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amethystarachnid · 7 months ago

Text

BET

⤷ JAMES B. “BUCKY” BARNES

ᯓ★ Pairing: James B. “Bucky” Barnes x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, angst and fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: not requested but taken from MARVEL bingo

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 10k (damn this surprises me too)

ᯓ★ Summary: When Bucky Barnes suddenly starts talking to you you don't think much of it and when he asks you out on a date you couldn't be happier, Bucky truly is everything you could ever want in a man, a man that really loves you...At least that's what you thought until you discovered that it was real all just a bet.

ᯓ★ TW(s): mentions of virginity and virginity loss, small mentions of a smut scene

ᯓ★ AU: college au

ᯓ★ Request: not requested

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo (requests closed)

ᯓ★ Masterlist

ᯓ★ If you are a Charles Xavier fan click on this link!

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language and this isn’t proof read

The music is loud, pulsing through the walls of the frat house as Bucky sits slouched on a couch, one arm draped lazily over the back. The night is already wearing on him, but he knows he’s going to be here until Sam and Steve call it a night, which—based on the collection of red solo cups by their feet—might be a while.

They’re all trading stories from the semester, voices buzzing with that blend of laughter and cheap beer. Sam is in the middle of recounting his latest dare when he nudges Bucky’s arm, catching his attention.

“Bet you couldn’t last a month with someone like her,” Sam says, nodding toward the corner of the room.

Bucky glances up, following Sam’s gaze until he spots you. You’re perched near the bookshelf, alone and fidgeting with your drink as you flip through a book someone left behind. He’s seen you around campus before, usually with your nose buried in a novel or surrounded by a pile of textbooks. There’s something unassuming about you, something quiet and untouchable. His friends know he’s more the type to go for a party girl—someone loud, someone who doesn’t ask too many questions.

“What, the bookworm?” Bucky scoffs, raising an eyebrow. But his friends don’t let up, and soon Steve and Sam are egging him on.

“You’re always chasing the same type,” Steve chimes in. “What are you afraid of, that she’d actually challenge you?”

Bucky laughs, rolling his eyes. He knows he should shut it down, but their teasing digs at him, scratching at that competitive edge that’s always lurking just beneath his smirk.

“All right,” Bucky finally says, shrugging. “I’ll do it. One month.”

His friends exchange knowing grins, slapping him on the back. But as soon as the words leave his mouth, Bucky feels a strange knot settle low in his stomach—a feeling he’s not used to. He brushes it off. It’s just a game, a challenge. It’s not like he’s actually going to care.

The next day, you’re tucked into your usual corner in the library, surrounded by a fortress of books. You barely notice him when he walks up, leaning against the edge of the table with a casual confidence that doesn’t match the usual quiet of the space.

“Mind if I join you?” His voice is smooth, low enough that you almost have to lean in to hear him clearly.

You glance up, surprised to see Bucky Barnes standing there, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You’ve seen him around campus—he’s hard to miss with that leather jacket and effortlessly messy hair, the type of guy who always has someone laughing beside him.

“Sure,” you murmur, unsure of what else to say as you move your books aside, offering him a seat. You’re used to people mostly ignoring you here. It’s your refuge, your sanctuary. So when he sits across from you, stretching out as if he belongs there, it feels jarringly out of place.

“You look like you’re buried in work,” he observes, nodding at the mountain of papers in front of you. “What’s got you so busy?”

You hesitate, but something in his easygoing manner convinces you to answer. “Just…assignments. Trying to keep up with everything.” You give him a small smile, your guard still up but feeling oddly curious.

“What’s your major?” he asks, and the question catches you off guard. Most people don’t bother to ask; they assume or don’t care enough to wonder. He listens as you talk about your studies, nodding, asking small questions. Before you know it, you’re telling him more than you intended, falling into an easy rhythm that surprises you.

It becomes a pattern. Over the next few weeks, he finds reasons to run into you—at the coffee shop, in the library, even in the quad between classes. Each time, he stays a little longer, asks a little more, his eyes holding yours with that subtle intensity he wears so well. At first, you’re wary, cautious of his attention. But Bucky is good, easing his way in like he has all the time in the world, his jokes and questions slowly weaving a thread of trust between you two.

And Bucky? He’s surprised at how much he finds himself drawn to you. Each time you laugh, he catches himself watching, feeling something strange and warm unfurl in his chest. There’s a gentleness in you, a quiet intelligence, that keeps him coming back even as he reminds himself this isn’t supposed to mean anything.

But the longer he spends time with you, the more he feels the weight of what he agreed to, creeping up on him every time he catches your smile, every time you look at him like he’s someone worth knowing.

He tells himself it’s just part of the bet. But deep down, he knows he’s starting to cross a line he never meant to touch.

It’s been a few weeks since Bucky started spending time with you, and against every reminder he gives himself, he’s found himself looking forward to it more than he wants to admit. He tells himself it’s harmless—he’s just getting to know you, just finding ways to pass the time. But he knows he’s lying, especially when he starts finding excuses to see you outside of the library or when he catches himself glancing at his phone, hoping for a text from you.

One night, back at the frat house, he’s lounging with Sam and Steve again, half-listening to their conversation when Sam nudges him.

“So, Barnes. How’s it going with the bookworm?” Sam asks with a knowing smirk. Bucky rolls his eyes, trying to brush it off, but Sam isn’t so easily deterred. “Don’t tell me you’re catching feelings.”

Bucky scoffs, forcing a laugh to keep the truth buried. “It’s going fine. Like I said, a month’s no problem.”

Sam exchanges a glance with Steve, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Let’s make this interesting then. If you really want to win this thing, you’ve got to take it further.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “Further?” He has a bad feeling about where this is going.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Come on, Buck. You’ve been hanging out with her, sure, but we’re talking about actually making her fall for you. Ask her out, and, you know—” He raises an eyebrow meaningfully.

“Sleep with her,” Sam adds bluntly, laughing. “Seal the deal, and there’s two hundred bucks in it for you.”

Bucky hesitates, that uncomfortable knot tightening in his stomach again. He tells himself it’s just a stupid bet. He’s done things like this before—gotten close to people just to prove he could, had plenty of meaningless hookups that never meant a thing. He’s Bucky Barnes, the guy who doesn’t do commitment or complications. But for some reason, picturing it with you makes him feel…off.

“Fine,” he says after a beat, his voice steady, betraying nothing of the uncertainty he’s trying to ignore. “Two hundred bucks. Done.”

The next day, he texts you, his fingers hovering over the keys a little too long before he finally sends, Hey, you free Friday? Let me take you out somewhere nice.

When you see his message, your heart skips a beat. It’s been a while since anyone has asked you on an actual date, and even longer since you’ve felt genuinely excited about someone. Bucky’s been different from the start—warm, attentive, and surprisingly easy to talk to. You’ve caught yourself looking forward to his company, replaying the moments he laughs at one of your jokes or leans in close enough for you to catch a hint of his cologne.

After a second, you type back, Yeah, I’d love to! You add a smiley face, feeling almost giddy as you press send.

The days leading up to Friday drag by, each one marked with bursts of nerves and anticipation. You spend a little more time getting ready than usual, finally deciding on a simple but pretty dress that makes you feel confident. When Bucky picks you up, his usual leather jacket replaced with a dark button-up, you feel a thrill of excitement. He looks genuinely happy to see you, his eyes scanning over you appreciatively as he gives you a lopsided grin.

��You look amazing,” he says, his gaze warm. There’s something softer in his eyes, something that makes you blush.

“Thanks,” you mumble, smiling as you walk beside him. He leads you to a small Italian place tucked away from campus, the kind of cozy, dimly lit restaurant you wouldn’t have expected him to know about. The conversation flows easily between you two, laughter spilling out as you talk about classes, hometowns, and childhood memories.

The night feels magical, almost surreal, and you start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s something real here. Every time his hand brushes against yours, a spark shoots up your spine. And when he reaches across the table, fingers lightly grazing your wrist as he laughs at something you said, your heart flutters in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.

After dinner, he suggests taking a walk, and soon you’re strolling through the quiet streets, the chill of the night air making you shiver just slightly. Without a word, Bucky slips his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. It feels so natural, like you belong there.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date this nice,” you admit, smiling up at him, your voice soft.

He chuckles, though it sounds slightly strained. “Really? I find that hard to believe.”

You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I guess I’ve just never…met anyone like you before.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced with that charming grin. He steps closer, his arm slipping from your shoulders, and you hold your breath as he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

“You’re pretty amazing, you know that?” he murmurs, his voice low.

You feel like the world has stopped, your heart pounding in your chest. This is the moment you’ve been dreaming of, the moment where everything finally falls into place.

But for Bucky, something sharp and painful twists inside him. He can feel the weight of what he’s doing pressing down on him, can see the way your eyes look at him with such unguarded trust, and it’s enough to make his stomach turn. He’s never felt guilty over a stupid bet before, but right now, the idea of hurting you feels unbearable.

“Hey,” he says softly, his hand still on your cheek. “You trust me, right?”

Your eyes widen, and you nod slowly, too caught up in the moment to notice the tension in his gaze. “Yeah,” you whisper, a small smile forming on your lips.

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours as he takes a steadying breath. “Good,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. Because if he’s going to go through with this, he tells himself he has to believe that none of it matters—that he won’t let himself care. But even as he kisses you, his lips soft and warm against yours, he knows he’s lying to himself.

The days after that first date drift into a series of moments that feel surreal, almost like they’re happening to someone else. You find yourself checking your phone at odd times, waiting for his texts, smiling down at your screen whenever his name lights up. Bucky is a part of your routine now, and it feels strange, thrilling even, like there’s this magnetic force that draws you to him despite every bit of caution you try to hold onto.

Every time you’re with him, the outside world fades. He makes you laugh with stories about his friends, leaning in close, his voice warm and low as if he’s sharing some secret just for you. You catch yourself stealing glances when he’s not looking—at the way his jaw clenches when he’s lost in thought or how his eyes soften when he looks at you, a mix of curiosity and something you can’t quite name.

It’s after one of your study sessions at the library that Bucky invites you over to his dorm room for the first time. He tells you he’s got some old movies you’ve probably never seen, and, honestly, he’s right—you’d never pictured Bucky as the type to own black-and-white classics, but that’s exactly what he has, a surprisingly large collection lined up on a low shelf near his TV. He insists you pick one, and soon you’re sitting side by side on his couch, your legs tucked up beneath you, feeling almost shy in the soft glow of the screen.

The movie starts, but his arm stretches along the back of the couch, barely brushing your shoulders. The faintest touch sends electricity through you, but you stay quiet, not wanting to ruin the moment. Then, halfway through the movie, he shifts, glancing at you.

“You can get closer, you know,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with something mischievous yet gentle.

Your heart flutters as you scoot closer, until you’re tucked into his side, his arm draped around you in a way that feels possessive yet comforting. He smells faintly like cedar and something distinctly him, a scent that’s becoming familiar. Before you know it, your head is resting on his shoulder, his hand absently tracing patterns on your arm, and you feel like you could stay there forever.

Time slips by in a collection of small, perfect moments. There are more dates—little coffee shops tucked away from campus, a bookstore where he buys you a copy of a novel you mentioned in passing, a late-night diner where you both end up after laughing so hard that you can’t breathe. You never expected him to be so attentive, so eager to listen to your stories and learn every detail about your life. He even surprises you with your favorite snack on study nights, tossing it to you with a grin before leaning in close to steal a bite for himself.

One evening, after a long day of classes and a surprise text from Bucky inviting you over, you find yourself curled up on his couch once again. This time, he’s stretched out beside you, one arm tucked under his head while the other rests around your shoulders. His fingers brush against your arm absently, and you can’t help but notice how natural this feels. It’s terrifying, too, the way he seems to melt into your life so effortlessly, as if he’s always been there.

You glance up at him, catching him mid-laugh as he recounts an embarrassing story about Sam, who apparently tried to show off on a skateboard and ended up with a sprained ankle.

“You’re terrible,” you tease, nudging him with your shoulder, though you’re laughing too.

“Oh, come on. It was hilarious,” he insists, grinning down at you. He tilts his head, his gaze dropping to your lips for just a second, and your laughter fades as something shifts between you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint smile. “I just…can’t believe you’re real sometimes.”

The words catch you off guard, and for a moment, you’re too stunned to reply. But then he leans down, his lips brushing yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. The kiss deepens slowly, each touch feeling like a promise, and you lose yourself in the warmth of his embrace, forgetting every doubt, every insecurity that ever kept you guarded.

As the weeks pass, you find yourself falling harder than you ever expected. Bucky seems to find every crack in your armor, every scar and hidden fear, and instead of pulling away, he draws closer, listening to your stories and letting you into his own in ways that leave you breathless. He’s there to listen on your tough days, wrapping his arms around you and murmuring words of reassurance. He’s there on your good days, too, laughing with you, pressing kisses to your forehead as if he can’t believe his luck.

One night, you’re back on his couch, cuddled up under a thick blanket as a storm rages outside, the rain tapping against the windows. You’re nestled against him, his arm holding you close, and he’s quiet, his fingers tracing patterns along your shoulder absentmindedly.

“Bucky?” you ask, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Hmm?” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to yours, his eyes soft and warm in the dim light.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “For everything.”

He frowns slightly, shifting so he can look at you fully. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Being with you…it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

You smile, warmth spreading through your chest, and he kisses you again, slow and soft, like he’s savoring every second. It’s moments like this that make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re finally safe with someone, that this is something real.

But for Bucky, each moment with you is a double-edged sword. He’s never felt this way before—this calm, this…connected. Every time you laugh at one of his jokes or lean against him, trusting and unguarded, he feels that awful twist of guilt, the memory of that stupid bet lurking in the back of his mind.

He’s supposed to ask for more. That’s what Sam and Steve were expecting, weren’t they? They wanted him to win the bet, to seal the deal and prove he could pull this off. But every time he thinks about going further, about pushing this relationship into a place where he can’t turn back, he feels that nagging ache, that quiet, gnawing feeling that he’s crossing a line he can’t uncross.

He knows he needs to tell you. He needs to come clean, but every time he opens his mouth, the words get stuck in his throat. You look at him with those bright, trusting eyes, and he can’t bring himself to shatter the way you see him. So he holds his silence, hoping that somehow, he can bury the truth forever, that maybe you’ll never have to know.

One evening, as you’re lying together on his couch, you let out a contented sigh, resting your head on his chest as his hand traces lazy patterns along your back.

“Bucky?” you whisper, your voice soft.

He glances down at you, his fingers pausing as he meets your gaze. “Yeah?”

You hesitate, then take a steadying breath. “I…I think I’m falling for you.”

The words hang in the air, vulnerable and open, and for a second, his face goes still, his eyes widening just slightly. Then, his expression softens, and he tightens his arms around you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. But as he kisses you, the warmth of his touch hiding the flicker of guilt behind his eyes, a single thought haunts him.

She deserves the truth.

That night, Bucky barely sleeps, lying awake with the knowledge that he’s in far too deep to ever come out of this unscathed. Every soft breath you take beside him reminds him of how much he’s risking by staying silent. He knows he has to tell you, but he’s terrified—terrified that this fragile, beautiful thing you’ve built together will shatter, that you’ll look at him with betrayal instead of trust.

In the morning, he makes a decision. He’ll find a way to tell you, he promises himself, but he wants one more day, one more memory before he risks everything. Just one last perfect day where he can pretend that none of it was ever a lie.

So he takes you out, leading you down to the pier just as the sun begins to set, casting the sky in hues of pink and gold. You laugh, leaning into him, and he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, watching the waves lap against the shore.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice soft. “It is.”

But as he stands there, holding you close, he knows that the beauty of this moment is fleeting, that the truth waiting in his chest is too big to ignore. And tonight, when he finally gathers the courage to tell you, he knows there’s a chance he’ll lose you forever. But for now, he lets himself savor this last quiet moment, memorizing the feeling of you in his arms, the warmth of your laughter as it fills the air.

For now, he holds onto the hope that maybe, somehow, you’ll understand.

The sunset fades, leaving the world painted in muted purples and blues, but neither of you seem ready to break away from each other. Bucky holds you close, feeling the steady rhythm of your breath against his chest as if it’s his own. He knows he should say something—that he needs to say something—but the words seem so impossible now, tangled up in his chest. The truth would ruin this moment, shatter whatever he’s built with you. And so, he tells himself it can wait just a little longer.

As the evening slips into night, Bucky leads you back to his dorm room, his hand intertwined with yours. You can feel the heat of his palm, the way his fingers wrap around yours as if he never wants to let go. The air feels charged, every touch electric, each shared glance simmering with something that feels fragile and exhilarating. Neither of you says much, as though speaking would break the quiet spell between you.

Once you’re inside, Bucky hesitates. He turns to you, his expression vulnerable, softer than you’ve ever seen it. "You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand.

“I want to,” you say, the words escaping before you can even think. There’s no hesitation in your voice, only a gentle certainty that makes his chest tighten. The way you look at him, so open and trusting, makes his heart ache with a mix of guilt and longing.

Bucky’s eyes search yours, lingering for a moment that stretches into forever. He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before his fingers trail down to your jaw, cradling your face as if you’re something fragile and precious. Slowly, he leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s softer than any before. It’s unhurried, tender, as if he’s savoring every second.

The kiss deepens, and you can feel yourself melting into him, your heart pounding so hard you think it might burst. His hands move to your waist, steady and grounding, and he pulls you closer until there’s no space left between you. You can feel the strength of him, the warmth radiating through his clothes, and it makes your head spin.

Before long, you find yourselves tangled together on his bed, the world outside fading into nothingness. Each kiss is deeper than the last, each touch laced with a longing neither of you can deny. There’s a gentleness to Bucky’s movements, a quiet patience as he explores the curve of your shoulder, the softness of your waist, as if he’s memorizing every inch of you. He’s slow and careful, constantly looking at you as if to make sure this is what you want.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, his voice rough with barely-contained emotion.

You nod, feeling breathless but certain. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

His eyes darken, filled with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time, his hands skimming over your skin with a reverence that leaves you feeling cherished. You lose track of time, surrendering to the way he makes you feel—safe, wanted, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

When you finally fall back against the bed, your bodies wrapped around each other, you’re exhausted yet filled with a warmth that feels all-encompassing. The reality of what just happened settles in, but instead of feeling nervous, you feel at peace, secure in the quiet intimacy that has grown between you.

Bucky shifts beside you, pulling you closer until your head rests against his chest, his arm draped protectively around your shoulders. The steady thump of his heartbeat lulls you into a peaceful daze, and you feel his fingers trace small circles on your back, soothing and grounding.

You’re both quiet for a long time, the silence comfortable as you bask in each other’s presence. Eventually, though, you feel a need to tell him something you’ve been holding back, something you hadn’t planned on revealing but that feels right to share in this moment.

“Bucky,” you begin softly, lifting your head to look at him. He gazes down at you, his eyes warm and attentive, as if you’re the only thing he sees. “I…I want you to know that this was my first time.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, you’re afraid he’ll pull away, that he’ll think you were too inexperienced or that you should have told him sooner. But he doesn’t flinch or hesitate. His hand moves up to gently cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin.

“Your first?” he echoes, his voice filled with a mixture of surprise and something that sounds almost like reverence.

You nod, feeling your cheeks heat as you look down, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah…I wanted it to be with someone who made me feel safe. Someone I trusted.”

Bucky’s chest rises and falls slowly as he takes this in, his expression softening. He seems almost humbled, like he’s just been given something rare and delicate. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before resting his own against yours.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. There’s a vulnerability in his gaze, as if he’s holding back a hundred things he wants to say but can’t find the words for.

You smile, the last traces of your nervousness melting away. “Thank you, Bucky…for making it so special.”

He pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you like he’s afraid to let you go. “I’d do anything to make you feel special,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

You nestle into his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling safe and cherished in a way you never have before. And as you lie there, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, you wonder if this is what it feels like to be truly, deeply in love.

But as you fall asleep in his arms, Bucky lies awake, his heart heavy with the weight of everything he’s kept from you. He knows he should be content, that he should just let himself savor this night and the closeness you’ve shared. But the memory of that stupid, careless bet gnaws at him, a dark cloud looming over everything.

He runs a hand through his hair, staring up at the ceiling, feeling torn between the desire to protect you from the truth and the fear that he’s already crossed a line he can’t uncross. The realization that you trusted him enough to give him something so deeply personal makes the weight of his lie even heavier, almost unbearable. He swallows hard, tightening his hold on you as he resolves to tell you the truth—soon, somehow, even if it means risking everything.

But tonight, he lets himself stay silent. He closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of your hair, the warmth of your body against his, and allows himself to believe, if only for a moment, that this can last.

The morning sunlight filters softly through the blinds, casting warm, golden patterns across the bed. You stir beside him, your movements gentle as you wake up, and Bucky watches you with a quiet awe, his heart racing as he takes in the peaceful expression on your face. For a moment, it feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

You blink up at him, your face lighting up with a sleepy smile that makes his chest tighten.

“Good morning,” you murmur, your voice soft and a little shy, as if the night is still too fresh, too beautiful to fully believe.

He grins, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Morning,” he replies, his voice low and warm. His fingers trail down to your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, and you squeeze back, a shared moment of silent understanding passing between you.

The morning stretches on in a gentle haze of quiet touches and soft words. Bucky makes you coffee, insisting you stay curled up under his blanket while he brings it over to you, and you laugh, watching him with a mix of affection and disbelief. This side of him—the playful, thoughtful side—is something you never expected to see, and it makes you fall for him even harder.

You’re both lounging on his bed, your legs tangled together, talking in low voices about everything and nothing. He tells you stories about his childhood, tales about him and Steve getting into trouble, and you share your own memories, laughing as he reacts with wide eyes and exaggerated shock.

It feels so real, so natural, that you almost forget about everything outside this room, about the possibility that this could be something fleeting. You feel like you’ve found a place that’s safe, a person who makes you feel more like yourself than you ever have before.

But in the quiet moments, when you catch him staring at you with that far-off look, you wonder if there’s something he’s not telling you, a hesitation lurking behind his gaze. You don’t press, not wanting to shatter the peace between you. But part of you wonders if you’re seeing a glimpse of something deeper, something you’re not yet ready to confront.

As you leave his dorm room later that morning, he kisses you softly, lingering as if he’s trying to memorize the taste of your lips, the feel of your hand in his. There’s an unspoken promise in his touch, a silent assurance that this isn’t the end.

Later that afternoon, you make your way back to the frat house, humming softly as you climb the steps to Bucky's door. You left your notebook there, a little blue book you’re pretty sure you’ll need for your upcoming assignment. You barely slept last night, too caught up in the warmth of his touch, the memory of his whispered words that lingered long after you left his dorm this morning. You’re nervous, too; you feel so much for him that it scares you.

As you approach his room, laughter drifts out into the hallway, low voices filtering through the partially open door. You recognize Bucky’s laugh, the familiar sound stirring warmth in your chest, but the laughter feels different, carefree and loud. And then you hear a familiar voice—Sam’s—cutting through, low and joking.

"Guess she fell for it pretty hard, huh?" Sam’s voice sounds amused, lighthearted, as if he’s talking about something trivial.

You freeze, your hand hovering inches from the door. Something about his tone makes you hesitate, a strange, unsettling feeling creeping into your chest.

"Come on, Bucky," Sam presses, “don’t act all innocent now. I saw you this morning, looking like you just won the lottery.” You can hear the grin in his voice, a laugh bubbling beneath it. “So? How was it?”

Bucky laughs, the sound uncomfortable, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, his voice casual, light. “It was… good.”

You feel a stab in your chest, a faint panic that tells you to leave, to walk away before you hear any more. But your feet don’t move, and you find yourself listening, every word driving another splinter into your heart.

Steve’s voice joins in, chuckling. “Well, you earned it, man. She had no clue, huh?”

“No clue,” Bucky murmurs, his voice softer now, almost unreadable. You can picture him there, maybe rubbing the back of his neck the way he does when he’s nervous. But the words are there, undeniable.

Sam laughs again, louder this time. “And hey, bet’s a bet,” he says, and then there’s a pause before you hear the unmistakable rustling of bills being exchanged. “Two hundred dollars, as promised. Can’t say you didn’t earn it, though—you even managed to get her into bed. Didn’t think you had it in you, but here we are!”

Your vision blurs, the words echoing in your mind, distorting into something raw and jagged. Every affectionate touch, every gentle kiss, every whispered promise from the past few weeks twists into something ugly, something unrecognizable. You feel sick, the image of Bucky’s earnest smile, his soft words about wanting to make you feel special, tainted beyond repair. Everything you felt for him, the trust you’d handed him so freely, crumbles beneath the weight of their laughter.

Slowly, you turn and leave, gripping the strap of your bag tightly as you make your way out of the frat house. You don’t let yourself cry, not yet, not when you still feel the echo of his betrayal throbbing in your chest, too raw, too painful to acknowledge fully.

Hours later, you’re back in your dorm room, your heart aching as you sit in silence, the truth settling over you in waves. Part of you wants to believe it was a misunderstanding, that maybe there’s an explanation you’re missing. But the memory of their laughter, the casual way Sam handed him that money, makes the truth impossible to ignore.

A knock on your door interrupts your thoughts, and your heart skips a beat as you hear Bucky’s voice calling your name softly from the hallway. It’s just him now, his voice hesitant, almost as if he senses that something’s wrong. You take a steadying breath, steeling yourself before you answer the door.

When you open it, Bucky’s eyes light up, and he steps forward, a soft smile on his face as he reaches for your hand. “Hey, you,” he murmurs, his voice warm. But when he sees the look on your face, he pauses, his smile fading. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, you can’t bring yourself to speak. You can only look at him, trying to reconcile the gentle, caring person you thought you knew with the man who took a bet to seduce you. You pull your hand away from his, ignoring the confusion in his gaze as he watches you.

“Were you even going to tell me?” Your voice comes out quieter than you intended, a dull ache threading through every word. “Or were you just going to take the money and pretend it never happened?”

Bucky blinks, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Tell you what? I—I don’t understand.”

A bitter laugh escapes your lips, and you look away, wrapping your arms around yourself as if it’ll keep you from falling apart. “Don’t play dumb, Bucky. I heard you. I was at the frat house earlier, and I heard everything.”

He freezes, his face going pale, and you see the truth in his eyes, clear as day. He opens his mouth, stumbling over his words. “Y/N, I—I didn’t… I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

The admission twists the knife deeper, and you feel yourself trembling as you look back at him, tears stinging your eyes. “So, it’s true, then? All of it? This whole… this whole thing was just for some stupid bet?”

He reaches for you, his expression desperate, his hands hovering just inches from your arms. “Y/N, please. Just let me explain. It wasn’t like that, I swear. It started that way, but then… then it became real. I fell for you, okay? Everything we did, everything we shared—it was real.”

You shake your head, pulling away from him, the anger and betrayal simmering beneath the surface. “Real? You think that makes this okay? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Your voice breaks, and a tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it. “I trusted you, Bucky. I thought… I thought you cared about me.”

His face crumples, and he takes a step closer, his hand reaching out as if to wipe away the tear on your cheek. “I do care about you. More than anything, Y/N. That’s why I wanted to tell you, I just—”

“Wanted to tell me?” you interrupt, your voice shaking. “When, Bucky? After you cashed in your winnings? After I found out on my own?”

The silence stretches between you, heavy and unbearable, and Bucky’s shoulders sag as he looks away, guilt etched deeply into his face.

“Do you even realize how humiliating this is?” you continue, your voice a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “I trusted you with something… something I’d never given anyone. And the whole time, it was just part of a game to you.”

His eyes snap back to yours, filled with anguish, his voice barely a whisper. “It was never just a game, not after the first night. I swear, Y/N, I was going to tell you everything. I just… I didn’t want to lose you.”

“You didn’t want to lose me?” you repeat, laughing bitterly. “You lost me the moment you made that bet. You had no right to… to play with me like that, to make me believe that any of it was real.”

He looks at you, his blue eyes full of desperation, his voice breaking. “Y/N, please. I know I messed up. I know I hurt you, but I need you to believe me when I say I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“Just stop,” you whisper, the weight of it all crashing over you. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to make me feel sorry for you when you’re the one who lied.”

Bucky’s face falls, and he drops his gaze, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I know. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But please, just… give me a chance to make it right.”

Your heart aches, torn between the memories of every gentle touch, every whispered word, and the undeniable truth of his betrayal. Part of you wants to believe him, wants to believe that somewhere in all of this, there was something real. But the pain is too deep, the wound too fresh, and you don’t know if you can ever look at him the same way again.

“I can’t do this,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I can’t just forget what you did. You hurt me, Bucky. And right now, I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

He flinches, as if your words physically hurt him, and he nods slowly, a look of resignation in his eyes. “I understand. I’ll… I’ll leave, if that’s what you want.”

You nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as he takes a step back, his gaze lingering on you one last time before he turns and walks toward the door. Just as he reaches it, he pauses, his hand resting on the doorknob as he glances back at you, his voice soft, broken.

“For what it’s worth, Y/N… I love you. I know I don’t deserve to say that, but it’s the truth.”

You don’t reply, staring at him with tear-filled eyes as he finally steps out of your dorm, the door closing softly behind him. The silence that follows is deafening, and you sink to the floor, the weight of everything crashing down as you realize that the person you thought you loved never truly existed.

The days blur together in a haze of heartbreak and emptiness. You go through the motions, attending classes, completing assignments, and showing up to study groups, but it all feels mechanical, like you’re on autopilot. It’s as if something inside you has shut down, leaving only an echo of who you were before you met him, before he became the center of your world.

It doesn’t take long for your friends to notice the change. They ask if you’re okay, if something happened, if maybe you just need a break. But you give them the same answer each time—a nod, a small smile, and an assurance that you’re just tired. It’s easier than explaining the mess of emotions tangled inside you, the hurt that seems too big to fit into words.

Late at night, lying alone in your dorm room, you can still feel the warmth of his arms around you, the softness of his voice in the quiet hours when he’d whisper promises you thought would last forever. The memory feels cruel now, tainted by the knowledge that it was all built on a lie. And yet, despite everything, you miss him. You hate yourself for it, but you miss the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel safe, special, as if you were the only person in the world who mattered.

Bucky isn’t doing any better. In fact, he’s a mess. Days have passed, but the guilt, the emptiness—it lingers, gnawing at him, refusing to let him move on. He can barely sleep, haunted by the look in your eyes, the betrayal, the hurt he put there. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees you, hears the way your voice cracked when you told him you didn’t know who he was anymore. And the worst part is, he doesn’t blame you. He knows he did this, that he ruined everything, and now he has to live with the consequences.

Sam and Steve notice almost immediately. Bucky, the confident, charming guy they’d known for years, looks hollow, as if he’s carrying a weight he can’t shake. He barely speaks, keeps to himself, and they rarely see him at the frat house anymore. Instead, he spends most of his time shut up in his dorm, a shadow of the person he used to be.

One evening, as the sun dips below the horizon, Sam and Steve exchange a glance, silently agreeing that they need to intervene. They knock on his door, and when he doesn’t answer, Sam pushes it open, finding him lying on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Hey, man,” Sam says, stepping inside. Steve follows, closing the door behind them as they both approach Bucky’s bed.

Bucky doesn’t react right away, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling. But eventually, he sits up, running a hand through his hair, looking exhausted and defeated.

“What’s up, guys?” he mumbles, though his voice lacks any real curiosity.

“We should be asking you that,” Steve says, his tone softer than usual. “You haven’t been yourself lately. Ever since things ended with Y/N, it’s like… you’re a completely different person.”

At the sound of your name, Bucky’s face falls, and he lets out a long, shaky breath. “Yeah,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “That’s because I am.”

Sam frowns, studying Bucky’s expression, the guilt etched into every line of his face. “Look, man, we didn’t mean for things to get this serious. But if you cared about her, really cared… why didn’t you just tell her the truth from the start?”

Bucky shakes his head, his hands gripping the edge of the bed so tightly his knuckles turn white. “I don’t know,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I was scared, I guess. I knew I’d screwed up, and every time I tried to tell her, I just… couldn’t. I thought I could fix things, somehow, make it up to her without her ever finding out.” He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Stupid, right?”

Steve sighs, sitting beside him on the bed. “Not stupid, just… a mistake. A big one, yeah, but you’re not the first guy to mess up. You’re just… Bucky, this isn’t like you. I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before.”

Bucky looks away, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s because I’ve never felt this way before. Not like this. I love her, Steve. And I threw it all away over some stupid bet that meant nothing. I hurt her in ways I can’t even fix.”

Sam places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “So what are you gonna do about it? You can’t just sit here, wallowing. If she meant that much to you, then maybe you owe it to her—and to yourself—to try and make it right.”

Bucky laughs, but it’s empty, hollow. “And how am I supposed to do that, Sam? She told me herself she doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t trust me. I don’t deserve another chance.”

Steve exchanges a look with Sam, and then he says, “Maybe. But you can’t just give up without trying. If you really love her, Bucky, you have to prove it. Show her that you’re not just the guy who hurt her, that you’re willing to fight for her. And if she doesn’t take you back… at least you’ll know you tried.”

Bucky sighs, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stares at the floor. “I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me. I don’t even know if I deserve it.”

Sam crosses his arms, his expression softening. “Look, man, I get that you’re hurting. But don’t you think she’s hurting, too? She’s probably out there feeling just as broken, wondering if anything between you was ever real.”

Bucky swallows hard, his chest tightening at the thought. He knows you’re hurting, knows you trusted him with something precious, something he didn’t deserve. And knowing that he’s the reason for your pain… it’s a feeling he wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Over the next few days, Bucky wrestles with himself, caught between the fear of making things worse and the desire to show you that he’s truly sorry, that he wants to be the man you thought he was. He writes and rewrites texts he never sends, shows up outside your dorm but never works up the courage to knock. He’s terrified, but he can’t ignore the way his heart aches for you, the empty, gnawing feeling that only seems to grow with each passing day.

Finally, he decides to try one last time. He doesn’t know if you’ll listen, doesn’t know if you’ll even give him a chance. But he has to try—to give you the truth, no matter how painful it might be.

And so, as the evening sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over campus, Bucky finds himself standing outside your dorm, his heart pounding as he gathers the courage to knock. He knows this is his last chance, that this is the moment that will decide everything. And he only hopes, as he takes a deep breath and raises his hand to the door, that you’ll give him the chance to show you that he’s not the man who hurt you—that he’s ready to fight for you, no matter what it takes.

The knock on your door is soft, almost hesitant, but it’s enough to pull you from your thoughts. You’ve been lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to find the strength to move forward, to somehow patch yourself up after everything that happened. When you open the door, you see him standing there, his eyes filled with an uncertainty that’s almost heartbreaking. He’s gripping a small notebook in his hands—your notebook, the one you left in his room—and his gaze is fixed on you with a desperation you’ve never seen before.

“Hi,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t reply right away, the sight of him dredging up the familiar ache in your chest. Part of you wants to slam the door and hide, to keep yourself safe from any more hurt. But you don’t. Instead, you meet his gaze, forcing yourself to remain steady.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice guarded.

He shifts on his feet, glancing down at the notebook before offering it to you. “I, uh… you left this. Thought you might need it.”

You take it from him, feeling the familiar weight of it in your hands. “Thanks.”

A heavy silence hangs between you, one that neither of you seems willing to break. Bucky swallows, his face creased with an anxious, uncertain look that makes him seem vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Can we… can we talk?” he asks, his voice almost pleading. “Please. I know I don’t deserve it, but I just need to say a few things. If you don’t want to listen, I’ll understand, and I’ll leave you alone. I just… I need you to know the truth.”

You hesitate, but finally, you nod, stepping back to let him into your room. He steps inside, closing the door softly behind him, and takes a seat in the small chair by your desk while you remain standing, arms crossed protectively over your chest.

For a moment, he just looks at you, his gaze heavy with regret. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“I know you have every right to hate me,” he starts, his voice barely steady. “I know I messed up in ways I can’t even fix. And I know… I know what I did was horrible. I just—” He swallows, his throat tight. “I just need you to know that it wasn’t all a lie. When we started this… when we first got close, I didn’t expect any of this to happen. I didn’t think I’d feel the way I did.”

You look down, his words stirring a fresh wave of pain in your chest. “But it was a bet, Bucky,” you murmur, your voice trembling. “You… you did all of that just to win some money. To you, it was just a game.”

He flinches, guilt flashing in his eyes, and he nods. “I know. I won’t make excuses for it—I was stupid, and I hurt you. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about the bet. It stopped being a game. And I started… I started caring about you, more than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

You feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, but you force yourself to keep your voice steady. “Then why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair again, his expression tortured. “Because I was scared. I was terrified that you’d look at me the way you’re looking at me now, that I’d lose you. I know that doesn’t make it better, but it’s the truth. I tried to find the right time, tried to find the right words, but I kept putting it off, thinking maybe… maybe I could make it up to you before you ever found out.” He looks down, his voice breaking. “But that was stupid. I should’ve just been honest with you from the start.”

You take a shaky breath, feeling the full weight of everything he’s saying. Part of you wants to believe him, wants to forgive him, but the wound he left is still fresh, still raw. “I trusted you, Bucky,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I thought… I thought what we had was real.”

He looks up at you, his eyes filled with a desperate sincerity that takes you off guard. “It was real. For me, it was real. And I know that doesn’t change anything, but I need you to know that. I never meant to hurt you, and I’ll spend as long as it takes to make it up to you if you’ll let me.”

You study him for a long moment, searching his face, trying to find some indication of sincerity, something to show that he’s truly sorry. And when you see the remorse in his eyes, the sadness that mirrors your own, you feel something in your chest soften, just slightly.

“Bucky,” you begin softly, forcing yourself to stay strong, “I can’t just go back to how things were. I can’t pretend this didn’t happen. You hurt me more than anyone ever has, and it’s going to take time for me to get past that.”

He nods, his expression resigned, but he doesn’t look away. “I understand. And I don’t expect you to forgive me right away. I just… I just want the chance to prove to you that I’m more than the guy who hurt you. Even if we can’t go back, I want to be there for you, even if it’s just as a friend.”

You let his words sink in, feeling a flicker of hope amidst the ache in your heart. Part of you still longs for what you had, for the closeness you shared, but you know that you can’t rush back into it. If Bucky truly wants a second chance, he’ll have to earn it, piece by piece, day by day.

“Maybe…” You hesitate, feeling vulnerable but determined. “Maybe we can start as friends. Just… friends. No promises, no expectations. If you’re willing to do that, to rebuild things from the ground up… then maybe, someday, I’ll be able to trust you again.”

Relief floods his face, and he nods, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll take that. Anything you’re willing to give, I’ll take it. I’ll prove to you that I can be better. I’ll prove that I’m worth your trust.”

You give him a tentative smile, and for the first time in days, you feel a flicker of hope. It’s small and fragile, but it’s enough to remind you that maybe healing is possible.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky becomes a constant but careful presence in your life. He shows up when you need help with an assignment, offers a listening ear when you need to vent about a long day, and joins you for coffee on campus, keeping the conversation light and easy. He respects your boundaries, never pushing for more, never expecting anything beyond friendship. You’re surprised at how attentive he is, how willing he is to wait, to prove that he’s serious about making things right.

Slowly, the walls around your heart begin to crack. You start to feel comfortable with him again, to let your guard down, if only a little. You catch him glancing at you sometimes, a soft, almost wistful look in his eyes, as if he’s seeing something precious he thought he’d lost forever. It’s in these moments that you remember why you fell for him in the first place, why his smile used to make your heart race, why his touch felt like home.

One day, as you’re both sitting on a bench by the campus pond, he turns to you, a hesitant smile on his face. “I know we’re just friends right now, and I’m okay with that. But I want you to know that I’m grateful for every moment I get to spend with you, even if it’s just like this.”

You feel a warmth spread through you, a sense of peace you haven’t felt in a long time. “Thank you, Bucky,” you say softly. “For not giving up. For being patient with me.”

He reaches out, hesitating for a moment before resting his hand on yours, his touch warm and steady. “I’ll wait as long as it takes. I’ll prove to you that I’m here for you, no matter what.”

And as you look into his eyes, you feel a flicker of something you thought was lost—a tentative, fragile hope that maybe things could be different this time. That he could truly be the person he’s trying to be, the person you wanted him to be all along. And though you know there’s a long road ahead, you’re finally willing to take that first step with him, trusting that maybe, this time, he won’t let you down.

The night is alive with music and laughter as you step into the crowded frat house. It’s your first time back here since everything happened, and you can’t deny the nervous flutter in your stomach as you take in the familiar scene. But tonight feels different—Bucky is by your side, watching you with a gentle smile as he guides you through the chaos of people, his hand warm and steady on your arm.

Over the past few weeks, things between you and Bucky have been slowly mending. He’s proven himself time and time again, showing up when it mattered, respecting your boundaries, and never pressuring you for more than you were willing to give. He’s become someone you can lean on, someone who’s earned back your trust bit by bit. And, to your own surprise, you feel something new blossoming between you—something deeper, stronger, and more genuine than before.

When you reach the main room, you spot Sam and Steve near the keg, both of them giving you a thumbs-up as soon as they see you with Bucky. You laugh, rolling your eyes, but Bucky just grins, shrugging as if to say, They’re harmless.

“Glad you came tonight,” he says, leaning closer so you can hear him over the noise. “I was worried you might skip.”

You shrug, glancing up at him. “Well, I figured it was about time I faced the frat house again.”

He chuckles, a warm, rich sound that sends a spark of something familiar through you. It’s the same feeling you used to get when you first met, when you were just getting to know him, before anything got complicated. Only now, it feels even better—because you’re finally on solid ground with him, without secrets or lies standing between you.

As the night goes on, you find yourself enjoying the party, laughing with friends, and even dancing a bit. Bucky stays close, his presence a comforting, steady anchor amidst the noise and chaos. He’s attentive, offering you drinks and glancing over every so often to make sure you’re comfortable. And every time you catch his gaze, you feel your heart race just a little faster.

At one point, as you’re talking with a friend, you feel Bucky’s hand gently touch your arm, and he leans in close, his voice soft and intimate against your ear. “Want to get some air?”

You nod, letting him lead you through the throngs of people until you step out onto the back porch. The cool night air is a welcome relief from the warmth inside, and you breathe deeply, taking in the quiet calm of the evening. Bucky leans against the railing, watching you with a soft, almost nervous smile, his hands tucked into his pockets.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something,” he begins, his voice low and steady, as if he’s thought about this moment a thousand times. “I know we’ve been rebuilding things, and I know you wanted to take it slow. But, Y/N… being with you these past few weeks, even just as friends, has been everything to me. And I can’t stop thinking about you. About us.”

Your heart stirs at his words, and you feel a warmth spread through you, a sense of longing that’s been building quietly since the day he asked for a second chance.

“Bucky,” you say softly, stepping a little closer. “I… I feel the same. It’s been hard, letting go of the past. But I think—no, I know—I’ve forgiven you. You’ve shown me who you really are, and… I like that person.”

His eyes brighten at your words, and he reaches out, his hand brushing your cheek as his thumb strokes gently across your skin. He leans closer, his gaze searching your face as if to make sure you’re truly ready for this.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, his voice barely audible in the quiet night air.

You feel your heart skip a beat, and you give him a small, almost shy nod, your pulse racing as he leans in, closing the distance between you. The moment his lips meet yours, it’s like the world melts away, leaving only the warmth of his touch, the softness of his mouth against yours. It’s gentle at first, tentative, as if he’s afraid of breaking the spell. But as you respond, his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you a little closer, deepening the kiss with a quiet, aching intensity.

When you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, both of you catching your breath, sharing a smile that’s equal parts relief and joy.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice full of warmth, “I promise, I’m not going to mess this up again. I want this with you—for real, no games.”

You smile, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “Good, because you’re stuck with me now.”

He laughs, pulling you into a tight hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder, feeling a happiness you haven’t felt in a long time. You’re finally ready to move forward with him, to start fresh, knowing that this time, it’s real.

maybe I should've made it more angsty? I love angst, request angst people! lol

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luxthestrange · 8 months ago

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TWST Incorrect quotes#714 Babies say no

The triplets are staying with Grandma and Grandpa Leech as babies, while Jade and you look for your forever home in the mountain town...so video calls are a necessity-

Yuu*Seeing the triplets and smiles*Hi babies~Did you miss me?~

Amethyst, Amanita & Indigo(Toddlers)*All look at you with shining eyes pressing their speaking buttons*"YES YES YES-I MISS YOU!"

Jade*Besides you, smiling at them*Darlings do you miss me too?~

Amethyst, Amanita & Indigo(Toddlers)"BITCH BIT-BITCH NO!BITCH!-"

Jade:...

GRANDPA!Leech*Cackles seeing the triplets REJECT his son*PWHAHAHA!?

Grandma!Leech*Slaps the backhead of his husband dissaprovingly*HONEY-

Part 4 of:

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland x yuu #twst #twst x yuu #twst x reader #twst yuu #twst octavinelle #jade leech #jade leech x reader #jade leech x yuu #amanita leech #amethyst leech #indigo leech #twst fluff #twst incorrect quotes #incorrect quotes

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k-nayee · 6 months ago

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A Fusion of Feelings STEVEN UNIVERSE

wc: 5.4k a/n: ngl I forgot what inspired me but just know I was on the bed eating Trolli crawlers !! Post-Steven Universe: The Movie (2019) !!

Traveler M.List

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

The cool salt-laced air of Beach City clung to the evening as Steven got out the car, the golden glow of the setting sun stretching shadows across the familiar sands.

At twenty, he carried himself differently now, with a quiet confidence that spoke of growth.

The tailored pink jacket he wore paired with jeans that fit him snugly was a silent testament to how he'd changed over the four years he'd been away.

His aura was more grounded, less childish. Honestly it kinda unsettled Connie to see him this way—more a stranger and less the boy she once knew.

But beyond the new posture and the maturity in his eyes, the essence of Steven Universe—kind, earnest, ever-hopeful—remained.

Connie heart thudded as she watched him scan the area. When his eyes landed on her it was like a moment suspended in time.

The boyish face she remembered was now sculpted with sharper edges, framed by unruly curls that had grown out, and his posture spoke of someone who had wrestled with his own demons and won.

A smile broke across his face as she rushed forward, her dark hair a wild halo catching the breeze before pulling him into a hug.

It was warm, familiar...and yet there was a split second of hesitation. Something was different.

His hands were firm but no longer lingering, his eyes searched hers with affection but no not with the same intenseful adoration.

It stung more than she cared to admit.

They fell into old rhythms easily from jokes about childhood adventures to updates on the latest antics of the Crystal Gems.

Yet as they spoke, Connie caught herself watching for cracks in his expression, hoping to find a hint of longing for the past

Instead, she found something gentler—a quiet satisfaction that wasn't solely about her.

Steven began to tell stories from his travels. And amid these conversations, an invisible thread pulled at Connie's focus, a name woven seamlessly into Steven's stories—you.

He had met you during as visit to a local university in the South.

But that wasn't what bothered the human member of Crystal Gems. It was the way he spoke with a kind of unconscious reverence of you.

Pictures of shared laughter over late-night conversations were painted, of your fascination with reading or the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

"She's just...her," Steven's voice would soften, his eyes drifting as he spoke. "You'd love talking to her about books Connie! You both have that same spark when you get excited."

Connie's chest tightened at each mention and she struggled to maintain her indifference.

"She was so passionate about that one book. You know the one with the wizard school?" Steven says before his eyes light up with another thought. "Oh and [favorite beverage]! You should have seen her face when she talks about it—it's like she's describing the most magical thing in the world."

Connie forced a light laugh but the edges were brittle. "Sounds she's a good friend." The words felt sour on her tongue, each one an effort to keep in check.

"She is. I mean, I know everything a good friend should," Steven's eyes go unfocused as if tracing the memory of your smile.

Connie's stomach twisted. He didn't even realize. But she did.

Every time he spoke, she pieced together an image of you, so vivid that it felt like you were already there.

Every word, every gleam in Steven's eyes carved deeper into her. There it was again—that bitter thread of envy weaving through her.

She scolded herself internally. Steven deserved happiness, after all.

He had spent so long putting others before himself. Seeing him light up because of you should have been enough.

Shouldn't it?

Connie knew she shouldn't be this way. She had ended things years ago; they were too young and she hadn't been ready.

Still, why did this happiness have to come at the cost of her own peace? Seeing him like this—so openly fond of someone else—brought a feeling that was hard to shake.

She had let him go.

She should be happy for him.

Should.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

It was early one morning when Steven burst into Connie's home.

The door swung open with such force that it thudded against the wall, and Connie mid-phone call with her mother, jumped up from the sofa.

"Steven?" Her voice was sharp with concern as he stood in the doorway, face flushed and eyes wide.

His curls were unruly, hands raking through them as he paced in frantic circles.

"She's here," his voice was pitched high with barely contained panic hadn't heard in years.

Connie's breath caught in her throat. A part of her wondered if her complexion had paled, if her surprise was as visible as she felt it must be.

She didn't need him to say more. The implication was clear: You were in Beach City.

"Hey Mom, I'm going to call you back. Something's come up."

The moment she hung up Steven continued his pacing. There was a wildness to his eyes—a desperate energy that sent a pang of something undefinable through Connie.

"I can't see her...I-I just can't!" He turns to Connie with desperation painted across every line of his face. "I'm not ready."

The Maheswaran teen stepped toward him. "Wait wh—"

"I know I know, I'm a mess!" He motioned to his jacket, tugging at the sleeves. "I'm too nervous. What if I say something stupid? What if she realizes that I'm just weird?!"

The half-Gem's anxiety radiated off of him in waves as and he starts to pace once more.

He was sweating as his skin and hair began to take on a pink hue showcasing his fraying nerves.

Connie instinctively grabs his shoulders to steady him. "Steven! Calm down! You need to breathe. You're overthinking it."

In her attempt to soothe him a light suddenly gleam in his eyes. His hands wraps around hers suddenly, startling her.

"I think we should fuse into Stevonnie." The words tumbled out so fast she almost missed them.

"...what?"

Steven's grin brightens, more sure now. "We can meet her as Stevonnie. With your help I won't mess everything up."

Connie yanks her hands away as if stung. Stevonnie. That version of them, so complete, so complicated.

"Steven...y-you can't be serious!"

"C'mon! Just think about it. You're a girl, so you'd know what to say and how to gauge things better. I can't face her alone. Not yet." He spoke like it made perfect sense, like it was the most logical solution in the world.

Connie's breath caught. A myriad of emotions surged—betrayal, the flicker of old pain, and the gnawing realization of Steven's obliviousness to her own turmoil.

Why should she help him meet someone who might replace her in his heart? To help him woo someone who wasn't her? Why would she want to?

She wanted to yell, to refuse him outright, to protect herself from this emotional minefield.

But then she saw the way he looked at her—not with love but with trust.

The kind of trust that spoke of years of shared battles, laughter, and the silent understanding that only they had.

It twisted something in her heart leaving her feeling vulnerable. She had ended things for a reason. Steven deserved to find happiness.

Even if it wasn't with her.

Connie couldn't deny him, not when he needed her like this. With a tightened jaw, she release a defeated sigh.

"Fine," her voice was barely a whisper. "But we do this my way."

Relief softened Steven's tense posture, and before she could steel herself, he pulled her into a big hug. "Thank you Connie. I knew you'd understand!"

He steps back and quickly pulls out his phone. Clicking on the screen a few times, he shifted on his feet as he shakily puts the phone to his ear.

"Hey! It's Steven. About our meet-up later today—yeah, I'm okay just feeling a bit under the weather." He rasps his voice a little and force a light cough to sell the act.

Your muffled reply was on the other end. Connie didn't even have to hear your exact words to know what you'd said.

The way Steven's shoulders relaxed as a soft smile that crept across his lips—it was enough. It was everything.

And it made her stomach churn with a mix of emotions she could barely name.

Steven closed his eyes as if savoring the sound of your voice, his cheeks flushing a gentle pink—each reaction was a dagger twisting deeper.

She bit back a grimace. A whisper of curiosity tugged at her, unwilling to be ignored.

'What was it about you that could make Steven act like that?'

"No, no, you don't need to take care of me. I wouldn't want you to get sick." The son of Greg Universe and ̶P̶̶i̶̶n̶̶k̶ ̶D̶̶i̶̶a̶̶m̶̶o̶̶n̶̶d̶ Rose Quartz insisted, his voice softening in a way that made Connie's stomach twist.

The way he cared about you was so painfully evident and she had to steel herself as she stood by watching.

"Actually...my cousin Stevonnie is visiting," Steven adds with a hint of awkwardness. "They'd love to meet you. Maybe you both could hang out at the beach and finally get introduced to the Crystal Gems while at it?"

There was a pause, then muffled laughter filtered through the receiver causing his entire demeanor to change.

Eyes brightened he turns to Connie and sends her a thumbs up. She reluctantly mirrors it, her lips set in a forced smile.

As Steven continued the conversation Connie was left with her thoughts.

She wasn't ready for this.

Not the idea of meeting you, not the way Steven lit up because of you, and definitely not the confusing flutter in her chest as she thought about seeing you up close.

She began to brace herself for what was to come. She couldn't predict how this day would unfold, but she knew one thing—she already didn't like you.

Not at all.

But somewhere, buried under the jealousy and apprehension, was the tiniest ember of curiosity.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

Now merged, the semi-Gem stands before the mirror in the living room. Stevonnie's fingers tremble as they fluffed out their thick wavy hair.

The anxious energy beneath their skin was palpable—an odd fusion of Steven's heart-racing excitement and Connie's tight-lipped simmering unease—as they waited.

For you.

Their hands paused, fingers lingering in their curls before dropping with an eye-roll and scoff, "Jeez...is it that serious?"

A flare of irritation filled their chest as they stepped back, exhaling through their nose to calm the internal storm.

Stevonnie's brows knit together in question of the sudden emotion.

It wasn't just Steven's giddy anticipation or Connie's jealousy. It was something more tangled—anxiety mixed with an unfamiliar warmth.

But there's no time to ponder further when the front door bursts open, the room filling with unrestrained laughter.

The boisterous sound bounces around the space as Pearl steps into view, her eyebrow twitching ever so slightly.

"Honestly Amethyst," Pearl chided, though there was a rare softness in her tone. Gaze finding the fusion, she offers a polite nod before gliding over to the nearby cushioned couch, hands folded neatly in her lap.

Garnet's silent presence filled the doorway next, her tall frame blocking the evening light momentarily as she stepped in.

The Gem's stoic expression softens just a touch when her gaze met Stevonnie's. Her lips subtly upturned as a way of unspoken reassurance.

Finally, Amethyst bounced in, her grin barely contained. She was cackling as she looked behind her yelling back, "Ya know, you're pretty funny for a meaty human!"

A familiar voice responds from beyond the door, "Why thank you my lil grape friend!"

Stevonnie's pulse quickened. It was you.

Their whole body seemed to pause, hands fidgeting nervously before forcing them to relax.

Steven's excitement surged, making their heart race, while Connie's wariness clawed at her mind.

But beneath it all there was a flicker of something different—a curiosity that wasn't entirely unwelcome.

'Okay' A short huff blew through their nose, eyes narrowing for just a moment in attempt to keep calm. 'Let's just get this over wi—'

"Hi! My name is _____. You must be Stevonnie right? Steven's cousin?"

The words hit Stevonnie like a surprise gust of wind.

Their eyes widen at the sight of you standing there. The warm glow of the sunlight that bathed you casted a golden halo around your figure.

In your hands you held a Tupperware bowl, the lid fogged from the warmth within.

Gaze was as warm as the Sun itself, smile soft and sweet—you were exactly Steven had described.

̶T̶̶h̶̶o̶̶u̶̶g̶̶h̶ ̶w̶̶h̶̶a̶̶t̶ ̶C̶̶o̶̶n̶̶n̶̶i̶̶e̶ ̶h̶̶a̶̶d̶̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶a̶̶n̶̶t̶̶i̶̶c̶̶i̶̶p̶̶a̶̶t̶̶e̶̶d̶ ̶w̶̶a̶̶s̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶w̶̶a̶̶y̶ ̶h̶̶e̶̶r̶ ̶s̶̶i̶̶d̶̶e̶ ̶o̶̶f̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶f̶̶u̶̶s̶̶i̶̶o̶̶n̶ ̶r̶̶e̶̶a̶̶c̶̶t̶̶e̶̶d̶.

The sharp sting of jealousy began to shift, replaced by a begrudging acknowledgment of your kind disposition.

Something in Stevonnie melted while the other side tensed. The tight pull of jealousy mingling with awestruck joy tangled into an emotion that left them breathless.

Connie’s unspoken thoughts whispered, echoing Steven’s sentiment, but with a dawning realization.

Your presence was more than she expected. It wasn’t the competition she’d imagined; it was...something softer.

“Y-yeah! That uh, that’s me,” they managed, voice steady enough to pass for normal.

Amethyst gave Stevonnie an exaggerated wink from behind your back, and Stevonnie shot her an unamused look.

“It’s great to officially meet you,” you said. “Though I'm a little peeved Steven never told me about you. We can make up for it as long as I'm here! Ah! Feels like I already know you.”

The casual sincerity in your voice made Stevonnie's heart squeeze with something they refused to name.

“Likewise,” Stevonnie said, but their voice wavered, betraying the fusion’s internal war.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

Time seemed to blur as the evening wore on. Stories were exchanged, laughter filled air, the sky outside slowly darkening with every passing hour.

Eventually it was time to go. You and Stevonnie walking along the shoreline toward Garnet's waiting silhouette in the distance.

The day's golden light fades, the sky deepening into hues of purple and blue as stars begin to reveal themselves.

The air was warm, the scent of salt carried on the breeze, and the rhythmic sound of the ocean created a comforting backdrop.

"I really had a good time today," you say, smile as genuine as ever. It sent a subtle ripple through Stevonnie, stirring emotions that were a blend of Steven’s joy and Connie’s reluctant acceptance.

Stevonnie's gaze lingers on you whenever you aren't looking, emotions wavering like a flame.

Steven's side of them basked in the warmth of your presence while Connie's shifted, unsettled by the pull she felt toward you.

The lingering envy that once felt sharp now dulled into a softer, almost wistful feeling.

Though even though the envy had dulled, replaced by an uninvited fascination, a faint sense jealousy remained.

̶C̶̶o̶̶n̶̶n̶̶i̶̶e̶'̶s̶ ̶s̶̶i̶̶d̶̶e̶ ̶c̶̶o̶̶u̶̶l̶̶d̶̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶d̶̶e̶̶n̶̶y̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶a̶̶t̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶e̶̶r̶̶e̶ ̶w̶̶a̶̶s̶ ̶s̶̶o̶̶m̶̶e̶̶t̶̶h̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶c̶̶a̶̶p̶̶t̶̶i̶̶v̶̶a̶̶t̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶a̶̶b̶̶o̶̶u̶̶t̶ ̶h̶̶o̶̶w̶ ̶e̶̶a̶̶s̶̶i̶̶l̶̶y̶ ̶y̶̶o̶̶u̶ ̶c̶̶o̶̶n̶̶n̶̶e̶̶c̶̶t̶̶e̶̶d̶ ̶w̶̶i̶̶t̶̶h̶ ̶p̶̶e̶̶o̶̶p̶̶l̶̶e̶, ̶h̶̶o̶̶w̶ ̶e̶̶f̶̶f̶̶o̶̶r̶̶t̶̶l̶̶e̶̶s̶̶s̶̶l̶̶y̶ ̶y̶̶o̶̶u̶ ̶b̶̶r̶̶o̶̶u̶̶g̶̶h̶̶t̶ ̶l̶̶i̶̶g̶̶h̶̶t̶ ̶t̶̶o̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶q̶̶u̶̶i̶̶e̶̶t̶ ̶s̶̶p̶̶a̶̶c̶̶e̶̶s̶.

Frustrated by the rush of warmth in their chest, they push back with a question

"So...what do you think of Steven?" Stevonnie asked, attempting to sound casual. Their eyes briefly dart towards you to gauge your reaction.

"He talks about you a lot—says you're a great friend. And I can see that, especially after you brought him that homemade veggie soup."

̶C̶̶o̶̶n̶̶n̶̶i̶̶e̶’̶s̶ ̶s̶̶i̶̶d̶̶e̶ ̶b̶̶r̶̶a̶̶c̶̶e̶̶d̶ ̶f̶̶o̶̶r̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶f̶̶a̶̶m̶̶i̶̶l̶̶i̶̶a̶̶r̶ ̶t̶̶w̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶̶e̶ ̶o̶̶f̶ ̶j̶̶e̶̶a̶̶l̶̶o̶̶u̶̶s̶̶y̶. ̶b̶̶u̶̶t̶ ̶i̶̶t̶ ̶n̶̶e̶̶v̶̶e̶̶r̶ ̶c̶̶a̶̶m̶̶e̶. ̶I̶̶n̶̶s̶̶t̶̶e̶̶a̶̶d̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶e̶̶r̶̶e̶ ̶w̶̶a̶̶s̶ ̶a̶ ̶s̶̶u̶̶r̶̶p̶̶r̶̶i̶̶s̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶f̶̶l̶̶i̶̶c̶̶k̶̶e̶̶r̶ ̶o̶̶f̶ ̶c̶̶u̶̶r̶̶i̶̶o̶̶s̶̶i̶̶t̶̶y̶.

You look up at them. "Steven? He's great!" your voice rose as you began listing off his qualities. "Honestly, he's one of the most thoughtful people I know! Always listens even when it's something small. And he's so brave, even when scared. I've never met anyone who cares as much as he does."

Stevonnie felt a bittersweet pang. Your admiration mirrored everything Connie had once felt a̶̶n̶̶d̶ ̶s̶̶t̶̶i̶̶l̶̶l̶ ̶f̶̶e̶̶l̶̶t̶ ̶d̶̶e̶̶e̶̶p̶ ̶d̶̶o̶̶w̶̶n̶ for Steven.

Hearing you say it, seeing how deeply you understood him, brought a strange comfort.

But it was more than that. The candor in your voice spoke of someone who saw the best in others.

̶S̶̶o̶̶m̶̶e̶̶o̶̶n̶̶e̶ ̶w̶̶h̶̶o̶ ̶c̶̶o̶̶u̶̶l̶̶d̶ ̶s̶̶e̶̶e̶ ̶h̶̶e̶̶r̶ ̶t̶̶o̶̶o̶.

The realization struck Stevonnie quietly, an unwelcome but persistent warmth settling in their chest.

"Really?" Stevonnie replied in a controlled voice, though their heart felt so heavy that it might fall out their ribcage.

The question was innocent enough but the ache behind it was palpable; a tug-of-war between Steven's quiet yearning and Connie's deep-seated denial.

For it was no longer just about rivalry—it was the possibility that someone could understand her in the way you understood Steven.

A gentle laugh escapes you and you nod frantically. "Of course! He...he just got this way of making everyone feel important ya know? Like they matter. And his jokes—oh my gosh, he cheers me up even when I'm not having the best day. Not to mention when he gets excited about something he loves; you should see the way his eyes light up like the stars."

Stevonnie's heart skip a beat the admiration in your voice. Something within them stirs. Their stomach knots with butterflies, warmth creeping up to their cheeks.

'No!' A flicker of defiance twists their lips. 'This won't do.'

"Well speaking of boys in general. You got a boyfriend?" Forcing a mischievous grin they give you a playful nudge. "A pretty girl like you must have one waiting at home right?"

The second the words slipped out Stevonnie's stride faltered, feet coming to a halt as an unsettling pang bloomed in them, unexpected and sharp.

It was a strange sensation—something close to jealousy and possessiveness—an uncomfortable mix that made their chest feel tight.

The thought of you loving someone else stings in a way that makes their brow crease.

Before they could make sense of it your laugh broke the silence. "A boyfriend? Gosh no!"

The sound pulled Stevonnie out of their daze. They looked up just in time to notice you had slowed and stopped a few steps ahead, eyes fixed on the darkening horizon.

For the first time you've met your gaze avoided to meet theirs, instead lingering on the ocean with an unreadable expression softening your features.

"I've never really thought about dating or romance," you admit, voice tinged with a touch of melancholy. "I spent most of my time focused on getting good grades, get into college and make my family proud—doing everything I was supposed to do. And now that I've done that...I don't really know how to connect with people in that way." A small laugh escaped, quiet and self-conscious. "I'm just now getting better at making friends socially. Romance? That's a far-off dream for me."

Stevonnie's heart ached in an odd camaraderie. The weight of expectations, the search for belonging—it's all too familiar. They resonated with your vulnerability, recognizing theirself in your words.

̶I̶̶t̶ ̶c̶̶h̶̶i̶̶p̶̶p̶̶e̶̶d̶ ̶a̶̶w̶̶a̶̶y̶ ̶a̶̶t̶ ̶C̶̶o̶̶n̶̶n̶̶i̶̶e̶'̶s̶ ̶g̶̶u̶̶a̶̶r̶̶d̶̶e̶̶d̶ ̶h̶̶e̶̶a̶̶r̶̶t̶ ̶p̶̶i̶̶e̶̶c̶̶e̶ ̶b̶̶y̶ ̶p̶̶i̶̶e̶̶c̶̶e̶.

Before they could respond you speak again, gentler this time, like a secret being shared under moonlight.

"But Steven...?" you began, your voice taking on a wistful tone. They watch as the forlorn shadow in your eyes melt away, replaced by something softer, more reverent.

Your eyes became dazed as your lips curled into a tender smile. "He's different. He makes everything feel easy...one of the best I've ever met—Gem or human. It's really not hard for people to fall for someone like him."

You let out a gentle sigh, the stars above seeming to mirror the flicker of emotion in your eyes as you looked up at the twinkling dotted sky.

"I sure know I have."

Stevonnie.exe has stopped working.

A mixture of relief and longing that they hadn’t expected flushed through their veins.

You...like like Steven? ̶A̶̶n̶̶d̶ ̶f̶̶o̶̶r̶ ̶a̶ ̶m̶̶o̶̶m̶̶e̶̶n̶̶t̶, ̶C̶̶o̶̶n̶̶n̶̶i̶̶e̶ ̶w̶̶o̶̶n̶̶d̶̶e̶̶r̶̶e̶̶d̶ ̶w̶̶h̶̶a̶̶t̶ ̶i̶̶t̶ ̶w̶̶o̶̶u̶̶l̶̶d̶ ̶b̶̶e̶ ̶l̶̶i̶̶k̶̶e̶ ̶i̶̶f̶ ̶y̶̶o̶̶u̶ ̶s̶̶a̶̶w̶ ̶h̶̶e̶̶r̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶a̶̶t̶ ̶w̶̶a̶̶y̶ ̶t̶̶o̶̶o̶.

You blink rapidly as if to shake off the rush of emotion that had swept over you and let out an embarrassed chuckle.

"Sorry that sounded super cheesy," you rub the back of your neck. "I'm sure you don't want to hear that, with him being your cousin and all."

You turn back to Stevonnie, only to find them standing perfectly still, staring at you with wide eyes and a faint flush coloring their cheeks.

"Stevonnie?" you called their name, snapping them out of it. They jolted slightly as if waking from a dream and sport a wobbly smile.

"Cool," is all they managed to choke out, awkwardly lifting both hands in an stiff thumbs-up gesture. "That's...really cool."

The response was clumsy but it pulled a genuine laugh from you.

Despite the confusion, you played along, giving your own thumbs-up before gesturing to where Garnet stood a respectful distance away. "Well it's getting late. We shouldn't keep her waiting."

Stevonnie could only nod as they swallowed hard.

̶T̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶o̶̶n̶̶c̶̶e̶ ̶r̶̶e̶̶l̶̶u̶̶c̶̶t̶̶a̶̶n̶̶t̶ ̶e̶̶m̶̶o̶̶t̶̶i̶̶o̶̶n̶ ̶C̶̶o̶̶n̶̶n̶̶i̶̶e̶ ̶f̶̶e̶̶l̶̶t̶ ̶c̶̶o̶̶n̶̶f̶̶u̶̶s̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶, ̶u̶̶n̶̶w̶̶e̶̶l̶̶c̶̶o̶̶m̶̶e̶ ̶e̶̶v̶̶e̶̶n̶, ̶b̶̶u̶̶t̶ ̶i̶̶t̶ ̶w̶̶o̶̶u̶̶l̶̶d̶̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶b̶̶e̶ ̶i̶̶g̶̶n̶̶o̶̶r̶̶e̶̶d̶.

Their steps were almost mechanical as they follow you down the beach, the soft crunch of sand beneath mirroring the dissonance in their mind and heart.

You filled the silence with a stream of light-hearted talk, a cheerful ramble that danced across topics as if trying to chase away any lingering awkwardness.

Stevonnie's responses were sparse—a series of hums, muttered agreements, and distracted nods.

Each step toward Garnet and the waiting car felt like a countdown, every word you spoke being another beat in the symphony of confusion humming in their mind.

It wasn't until Garnet was a few feet away did Stevonnie manage to gather themselves enough to say a proper goodbye. "Um...bye ____...I...I had fun."

You flash a smile as bright as the moon hanging in the dark sky. "I had a great time too. We should definitely do this again. Oh! And hopefully Connie can join us next time. I've been meaning to finally meet her, especially since I just finished a new novel series. You think she'd like if I brought them for her? It's a historical romance with strong female leads—the Bridgerton series, if you've heard of it. And if not, I have other books she might enjoy. I'm hoping we could maybe start a book club or have some discussions!"

The mention of the teen's interests sent a rush of warmth through Stevonnie. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes about how deeply you cared.

Their posture stiffened ever so slightly as your words washed over them, smile faltering for just a heartbeat before forcing it to stay in place—a little too bright, a touch too tight.

For a moment the spark of Steven's enthusiasm fought with Connie's nervousness, creating a subtle conflict that flickered between excitement and something harder to define.

Though the mention of historical romance and strong female leads did spark an immediate interest on Connie's side briefly.

But as quickly as it came, the heaviness of more complex emotions settled in, making Stevonnie's heart thump with a sensation that felt uncomfortably like longing.

Fingers twitching, they tuck a loose strand of hair behind their ear—a move pure Connie.

"Y-yeah..." Their voice slipped on the first word before steading it. "Yeah...I think Connie would like that very much. She loves stories with strong characters."

You give a playful eyeroll as teasing grin spread across your face. "Well duh that's why I'm recommending it to her!" The fondness in your tone was unmistakable, and it seeped into Stevonnie's skin. "Steven says she's never without a book, usually something epic or full of history. Oh and her journaling! Always writing in it—filling it with thoughts and stories."

Leaning in a bit your eyes sparkled as you continued with enthusiasm. "Did you know she's into sword fighting? She trains with Pearl. And gosh her curiosity! He told me how fearless she is when it comes to going on new adventures. Always ready to explore even when things get wild."

Each word was like a tiny invisible thread that pulled at the fusion. Connie's pride in her achievements hummed under the surface, swirling with Steven's growing admiration for how deeply you appreciated someone he cared about.

You paused, a soft laugh escaping that caught Stevonnie off guard with its ease. "She's so smart too. Steven once mentioned how she'll share the most random but fascinating historical facts like it's second nature. And music—I don't know if she still plays, but he said she's got a real talent for it. I think it was the violin? I bet she could play classical pieces flawlessly."

Stevonnie's throat tightened, and for a moment, their composure wavered. Your words painted Connie in such vivid colors, filled with genuine admiration that was so tender—so pure.

̶F̶̶o̶̶r̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶f̶̶i̶̶r̶̶s̶̶t̶ ̶t̶̶i̶̶m̶̶e̶, ̶C̶̶o̶̶n̶̶n̶̶i̶̶e̶ ̶f̶̶e̶̶l̶̶t̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶a̶̶t̶ ̶s̶̶o̶̶m̶̶e̶̶o̶̶n̶̶e̶ ̶m̶̶i̶̶g̶̶h̶̶t̶ ̶t̶̶r̶̶u̶̶l̶̶y̶ ̶u̶̶n̶̶d̶̶e̶̶r̶̶s̶̶t̶̶a̶̶n̶̶d̶ ̶h̶̶e̶̶r̶, ̶a̶̶n̶̶d̶ ̶i̶̶t̶ ̶l̶̶e̶̶f̶̶t̶ ̶h̶̶e̶̶r̶ ̶f̶̶e̶̶e̶̶l̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶e̶̶x̶̶p̶̶o̶̶s̶̶e̶̶d̶.

It was then a softer expression crossed your face as you looked down, shifting your foot in the sand did Stevonnie feel something give.

"I don't know," your voice dipped with shy honesty. "I guess...I'm just really excited to meet her. She seems so incredible, even though I haven't even met her yet."

A small smile—hopeful and sweet—crossed your lips. "I hope she'll want to be my friend."

Stevonnie's emotions reached a breaking point.

A part of them, Steven's part, felt a surge of joy at how deeply you cared. But Connie's part—rooted in insecurity and longing—felt exposed and vulnerable.

̶S̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶c̶̶o̶̶u̶̶l̶̶d̶̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶d̶̶e̶̶n̶̶y̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶a̶̶t̶ ̶s̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶f̶̶e̶̶l̶̶t̶ ̶s̶̶o̶̶m̶̶e̶̶t̶̶h̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶m̶̶o̶̶r̶̶e̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶a̶̶n̶ ̶e̶̶n̶̶v̶̶y̶ ̶o̶̶r̶ ̶j̶̶e̶̶a̶̶l̶̶o̶̶u̶̶s̶̶y̶; ̶s̶̶o̶̶m̶̶e̶̶t̶̶h̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶w̶̶a̶̶s̶ ̶s̶̶h̶̶i̶̶f̶̶t̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶i̶̶n̶ ̶h̶̶e̶̶r̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶a̶̶t̶ ̶m̶̶a̶̶d̶̶e̶ ̶h̶̶e̶̶r̶ ̶h̶̶e̶̶a̶̶r̶̶t̶ ̶f̶̶l̶̶u̶̶t̶̶t̶̶e̶̶r̶ ̶i̶̶n̶ ̶a̶ ̶w̶̶a̶̶y̶ ̶s̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶c̶̶o̶̶u̶̶l̶̶d̶̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶i̶̶g̶̶n̶̶o̶̶r̶̶e̶.

"You...really know a lot about her...huh?" There was a mix of surprise and appreciation in their voice. "That means a lot—to both of us. She's always looking for people who see her, not just what she does but who she is.""

A soft breathy laugh escaped them, almost involuntary, tinged with something bittersweet.

"I think she'd really like to be your friend too..." Stevonnie whispered, the sincerity catching even them by surprise.

̶A̶̶t̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶i̶̶s̶ ̶p̶̶o̶̶i̶̶n̶̶t̶ ̶C̶̶o̶̶n̶̶n̶̶i̶̶e̶'̶s̶ ̶g̶̶u̶̶a̶̶r̶̶d̶ ̶d̶̶r̶̶o̶̶p̶̶p̶̶e̶̶d̶ ̶c̶̶o̶̶m̶̶p̶̶l̶̶e̶̶t̶̶e̶̶l̶̶y̶, ̶r̶̶e̶̶v̶̶e̶̶a̶̶l̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶a̶ ̶q̶̶u̶̶i̶̶e̶̶t̶, ̶t̶̶e̶̶n̶̶d̶̶e̶̶r̶ ̶h̶̶o̶̶p̶̶e̶.

You look up at Stevonnie with wide eyes as a look of disbelief flash across your face before melting into a heart-shattering smile. "Really? You think so?!"

You seemed to catch yourself, quickly clearing your throat, though it didn't quite hide the excitement still glimmering in your eyes.

"Yeah that's cool or whatever," your attempt at nonchalance was betrayed by the slight bounce on your heels.

Stevonnie couldn't help but laugh at the sight as Garnet joined in, her laughter low and warm.

̶F̶̶o̶̶r̶ ̶C̶̶o̶̶n̶̶n̶̶i̶̶e̶ ̶i̶̶t̶ ̶w̶̶a̶̶s̶̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶e̶̶v̶̶e̶̶n̶ ̶j̶̶u̶̶s̶̶t̶ ̶a̶̶d̶̶m̶̶i̶̶r̶̶a̶̶t̶̶i̶̶o̶̶n̶ ̶a̶̶n̶̶y̶̶m̶̶o̶̶r̶̶e̶, i̶̶t̶ ̶w̶̶a̶̶s̶ ̶s̶̶o̶̶m̶̶e̶̶t̶̶h̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶a̶̶t̶ ̶m̶̶a̶̶d̶̶e̶ ̶h̶̶e̶̶r̶ ̶w̶̶o̶̶n̶̶d̶̶e̶̶r̶ ̶i̶̶f̶ ̶s̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶c̶̶o̶̶u̶̶l̶̶d̶ ̶a̶̶l̶̶l̶̶o̶̶w̶ ̶h̶̶e̶̶r̶̶s̶̶e̶̶l̶̶f̶ ̶t̶̶o̶ ̶f̶̶e̶̶e̶̶l̶ ̶i̶̶t̶.

And that's when you brought it up.

Almost as if the sudden thought appeared, you let out a casual laugh. "Oh and I just realized—Stevonnie huh? You now your name kinda sounds like a mix between Steven and Connie. Isn't that funny?"

The smile froze on Stevonnie's face. A jolt of panic shot through them and they balked. "W-what?!"

Stammering with wide eyes, they struggled to find their footing. "Wha? What do you mean? No it's not like that at all." Their voice tripped over itself, each word tangling into the next. "I mean I'm older than both of them—Steven and Connie. I don't even look like them if they were merged together hahaha!"

They gave an awkward laugh, though it sounded forced, the tension clear in their voice.

You blinked, your brows furrowing as confusion crossed your features. Before you could voice the questions forming on your lips Garnet's voice cut through the moment.

"____. You're going to miss the RoboDog movie marathon if you stay any longer," she called, her voice voice cool and even, yet somehow managing to carry a knowing lilt.

Your eyes lit up at the mention of the movie series, all confusion momentarily replaced by excitement.

"Oh! Right! Thanks for reminding me Garnet." You shot a quick glance back at Stevonnie, your expression brightening. "It was really nice meeting you Stevonnie! And tell Steven I'll call him later!"

You paused a beat as if considering your next words. Head lowering from fluster, the words tumbled out before you could stop them, "And...do you think maybe you don't mention what I said earlier? I think I'd die if he knew."

Garnet, standing beside you, puts a gentle hand on your shoulder with a knowing expression. "No worries. Steven won't know of your confession about your budding romantic feelings for him."

The tension from your body disappears at her reassurance making you release a breath of relief. "Thank yo—"

You freeze mid-gratitude. Your eyes widened as your head whips towards her, the question slipping out in a rush. "Wait—how did you know?!"

Stevonnie felt a rush of heat climb their neck at the full confirmation. The tension inside them strained, pressing against the fragile seams of their shared being.

Steven’s excitement warred with Connie’s panic, and under it all, a trembling awareness pulsed with each heartbeat.

Their nails dug into their palms as they struggled to hold steady. It was taking every ounce of self-control to keep from separating then and there.

̶C̶̶o̶̶n̶̶n̶̶i̶̶e̶’̶s̶ ̶s̶̶i̶̶d̶̶e̶ ̶f̶̶i̶̶g̶̶h̶̶t̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶u̶̶r̶̶g̶̶e̶ ̶t̶̶o̶ ̶b̶̶r̶̶e̶̶a̶̶k̶ ̶a̶̶w̶̶a̶̶y̶ ̶a̶̶n̶̶d̶ ̶h̶̶i̶̶d̶̶e̶.

Garnet's chuckled softly, voice tinged with a poetic clarity. "Love is felt even when it's hidden. It shines brightly even to those who cannot see."

She gives Stevonnie one last look—a look that conveyed understanding, as if urging them to accept what was brewing inside.

You blinked, caught between embarrassment and wonder as Garnet gently urged you toward the nearby car.

"W-wait! Hold on now! I can explai—"

Your stuttering attempts at saving face were met with another quiet laugh as she guided you inside, shutting the door with a quiet finality.

Stevonnie stood unmoving as the car rolled away, the sound of tires on sand growing fainter until all that remained was the soft whisper of the waves and the steady thump of their heartbeat.

The air was thick with unsaid truths that everything was changing.

It was quiet for a long moment, the silence stretched thin as the fusion watched the taillights disappear over the horizon.

Finally, with a shuddering breath, the tension in Stevonnie's frame snapped—collapsing into two separate forms.

Steven stumbled slightly, catching himself with wide eyes that remained fixed after where the car last was in a mix of awe and confusion. His cheeks were pink, emotions an open book.

Connie stood beside him with a downcast gaze; her fingers curling into the fabric of the skirt she wore as her heart ached with a bittersweet awareness.

The soft press of the fabric in her hands grounded her, kept her from spiraling further into what-ifs and whys.

Cool breeze bit at her skin, but she didn't flinch, heavy heart thudding in her chest with a realization she couldn't yet voice.

It was as if a door had opened, letting in the rush of emotions she’d created and kept locked away all in one day, mixing with the echoes of your admiration and her own conflicted feelings.

Steven's eyes stayed fixed on the empty stretch of road—a soft, wistful ache in his gaze.

"So," he whispered after a beat, breaking the stillness. His voice quivered low and uncertain. "What did you think of ____?"

Connie's heart thudded painfully as she turned to look at him, the moonlight casting long shadows across his face.

Her eyes softened as she saw the flush in his cheeks and the hint of hope in his expression. It mirrored a feeling she recognized all too well.

Words were caught in her throat all tangled up in emotions she hadn't even begun to sort through.

Both confessions—having feelings for Steven, dare say even admiring Connie—it reverberated in her mind.

So much it came with the stinging realization that tinge of jealousy she'd ignored was more than she wanted to admit.

That now, mingled with that envy was something new—something she wasn’t sure she could deny any longer.

"What I think...?" she started, the words trailing off as she searched for something true to say.

Steven's hopeful, expectant eyes met hers, and for the first time she felt the truth settle heavily in her chest.

There was no escaping it now—the feelings she thought she’d buried were surfacing, mingling with the unexpected warmth she now feels when she hearing your voice or seeing your smile.

A soft rueful smile tugged at her lips, and she let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

"I'm thinking how bad is it to say I see why you're smitten."

#knayee traveler #x reader #reader insert #steven universe #steven universe x reader #connie maheswaran #su au #su pearl #su garnet #su amethyst #stevonnie #connie x steven #steven quartz universe #su steven #su connie x reader #connie mahaswaren x reader #angst with a happy ending #light angst #su x reader

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alienaiver · 4 months ago

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kuroo fluff, disabled reader, 461 words

"you never let me peel your oranges."

"huh?" you look up at kuroo, whos standing by the counter, underlip jutted out in a pout. your hand stop the work on the orange in front of you.

"why dont you let me do it?"

"huh?" you repeat, and then he sighs dramatically, pushing his hip off of the counter to walk up behind you and massage your shoulders. you hum in appreciation.

"am i bad at peeling them?" he asks, silently like hes afraid of the answer. you giggle as you tilt your head to make more room for the hands working your sore muscles.

"well, i am a bit particular about how much of the whites i want off."

kuroo hums before his hands slows to a stop and he rests his head on top of yours. you smile, knowing the same pout is still on his lips. "is there a specific reason you want to?"

"i dont particularly want to."

you snort, "why, then, is my prince complaining about the work i keep from him?"

kuroo sighs before he noses your hair, inhaling your scent.

"i read that its a love language. if i do it, it shows how much i love you. and your hands work like shit, so i should, shouldnt i?"

you breathe out through your nose, half a laugh and half a sigh. its amusing to have such an intelligent boyfriend with zero context awareness in some situations.

you start to seperate the pieces and sort them onto your napkin. the ones with seeds goes to the right, the seedless to the left. he lifts his head again to reach for your hands, intertwining your fingers.

"when i leave clothes on the floor, you pick them up for me simply because you know bending down is painful. you take out the trash because sparing my hands the making of the knot and carrying them out is nothing to you," you squeeze his hands before you continue, your eyes closed, "the vegetables are yours to cut as i handle the stuff without knives. you really want to peel my oranges, too? when you get my waterbottle and my blanket every night. take off my socks and massage my shoulders?"

kuroo shrugs, nuzzling into the crevice of your neck. you imagine that hes blushing, hiding his embarrassment, "id do anything for you."

you smile, tilting your head so that your mouth reaches his hairline, "you already do."

"but the oranges..." he whimpers, pouting.

you laugh, and plant a kiss where you can reach him, "let me peel you one, yeah?"

his weight sort of collapses on top of your head and shoulders, his hands letting go of yours to wrap around you, hugging you tightly.

"alright."

#kuroo tetsurou x reader #kuroo tetsurou fluff #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader #hq fluff #disabled reader insert #hq x reader #nohr.hq #nohr.writing #wrote this on the bus so if theres any issues gomenasorry <3 #its been rotating lately. how the orange can be anything. and i love kuroo and his funny high intelligence low wisdom energy #its been so long since ive posted ANY writing so im a little excited and jittery ejehe!!!#but writing on amethyst haze has really made my gears turn the right way again <3

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sharkb1t3z · 4 months ago

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Please help me move out of my abusive household and out of america. I cannot genuinely live here any longer. https://gofund.me/b494317a Sharing and any donation of any kind are appreciated.

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wisteriaiswriting · 6 months ago

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Garnet and Amethyst Dating Headcanons (Seperate)

Words: 725

Request: Garnet and Amethyst separate dating reader headcanons

Ever since dating you she’s kinda gained the habit of picking you up to give you kisses. It doesn’t matter if you’re tall enough to kiss normally, she’s likely to be taller than you. (She doesn’t care, if you let her she will pick you up.)

Assuming you're okay with being picked up she’ll pick you up and carry you around on her shoulders. She just likes seeing you happy and that you’re spending time with her.

She is such a smooth talker. Like girl, where did you learn any of this from??

But there is the occasional time she messes up, stutters or the line doesn’t land, so she’ll become embarrassed.

Absolutely AMAZING cuddler. Is the big spoon like 90% of the time, she just enjoys holding you close, watching you cuddle closer to her. It calms her mind (Especially after fights) knowing that you’re here with her, safe in her arms.

She always enjoy’s taking you out for dates, takes you out as often as you both have time for. A lot of them aren’t your most common type of dates, opting to take you to beautiful or meaningful places through the warp pad.

After most missions, if possible, she’ll bring you back some sort of souvenir. Which has led to you having a shelf built in your room or house.

If you can fuse and are willing to, Garnet is more than willing to try. She knows that your relationship and connection could only make a stable and amazing fusion.

On the other hand, if you can’t or don’t want to, that's fine. She’s seen plenty of love bloom without fusing, and she just knows yours can as well as you two have proved you don’t need fusion.

Later down the line she’ll slowly become comfortable enough to unfuse, wanting to spend some much needed, special time with you, not as Garnet, but instead as Sapphire and Ruby. This is a huge part of her to show, so please be careful here.

She is such a touchy and affectionate gem. There is absolutely no shame when it comes to pda with her, but she only means to show off you and her love for you to the world.

Adores being carried by you. When she’s in your arms, she is constantly flirting no matter what state she’s in, she even reaches up to curl your hair. Also loves getting piggy back rides.

You don’t know what her fascination with you is, as she loves to shapeshift into you. You have absolutely no clue why, but she does it. Enough to the point of confusing others as she lounges around the house.

Is a constant cuddler. Especially when you two decide to have lazy mornings, laying around in bed for the next few hours. She’ll drape herself across you while snuggling into your neck, keeping you trapped by wrapping her arms around you

If you’re with her during a fight she’ll start showing off just for you. Which eventually leads to her getting hit by something and injured, but it doesn’t deter her.

She loves when you play and mess with her hair, there's some points during the day she’ll walk over and just shove her hair into your face, trying to get you to mess with it.

This girl loves showing you off to anyone who will listens, even if they don't she will still brag about you (All of the crystal gems know everything about you and are so done with amethyst)

She is so lazy, so absolutely no chores of hers are getting done, unless she has some certain incentives.

Just promise her some affection or food and she’s hopping off the couch to finish the chores within seconds.

She’s so pumped if you can and want to fuse with her. It’ll start a bit unstable due to the excitement buzzing around, but you two quickly balance yourselves out. And god, you two make an amazing fusion but you are a lot to handle. (Definitely need another fusion to get you two back to normal)

If not though, that's fine, she doesn’tt need to fuse with you to prove anything. If anything, it shows how strong your love is that you dont need to fuse, you’re already attached at the hip so you're practically one person at this point.

#steven universe #steven universe x reader #steven universe garnet #su garnet #steven universe garnet x reader #garnet x reader #steven universe amethyst #su amethyst #steven universe amethyst x reader #amethyst x reader #wisteria♥

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wifetomanyfictionalmen · 1 year ago

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I can’t find the master list thing I did so a new one IG:

My Comissions are open! Here is my Ko-Fi

I have been working hard on my skills! I can even do character sheets!

𝐏𝐟𝐩 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠: @kabukiaku

NSFW asks are open, but only for Ghost (The Band)

Things I won’t do:

- incest

- r@pe

- sexual assault/harassment

- non con

- pedophilia

Ghost Band

- Primo

- Secondo

- Terzo

Cook!reader

Aftermath with Terzo

“Amore mio your as beautiful as the day I met you”

“See something you like amore?”

“Now and forever Amore”

“I’m always here amore”

- Copia / Frater Imperator

Copia with an s/o that’s practically a soundboard

Copia meets your friends

Dracopia

Copias chaos!ghoul

Copia Confessing to you

Copia X buff!reader

Antichrist Copia

“Stay with me”

First meeting copia (he gets aroused)

“I’ll never leave Amore”

“Choose to run away with me?”

Dracopia Angst

“SOS he’s in disguise”

“Love me, Love me, Love me, Love me”

Copia with a buff!reader

RHRN Copia angst

RHRN: Don’t you forget about your friend death

“Lucifer, whispering silently into your mind”

“Eyes on me Cara Mia” (18+ MDNI)

- most of the ghouls

- ocs

- Young Nihil

“No your never alone”

“Satanas your beautiful”

“Just wanna be with Chu in the moonlight”

- Mixed Headcanons

Touch starved s/o

Ghostbusters

- Ray Stantz

“Back off she’s a scientist and my girlfriend”

“It’s ok we can fight it one little bite at a time”

“Comfy”

“Wait me?”

- Peter Venkman

“He’s a slime ball”

- Egon Spengler (my beloved)

“It’s called a floor nap”

“What. Just. Happened”

“What’s Up Doc?”

“Spengs got a date before Venkman”

“Baby Fever”

“How can you just…stand there?”

“Your arts amazing”

“Your doing good, I’m proud”

“I promise your ok dove”

“Breath with me dove”

“Radio Static”

“Don’t you dare fucking leave me again”

“Peppered Kisses”

“You messed with the wrong scientist”

“I told you so..are you crying?”

- Winston

- Phoebe Spengler

- Old man Egon

“See you again”

- Old man Ray

- Old man Peter

- Old Man Winston

- Polyamory with the ghostbusters

“I promise you’ll be safe with us”

“We love you, and each other”

OCs:

- Sal Stantz (Ghostbusters)

- Janet Venkman (Ghostbusters)

- Violet Brett (Ghostbusters)

- Queen Bee/Janet Carter (BATIM)

- Sei Emeritus/Papa VI (Ghost Band OC)

- Sen Morrison (Later Emeritus) (Ghost Band OC)

Steven Universe

- Pearl

- Garent

- Amethyst

- White, Yellow and Blue Diamond

Baldurs Gate 3:

- Asterion

- Shadowheart

- Wyll

- Karlach

[ more to come as I play ]

One Piece:

I haven’t seen a lot of it but I’ll be writing as I watch.

Anime:

- Monkey D Luffy.

- Rorona Zoro

- Nami

- Usopp

- Sanji

- Buggy The Clown Pirate

- Smoker

- Ace

- Princess Vivi

- Chopper (in a platonic way)

- Dracule Mihawk

Live action:

- Dracule Mihawk

- Buggy The Clown

“I promise I’ll do better”

- Vinsmoke Sanji

“Kitty Claws”

- Shanks

- Zoro

- Nami

JJBA

Part 1:

- Jonathan Joestar

- Dio Brando

- Erina Pendleton

Part 2:

- Joseph Joestar

- Caesar Zepelli

Part 3:

- Jotaro Kujo

- Old Joseph Joestar

- Old Caesar Zepelli (AU where he’s alive)

- Noriaki Kakyoin

- Jean Pierre Polnareff

- Muhammad Avdol

Part 4:

- Josuke Higashikata

- Nijimura Okuyasu

- Rohan Kishibe

- Older Jotaro Kujo

- Older Noriaki Kakyoin (AU where he didn’t die)

Part 5:

None as of yet, as I haven’t watched it.

Part 6:

- Jolyne Kujo

- Old man Jotaro Kujo (again fuck canon he doesn’t die)

- old man Noriaki Kakyoin (fuck it he doesn’t die)

Live action Part 4:

- Jotaro Kujo

- Nijimaru Okuyasu

- Josuke Higashikata

- Koichi Hirose

Doki Doki Precure:

- Mana Aida/Cure Heart

- Aguri Madoka/Cure Ace

- Rikka Hishikawa/Cure Diamond

- Makoto Kenzaki/Cure Sword

- Alice Yotsuba/Cure Rosetta

TMNT:

2012:

Leonardo

Donatello

Raphael

Michelangelo

Splinter/Hamato Yoshi

Shredder/Oroku Saki

Rise

Leonardo

Donatello

Michelangelo

Raphael

April O’Neil

Casey Jones

Casey Jones JR.

Bayverse Movies

Leonardo

Donatello

Raphael

Michelangelo

Splinter

Shredder/Oroku Saki

Casey Jones

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evolvedclown · 2 months ago

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when my family figures out about my 6’2+, 40+ year old, accent having, dom bottom, strong, muscle mommy, femme lesbian sugar mommy, i’m gonna be sooo embarrassed!!!! like, omg no! i would never want that!(👀) i don’t have one of those!(👀) i never would!!(👀)

#(this is a manifestation. i need this. pls pls pls!!!!)#(*looking desperately up at the sky. a candle circle around me. hibiscus and mugwort smolder on an amethyst plate at me feet*)#(*gesturing aggressively at the text above me hoping the universe gets a hint*)#this is about ambessa #ambessa medarda #ambessa x reader #sugar mommy #lesbian #butch lesbian

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unusuallysubtext · 11 months ago

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Hey, can I request a oneshot where Y/n (Mycroft's spouse) suddenly brought a puppy home; they found the puppy on the sidewalk. They brought the puppy home, cleaned him up, and then went to the pet store to buy supplies like dog food, toys, a bed, and a pad for the puppy to pee or poop on. They returned home with all the supplies.

Mycroft finally arrived home after a long day at work. He found Y/n on the floor and was confused at first until he saw the puppy they were playing with. He was perplexed and definitely against it at first, but a few weeks later, Y/n finds Mycroft in the living room with the puppy on his lap while Mycroft reads his newspaper.

Thank you in advance!

Thank you for your request! Requests are open as of 18/06/2024. Tags at end. To be removed/added to the taglist, send an ask or DM me. Critics welcomed, reblogs appreciated! :)

Today was one of those rare days off you had from work, but as usual, it was never in sync with Mycroft's busy schedule. You had awoken to a cold bed with the sun already beaming through the crack in the curtains. With a sigh, you climbed out of bed and stretched, making your way downstairs. A vase of sunflowers stood on the kitchen counter, a card beside it on top of a box of London’s finest pastries.

Good morning, my love.

Salon appointment at two p.m.

Take care of yourself.

Love,

M.H.

You smiled, admiring the set up and the time taken out of Mycroft’s morning. Of course he had booked out an entire salon; nails, hair, facials, drinks…

After getting comfortably dressed (a change from your usual business attire), eager to eat more than a few pastries (it would be unfair to try only a couple, after all), you ran downstairs and popped the kettle on.

As you sipped your tea, you pondered how to spend the rest of your day until a car picked you up at one-thirty. The idea of a long walk around the estate seemed appealing, especially with the rare London sun.

Spring coat and boots on, you set out for your walk. The streets were quiet unlike the bustling inner city, and she much appreciated the calm; it allowed for decompression after high stress days at your demanding job. As she turned a corner into a small park, she noticed a small bundle of fur huddled in the bushes fronting the blue-painted metal rails. Curiosity piqued, you approached cautiously.

To your surprise, it was a puppy, shivering despite the unusual warmth, alone. You were expecting a rabbit, likely dead after the foxes got to it, not an uncommon sight in this area. The little creature looked up at you with wide, fearful eyes. You kneeled, allowing your hand to be sniffed before you picked it up. Upon further inspection, it was only a couple of weeks old, the size of your hand, and bore no collar.

"Poor thing, you must be freezing," you murmured, stroking its soft fur as you held it close to your chest. "Let's get you home."

She made a quick stop at a nearby pet store and vet clinic, purchasing everything the puppy would need—food, a bed, toys, and a small collar, which you left unetched without a name, only your phone number on the back of the tag.

By the time she arrived back at the house, her arms were full of supplies, and the puppy seemed much more comfortable in your breast pocket. The clinic had not detected a microchip, making you wonder how long the pup had been outside as you set up a cozy corner in the living room. You watched as the puppy explored its new surroundings, following you with tiny, tentative paw taps to the kitchen, where you poured some water and food into its bowls.

"Mycroft is not going to like this," you thought out loud with a wry smile, imagining his reaction. But the sight of the puppy, now curled up contentedly in its new bed, made her feel certain she had made the right decision.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of playing with the puppy, canceling your salon appointment and ride through Anthea, and preparing dinner after the pup grew tired enough to fall asleep in its bed. As evening fell, you found yourself anxiously awaiting Mycroft's return, wondering how he would react to your new addition and fearing his disappointment of being unable to enjoy his planned day for you.

The grandfather clock struck once, indicating five-thirty and you arose from the dining table to head to the front door. You opened it to see Mycroft, who was pleasantly surprised at your greeting.

“Good evening, darling. How was your day?” he asked, heading in. His smile immediately turned to scrutiny as he sensed something was wrong. “You didn’t go… Why do you have cat hair on you?” Mycroft asked, looking at you.

“Dog, Mycroft,” you rolled your eyes. You weren’t anxious anymore, just keen to see Mycroft discover what you’d done. You followed him to the living room, where he froze at the sight of the sleeping puppy across from you.

“Y/N, what on earth were you thinking? How will you care for it?” Mycroft cried. He never called you by your name. Only ‘Mr/Miss/Mx L/N’ before marriage, and ‘my love’ and ‘darling’ after.

“Mycroft!” you were taken aback, but still attempted to explain your situation. “She was abandoned on the side of the road, no collar, no chip. I couldn’t leave her there!”

“Do you know how many shelters there are in London? One-thousand-two-hundred-and-twenty-seven! Any one of them would have taken it in.” Mycroft was exasperated. “Y/N, please think before making such decisions…” he trailed off, softening his tone and expression as he caught sight of your teary eyes. He walked to you, touching your cheeks and kissing your forehead. “I love you. I don’t love that,” he indicated to the puppy with his head. “I do not want this matter to cause any stress to our relationship. I’m sorry for shouting at you.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “It’s okay. I’ll see what I can do about her as soon as possible.”

You understood where Mycroft was coming from. Both of you worked full-time, and taking care of a puppy who was rapidly transforming into a full-grown dog was like taking care of a toddler. She would need to be trained, spayed, played with for mental stimulation… it was going to be a lot.

While Mycroft showered, you heated up dinner. As the two of you ate, the puppy awoke and padded to the dining room, watching Mycroft curiously. The two of them stared at the other intently, frozen in place, and you watched in amusement.

That night, you lay in bed on your side against Mycroft’s chest. It was a miracle that the puppy had not followed you upstairs, but was instead sleeping soundly in the living room.

Mycroft had been sitting on the sofa after dinner, reading their mail while she tried to reach the seat beside him. Watching her struggle for a couple of minutes from the corner of his eye, he finally sighed and picked her up. She lay down next to Mycroft’s side, and he begrudgingly had let her. She fell asleep, as Mycroft mumbled, mostly to himself. “You don’t have a name, do you? You are rather annoying, going to places you don’t belong. Sofas are for humans, the dog bed, as implied in the name, is for you.” Mycroft thought for a moment, then chuckled in revelation. “Sheryl.” He seemed pleased with the name.

“Mycroft?” you say quietly, unable to see him. The curtains have been drawn for the night, the bed toasty from your combined body heat.

“Hmm?”

“Are you jealous of her?”

There is a pause. “That is preposterous! Go to sleep,” you can feel him shaking his head as he is ripped from his near sleep.

You smile to yourself, turning around and kissing his cheek before drifting off to sleep.

Days went by, and you spent all of your lunch breaks and the extra ten minutes you had in the mornings at work calling animal shelters in London, despite the heartache. It would not be difficult at all to get the pup into one, just inhumane. Unsurprisingly, they were all overcrowded and underfunded. You glanced up from the website you were reading on your phone to the stack of paperwork overshadowed by your boss. You sighed.

“Working, are we, Mr/Mrs/Mx Holmes?” Ms Smallwood sneered, saying your name as if it were sour milk.

“Yes, apologies, ma’am. No excuses,” you said, grabbing a pen and opening the first file.

Her beady eyes watched you for a moment before huffing and storming out on her four-inch heels.

You shot Mycroft a quick text.

Going to be late, sorry. Lots of paperwork, ughh. Can’t wait to get a transfer. - Y/F/I.H.

Don’t worry, my love. I’ll have dinner and a bath ready. Don’t stress, my darling. I shall see you this evening. - M.H.

You smiled at your husband’s preemptiveness, silently thanking the universe for having him to go home to.

It was quarter-to-seven when you arrived home. You walked through the hallway past the empty study and dining room, the aroma of dinner making your mouth water. In the living room, you could see Mycroft, engrossed in reading the newspaper… out loud? Mycroft saw you, and hushed you, pointing to the sleeping puppy curled up against his belly. He finished reading one last sentence of today’s headlining news: ‘Two murdered bodies found in abandoned freezer at Wembley Sainsbury’s.’

“Goodnight, Sheryl, sleep well,” Mycroft said quietly, putting the newspaper down and patting her gently before picking her up and placing her in her bed. He then walked over to you. “Hello, darling, how was your day?”

“Sheryl, huh?” you laughed.

“Too late to change it now, I have already had it engraved,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly. “I have already fed her–one cup–walked her around the estate, had her pee, and read her a bedtime story, of course.”

You squealed in joy, engulfing Mycroft in a hug. “We’re keeping her?!”

“Yes, of course we are, darling. How else will I keep in shape?”

“Oh, Mycroft! You’re already perfect. I love you! I can’t believe we get to keep her!”

Every night onwards, Sheryl lay in wait in front of the dinner table for the two of you to finish eating and take her for a walk. She would chase butterflies in the very park she was found in before returning to her home, where Mycroft would read her the headlines and let her pick her bedtime story from the papers. Some days it was stock trading tips, obituaries and juicy celebrity gossip, other days it was how her Uncle Sherlock was saving the arses of the Met Police, and gruesome murder-suicides. Every night, she fell asleep in Mycroft’s lap, even when she grew up to be a huge German shepherd. Every night, you snapped a picture of the two, compiling the photographs into an album that showed how their bond strengthened and their kinship blossomed.

Tagging: @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @that-ace-idiot

#amethyst be writing #amethyst be answering #bbc sherlock #mycroft holmes #y/n x mycroft holmes #mycroft holmes x you #mycroft holmes × y/n #reader x mycroft holmes #mycroft holmes x reader #mycroft holmes x gn!reader

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stevenuniversexreader · 2 years ago

Note

How's about b c with amethyst

Ok! This is the first Amethyst request I’ve gotten too!

Character: Amethyst

Letters: B, C

B-Being Best Friends

-Amethyst is crazy. In a good way, most of the time?

-Yea but anyhow she’s a very fun friend to have around, maybe a little to fun. She’s all about breaking rules and having fun, and is always trying to encourage you to join in as well.

-Pearl has had to pull you out of it and stop Amethyst because she was getting to out of hand.

-Amethyst is usually very chill so she’s cool with just hanging around and playing video games. Especially when there’s food around.

C-Celebrating Your birthday

-She’s a party animal. She may not be the one who plans your party, that’s pearls job, but it’s definitely her idea.

-She gets as many fun things to do, piñatas, pin the tail, and many many more games. Sometimes she’s gets some dangerous items such as fireworks, that have to be taken away by Pearl.

-You cannot tell me she doesn’t do joke gifts. You know those gifts that people wrap a million times just for there to be a piece of paper? Yeah that’s her.

-She also will devour any food there, Pearls to scared to have the cake out at that time. But, Amethyst is still a great friend and allows you to get the first slice of cake, then she eats the whole thing.

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inky-writing · 4 months ago

Text

Carlisle Cullen x Reader

Warnings: blood, injury, idk, typos english is not my first language sorry, Latin?, Esme lol

Word count: 1,957

Book II - Chapter 2: Fractured Lies

September 2005

September 13th arrived with a morning chill, the kind of early autumn day where the air smelled of rain and freshly fallen leaves. Y/N threw on her favorite sweater and made her way to Bella’s room to wish her a happy birthday.

“Happy Birthday, Bells,” she said with a grin, holding out a small wrapped box.

Bella, sitting at her desk brushing her hair, looked up and smiled warmly. “Thanks, Y/N. You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“It’s nothing fancy,” Y/N said, sitting on Bella’s bed and watching as she unwrapped the present. Inside was a hardback copy of Wuthering Heights, an edition with ornate gold lettering on the cover.

“I figured since you love it so much, you’d appreciate a new copy,” Y/N said with a shrug.

Bella’s eyes lit up, and she hugged Y/N. “Thank you. This is perfect.”

“Of course,” Y/N said, laughing. “Now, don’t forget to actually celebrate yourself for once.”

Bella rolled her eyes. “You know me. Low-key as its best.”

The two of them headed downstairs to grab breakfast before school, where Charlie greeted Bella with his usual gruff affection.

Later at School

The day passed as normally as a birthday could. Y/N noticed how the Cullens, especially Edward, hovered around Bella more than usual, but she chalked it up to their close friendship. She wasn’t entirely surprised; Edward’s devotion to Bella was obvious to everyone.

At lunch, Alice skipped over to their table, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Any plans for tonight, Bella?” Alice asked, her amber eyes gleaming.

Bella hesitated, glancing at Edward. “Uh, not really?”

Alice rolled her eyes dramatically. “Well, don’t make any. I’ll pick you up later.”

“Wait, what’s happening later?” Bella asked, looking wary.

“It’s a surprise,” Alice said with a mischievous grin. She glanced at Y/N, who was munching on a sandwich. “You’re coming, too, right?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Coming where?”

Alice tilted her head, as though reconsidering her question. “Oh, never mind. You’ve probably got other plans.”

“Uh, yeah,” Y/N said awkwardly. She didn’t, but she wasn’t sure how to respond.

Bella shot Y/N an apologetic look, as if to say I have no idea what she’s planning either.

Later That Evening

Y/N returned home after school, deciding to spend the evening doing something productive. Bella had left with Alice and Edward, though she hadn’t offered much information beyond Alice’s vague insistence that it was a small gathering. Y/N didn’t press further; Bella clearly had her own plans for the evening, and that gave Y/N the perfect opportunity to follow up on something that had been bothering her for days.

The necklace.

Since finding it under her wardrobe, the ancient-looking pendant had occupied her thoughts constantly. The whispers, the strange sense of familiarity, the way it seemed to glow faintly in certain lights, it all felt too deliberate, too significant to ignore.

She sat down at her desk, flipping open her laptop. Typing “ancient amethyst pendant” into the search bar yielded hundreds of results, most of which were irrelevant. After an hour of skimming articles, forums, and obscure auction sites, she was about to give up when a particular link caught her eye.

Forgotten Covens: Amulets and Mysteries.

Curiosity piqued, she clicked on it. The page was an old blog. But the content was intriguing. It described a centuries-old coven of witches said to be originated from Greece before spreading across Europe. The coven had been known for their craftsmanship, particularly their enchanted amulets, which were believed to harness specific forms of energy.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed as she read on. One passage stood out:

“The Coven of Circe was rumored to possess amulets embedded with rare stones, each representing an element or power unique to its wearer…”

The text kept going, until she fell on a list of differents gems and stones and their meanings according to that particular coven. She searched for amethyst, since the necklace was made of it.

“Amethysts, in particular, were believed to channel protection, clarity, and heightened perception. However, legend claims that these amulets could only bond with those who bore the ‘mark of the gifted.’”

She frowned, leaning closer to the screen. “Mark of the gifted?” she muttered to herself.

The blog didn’t elaborate, but it mentioned that most records of the coven had been lost or destroyed during the witch hunts of the 16th and 17th centuries. What little remained was fragmented, scattered across old tomes and oral traditions.

Intrigued but frustrated by the lack of concrete information, Y/N decided to search specifically for the Coven of Circe. The results were sparse, but she eventually stumbled upon a digital archive of historical texts. One entry, a scanned page from a book written in Latin, contained an illustration that made her heart stop.

It was a drawing of an amulet identical to the one she had found, down to the intricate engravings and the purple stone at its center.

Underneath the illustration, a Latin inscription read: “Per semitas antiquas non visibiles ad finem destinatum.”

Y/N didn’t know Latin, but a quick online translation rendered it as: “By ancient unseen paths to its destined purpose.”

Her pulse quickened. What did it mean?

Before she could delve further down that rabbit hole, the sound of the front door opening downstairs startled her.

“Y/N?” Charlie’s voice called.

Snapping her laptop shut, she quickly stuffed the necklace into her pocket and got up from her desk. By the time Charlie appeared in the doorway, she was sitting on her bed, feigning casualness.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, holding up a takeout bag. “Dinner’s here.”

“Great,” Y/N said, forcing a smile.

As he left the room, she glanced back at her laptop, her thoughts racing. Whatever was the amulet’s significance, she felt this was only the beginning.

Later that night

Y/N was sprawled on the couch in the living room, a blanket draped over her legs and the soft glow of the television casting flickering light across the room. Charlie had fallen asleep in his recliner, snoring softly, a half-empty glass of beer balanced precariously on the armrest.

She glanced at the clock, 11:47 PM. Bella was usually home by now, and though Y/N wasn’t one to worry unnecessarily, she couldn’t help but feel a small twinge of concern. Bella was rarely late without calling.

Just as Y/N was reaching for her phone to text her cousin, the distant rumble of a car engine broke through the quiet. Moments later, headlights swept across the living room window, and Y/N heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway.

Charlie stirred at the sound, muttering something incoherent before blinking awake.

“That’ll be Bella,” he said, groggily sitting up.

Y/N nodded and got up to open the door. Edward’s silver Volvo was parked in the driveway, its engine idling softly. Bella stepped out of the passenger side, her movements slow and careful, and Y/N’s stomach dropped when she noticed the makeshift bandage wrapped around Bella’s arm.

“Bella?” she called, rushing toward her.

Bella waved her off, smiling weakly. “I’m fine, Y/N. Really. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Charlie’s voice was sharp as he stepped onto the porch, his gaze narrowing on the bloodstained bandage. “What the hell happened?”

Edward stepped out of the car, his expression calm but concerned. “It was an accident,” he explained smoothly. “She tripped and fell into a table at my house. It shattered, and she got a small cut. Nothing serious.”

Bella nodded quickly, backing up Edward’s story. “It’s really not a big deal. Carlisle already checked it out. I’m fine, I promise.”

Charlie crossed his arms, clearly skeptical. “And you didn’t think to call?”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Bella said softly.

Charlie huffed but didn’t push further. Instead, he gestured toward the house. “Get inside. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

As Bella passed Y/N on her way inside, Y/N caught her arm gently. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, her voice low.

Bella gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. Really. Don’t worry about me.”

Y/N wasn’t entirely convinced, but she nodded, letting Bella go. Edward lingered by the car for a moment, his gaze meeting Y/N’s briefly before he got back in and drove off into the night.

At the Cullen House

Edward parked the Volvo in the garage, shutting the door with a little more force than necessary. The moment he stepped inside, Alice was there, her face tight with frustration.

“I didn’t see it,” she said, her voice clipped. “I didn’t see it happening until it was already too late.”

Edward sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not your fault, Alice. Things have been… strange lately.”

“Strange?” Jasper stepped into the room, his brow furrowed. “That’s an understatement. My ability to sense and change emotions has been erratic all summer. I can feel things, but it’s like there’s static in the air. It makes everything harder to pinpoint.”

Alice nodded, pacing back and forth. “And my visions… They’re not just unclear. Sometimes they’re completely missing. I didn’t see Bella’s accident tonight until she was already bleeding. How does that even happen?”

Edward leaned against the wall, his jaw tight. “I’ve been having trouble too. It’s harder to read minds lately. There’s this… cloud. Like a block I can’t push through.”

Jasper crossed his arms, his expression troubled. “What’s causing it?”

“I don’t know,” Edward admitted. “But it’s not just us, is it?”

As if on cue, Rosalie and Emmett entered the room, followed closely by Carlisle.

“What’s going on?” Emmett asked, glancing around at the tense faces.

“Something’s wrong,” Alice said, turning to the others. “Our abilities aren’t working like they used to.”

Rosalie raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying it’s all of us? That doesn’t make sense.”

Carlisle stepped forward, his expression thoughtful. “Actually, it does. I’ve noticed something similar myself. My thoughts have felt… well they sometimes just disappear. There are moments when I think of something, but it slips away almost immediately, as if it’s been erased.”

Emmett frowned. “Now that you mention it, I’ve been forgetting things too. Like I’ll walk into a room and have no idea why I’m there.”

Rosalie’s eyes narrowed. “You think it’s connected to our abilities?”

“It has to be,” Edward said. “But the question is why. And how.”

Esme, standing quietly by the stairs, folded her hands in front of her, a picture of calm concern. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out,” she said gently. “We always do.”

The others nodded, but the tension in the room was palpable. As the conversation shifted to theories and potential solutions, Esme slipped away, heading up to her room.

Esme’s pov

Esme stood by the window in her shared bedroom, gazing out at the forest. The moon cast long silver shadows across the trees, their branches swaying in the breeze.

She gripped the windowsill tightly, her mind racing.

They were noticing.

For months, she had been meticulously weaving her powers through their minds, subtly manipulating their thoughts and memories to maintain her facade. But something was changing. The cracks were showing, and if they dug too deep, they might discover the truth.

Her loyalty to the Volturi was endless, but the Cullen family was a delicate balancing act. She couldn’t afford to lose control now.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm.

“They won’t figure it out,” she whispered to herself. “They can’t.”

But as she turned away from the window, doubt crept into her mind.

For the first time in decades, Esme felt fear.

Next Chapter >>>

Note: annnnd that's it!!! What do you think will happen? Will Esme be discovered? Will the Volturi act on it? And where does the necklace come from?

Tag list: @inky-bonnie

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amethystarachnid · 30 days ago

Note

heyy could i request marvel bingo with Natasha x fem!reader with “it was all a bet” but with a twist? so it’s like tony bets that the r and natasha can’t pose as a married couple for a mission without their feelings becoming real? If you don’t like that idea feel free to do whatever you want! Thank youu

NO PRETENDING NOW

⤷ NATASHA A. ROMANOFF

ᯓ★ Pairing: Natasha A. Romanoff x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.4k

ᯓ★ Summary: Assigned to pose as Natasha’s wife on a mission, you never expect the lines between act and reality to blur. What starts as undercover roles turns into real feelings neither of you can deny. After one night changes everything, you return to the compound knowing your life will never be the same.

ᯓ★MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ TW(s): Internalized sexuality denial, small spicy scene (consensual, first-time with a woman)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The conference room smells faintly of burnt coffee and Stark’s cologne, sharp and expensive, the kind that sticks to the back of your throat. You sit with your arms folded, trying to look more awake than you feel, and you’re half-listening as Steve flips through the mission brief on the screen. Words like "infiltration," "secure intel," and "deep cover" float past you, all routine until Natasha’s name shows up next to yours on the projected file.

"—which is why the two of you will be the primary operatives," Steve says, glancing your way, then to Natasha, who sits with her legs casually crossed like this is just another Tuesday. For her, maybe it is.

You blink, straightening in your seat. "Wait. Us?"

"That’s right," he confirms, like it’s no big deal, like this isn’t the first time the two of you have ever been paired up for something like this. "You’ll be posing as a married couple."

The room goes quiet. For a moment, the only sound is Tony sipping loudly from his coffee mug, the obnoxious slurp designed to fill the silence.

Married.

The word sits there in the air, heavy and foreign, settling against your chest in a way that makes your pulse skip. You glance at Natasha, but her expression doesn’t flicker — she’s the picture of unbothered, maybe even slightly amused, as if the idea of pretending to be your wife for God knows how long is nothing more than a line item on her to-do list.

"Married," you repeat, just to be sure your brain isn’t short-circuiting.

"Yup," Tony chimes in, leaning back so his chair creaks, that shit-eating grin of his growing wider. "New identities, new rings, matching couple tattoos if you really want to sell it. I hear Vegas has some nice ones."

You open your mouth to protest, to ask why the hell it has to be you and Natasha, but Steve cuts in before you can build a sentence. "The targets only deal with other couples. They’ve got an entire social network of 'perfectly ordinary' married business partners. We’ve tried approaching them as buyers, suppliers, even security consultants. The only people who get close to the inner circle are the ones who look like they’ve got their personal lives wrapped up in a nice, boring, domestic bow."

"And you think we look domestic," you say, dry.

Natasha tilts her head, glancing sideways at you. "You clean up well."

The heat rises uninvited to your cheeks, and you quickly glance away, pretending to reread the mission summary on the tablet in front of you, but the words blur together. Married. To Natasha. For weeks, maybe months, depending on how long this mission drags.

Tony leans forward, elbows on the table. "I’ll do you one better," he says, voice practically dripping with mischief. "I bet you two can’t last the whole op without one of you catching real feelings."

Your head snaps up, and you glare at him. "That’s not how this works."

"Sure it is," he counters, all easy charm. "I’ve seen enough movies. Undercover couples, confined spaces, emotional vulnerability, a few candlelit stakeouts... hearts start doing stupid things. Science."

You scoff. "That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

Natasha doesn’t answer immediately, just picks up her coffee and takes a slow sip, watching you over the rim of her mug. There’s a glint in her eye — that same playful, knowing look she gets when she’s already figured out how a fight is going to end before it even starts. She sets the mug down, smooth and deliberate.

"Maybe Tony’s right," she murmurs.

You whip your head toward her, fully prepared to tell her where she can shove Tony’s bet, but she’s not even looking at you now, fingers absently twisting the thin bracelet on her wrist, like she’s just making conversation.

Steve clears his throat, pulling the room back to the task at hand. "This isn’t about your feelings. It’s about getting inside the target's compound, staying invisible, and gathering intel. Keep your personal lives out of it."

"Not a problem," you mutter, leaning back in your chair.

But the thing is — your chest is still tight. Your palms still feel clammy. Because somewhere deep down, under the layers of self-control and well-practiced denial, you know Tony isn’t making that bet for his own entertainment. He’s making it because everyone else sees it. Maybe even Natasha. Everyone but you.

And maybe the most dangerous part isn’t the mission at all. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re starting to wonder if Tony’s right.

The briefing ends, but your thoughts don’t.

You’re the last to leave the room, lingering by the table, fingers tapping against the cool metal surface like the rhythm might steady your head. Natasha stays, too, but she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move to leave. You feel her eyes on you before you hear her voice.

"Cold feet already?" she asks, soft, a little teasing.

You glance at her. She’s standing with her arms folded, leaning against the wall, relaxed in a way that makes it obvious she isn’t worried. Not about the mission. Not about pretending to be your wife. Probably not about the bet, either.

"I don’t get cold feet," you reply, a little sharper than you mean to.

"Sure," she says, pushing off the wall, closing the distance between you in slow, measured steps. "You’re just thinking about the wedding dress."

The corner of her mouth quirks up, and your stomach flips — that same damn reaction you’ve been trying to ignore since the first time she smiled at you like that, months ago. Maybe longer.

"I didn’t realize the mission came with vows," you shoot back, trying to sound unaffected.

She stops close enough that you catch the faint scent of her perfume — clean, sharp, with a hint of something darker underneath. "We’ll improvise."

You should walk away. You should say something smart and sarcastic and get the hell out of the room before your thoughts spiral any further. But you don’t move. You don’t say anything. You just stand there, letting the silence stretch between you, letting her look at you like she knows. Like she’s always known.

"See you at the fitting," she murmurs, brushing past you, and you’re left standing there, pulse hammering in your throat.

The next morning is a blur of fake IDs, forged marriage licenses, and wardrobe fittings. Stark’s tech team spares no detail — new credit histories, social security numbers, medical records. Matching bands that sit heavy on your left hand even though the metal is light, and it feels strange, wrong, like you’re wearing someone else’s life.

Natasha doesn’t flinch once.

She slides the ring onto her finger like it belongs there, like this is all just another role in her long list of identities, and maybe for her it is. But every time you catch the glint of gold on her hand, it sends your brain into another loop, because pretending to be married is one thing. Being close to her every second of the day, sharing a bed, a house, little intimate domestic details you’ve never shared with anyone — that’s something else entirely.

You tell yourself you can handle it.

You’ve lied to yourself about worse.

That night, the team gathers in the common room. The mission clock starts tomorrow, and Tony’s already got the scotch out, pouring generous glasses for anyone who wants them. You sip slowly, the burn of it a welcome distraction, until his voice cuts through the low buzz of conversation.

"Still taking bets, by the way," he announces, swirling his glass lazily. "Anyone else think our happy couple won’t make it out without falling head over heels?"

Rhodey groans. "Jesus, Tony."

But the seed’s been planted, and the others aren’t immune to curiosity. Even Steve looks faintly amused, though he tries to mask it behind a long sip of water.

"I’m serious," Tony insists, turning toward you now, eyes sharp under the humor. "You think you’ve got nerves of steel, but even the best cracks under the right conditions. I’ve seen it happen."

"I’m not the one you should be worried about," you mutter, trying to sound confident.

Natasha, lounging on the other end of the couch, lifts an eyebrow. "No?"

Her voice is light, but there’s something behind it — something that makes your chest ache and your throat go dry all at once.

"No," you repeat, steadier now, because admitting the truth — even to yourself — isn’t an option. "I know how to keep my feelings in check."

Tony lifts his glass in a mock toast. "Famous last words."

The conversation drifts, but the bet lingers, unspoken and heavy. You know Tony well enough to realize he’s not going to let it go — not until he’s proven right. And some part of you, deep down, is terrified that he will be.

Because if you’re honest with yourself, the feelings have been there all along.

You’ve just been too scared to name them.

You don’t sleep the night before the mission.

The ring digs into your finger every time you turn over, an alien weight, like your skin hasn’t accepted the lie yet. The apartment’s quiet except for the occasional hum of New York traffic bleeding through the windows, but your mind is too loud for the silence to soothe you. Images of the mission cycle on repeat — false smiles, fake dinners, pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife in public and, worse, behind closed doors.

You tell yourself you’re just being thorough, that the mental rehearsals will help you slip into character once you land. But you know better. The unease isn’t about the mission.

It’s about her.

When the morning comes, you meet her at the airstrip.

Natasha’s already there when you arrive, leaning against the sleek black SUV that’s going to carry you both away from the world you know. Her hair’s pulled back, her casual clothes pressed and perfect, and her duffel slung over one shoulder. She looks like she’s done this a thousand times. She probably has.

When her eyes flick over to you, her mouth curves slightly at the corners, but there’s no teasing in it this time. Just quiet acknowledgment.

"Ready, Mrs. Romanoff?" she says, voice low, only for you.

The name knocks the air from your lungs for a second, sharp and unexpected, even though you knew it was coming. You recover fast, but not fast enough to miss the glint of something amused — or maybe something softer — in her gaze.

You clear your throat. "As I’ll ever be."

The jet’s engines hum to life as you climb aboard, and the reality of it finally locks into place. Once you land, there’s no out. No ‘just kidding.’ No walking it back. You’re her wife until the mission says otherwise.

The flight is quiet, comfortable in the way only practiced professionals can be, but the silence between you isn’t empty. It’s full of unsaid things, unacknowledged tension, the unspoken history you’ve both worked so hard to sidestep until now. You don’t talk about Tony’s bet. You don’t talk about the way her shoulder brushes against yours as you sit side by side, or how your pulse jumps every time it happens.

You focus on the mission.

You have to.

The house is tucked away in a wealthy, suburban neighborhood just outside D.C. White picket fences, manicured lawns, two-car garages — the kind of place where the neighbors are nosy and the barbecues are mandatory.

It’s picture-perfect. So perfect it makes your skin crawl.

SHIELD set up the paperwork weeks ago. The house is "yours" now. New names. New jobs. A fake history built brick by brick. You’re supposed to be recent transplants from Chicago, moving here for a fresh start. Married three years. No kids. "Madly in love" — the profile says so, clear as day.

The moment you step inside the house, the air shifts.

You drop your bags in the entryway, glancing around. It’s fully furnished, every room dressed for the part. Two toothbrushes already waiting in the bathroom. A coffee maker with two matching mugs. The bed, large enough to be convincing, sits in the master bedroom with crisp, untouched sheets.

This is where the real mission begins.

Natasha moves through the space like she’s already lived here for years, checking windows, doors, security feeds. You stand by the staircase, hands still gripping your bag like it’s the only real thing left in the world.

She glances over her shoulder at you.

"You can breathe, you know," she says lightly.

You exhale, slow and unsteady, and let the bag slip from your fingers.

"I’m fine," you lie.

Her lips tilt up, not calling you on it. She doesn’t have to. She walks past you, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours again, and you wonder how long it’ll take before you stop noticing every time she touches you.

The first few days are the easy part.

Neighborhood introductions, casual smiles, hand-holding when the eyes are on you. You learn the script — where "you met," the inside jokes "you share," the story of "your honeymoon" that Natasha tells with such perfect ease it almost convinces even you.

She’s good at this. You expected that. What you didn’t expect was how natural it feels when her hand slips into yours on cue, how your body starts to memorize the rhythm of it, how your heart doesn’t seem to understand the difference between the role and reality.

The nights are the hardest.

The bedroom is too quiet. The bed is too big. And she’s there, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off her, but not close enough to touch. You lay awake, night after night, the ceiling fan whirring overhead, your mind circling the same impossible thought:

What if Tony’s right?

A week in, the first phase of the mission finally begins.

The targets — the Callahans — host their monthly couples’ mixer, an event designed to vet potential new members of their inner circle. Suburban espionage at its finest. You dress the part: tasteful jewelry, a sleek cocktail dress, heels just tall enough to make you feel unsteady even though you’ve been through worse.

Natasha helps you zip the back of your dress. Her fingers graze the bare skin of your spine, light and unhurried, and you feel the contact like a matchstrike down your nerves.

"You’re tense," she observes.

"Thanks for the update," you reply, dry.

Her hands pause at the small of your back. The air between you stills, heavy, before she leans in just slightly, her lips brushing your ear.

"You’ll be fine," she says. "I’ve got you."

The words settle in your chest, soft and dangerous.

You wonder if she means them for the mission or for something else entirely.

The Callahans are exactly the type of people who wear fake smiles like armor. They host in their sprawling backyard, wine glasses in hand, laughter that’s a little too loud, compliments that sound rehearsed. You and Natasha fall into step effortlessly, her hand on your waist, your laugh just the right amount of affectionate when you introduce yourselves as "Nat and Y/N Romanoff."

Every time you glance at her, she’s already looking at you.

Every time your hand brushes hers, your skin buzzes like a live wire.

You start to forget the lines between the role and the truth.

It’s Natasha who anchors you through it, steady as always. She whispers little observations against the shell of your ear, her fingers idly tracing along the curve of your waist, playing the part of a lovesick wife so perfectly that, for a moment, you let yourself believe it.

And that’s the problem. You believe it too easily.

The car ride home is silent, but not empty.

Her hand rests on your thigh, casual, but her thumb moves in slow circles against the fabric of your dress, absent-minded or intentional — you can’t tell anymore. You don’t move away. You just sit there, staring out the window, pretending the flush in your cheeks is from the wine and not from her.

The days bleed together after that.

Breakfasts in a sunlit kitchen, brushing shoulders while you pretend to fight over who gets the last cup of coffee. Grocery trips, hands entwined. Laughing at something on the TV you’re not really watching because she’s lying too close, her head tipped back against your shoulder.

It’s so easy to fall into the fiction.

But every time you let your guard down, it feels less like fiction.

And that’s when the real danger starts.

It’s two weeks in when the mission takes its first sharp turn.

The Callahans extend an invitation — dinner at their private estate. Intimate, exclusive. A sign you’ve earned their trust. It’s everything you’ve been waiting for, the real start of the operation, and yet the thought of another night playing house with Natasha feels more dangerous than any weapon you’ve ever faced.

You dress carefully. So does she.

The drive is quiet, both of you braced for the night ahead. But as you pull up to the wrought-iron gates, Natasha’s hand slips into yours — not for show this time, not because anyone’s watching.

Just because.

Your fingers tighten around hers, and for once, you don’t let go.

The night is a blur of wine and veiled threats. The Callahans’ smiles stretch thinner the longer the evening drags on, and the more questions they ask about your marriage, the more you feel the walls closing in. Natasha, as always, answers effortlessly. Her hand rests on yours on the dinner table, thumb stroking slow, grounding you through every half-lie, every false story.

And the scariest part isn’t how convincing she is.

It’s how convincing you feel.

When you finally get home, the air between you is taut and heavy, stretched thin from the night’s performance. You kick off your heels, moving to the kitchen, fingers fumbling for a glass of water, but she doesn’t let you slip back into distance.

Her voice is quiet behind you.

"You were perfect tonight."

You turn, leaning against the counter, heart still thudding too hard against your ribs. "I’m just doing my job."

She steps closer, the space between you shrinking until her hand comes to rest against your jaw, her thumb brushing your cheekbone, the gesture soft and deliberate.

"Sure," she says, voice low. "If you say so."

The moment lingers, unspoken but undeniable, before she finally steps back and leaves you standing there, throat dry, the glass still empty in your hands.

You lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time you wonder if the lie’s already won.

Time does strange things on this mission.

The days stretch long, soaked in the kind of domestic quiet you’ve spent your life avoiding, and the nights feel shorter, heavier, loaded with unspoken tension that hums beneath every shared glance and every brush of fingers. The house you’ve been planted in feels less like a safe house and more like a cage the longer you’re in it, but the strangest part is — you don’t want to escape.

Or maybe you just don’t want to escape her.

The Callahans invite you over more often now. Casual drinks on their patio, afternoon barbecues, double dates with other couples from the neighborhood, the kind of social life designed to dig its hooks into your cover until the fiction starts feeling real. Natasha makes it look easy. You tell yourself you’re just following her lead.

But each day makes the act harder to separate from the truth.

You’re sitting on the Callahans’ back porch one warm Saturday afternoon, sunglasses perched on your nose, glass of wine balanced loosely between your fingers. The conversation hums around you, harmless on the surface — vacation plans, new furniture, which country club is worth the membership fee — but the subtext is always there, coiled beneath every perfectly polite smile.

You feel Natasha shift beside you before you see her move.

Her hand drapes lazily over your knee, thumb grazing the inside of your thigh in a way that looks casual to anyone else, but sets your pulse hammering behind your ribs. You tilt your head just slightly toward her, enough to catch her mouth tugging into the faintest smile.

One of the Callahans — Evelyn — leans forward, resting her chin on her hand, studying you both over the rim of her glass.

"You two are sickening, you know that?" she says, voice light but sharp at the edges. "Still looking at each other like it’s the honeymoon phase."

You force a smile, your throat dry, but Natasha’s voice slides in before yours can.

"Guess we’re just lucky," she says, turning her head toward you, her eyes holding yours, steady and unblinking.

And then she kisses you.

It’s soft, easy, the kind of practiced affection couples build over years, but it steals the air from your lungs all the same. Her lips move against yours with the barest hint of pressure, long enough to convince the audience, short enough to leave you wondering if it meant something more.

When she pulls back, her thumb brushes your cheek, lingering for a heartbeat too long.

You laugh, the sound brittle in your own ears, and glance back at Evelyn, who looks vaguely amused, swirling her wine.

"Disgusting," she teases.

"Can’t help it," Natasha murmurs, her voice low enough that only you can hear. "It’s the company I keep."

The conversation drifts on, but you don’t hear much of it after that. Not with your pulse still roaring in your ears, not with the ghost of her lips still lingering on yours.

It doesn’t stop there.

After that afternoon, the casual affection becomes part of the routine. Little things at first. Her hand finding yours on the armrest during dinner parties. Her fingers brushing against your jaw when you laugh at something, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Lingering glances. Private smiles. Lips pressed to your temple when the others aren’t looking — and sometimes when they are.

The strange part is how natural it starts to feel.

Like your body is learning a new language, one you’ve never let yourself speak before. One that feels terrifying and safe all at once when it’s her.

At night, the space between you shrinks.

You still lie on opposite sides of the bed, but the gap isn’t what it used to be. Some nights your hands brush in the dark, knuckles grazing, and neither of you moves away. Sometimes her breath is close enough to stir the fine hairs on your cheek. Sometimes you fall asleep wondering what it would feel like if you closed the distance.

Sometimes you wake up wondering if you already did.

Another week passes.

The mission threads itself deeper into your bones. The Callahans grow more comfortable around you. Their conversations become more relaxed, less guarded, but the danger sharpens in the spaces where they lower their smiles. You catch little fragments of the real reason you’re here: encrypted shipments, payments routed through shell companies, names that don’t appear on any official record.

You and Natasha are close. So close you can taste the finish line. But the closer you get, the harder it is to ignore the fact that the mission isn’t the only thing changing.

It’s a Thursday evening when Evelyn invites the two of you for drinks, just the four of you, no other couples, no pretense of neighborhood charm. The conversation is sharp, deliberate, the subtext clear — this is the final vetting. The last test before you’re allowed fully inside.

Halfway through the night, Evelyn leans back on the plush sofa, swirling her whiskey, eyes trained on you both.

"You know," she muses, "I’ve always been good at spotting fake couples."

Your spine stiffens, but Natasha doesn’t even blink.

"Is that so?" she asks, tilting her head slightly.

Evelyn’s lips curve into a knowing smile. "Mhm. Most people don’t even realize when the act slips. There’s always a tell. A moment when you forget to hold hands. Or your gaze doesn’t follow when they leave the room. The body knows, even when the mind’s trying to lie."

Her gaze flicks to you, sharp and assessing.

"So tell me," she purrs, "what’s your tell?"

You don’t get a chance to answer, because Natasha leans in and kisses you.

There’s nothing casual about it this time. It’s deliberate. Slow. Her hand cups your jaw, guiding your face toward hers, and her mouth moves against yours with the kind of quiet certainty that makes your head spin.

When she pulls back, her voice is soft but steady.

"We don’t have one," she says simply.

Evelyn hums, swirling her drink, and after a long moment, she leans back with a satisfied smile, like she’s found what she was looking for.

"Good answer."

The conversation moves on. You’re not sure how. You’re not sure when you start breathing again. But the whole drive home, Natasha doesn’t speak. And neither do you.

When you get back to the house, you stand in the dark of the entryway, the front door clicking shut behind you, your heart still racing.

"That was risky," you say finally.

Natasha’s standing by the staircase, her expression unreadable. "It worked."

"Yeah," you murmur. "It did."

She starts up the stairs, but her voice floats back to you before she disappears from sight.

"You kissed me back."

And you can’t argue with that.

The next day is quiet.

You go through the motions. Morning coffee, light conversation, casual touches. The routine you’ve spent weeks perfecting. But the air between you feels different, stretched thin and humming with something you’re not ready to name.

By the time night falls, the silence is suffocating.

You stand in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, staring at your own reflection like you might find answers there. You don’t. You never do.

When you step into the bedroom, Natasha’s already lying on her side of the bed, one arm tucked beneath her head, eyes half-lidded but awake. Watching you.

The space feels smaller than usual.

You slide under the covers, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling.

"Nat," you say, barely above a whisper.

She hums, a soft acknowledgment, waiting.

"You didn’t have to kiss me like that."

A pause. Long. Heavy.

Her voice is quiet when it finally comes.

"I know."

You swallow, your throat dry, heart pounding in your chest. "So why did you?"

You feel her shift beside you. Closer. Close enough that her hand finds yours beneath the covers, her fingers sliding between yours, warm and steady.

"Because I wanted to," she says.

And for the first time in weeks, you stop pretending.

The mission doesn’t slow down, but the lies do.

Every day you spend in that house, every smile you fake for the Callahans, every staged moment of affection you put on for the world outside — it all starts to blend into something you can’t separate from the real thing. The glances aren’t rehearsed anymore. The touches linger longer. The kisses, when they happen, aren’t always part of the job.

And the scariest part is you don’t care.

You’re not sure when it happens, exactly. Maybe it’s the night you fall asleep tangled together, her breath warm against your neck, her hand resting low on your waist. Maybe it’s the morning you wake up and her lips press against your bare shoulder before you’ve even opened your eyes. Maybe it’s every moment in between.

But at some point, the mission stops feeling like the dangerous part.

And your feelings start to do the rest.

You know the mission is almost over.

You can feel it in the way the Callahans act around you now — the easy smiles that no longer hold suspicion, the conversations that slip from surface-level charm into quiet confessions. You’ve done your job. You’ve won their trust. Any day now, the op will reach its end, and the files you’re after will be in your hands.

But the thought of the mission ending doesn’t feel like victory.

It feels like loss.

Because when the mission ends, the world snaps back into place — and this, whatever this is between you and Natasha, will disappear with it.

That night, the air inside the house is heavy. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that presses against your chest and makes you restless.

You’re curled on the living room sofa, barefoot, wearing one of her old T-shirts — part of the cover, you told yourself at first, but the comfort is real, the way it smells like her is real. Natasha sits on the other end, one leg tucked under herself, thumbing through her phone without really looking at it.

It’s late, but neither of you moves to go upstairs. The TV plays some muted documentary you stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago. You sip your wine slowly, trying to drown the nerves coiled tight in your stomach.

She notices.

"Talk to me," she says softly.

You glance over at her, meeting her eyes, the glow of the TV catching the warm flecks of green in them. The words stick in your throat, the weight of everything you’ve spent weeks burying pressing too hard for you to swallow.

"You keep looking at me like that," you say, your voice low and a little shaky, "and I’m going to start thinking you mean it."

Her lips twitch, just slightly, but her gaze doesn’t waver.

"What if I do?" she murmurs.

The room tilts. Or maybe it’s just your heart, tripping over itself. You set your glass down, your fingers unsteady, and force yourself to breathe. The silence stretches, the space between you shrinking without either of you moving.

"You’ve done this before," you say. It’s not a question.

"Done what?"

"This," you gesture, your voice softer now. "Falling for someone during a mission. Blurring lines. Pretending until it stops feeling like a lie."

Her head tips to the side, studying you like she’s seeing through every deflection, every wall you’ve ever built.

"I’ve had my share of mistakes," she admits. "But this isn’t one of them."

The words settle deep, heavier than you expect. Because you’ve never let yourself think about it in those terms — not the mission, not her, not yourself.

But here you are. And here she is. And there’s nothing left between you but the truth.

You stand, legs unsteady, crossing the space to her, your heart thudding so hard you’re sure she can hear it. When you stop in front of her, her hands reach for your hips, guiding you gently into her lap. You straddle her, your hands curling against her shoulders, your forehead resting against hers.

"This is different for me," you whisper. "You know that, right?"

Her hands slide along your waist, steady and slow, her touch grounding you.

"I know," she says quietly. "I’ve known since the beginning."

And then her lips find yours.

It’s soft at first — a question, not a demand. Her mouth moves against yours with unhurried care, coaxing you to relax into the moment. You kiss her back, tasting the unspoken promises in the way her lips part for you, the way her hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair.

When she deepens the kiss, your heart stutters, and a soft sound escapes you before you can stop it. Her other hand traces the curve of your back, anchoring you against her, your bodies fitting together like the final piece of a puzzle you’ve spent your whole life pretending didn’t exist.

When she finally pulls back, her breath is warm against your cheek.

"We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to," she says softly.

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. "I want to."

Her thumb strokes along your jaw, slow and patient. "Are you sure?"

And you are. Even if your chest feels too tight, even if your hands shake a little. Because it’s her. Because it’s always been her.

You nod.

She kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, her hands guiding you gently. She doesn’t rush — she never does. Everything about her is patient, steady, like she understands the way your mind is spinning and knows exactly how to quiet it. Her lips trail from your mouth to your neck, soft and lingering, and your body arches toward her without conscious thought.

When she stands, lifting you easily in her arms, you let out a breathless laugh, your hands clinging to her shoulders.

She carries you upstairs, the house silent except for the soft sounds of your breathing, the pulse pounding in your ears. The bedroom feels different when you step inside, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

She lays you down on the bed, hovering over you, her hand brushing your hair back from your face.

"You okay?" she murmurs.

You nod, your voice barely steady. "Yeah."

Her lips curve into a soft smile, one you’ve never seen from her on a mission before. It’s real. All of it is real.

Her hands map your body slowly, tracing the lines of your figure like she’s memorizing every inch. Clothes slip away, layer by layer, and every brush of her skin against yours sends sparks through your veins. She takes her time, coaxing every sound from your lips, reading your body like a language you never knew you could speak.

It’s overwhelming. But it’s perfect.

And when she finally makes you fall apart beneath her hands, beneath her mouth, you don’t feel scared. You don’t feel unsure. You feel safe.

You feel wanted.

When it’s over, you lie tangled together in the soft dark, your head resting against her chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your back.

"I’ve never..." you start, your voice soft, unsteady. "With anyone. I’ve never done this. Not like that. Not with—"

"A woman," she finishes for you, voice gentle. "I know."

You tilt your head, looking up at her. Her expression is open, unguarded, and there’s no judgment in her eyes. Just quiet understanding.

"I didn’t think it’d ever happen," you admit. "I didn’t think I’d ever want it to."

Her hand brushes along your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.

"You just didn’t meet the right person yet."

And you think, maybe, that she’s right.

The next morning, the mission ends.

It happens quietly. Efficiently. The intel drops into your hands on a flash drive, the Callahans none the wiser, and SHIELD pulls the plug before the sun even sets. There’s no fight, no fireworks, no dramatic farewell.

Just a text.

Extraction in 2 hours. Pack light.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the message, your chest heavy. Natasha’s quiet as she folds the last of her things into her duffel, her movements precise, practiced. But when she glances over at you, her eyes soften.

"You okay?" she asks.

You nod, even though you’re not sure. "Yeah."

But you both know the truth. The mission ending isn’t what’s making your hands tremble. It’s the question you’ve been avoiding since the moment you let her touch you.

What happens now?

She crosses the room, standing between your knees, her hands resting on your shoulders. You tip your head back, meeting her gaze, searching for something — reassurance, an answer, anything.

"This doesn’t have to be the end," she says softly.

Your throat tightens. "You don’t have to say that."

"I’m not saying it because I have to." She leans in, brushing her lips against your forehead. "I’m saying it because I want to."

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

The compound feels like another life when you step back through its doors.

No more matching coffee mugs. No more sunlit kitchen mornings. No more pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife.

But the space between you doesn’t snap back the way you expected.

She still stands close. Her hand still brushes yours when you pass each other in the hallway. Her glances still linger, heavy and unspoken, and yours do too.

And when Tony greets you both in the briefing room, all smug and self-satisfied, you know he can see it written all over your face.

"Well, well," he drawls, folding his arms over his chest. "Look at you two. Almost makes me wonder who owes who money."

Natasha’s mouth curves into a knowing smile, her gaze flicking to yours for a split second before she answers.

"Let’s just say," she says, voice smooth, "the mission was a success."

And as her hand brushes yours under the table, fingers curling lightly around your own, you know it wasn’t the mission she meant.

It was everything else.

The days after the mission feel like waking up from a long, strange dream.

Everything’s back to normal on the surface: briefing rooms, morning runs, mission debriefs, shared dinners with the team that taste like old habits. But underneath it all, something lingers. Something warm and unfamiliar.

She lingers.

Natasha doesn’t push. She never does. She just waits, steady as gravity, her presence as easy and quiet as it was back in the safe house — only now there’s no act to lean on, no neighborhood barbecues or suburban smiles. Just you, her, and the weight of everything unsaid.

You find yourself looking for her more than usual. Not because you need to. Because you want to.

And every time your eyes meet hers, you feel it all over again. That night. Her hands, her mouth, the way her voice had wrapped around your name like it was something precious.

You’re sitting on the compound’s rooftop three nights later when she finds you. The air is cool, the city stretching quiet and endless beyond the edge of the building. You hear her before you see her — the soft scuff of boots on concrete, the familiar weight of her presence sliding in beside you.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. The silence isn’t awkward, though. It’s comfortable, the kind that sits between two people who already know the conversation is coming, but neither wants to force it.

Finally, she breaks it, voice low and careful.

"You’ve been avoiding me."

You glance at her, meeting those sharp green eyes, and even now — even with everything that’s already passed between you — she still makes your heart trip over itself.

"Not avoiding," you say softly. "Just… thinking."

Her lips twitch at the corner, but there’s no judgment in her expression.

"About us?"

The word sits heavy between you. Us.

You nod, looking back out at the skyline.

"I don’t know how to do this," you admit, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I’ve never done this. Not like this."

Her hand moves, slow and unhurried, resting on top of yours. Her thumb strokes the back of your hand, steady and warm, grounding you the way she always does.

"You don’t have to know," she murmurs. "You just have to want to."

You let out a quiet breath, one you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

"I do."

And just like that, the tension slips from your shoulders.

She shifts closer, her knee brushing against yours, her fingers sliding between your own.

"So do I."

The simplicity of it knocks the air out of your chest. Because for all the nights you spent lying awake, trying to make sense of your feelings, trying to pretend they weren’t real — she’s known. She’s always known. And she’s never once rushed you.

You tilt your head, studying her in the soft moonlight, and the question tumbles out before you can stop it.

"What happens now?"

Her smile is slow and easy, but her gaze is steady, unwavering.

"Now we stop pretending."

She leans in, her hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek. The kiss is soft, unhurried, tasting of unspoken promises. When she pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours.

"Now I get to take you out on a real date," she says, her voice low and teasing, "and kiss you like I’ve been wanting to since day one."

Your breath catches, heat curling in your stomach, your body leaning into hers before you even realize it.

"And here I thought you were already doing a pretty good job at that."

Her fingers trail down your neck, her touch featherlight but loaded with intent.

"That was just the warm-up, sweetheart."

The flush rises hot on your skin, but you don’t pull away. Not this time. You tip your head slightly, giving her the silent invitation you’ve been too scared to voice for days.

She takes it.

Her lips find yours again, deeper this time, slow but certain. The kind of kiss that’s meant to undo you, and it does. Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer, your body arching into hers as the kiss turns hungrier, the space between you dissolving.

When she finally pulls back, both of you breathless, her voice dips lower, her thumb tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

"I want this to be real," she says. "Not just a mission. Not just one night. You. Me."

Your chest tightens, but this time it’s not fear. It’s hope.

"Okay," you whisper, voice soft but steady. "I want that too."

And just like that, it’s decided.

She leans in again, pressing a kiss to your neck, slow and lingering, making your stomach twist and your breath hitch. Her hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, palm splayed against your skin, and the warmth of her touch sends sparks through you.

"Then let me take you inside," she murmurs against your skin. "Let me remind you exactly how real this is."

Your heart stumbles, your body answering before your voice does, your fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her mouth back to yours.

The kiss is all heat and wanting, all slow teasing and quiet desperation, the rooftop air cool against your flushed skin. When she finally pulls away, her breath is ragged, her eyes dark and hungry.

She stands, offering her hand, and you take it without hesitation.

The walk back to her room is quiet, your hands laced together, the air between you humming with unspoken promises.

The moment the door clicks shut, her mouth is back on yours, her hands framing your face, holding you steady as your world tilts around her. Your fingers fumble at the hem of her shirt, and she lets you take your time, guiding your hands, her patience making your heart ache.

When her shirt slips away, you step back for just a second, your gaze roaming over her, equal parts nerves and awe. She watches you, her lips curving into the softest smile.

"You’re allowed to look," she teases, her voice low, sultry, but tender underneath. "I’m not going anywhere."

You close the space between you, pressing your lips to her shoulder, tasting her skin, your hands finding their way along the curve of her waist. She shivers beneath your touch, and the quiet, breathy sound she lets out sends heat pooling deep in your stomach.

She takes her time with you, undressing you like it’s an art, like every piece of clothing is a boundary falling away. When you’re finally bare beneath her, stretched out on her bed, her body covering yours, her lips brushing along your throat, the nerves melt away — leaving only want.

Her hands map the shape of you, relearning you, coaxing every soft sound from your lips with each lingering kiss, each slow slide of her fingers. And when her mouth trails lower, her lips and tongue replacing her hands, your body arches into her without shame.

It’s different this time. Not rushed. Not born from the mission’s pressure.

It’s real.

And when you fall apart beneath her, breathless and shaking, her name the only thing you can manage, you realize you’ve never felt more wanted, more known, more safe.

After, you lie tangled together in the quiet, her fingers brushing lazily along your bare arm, your cheek resting on her shoulder, your heart still racing.

"So," you murmur, your voice low and sleep-heavy. "Does this make you my girlfriend?"

You feel her laugh more than you hear it, soft and warm against your skin.

"If you’ll have me," she says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You tilt your face up, meeting her eyes, your smile soft and unguarded.

"I already do."

She kisses you, slow and sweet, her fingers threading through yours under the sheets.

And for the first time, there’s no pretending. Just you, her, and the beginning of something real.

help I hope this Makes sense...

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