

His fingers ghosted along your skin, sliding from your arm to your throat as if every inch of you was forbidden — a secret he’d waited too long to touch.

“You’re good at fixing broken things,” he murmured.

“Ever wonder what happens when one of them decides to keep you? You think you can stitch me up then walk away like you didn’t leave a piece of yourself in me?” he breathed against your throat, mouth dragging heat down your skin.

“You touched me. You bled into me. And now —there’s no getting you out. You’re officially mine.”

His mouth found your collarbone with slow intensity, branding the skin there like a signature — a claim, a quiet kind of madness wrapped in heat.

“I don’t give back what’s mine.”

Afterwards his rough fingers slipped beneath your shirt, calloused palms gliding across your skin like they were tracing something sacred, and the whole sensation made your stomach flutter with something unnameable.

“You should run,” he said. “But you probably won’t.”

Then he pressed you down against the examination table — hovering over you with a hunger that felt carved from restraint and his gaze devouring every inch of your body like it wasn’t enough just to touch. He knew he had to consume.

“You stitched yourself into me,” Kokonoi growled, voice low and final. “Every fuckin’ breath. Every pulse.”

“You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

──★

Your clothes hit the floor one piece at a time, each one peeled away with quiet reverence. Kokonoi stripped you slowly — not out of hesitation, but with intent, like he was learning you by touch. His gaze never wavered, drinking in every inch like your body was something sacred.

"You walked in here like it was just another job," he murmured.

"Poked my ribs. Threaded your hands through me. And you didn’t flinch — you didn’t look at me like I was just another paycheck. Another weapon," he said, voice breaking.

He stared at you with a kind of intensity that made your breath catch. Dark eyes locked onto yours like he was searching for something only you could give. There was no escape in that gaze, no room to look away — just the weight of it, heavy and unrelenting.

"You looked at me," he whispered, "…like I was someone worth saving."

His fingers glide along your curves, slow and possessive, memorizing the shape of you like he’s claiming it.

"I had someone once, long time ago. She was soft, kind and beautiful..." he said, voice rasping.

His eyes twitch, just slightly, like some long-buried memory clawed its way back to the surface — something unresolved, still lingering somewhere at the back of his mind.

"And when I lost her," he said, "I lost every fuckin' thing that ever made me worth saving."

"But you," he murmured, dragging his mouth higher, "you made me want to stay breathing."

He laughed — low and broken.

"Stupid, right? One touch from you — and I’m bleeding all over again."

"But this time," he said, voice dark and sweet,

"I’m dragging you into it too."

His zipper came down with a harsh, deliberate sound — sharp as a match strike against the thick tension coiled between you. His eyes never left yours like he’d been pacing the edge of this moment for far too long. “Tell me you want it too,” he said, voice rough, almost hoarse — the words breaking at the edges like they were tearing out of him. “Tell me I’m not the only one losing my mind over this.”

You meet his gaze with a heat that says: ‘Do it. Wreck me.’ And he doesn’t hesitate. Your breath catches the moment you get a proper look at his erection — long, thick, painfully hard — big enough to make you second-guess every reckless thing you’ve ever said to him. Especially now… knowing it’s about to be inside you.

He pushed his tip into you slowly — inch by devastating inch — dragging out breathless, broken sounds from your throat like he was coaxing them on purpose, savoring every twitch, every soft plea coming out from you. The stretch burned in the best possible way, a sweet ache that pulled desperation straight from your lungs. And he just smirked — eyes locked on yours watching you unravel around him like it was the only thing he came for.

“Yeah… that’s it. My good girl,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked as he kept grinding into you.

“Ah— it hurts… you’re too deep—” your voice cracked between gasps, a half-whimper escaping as you struggled to breathe through the fullness of his length.

“Too deep for you, baby?” he taunts, dragging his cock deeper just to hear you whimper. “Then take it. Take it like my good fuckin’ girl— yeah, just like that.”

His pace was slow at first, then faster, rougher, each thrust hitting deeper than the last. Your thoughts blurred, concentration slipping with every snap of his hips because all you could feel right now was the way he’s filling you up like he was trying to carve himself into your body.

“You like it,” he pants, voice ragged. “Fuck—say it. I want to hear you say how good I make you feel.”

“Y-yes… you make me feel so good, Koko,” you gasp, voice catching between moans, eyes fluttering as your fingers curl tighter around him.

The way he was driving into you bordered on punishment — every thrust so precise it left you breathless, the kind of ache that blurred into pleasure until you were seeing stars from how perfectly he kept hitting all the right spots that made you fall apart.

“Say it,” he growled, thrusting into you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

“Say you fuckin’ belong to me.”

You barely managed a gasp, mouth parted, eyes hazy — and that’s when he crashed his lips to yours. It wasn’t gentle. It was devouring. All teeth, tongue, and desperation — like he needed to taste the words from your mouth before you could even say them. His rhythm never faltered, still slamming into you as his kiss swallowed every moan, every whimper, every broken syllable of surrender. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath hot, eyes blazing — staring straight through you like he already knew you were his.

“Say it,” he whispered again.

There was no denying it now — not with the way he made you feel, not with the way he was filling you completely it left no room for reason. In this moment, you knew it with aching certainty: you were already his, and there was no coming back from it.

"I’m yours," you gasped.

"I’m fucking yours, Kokonoi."

He didn’t answer — not with words, at least. He dropped to his knees between your thighs like he was always meant to be there. His hands spread you open, and then he was tasting you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered. Slow at first. Drawing soft circles with his tongue, lips wrapping around your clit like he was kissing you there. But when you moaned — sharp, needy — something in him shifted. He groaned into you, messier now. Hungrier. Tongue dragging up and down, flicking fast, unrelenting — like he needed to memorize you. To ruin you from the mouth up. Your fingers tangled in his hair. Your hips bucked. But he didn’t stop. He only held you down, pulled you wider, and looked up at you with eyes already gone dark like he was daring you to come undone just for him.

“Be good,” he breathed. “Come for me. Show me who you belong to.”

And when he slipped two fingers inside, curling them just right — you immediately shattered from the overwhelming sensation. You came on his tongue with a broken cry, trembling as he licked through every wave, refusing to let a single drop go to waste.

“Koko,” you whispered, voice still trembling, “I want you inside me again. Please…”

His gaze dropped to his length — still hard, even after eating you out and fuck, he smirked.

“Say no more, baby,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked as he dragged his lips from your shoulder to your neck. “I’m not done with you yet.” And then — with a slow shift of his hips, his body was already twitching back to life inside you. Every thrust was slow and deep, like he wanted to make sure you feel every inch of him clench around you. The way he was moving inside you was so deliciously good that you forgot everything else — who you were before this, what you said you wouldn’t feel, what you promised yourself not to need. Now??? All that you knew was him.

And not long after that, he came with a low, broken groan — the sound ripped from somewhere deep in his chest, raw and involuntary, like he’d been holding it in for too long. His body shuddered as he stayed buried inside you, hips pressed flush like he couldn’t bear to let go, not even for a second. And then quieter, almost trembling — he leaned forward and kissed your forehead.

"You’re not her," he whispered. "But you’re the first thing, since her that made me want to live."

He curled around you — the aftermath of longing and quiet possession, clinging onto you like you were the only thing keeping him whole.

"And you’re not getting away," he muttered.

"Not now. Not ever.”

© itoshiierae 2025 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ please do not modify or repost my content onto any other platforms.

[hischierhoney]

haze

Nico Hischier x reader // 2k

stoner!nico smut. that’s about all. ngl I can’t decide if I love this or hate it but it’s getting posted anyways. devils 5-0 shutout let’s goooooo!

warnings: smut, 18+ minors do not interact, drug use, oral fem receiving

“Mmmmmm,” Nico rumbles out, his chest vibrating beneath your head.

You giggle lightly, rubbing your cheek against the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, as he runs a hand lightly up and down your back.

The room is dimly lit, nothing but the lamp next to the couch casting a soft glow over the two of you, seeping into the corners of the space. He’s warm underneath you, and the blanket is warm around you. The air is hazy, slightly fragrant with weed, and beneath you, Nico’s melting into the couch at the very first hit from the joint.

It’s long needed. Too much stress for the both of you in the past few weeks, too little time spent together like this. He’d been the one to suggest it, the one to roll the joint, the one to pull you down against him and keep you there while he lit it. Like you’d have tried to go anywhere.

He passes you the joint, and you lift your head slightly from his chest, avoiding burning a hole in his hoodie. You take a hit and mimic his hum from before. Above your head, Nico giggles.

“Yeah?” He teases, his hand cupping the back of your neck.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Needed this.”

He hums, again, threading his fingers through the hair at the nape of your neck. “Me too.”

He takes the joint from your fingers before he pulls you up for a kiss- you know why. You’re liable to get a little caught up in it, forget what you’re doing, and drop the joint somewhere inconvenient. Nico holds it away from the two of you and presses his lips to yours, hungrily, achingly slow already. He rumbles out another groan from somewhere deep in his chest, as his hand runs up and down your back. You get lost in it, lost in him.

He pulls away, takes another hit, and pulls you back in. The smoke floods your lungs, and you whine against his lips, already feeling looser and warmer and better. His hand slips lower, rucks up the hem of your hoodie, and he sighs against you at the feeling of your skin under his.

“So soft,” he mumbles against your lips.

You giggle, again, and pull back slightly. He chases you.

“Hey, my turn,” you whine, reaching for the joint.

You prop yourself up on your elbows above him as he hands it back to you. He’s watching with hooded, dark eyes, lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed pink. He looks good, like this. Soft and open and warm.

You take a deep inhale and then blow the smoke out, up into the air. He blinks, almost entranced, and then reaches up to cup your face in his hand. The next hit you take, he drags your lips back to his and takes it, too.

You can feel him getting hard against your hip, but he seems to be in no rush to do anything about it. Once you’ve had the realization, though, it’s all you can think about. So you let him take the joint back from your fingers, let him get distracted by a messy make out, and let your hand start to map a course from his chest downward. You keep your touch light, gentle, almost innocent.

Almost.

When you finally reach his cock, and cup him through his sweatpants, he keens, a loud groan leaving his lips. You pull away and find his eyes clenched shut, lips parted, cheeks red and splotchy. The blush is running down his neck, now, one of your favorite things. It disappears into the neckline of his hoodie, which you tug at to get access to his neck, sponging soft kisses against the scruff tinged skin there.

“Baby,” he gasps out, fidgeting beneath you. “Please.”

You slip your hand past the waistband of his sweatpants and smile against his jaw when you confirm your theory- he’s not wearing underwear. He’s painfully hard against your fingers, and he throbs when you wrap your hand around his cock, thumbing at the vein. You nip at his neck lightly and grin at the whine he lets out.

“Gimme,” you say, nodding at the joint in his hand.

His fingers shake when he holds it to your lips, and he lets out a wavering exhale while you inhale. Then you lean up and press your lips to his, and let the smoke pour into him as you start to stroke his cock.

The effect is immediate- he melts, beneath you, all his muscles going slack. It’s like he’s lost in it, barely able to kiss you back, too focused on the pleasure of it all. He lets out noises he doesn’t seem conscious of, a mix of breathy whines and deep bassy groans. Your favorite chorus. Between kisses, you watch his face, the way his dimples dig into his cheeks and the way his nose crinkles.

Somewhere in the middle of it, he shoves at his sweats with his hand and gets them halfway down his legs.

You feel more than hear him hiss against your lips as the cold air hits him. It only gives you more room to work, only lets you peek down to watch your own hand as you work him over. It feels a little like an out of body experience, like this. Like you’re just watching it all happen. Watching the precum dribbling against the head of his cock, watching your fingers trace the veins, watching the muscles in his thighs twitch. He’s close, you know he’s close. You can feel it buzzing in your own skin, too.

He comes with an almost wounded noise, something raw and open to it. You swallow the noises that follow as you work him through it, as he makes a mess of your hand and his own abdomen. You don’t mind, could never mind. He holds you close, arm banded against your back, fingers digging into your hip.

He floats, for a bit. You let him. You let go of his cock, gently, and bring your hand up. When you lick the mess off your own fingers, Nico groans, guttural and loud, and you look at him to find dark eyes drilling into yours. His lips are red and parted.

You clean him up with a tissue, and then you reach over him and grab the still smoldering joint from the ashtray, and he watches with rapt attention as you take one more hit. He takes it from you with a shaky hand, then, and does the same, before putting it back.

You lay there for a moment, your head against your hand on his chest. You can feel his thudding, rapid heartbeat. Can feel the rise and fall of him with every breath he takes. His skin is burning hot against yours where you can touch it. And you’re aching.

It’s like he knows. One second, you’re laid against his chest, and the next, you’re flat on your back on the couch, staring through the haze at the ceiling, and your sweatpants are sliding down your thighs and off-

“Off, off-“ you plead, shoving at the fabric with your own hands, too.

“I know,” he soothes, voice dark. “I’ve got you.”

You sigh, and then nod. Nico’s got you.

You let him work your panties off your hips, too. When you look up, he’s kneeling between your legs. You’re still clad in your hoodie, bare and exposed to him from the waist down. He scrapes his hand against his jaw, looking almost tortured.

“Baby,” he groans. He presses a hand to the crease of your hip.

“Nico, please,” you whine. It echoes around the room.

He traces your center with his thumb, first. Then two fingers, circling your clit and slipping downwards. He groans, pulls his hands away, holds his fingers up to the soft light. You grow warmer than before.

“You’re so wet,” he says. His other hand grips at your hip as he brings his glistening fingers to his mouth. “Mmmmm.”

“Nico-“ you gasp.

In seconds, he’s got his face between your thighs, buried there. He’s messy with it, letting himself get lost in the act. He’s noisy about it, too, his groans and mumbles the perfect symphony to the way you start to fall apart beneath him. You could get there from this alone, from his tongue and his lips against your pussy, from the way he looks up at you through his dark, tangled lashes, from the way you can feel him smiling and see his dimple.

And then he adds his fingers into the equation, and you lose track of it all.

Your orgasm comes in like a train, slow and steady and barreling ahead. Unstoppable. All you can do is lay there and feel it and let him take you there. He groans against you, like he can tell you’re close, and wraps his free arm around your thigh. Your heel digs into his back. You start to lose your breath, start to feel it buzzing across your skin, start to feel that knot tightening and tightening and tightening.

When you finally come, your eyes meet his eyes and stay there.

It feels like a tidal wave of pleasure, crashing over you. Like every nerve is screaming for him. Your hand ends up in his hair, holding his head close- he takes it happily, makes a mess of himself and you while he works your through it. When he finally pulls away, you’re panting for air, legs shaking, and the bottom half of his face glistens. Your heart skips a beat.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, pressing his thumb against the soft skin of your hip, drifting dangerously towards your clit. “Gonna go again for me?”

You sigh, breathless, and let your head fall back against the couch cushions. “Yeah, but I want your cock, Nico.”

He lets out a stuttered breath and pushes upwards, kneeling between your legs. “Yeah. Please. Whatever you want, baby.”

You sneak a peek at him. He’s hard again, already. He reaches for your hand, brings it to press against his cock again.

“Need you,” he says.

You bite your lip and nod. “You have me.”

As he leans over you, caging you in with an arm on either side of your head, he adds, “you have me, too.”

The world melts away when he kisses you again. He’s quick to sheathe himself inside of you, groaning at the easy slide.

“Fuck, feel so good,” he groans, voice scraping against his throat. “Good girl.”

“For you,”’you say, wrapping your arms around his neck, feeling his shoulders shake. “All for you.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Fuck, baby, you keep squeezing me like this, m’not gonna last.”

Instead of saying anything, you just chase after his lips with yours, begging for another taste of him. He kisses you back, gladly, slips his tongue into your mouth. You start to shake under him, start to feel it deep in your core, and you can tell from the noises you swallow from his lips that he’s not far behind. With every roll of his hips, he splits you open a little more. You feel him everywhere.

You feel his cock start to twitch, and you let yourself fall over the edge, too, holding on for dear like as he makes a mess of you. You get lost in the haze.

When you come back around, he has you laid out with your back against his now bare chest. One arm is banded around your middle. The other disappears between your thighs, two fingers sweeping against your entrance. You whine, your hips pushing into the touch despite the sensitivity of it all.

“This is exactly what I needed,” he mumbles into your ear. “Why don’t you light that second joint, baby?”

There’s no end in sight, when he’s like this. But you can’t find a single thing to complain about.

…..

[tifosipogue]

When Shadows Fall Soft

xaden riorson x reader

No one looks Xaden Riorson in the eye—except you.

They all flinch, turning away like moths from a flame. You, however, meet his gaze like you’re daring him to blink first. He never does. But you never stop trying.

"You are playing with fire," your friend whispers one day after training, eyes flickering to where Xaden stands, arms crossed, watching the sparring match like he’s mentally cataloging everyone’s weaknesses. His eyes meet yours and he raises one eyebrow, like he is challenging you.

You smirk. “Good thing I don't mind getting burned."

You’re assigned to the same squad for a field exercise—just your luck. He stands at the edge of the group, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the map and mission outline. He barely looks at you during the briefing, but you can tell he’s listening. Every word seems to land sharp.

His shoulders tense slightly when you speak, barely a shift, but it’s enough. You notice the way his fingers twitch once before stilling. The room isn’t cold, but there’s a chill that seems to hang around him like a storm cloud, subtle and heavy. In the corners, where the light doesn't quite reach, the black shadows seem to move—just slightly—like they’re leaning in to hear you too.

That’s the first surprise.

The second is when he saves your life.

You react quickly—training taking over, instincts firing—but not quickly enough. The danger comes too fast, a blur of motion and sound that you can’t fully register until it’s already upon you. Heat flashes near your side, the sign of incoming death. You pivot, heart slamming into your ribs, knowing—without question—you’re too late.

And then something colder than fear coils around you.

The shadows hit first—wrapping you in a sheath of darkness that clings to your skin like a second heartbeat. It’s not just a barrier; it’s a command. They pull you out of the blast zone, fast and sharp, snapping you through space like a blade slicing through silence. The ground reappears beneath your feet, unfamiliar and shaking, and you stumble—but you're not alone.

Xaden is already there.

He steps into the space where you were standing seconds ago, a wall of muscle, shadows, and raw fury. His power roils around him, violent and barely contained. Smoke-like tendrils lash out from his shoulders and spine, shifting like they’re alive, like they’re angry. At what—you’re not sure. The enemy. The threat. Or the fact that you’d almost been hurt. Again.

His eyes find yours—just for a second.

The way his jaw clenches. The way his fists flex. The way his power doesn’t retreat from your skin—it lingers, as if it refuses to let go until it’s sure you’re safe.

“Stay behind me,” he growls, voice low, threaded with something that might be fear—or something far more dangerous.

And even though the battlefield still rages around you, even though there’s no time to breathe, let alone feel—you do. Just for a heartbeat. Because in that moment, with the scent of lightning in the air and the ghost of his shadows still curled around your ribs, you realize something terrifying.

You free your arm from his grip, rolling your eyes. “I had it handled.”

“Like hell you did.” He snaps, his eyes wild as he dares you to talk back.

Your breathing is quick, your heart quicker, but you don’t back down. “You don’t get to play hero.”

He steps closer, voice low making you shiver. “And you don’t get to die on my watch.”

You see it—not just the anger, but something under it. Fear. Frustration. Maybe... concern?

____

The tension between you only worsens. It coils tighter with every shared breath, every glance that lasts too long, every word said just a bit too sharply. It’s unspoken but undeniable—an invisible thread pulled taut between you, threatening to snap or ignite, and you’re not sure which would be worse.

During drills, it becomes a battlefield all its own.

He pushes you harder than anyone else, relentless and unyielding. His commands are clipped, his tone edged in steel, and his eyes—gods, those eyes. Every misstep, every falter, every half-second delay is met with immediate, brutal correction. “You’re hesitating,” he snaps one morning, breath fogging in the cold. “That’ll get you killed."

You wipe the sweat from your brow and fire back without missing a beat. “And micromanaging my every move will get you punched.”

His jaw ticks. Just slightly. And for a flicker of a second, his shadows stir—barely—but they do. You know it wasn’t your words. It was your voice. The heat beneath it. The frustration. The fear. And maybe something else.

You don’t hold back either. Every time it’s his turn to spar, you hit harder, move faster. You press his limits like you're daring him to snap. When he corrects your stance with razor-sharp precision—clinical and cold—you meet it with sarcasm laced in venom. “Thanks for the unsolicited feedback, Wingleader. I forgot I signed up for a personal critique."

He steps closer. Too close. His breath ghosts across your cheek, and for a second you think he’s going to say something—something real—but he doesn’t.

And just like that, the moment implodes.

Because beneath the tension is something dangerous. Something that simmers beneath the surface like a fault line—shifting, straining, threatening to crack. You tell yourself it’s just frustration. Just adrenaline. Just the pressure of war, of survival.

But it’s not.

It’s you and him.

____

It happens after a night patrol turns into another disaster—ambush, chaos, the kind that leaves your ears ringing and your hands slick with blood that might not even be your own. You're still high on adrenaline, limbs shaking with the aftershock, your heart pounding like it’s trying to escape your chest.

There’s a gash tearing across your shoulder, deep and ugly, warm blood soaking into your sleeve. You’re breathing hard, pain dull behind the buzz in your head, but you’re standing. That counts for something.

He’s not impressed.

Xaden is pacing in front of you, jaw tight, movements sharp enough to cut through the night air. His shadows slither around him, alive with fury. Every step he takes feels like thunder, like he’s barely holding something back—his voice, his temper, his power. Maybe all three.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snaps, finally rounding on you.

You straighten despite the pain, even though every instinct tells you to sit down before you pass out. “I was thinking I’d keep the squad alive."

His eyes flash. His shadows twitch, sensing his anger before he even speaks again. “You’re not invincible,” he growls, stepping closer. “Stop acting like you don’t care what happens to you.”

“And you stop acting like it’s your only job to keep me breathing!” you snap back, voice rising, blood still dripping from your arm. “I know the risks, Xaden. I’ve known them since day one.”

For a second, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares at you, chest rising and falling too fast, fury painted across his face—but underneath it, something else. Something quieter. Raw. Unspoken.

Then his gaze drops—just briefly—to the blood on your arm.

He exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s trying to swallow something back. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but more dangerous than before. “You think I’m angry because you disobeyed?” he murmurs. “I’m angry because you got hurt."

You freeze.

The words land harder than any blow. You can still hear the echoes of battle in your ears, still feel the sting of your wound, but suddenly none of it matters. Not compared to the way he’s looking at you now—like he’s furious with you, yes, but more than that... terrified.

You didn’t know he could look like that.

“You should have run,” he hisses, voice tight. “You think dying proves something?”

“Better than hiding behind shadows like you do.”

You expect him to yell, give you a silly punishment like all the times before. Maybe even walk away.

Instead of replying, he storms forward.

His eyes burn into yours, shadows curling at the edges of his silhouette like they can’t decide whether to lash out or hold you tighter. He’s barely two breaths away when he suddenly reaches out, rough hands catching your face, fingers splayed across your jaw with a grip that’s more desperate than tender.

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

The world narrows to the heat between your mouths, the press of his body, the taste of adrenaline and fury and everything you’ve both been holding back for far too long. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s wild—teeth clashing, breath stolen, lips bruising with the force of it. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if there’s even a sliver of space between you.

You kiss him back. Gods, you shouldn’t—but you do.

Because all that tension, all the biting words and hard stares and dangerously close moments—it’s always been this. A storm waiting to break.

Your blood is still warm from the fight, your shoulder throbbing, and yet none of that matters now. Not with his mouth on yours like it’s the only way he knows how to speak, like it’s the only language he trusts. You push against him, not to stop him, but to fight back—matching the kiss with your own ferocity, your own aching confusion. It’s a battle neither of you were ready for. And slowly—breath by breath, touch by touch—you start to lose.

And you don’t even care.

But eventually, reality crashes back in. The smell of smoke, the taste of copper, the ache in your arm—all reminders that this shouldn’t be happening. Not here. Not like this.

You break the kiss with a gasp, chest heaving, lips tingling. You don’t step back—can’t—but you meet his eyes with yours, and for a moment neither of you says a thing. His hand is still on your jaw, thumb brushing your skin like he doesn’t want to let go.

“That was a mistake,” you whisper, though your voice cracks around it.

He leans in again, lips brushing your jaw.

"Was it?"

____

The war catches up faster than expected.

You’re stationed together during a border defense—an urgent call. When your squad gets split up, it’s just the two of you, back-to-back against impossible odds.

You're both barely standing.

Wounded, exhausted, covered in dust and blood that isn't just your own—your limbs ache with the weight of the fight, and your vision blurs at the edges, but you move. Because you have to. Because stopping means dying. The enemy is relentless, the air thick with smoke and magic and screams swallowed by the night.

And then something shifts.

A flicker of movement—a flash of metal too fast to counter. It’s coming for you, and you don’t see it until it’s too late. You spin on instinct, weapon raised, but it won’t be fast enough.

You feel the power surge behind you first. Cold and consuming.

His shadows explode into your periphery, dark tendrils lashing forward like living smoke, forming a barrier between you and death. They strike with feral precision, swallowing the blade before it can reach your skin. The sound is sickening—a clash of steel against something ancient and unnatural.

But then—

A strangled breath. The shadows falter.

And you know.

You turn—heart already breaking, throat already tight—and scream his name, raw and panicked.

"Xaden!"

He’s still standing. Just barely.

His body is between you and the blow. His shadows flicker and writhe around him, unsteady now, like they’re confused. Hurt. And then you see it—dark crimson blooming beneath his armor, soaking through the fabric at his side in thick, spreading waves.

The blood.

Your breath stutters. “No.”

He sways once before catching himself, jaw clenched, hand pressed to his ribs like he’s trying to hold himself together with sheer will. His face is pale, eyes clouded with pain, but locked on you—only on you. Like the rest of the world doesn’t matter as long as you’re still breathing.

You’re already moving, dropping to your knees beside him, hands scrambling for pressure on the wound, for anything that’ll help, that’ll do something. But your hands are slick with his blood, and he’s already too cold, and he’s still looking at you like you’re the only thing he’s sure of.

“You idiot,” you whisper, choking on the words. “You weren’t supposed to—I didn’t ask you to—"

He reaches up, fingers brushing your cheek in a ghost of a touch. “Didn’t need to.”

You press harder on the wound. His shadows respond, curling weakly around your hands like they’re trying to help, trying to hold on.

“Don’t you dare die,” you growl, fierce and shaking. “Do you hear me, Xaden? I’m not letting you.”

And he gives you the faintest, bloodstained smirk—equal parts defiance and affection.

"I know you won't."

You pull him close feeling his heart starting to slow as you sob.

Later, after the healers stabilize him, you sit at his bedside, holding his hand.

When he wakes, he groans but smiles as soon as his eyes meet yours, “You again.”

“Welcome back,” you reply, tears slipping down your cheek despite your smirk.

“I almost died.”

“You almost left me.” Your voice cracks. “That’s worse.”

He lifts your hand to his lips, brushing a kiss against your knuckles.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “Not unless you’re with me.”

After that, the shadows soften completly.

They don't disappear, they are still here but know they protect you, fight for you, sleep with you and dream with you.

He still growls at you during training. You still roll your eyes and make a snide comment. But the fire between you is no longer all heat and rage—it’s warmth, too. It’s home.

[myadagoat22]

Steve Rogers x Reader

Warning: Smut and word count 900+

You wake up to the smell of pancakes and justice.

The morning sun peeks through the curtains, soft and golden, and somewhere in the kitchen… a pan sizzles. You blink sleepily and stretch, only to hear:

“Mornin’, sunshine,” comes that ridiculously all-American voice, already warm with a smile.

You sit up, blanket falling off your shoulders, and there he is: Steve Rogers, a.k.a. your super-soldier boyfriend, standing in your kitchen in plaid pajama pants and a white tee that clings a little too well to his biceps. He's flipping pancakes like he's been doing it since 1942 (which he kind of has).

He turns and gives you that grin—the soft, boyish one that could disarm actual villains.

“I didn’t want to wake you. Thought I’d let you sleep in. Made your favorite.” He gestures to the counter, where pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fruit are already plated like some Food Network dream.

You shuffle over, wrapping your arms around his middle from behind, and he chuckles, setting the spatula down to cover your hands with his.

“You know you didn’t have to do all this,” you mumble into his back.

“I know,” he says, squeezing your hand. “But I wanted to. You’ve been working hard lately. Figured Captain America could at least make you breakfast.”

You: "Okay, but do I get the Avengers discount on maple syrup or nah?"

Steve, mock serious: “Only if you say ‘please, Mr. Rogers, sir.’”

You both dissolve into giggles, and yeah—it’s the kind of morning that feels like a hug.

Y/N assured him, reaching up to cup his cheek, "But even more than the food, I love waking up to you."

Steve's eyes warmed, fingers threading through her messy hair. "I love waking up with you too," he confessed, dipping his head to kiss her again, deeper this time. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, coaxing them open so he could delve inside.

Y/N hummed into his mouth, tangling her fingers in his hair as she kissed him back fervently. The tray was promptly forgotten as they lost themselves in each other, bodies pressing close until there was no space between them.

Steve's hands roamed Y/N's curves reverently, mapping out every dip and swell as he touched her. Y/N arched into his caress, wordlessly begging for more as she ground against him.

"Steve," she gasped between kisses, "I need you. Please."

He groaned, rolling them so she was straddling his hips. "You feel what you do to me?" he asked hoarsely, guiding her hand to the prominent bulge in his boxers.

Y/N whimpered at the feel of him, thick and hard beneath her fingers. She rubbed him through the fabric, delighting in the way his hips bucked up into her touch.

"Off," she demanded, tugging at his underwear impatiently. "I want to feel all of you."

Steve complied eagerly, shucking off his boxers and briefs before reaching for Y/N's pajamas. They undressed each other quickly, too desperate for skin on skin contact to bother with finesse.

Finally naked, they came together again, kisses turning frenzied as their hands explored newly exposed flesh. Steve ran his palms up Y/N's sides to cup her breasts, thumbs teasing over the pebbled peaks until she was writhing against him.

"Please," she begged shamelessly, grinding her dripping sex against his rigid length. "I need you inside me. Now."

With a low growl, Steve reached between them to notch his cock at her entrance. Y/N bit her lip hard to muffle a cry as he pushed forward, stretching her open inch by delicious inch.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Steve groaned, hands gripping her hips tightly as he worked himself deeper. "Gonna fit you like a glove, baby."

"Oh god yes," Y/N keened, head thrown back in ecstasy as he bottomed out inside her. "You feel so good. So big and deep."

They started to move then, Y/N rolling her hips in time with Steve's sharp thrusts. The wet slap of skin on skin and their harsh panting filled the room, a carnal symphony that only served to heighten their pleasure.

Y/N leaned down to capture Steve's lips in a sloppy kiss, tongues twining as they lost themselves in the bliss of their joined bodies. Steve's hands slid up to palm her breasts, rolling and pinching her nipples as he pounded into her.

"Yes, right there!" Y/N gasped as he hit a particularly sensitive spot deep inside. "Harder! Fuck me harder!"

Steve obliged, snapping his hips sharply and driving into her again and again. The force of his thrusts rocked Y/N forward, her breasts bouncing enticingly.

"Gonna fill this sweet cunt up," Steve promised gutturally, feeling his own release approaching. "Gonna pump you so full of cum you'll be dripping for days."

"Please," Y/N begged, walls starting to flutter around him. "I need it. Want to feel you coming inside me."

With a hoarse shout, Steve slammed into her one last time, spurting deep as ecstasy overwhelmed him. Y/N followed a second later, clamping down on him like a vise as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.

They collapsed together in a sweaty tangle of limbs, hearts pounding in sync as they came down from their high. Steve gathered Y/N close, pressing tender kisses to her face and neck.

"I love you," he whispered fervently, holding her like she was the most precious thing in the world. "So much, Y/N. You're everything to me."

Y/N smiled mistily, cupping his face in her palms. "I love you too," she replied just as fiercely. "Forever and always."

They sealed their words with a kiss, pouring all their devotion and passion into the sweet caress. In that moment, with the man she loved holding her close and the promise of a bright future ahead, Y/N knew she was exactly where she was meant to be.

[betweenstorms]

Part Seven of Where We Part Catching On (previous chapter) (next chapter) (WWP Chapters) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

The rest of November slipped by in a sombre hush, days folding into one another like pages of an old book left in the rain.

Except for that one day.

A gunfight rang out near Aimsley Street, slicing through the murmur of the city. It left London tense and shaken, paralyzed for days as subways shut down, and those who could, travelled by car, turning the streets into a grid of motionless headlights.

Fortunately, it wasn’t as lethal as the terror attack at Piccadilly in 2019, but still, the unease seeped in, threading through the city’s veins, casting shadows across familiar places. And just like that, November quickly disappeared, pulling its curtain of solitude and waiting, leaving the world stripped bare, exposed to the bites of winter’s approach.

December draped itself over London like a heavy, threadbare blanket, stifling and colourless, the kind of oppressive atmosphere that made everything feel lifeless. The cold settled in, not the crisp, biting chill of clear winter mornings, but a damp, penetrating coldness that seeped into your very bones and made you wonder if you’d ever feel warm again. The streets looked as though they’d been stripped bare, left open and exposed to the heavy, overcast skies above. Most days, a dull mist hung over the pavements, giving the buildings a washed-out, ghostly quality, like a city caught between sleep and waking.

The days bled into one another, each more bleak than the last, with early mornings arriving in murky shades of grey and fading too soon into evenings that swallowed the world whole in their darkness. People moved with that characteristic urgency that winter brings. You joined them begrudgingly, always tugging your coat closer, cursing yourself for always forgetting a scarf, or for the thin boots that always seemed to soak up icy puddles like a bloody sponge.

On especially cold nights, you could almost convince yourself that this was normal, that this was simply the way things were and had always been. But it was quite difficult to ignore the feeling that something was missing, that the hollow silence that lingered in the empty spaces between your days wasn’t just the eerie stillness of winter, but the absence of something, or rather, someone, you had grown painfully fond of.

Simon hadn’t been back since early November.

He had texted once or twice, short, clipped messages that somehow still made your heart flip, each one like a handful of pebbles tossed your way. “Busy these days,” and, later, “Might be back in a month. Can’t promise.” And with each message, you felt the quiet ache of hope and disappointment, an unsettling mixture that left you feeling more and more lonely with each passing week.

You’d taken to clutching your phone a little more often, your heart flickering with every buzz, only to sink again as other, mundane notifications filtered through.

It was a strange kind of torture, missing someone who was never truly yours to miss, whose life was a map marked with destinations and duties far beyond your reach. However, even knowing this, even acknowledging the distance he kept, you felt his absence like a stone lodged deep within you, heavy and unmoving.

You found yourself reaching for the phone countless times, fingers hovering over his name, wondering if a simple call or text would bridge the painful emptiness he’d left in his absence.

But something held you back, understanding that Simon would likely meet your words with a silence that would hurt more than any reply. He’d drawn his line between his work and his personal life, between the world that demanded his professionalism and the connection he somehow allowed to happen with you.

He’d made it clear, he wouldn’t let those worlds collide, wouldn’t risk them merging into something unpredictable, something neither of you could control. And you respected that boundary, even as it tore at you.

However, the days felt endless without him, each hour stretching into another shadowed ache that you couldn’t quiet, no matter how hard you tried. Your heart felt like an open wound, raw and unhealing, each sore beat a reminder of his absence, each moment a slow, silent bleed of longing. You wondered if he felt it too, the quiet fracture of separation that neither of you could mend, a wound that only his return could begin to close.

December pressed on, relentless in its gloom.

Your world shrank, folding in on itself as you huddled in your flat, wrapped in oversized jumpers, your hands perpetually curled around a mug of tea to chase away the chill that lingered in your bones.

You fell into a sort of rhythm, almost like a ritual, as if by carrying out these small and mundane acts, you could keep the loneliness at bay. Mornings were spent buried under blankets, moving only reluctantly to start your day, while evenings were spent wrapped up on the sofa, the dim glow of a lamp casting a pale light across the room as you read, watched, and waited.

Your birthday and Christmas arrived, as dull as the winter sky outside. There was little joy in the chill, in the frozen ground that spread across Wimbledon, turning every cobbled street and brick house into an icy, unyielding facade. But you did find some comfort in being back with your parents, tucked into the warmth of their home, where the smell of spices and evergreen filled the air. Your mother, delighted to have you home, fussed over meals, bustling in and out of the kitchen with a determined cheerfulness that belied the weariness around her eyes. Your father sat by, his once-broad frame softened with age, but his gaze was still as sharp as ever.

You gave them the plane tickets to Thailand over Christmas dinner.

Your mum’s face lit up, eyes sparkling with the kind of excitement that was rare to see in the last few years.

You knew how long she’d wanted to return, how she’d looked at old photos of their honeymoon with a wistful smile, memories of a warmth and beauty worlds away from London’s dull cold. She held the tickets with reverence, tracing the letters with her finger as though they were a magical doorway back to her youth, when her husband’s sickness was just like a bad dream. Your father, whose health, thank God, had held up well in recent months despite some close calls, smiled, a look of contentment softening his face.

“Thailand,” your mother murmured, eyes distant. “Oh, dear, it’s been so long.” She gave your dad a nudge, eyes twinkling. “Been on about it for ages, haven’t I?”

He hummed and squeezed her hand. “You’ve been a right menace about it, that’s true.”

When you took them to the airport a week after Christmas, the terminal was filled with that strange, buzzing excitement that only comes with travel. People hugged each other, voices mixing with the static announcements overhead, foreign families pulling along suitcases, kids clutching stuffed animals and couples leading each other by each other’s hand.

You embraced your parents tightly, your mum’s hair smelling faintly of lavender and your father’s coat thick against you. You watched with a smile as they made their way through security, disappearing into the throng of travellers until they were out of sight.

And then, you were alone again.

New Year’s Eve crept up like a thief in the night, bringing with it a strange melancholy, like watching the embers of a once-bright fire slowly burn to ash. There was a hollowness in the air, a sensation that even the bright lights and the laughter of strangers couldn’t fill.

You’d been roped into joining your colleagues at a bar near the office. It seemed like a dreadful idea, but sitting alone in your flat, watching the hours crawl by, felt worse. You donned your best smile, the one that looked good enough in the mirror to fool even yourself, and you went, desperate for any mindless chatter that would at least keep your mind occupied.

But the bar was thick with heat and noise, the heavy bass of music thumping under the clatter of glass and the rise and fall of laughter. You found yourself swept into a circle of colleagues, all chattering about their plans for the new year, raising toasts, and making idle promises that would likely dissolve by February. They laughed easily, voices drifting over you in waves, and yet it all felt distant, like you were submerged in water, hearing only the echo of sound.

Then a young man from finance cornered you.

You only blinked at him, barely listening, caught in the comedic rhythm of his bouncing curls as he nodded along to his own words.

He launched into a passionate speech about the bloody sanctity of traditional gender roles. His words blurred together, his voice almost muted by the weight of your thoughts. Occasionally, you threw in a polite nod or a mumbled a barely audible “I see,” but your mind was far from this harrowing event. Then he leaned closer, mistaking your silence for interest, his voice picking up with enthusiasm as he rambled about his mother’s perfect domesticity.

He was going on about how his parents’ marriage thrived on ‘proper’ roles, his mum content at home, his father in the workplace, as if time hadn’t moved on. 

Instead of focusing on the man in front of you, whose name you didn't even know, your mind drifted back to Simon, as it always did, caught in the same endless orbit around him.

It was a quiet tragedy, really—how he occupied every corner of your thoughts, each waking hour, and even seeped into your dreams.

Last night, you dreamt of him again. You were back in Manchester, in the schoolyard where your lives had first touched, sitting side by side, sharing a slice of cake with the casual intimacy of old friends. Yet, in the dream, you were adults, marked by the years that had carved distance and longing between you.

You couldn’t help but wonder where he might be.

What distant place held him at this very moment? Did he feel the same biting loneliness that haunted you, or did the distance barely register for him? Did he notice the empty spaces you left behind, the echo of your absence? Did he miss you in that quiet, aching way you missed him, as though without him, the world felt hollow, missing something essential?

The evening dragged on, your drink untouched on the table, its amber hue glinting in the dim light of the bar.

Suddenly, the noise around you became too much so you left without a word. The countdown spilled out of the bar, each passing number a drumbeat reminding you of how misplaced you felt. The voices grew louder, almost drowning out the thoughts you clung to so desperately, but there was no shaking Simon’s image from your mind. You excused yourself to the blur of faces, slipping out into the cold just as the crowd reached “Three… two…” and a cheer erupted inside, muffled by the heavy door that closed behind you.

The cold air bit at your cheeks, sharp and unforgiving, but there was a strange relief in it. The chill worked its way through your coat, wrapping around your limbs, but you barely felt it.

Your mind was still somewhere else—wandering across continents, or maybe just a few miles away, lingering wherever Simon might be, wherever he was spending this strange moment of resumption. You tried to imagine him in his world, far from the lights and laughter, caught in some clandestine mission, navigating the edges of danger.

It felt wrong to picture him anywhere else but beside you.

You walked down the street slowly, trembling hands shoved deep in your pockets, blurry eyes trained on the pavement.

A fine layer of frost glistened under the dim streetlights, turning the world silver. It felt surreal, almost like you were moving through a dream. The faint sound of fireworks echoed in the distance, colours bursting against the night sky, their light reflecting in fragmented patterns on the layer of ice below your feet.

You looked up absentmindedly, the fireworks dying behind your eyes, feeling more alone in that moment than you had in years.

Perhaps loving him in silence was no longer possible.

The feelings had slipped beyond your control, as if they had a life of their own—spilling over like water from a crack in glass, flooding every part of you, soaking into your bones. The walls you’d so carefully built around your bleeding heart felt like little more than tissue now, flimsy barriers against the torrent that pressed and surged within. There was no holding back, no silencing the quiet ache that had become a steady, insistent pulse beneath your skin, a longing that refused to remain hidden, that sought him out even in the hollow silence.

No, you needed to love Simon Riley openly—

—without shadows or restraint.

You needed to bring this love into the light, where it could finally catch its first breath, where it could be heard and be seen, where it could thrive unhidden, unafraid. You needed him—not in fragments or stolen moments, not as a quiet ache buried in your chest, but wholly, fiercely, as something alive and unshackled.

You had wasted so much time.

So many precious years that now felt like mere flickers in the dark, small glimpses of life that slipped through your grasp before you’d even had a chance to hold them, like a newborn. The weight of it settled heavily upon you, like the slow realisation of a loss so deep it seemed to stretch back through all the years you’d been alive.

You could feel it in the pit of your chest, that dull ache of regret, as you thought of all the things you had left unobserved, the fleeting moments you had let drift by without truly seeing them for what they were.

You should have taken the time to appreciate your mum’s rose bush in full bloom. You should have sat with her in the garden, asking her all kinds of questions about those roses and why she loved them, about her own dreams and what she longed for.

You should have lingered a little bit longer in conversation with Mrs. Riley when she waved at you from her porch after school. She had been there every day, asking after your mum or commenting on the weather, hoping for a second of connection. But you had always been too absorbed in your own world, too eager to rush home, and now, those lost conversations seemed like small, precious jewels you’d tossed aside without even realising their worth.

There was that joyful summer in Sicily, too, when you’d stood on the shore with friends, the Mediterranean sun turning the sea into shimmering glass. You’d laughed, feeling invincible, the salt breeze tangling your hair and the waves lapping at your feet. But you were always thinking ahead, already planning the next thrill, and you never truly let yourself savour the gentle kiss of the sea or the warmth of those friendships, believing, foolishly, that there would always be more summers like that one.

Now, those days felt like faded photographs, captured and stowed away, a version of you that felt impossibly distant, almost unreal.

And all those dreams you’d held so tightly in your youth—they felt almost absurd and foolish now. Those grand plans, the visions of who you’d become, had seemed so important once, so urgent. However, life had drifted by, filled with pathetic attempts, with moments you passed over for the promise of a future that never quite materialised. All the dreams you’d clung to now seemed like toys left in a forgotten corner, things that once shimmered brightly but now only reminded you of all you hadn’t achieved, all you hadn’t dared to reach for.

And Simon.

God, you should have kept in touch.

All those years stretched between you like an untraveled road, a distance marked by silence and missed chances. You’d shared so much as children and somehow, as life tugged you in different directions, you’d let him slip away, thinking perhaps that time would wait, that there would always be a someday to reconnect.

But that day never came.

How could you have let all those years pass without him in your life?

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

And so, your resolve sharpened as the final traces of colourful fireworks flickered in the sky, fading like smiles, leaving you alone on that empty street. Heart pounding, you reached into your bag, fingers trembling as they closed around your phone. The reality of what you were about to do seized you, filling you with a giddy sense of reckless abandon. You needed to tell him—to reach across this vast, impossible distance and let him know what he meant to you.

You couldn’t wait for another moment to slip by, couldn’t let another chance vanish into the empty air of this cold evening.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, heart hammering as you stared at his name, the contact you’d saved so long ago but had so rarely dared to use. It felt monumental, like all the words you’d swallowed down like bitter pills, all the years of quiet yearning and repressed emotions were resting in a single message.

Happy New Year, Si.

You paused, staring at those three words.

It felt too simple, too unremarkable, yet somehow too much at the same time. However, you weren’t done. No, you couldn’t just wish him a happy New Year and leave it at that, not with everything you felt pressing on your chest, a weight so heavy it felt as though it might crush you. The words were there, bubbling up, desperate to spill out. Your thumbs lingered on the keyboard, hesitating, heart thundering as you finally, almost timidly, typed:

I love you.

Three more words.

They settled perfectly beneath the first message, as if they had always belonged there, tucked away beneath the safety of the New Year’s greeting. Somehow, the two messages fit together, one nestled beneath the other like layers of meaning, entwined, as though love was just a natural extension of your wish to start another year with him.

And, in a way, it was.

Two minutes passed. Then another two. And another two. But those words flew into the void, a confession to the ether, carrying with them every unspoken feeling you’d harboured, every quiet longing and desperate hope you had clung to through those long, empty days. However, it was fitting because love was never too loud between you and Simon. It was quiet, patient, a silent constant that filled the spaces between words. And yet, in this moment, as you stared at the screen, it felt too small. Because God, how you wished he were here beside you.

You wished, with a quiet ache, that he was here, that you could say these words to him aloud, that he might look at you with that steady, unreadable gaze of his and hear them for what they were—an offering, small but true, from your heart to his.

You checked your phone obsessively, but there was no reply, only the empty screen reflecting your own hesitance back at you. Each second felt like an eternity, stretching on, thick and heavy with doubt. Had he seen it? Was he even awake? Or worse, had he simply chosen to ignore it, to leave your confession to languish in the unknown, unacknowledged?

You tucked your phone back into your pocket, hoping to put some distance between yourself and the gnawing anxiety blooming in your chest.

The street was easeful, your only company the faint sound of revellers in the distance, their laughter drifting away like smoke on the wind. And there you stood, small and solitary, your message carried away into the silence of the night. You’d given a piece of yourself away, a part you could never take back, and the ache of that realisation settled within you, but there was no regret. You couldn’t live in the shadow of regret anymore. You could feel your pitiful heart thud painfully, a rhythm of yearning, wondering if you’d gone too far, if you’d crossed a line that could never be mended.

For a moment, you let yourself imagine his reaction—his gaze lowering to his phone, those unreadable hazel eyes flickering with some emotion he’d keep hidden behind his stoic mask. Would he read it? Would he feel the weight of those words? Or would he look away, placing your soft confession with all the other things he couldn’t face? A thousand questions swirled within you, each one carrying the potential of hope or heartbreak, yet none held an answer.

New Year’s slipped by, leaving you alone in your small, silent flat.

The cheers, the drinks, the fireworks, your coworkers—they all felt like shards of a broken life happening elsewhere, a distant world removed from your solitude. You made some mint tea and curled up on your sofa, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders, letting the muted glow of a mindless romcom you’d seen a hundred times fill the room. Every now and then, your eyes flicked toward your phone, longing for a reply that never came. Even though the screen remained dark, indifferent, you held onto the hope that it might light up with his name, with a message that would close the distance, however briefly, between your heart and his.

But days turned into weeks.

London slipped back into its own rhythm, its pulse steady and unchanging, as if the new year had come and gone without so much as a murmur. You, too, fell into the cadence of it all, returning to the apologetic rituals that had once felt like anchors but now seemed more like weights, pulling you through the days with a muted inevitability. There was work, with its familiar faces and deadlines, the cold commute, where breath rose like ghosts in the air, and the small tasks you clung to—brewing your morning tea, buttoning your coat, watching the frost glisten on your windowsill. Each small motion, each quiet routine, tethered you to the present, even as part of you remained lost somewhere else.

The ache in your chest persisted, a constant, unyielding reminder of your confession hanging in the silence. You busied yourself with distractions, trying to smother the gnawing ache of unreciprocated love, but it lingered, like a wound you couldn’t heal, as early January passed in a blur of frozen mornings and grey afternoons.

Another week began, still with no sign of Simon.

It was strange, feeling his absence so acutely, even after so many years of silence. You found yourself slipping into daydreams, remembering those late nights in his flat, the smoke curling between you as he listened quietly to your ramblings, his presence steady and grounding. You missed the glint in his eyes when he teased you, the rare moments when his hard exterior softened, revealing the person beneath. You missed the comfort of his company, the sense of being truly seen and being heard, of sharing space with someone who, despite his walls, had let you glimpse parts of him no one else had.

But the silence stretched on, longer than you ever thought you could bear, each empty day settling like dust over your heart. Slowly, painfully, you began to accept the truth that lay beneath that silence—that this time, he might not return.

It was a dull ache, this acceptance, not a sharp, searing pain but a slow, sinking sorrow that settled into your bones, filling the spaces where hope had once lingered. It wasn’t defeat; it was a kind of surrender, yielding to a reality you had tried to keep at bay. You felt it weigh on you with a familiar heaviness, pressing down in a way that made everything seem just a little bit dimmer, a little more distant, as if the world itself had taken on his absence and softened to match the ache in your chest. You carried on, each day a quiet testament to the resilience of the heart, even as it broke under the strain of loss.

Then one evening, weeks after you’d given up on a reply, your phone vibrated.

The screen glowed softly, casting a dim, ethereal light over the shadows of your bedroom. It was a quiet, almost fragile glow, as though the device itself knew the weight of what it held, the significance of that single name illuminating the dark. You blinked, your eyes adjusting to the light, your mind reeling in disbelief. His name was there, clear and unmistakable, like something conjured from a dream, a figment you’d imagined in those long, empty hours.

And yet, it was real.

For a heartbeat, you couldn’t move, your hands hovering just above the screen, frozen by a mixture of hope and fear. It felt surreal, the kind of moment you’d only dared to imagine. But there it was, right in front of you. So you reached for the phone, fingers trembling, the screen warm under your touch, grounding you in this unexpected, almost magical reality. You felt it thrum in your ears, in your fingertips, in your whole body, as though every cell in your body was attuned to this moment, as if the world itself held its breath, waiting.

Took me far too long to catch on.

I’ll be in London in a few days.

Got hell more to say than I know what to do with.

Where We Part Chapters

[sylusonychinus]

Episode 8 - Another night with him

WARNING THIS CHAPTER IS FILLED WITH SMUT MDNI!!

The bathroom air was still thick with the weight of what had just transpired between them when Zayne tugged Reader out of the venue, his grip firm yet gentle around her wrist. The cool night air did little to cool the heat simmering in her veins, especially when he guided her straight to his car—a sleek, black vehicle that suited him far too well.

The second the doors shut, Zayne was on her.

His mouth crashed onto hers, his hands threading into her hair as he pulled her closer, as if he couldn't bear a single inch of distance between them. The scent of his cologne and the faint trace of whiskey on his breath made her head spin, but for the first time, she was acutely aware of every movement, every sensation. She wasn’t drunk. She wasn’t hazy. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Zayne groaned when her hands fisted his shirt, pulling him toward her as she deepened the kiss. His fingers roamed, mapping out the curves of her body with a slow, deliberate touch that made her shiver. One hand gripped her thigh, hiking it over his lap, bringing her astride him. The shift sent a spark of pleasure through her, and she gasped into his mouth.

"Fuck, you're dangerous," he muttered against her lips, his hands sliding beneath her dress, his palms warm against her bare skin.

Reader could barely form a coherent thought with the way he was touching her, with the way his mouth trailed down her jaw to her neck, his teeth scraping over her pulse before sucking a bruise into her skin. She arched into him, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging, making him growl in response.

His hips rolled up into her, and she bit her lip, feeling the hard evidence of his arousal pressing against her through his pants. Her own need pooled between her thighs, making her squirm.

Zayne cursed under his breath, his head falling back against the headrest as he exhaled sharply. "If we don’t stop now, I’m going to fuck you right here."

The thought made her pulse stutter, made heat lick up her spine, but before she could dare him to do it, he was already shifting, adjusting her back into the passenger seat.

"I'm taking you home," he decided, his voice dark with promise.

Her stomach flipped at the way he said it. Home. His home.

The drive was tense, the air crackling with unspoken words, unfulfilled desires. Zayne’s knuckles were white around the steering wheel, his jaw clenched as he sped through the quiet streets. Every red light had him glancing at her, his eyes dark and unreadable, as if he was barely holding himself together.

By the time they reached his apartment, Reader’s hands were shaking with anticipation.

Zayne led her inside, and the moment the door shut behind them, she finally got to see it—his space, his world. It was sleek and modern, just like him. The dim lighting cast soft shadows against the expensive furniture, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air.

But she barely had time to take it all in before Zayne was on her again.

His hands gripped her waist, spinning her to face him before his mouth crashed onto hers once more. This time, there was no hesitation. His hands moved with intent, slipping beneath her dress, gripping the backs of her thighs as he lifted her effortlessly.

She gasped against his lips as he carried her through the apartment, straight to his bedroom. The moment her back hit the mattress, he was on top of her, his body pressing her into the sheets as his mouth and hands explored every inch of her.

"Tell me you want this," he murmured against her skin, his voice rough with restraint.

"Yes," she breathed, her fingers curling into his shirt, yanking it up over his head.

That was all it took for him to snap.

Zayne kissed her deeply, his hands sliding the straps of her dress down her shoulders, exposing more of her to him. His lips followed, tracing down her collarbone, over the swell of her breast, his fingers tugging the fabric lower until it pooled at her waist.

His hands roamed, worshipping every inch of her with slow, deliberate touches that made her whimper. When his mouth finally closed over her nipple, sucking softly, she arched into him, gasping his name.

His fingers teased lower, slipping beneath the lace of her panties, feeling just how wet she was for him.

"Fuck, you're soaked," he groaned, his breath hot against her skin.

She barely had time to react before he was sliding down her body, parting her thighs, and pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her inner thigh.

Then his tongue replaced his fingers, and all coherent thought disappeared.

Zayne's tongue flicked over her clit, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure up her spine. Reader gasped, her fingers flying to his hair, gripping tightly as his mouth worked her with devastating precision. He groaned against her, the vibration making her thighs tremble.

"Zayne—" Her voice broke into a whimper as he sucked on the sensitive bundle of nerves, his hands holding her thighs apart as if he had no intention of letting her escape.

His tongue alternated between slow, teasing licks and quick, desperate flicks that had her writhing beneath him, gasping for air. When his fingers finally slid inside her, curling just right, her back arched off the bed.

"That’s it," Zayne murmured against her, his voice dark, commanding. "Let me hear you."

A moan ripped from her throat as he pumped his fingers in and out, his mouth never leaving her. The pressure built, coiling tighter and tighter until—

She shattered.

Her vision blurred as pleasure crashed over her in waves, her body trembling as she cried out his name. He didn’t stop, didn’t pull away, drawing out every second of her release until she was gasping, her thighs twitching from overstimulation.

Only then did he finally lift his head, his lips glistening with evidence of what he’d just done to her. His eyes were dark, almost predatory, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You taste even better than I imagined," he muttered, his voice low and wrecked with hunger.

Reader barely had time to catch her breath before he was back on top of her, his mouth claiming hers in a searing kiss. She could taste herself on his lips, and it only made the heat between them burn hotter.

Her hands roamed his body, tracing the hard lines of his chest, the taut muscles of his stomach. When her fingers reached the buckle of his belt, Zayne exhaled sharply, his forehead pressing against hers.

"You're sure?" His voice was strained, as if he was barely holding himself together.

"Yes," she whispered, undoing his belt and tugging down his zipper. "I want this. I want you."

That was all he needed.

Clothes were stripped away in a blur of movement, their bodies pressed flush against each other, skin to skin. Zayne groaned as he settled between her legs, his cock heavy and hard against her thigh.

"You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this," he admitted, his voice rough.

Reader gasped as he ran the tip along her entrance, teasing her, making her squirm. "Then stop teasing me and—"

Zayne surged forward, filling her in one slow, deep thrust.

A sharp gasp left her lips as she stretched around him, the sensation bordering on too much, too overwhelming. He stilled, letting her adjust, his hands gripping her hips like he was barely holding himself back from moving.

"Fuck," he groaned, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You feel so good."

The moment she rolled her hips against him, silently urging him to move, he lost his restraint.

Zayne pulled out almost completely before slamming back in, setting a deep, slow rhythm that had her toes curling. Every thrust hit the perfect spot, sending shivers through her body.

"You take me so fucking well," he growled against her neck, his teeth grazing over her pulse before biting down just enough to make her moan.

His pace quickened, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room, mingling with their ragged breaths and the sinful sounds spilling from her lips.

He reached between them, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. The pleasure built again, spiraling higher, her body tightening around him.

"Come for me," Zayne commanded, his voice dark, wrecked.

Reader shattered for the second time that night, pleasure crashing over her so intensely that her vision went white.

Zayne cursed, his thrusts growing erratic before he finally followed her over the edge, groaning her name as he spilled inside her.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was their heavy breathing. Zayne pressed his forehead against hers, his hand coming up to cup her cheek as he kissed her softly, so different from the hunger that had consumed them before.

"You’re staying here tonight," he murmured, as if there was ever another option.

Reader didn’t argue. She didn’t want to leave.

Not when Zayne was still inside her, holding her like she was something precious.

Not when the heat between them still simmered, promising that this wasn’t over.

Not when, for the first time in a long time, she felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

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