#and will be blindsided when next they speak

[cavswife]

HIIIIII GRIDLOCK ELITE RELEASED TODAY WITH NO WARNING AT ALL FROM UBI???? SHE LOOKS SO EXTRA STUNNING??? AND THE LITTLE FUCKING KOALA???? I'M LICKING THE SWEAT AND SOOT OFF HER FACE RIGHT NOW DO NOT LOOK AT US!!!!!!

[cheftsunoda]

heal your heart—cl16

smau + real life

carlos sainz x !sister singer reader

charles leclerc x sainz reader

catalina sainz has it all— she is a successful grammy award winning artist, her brother is a well known formula 1 driver, she has an amazing family and wonderful friends. she was also blessed with a fiance and a beautiful baby boy.. she had everything.. until she didn't. her fiance disappears and takes her son with him. catalina watches as her world crumbles...who will be there to help pick up the pieces?

fc : kali uchis

part two here

part three here

part four here

—

deuxmoi posted an update!

liked by 2,593,583 people.

deuxmoi : sources report that this blind item is about catalina sainz..yikes..let us know what you think!

—

username : NOOOO MY SHAYLAAAAAA....my poor baby

username1 : she has been so happy since becoming a mother...you can tell that baby is her whole world. he NEEDS to return that baby NEOWWW. i do not play about miss catalina.

username4 : he took the kid too? that is not just a breakup, that’s a custody crisis. hope she has a good lawyer.

username7 : Y’all love gossip until it’s your fave going through it. This is heartbreaking if true.

username14 : This is why you don’t rush into engagements with people who love the spotlight more than you do. He was just using her.

username20 : hey could you like not be a dick rn...this is her family and real life

username20 : hope and pray this isn’t true. she always seemed like such a devoted mom. taking the child? next level cruel.

username15 : okkkk but who is this fiancé? if u r bold enough to cross the Sainz family and take a child, you better lawyer up and hide...

username : the funny thing is... he is not even famous so he would be using her money to hire a lawyer

username15 : mans is TOAST

username24 : carlos' jet just left for japan...and the drivers are not even supposed to be at the track for another 4 days or so..

liked by author

username10 : ohhh shittt

username17 : i know lando is somewhere fuming... that man do not play about the sainz'

—

twitter thread!

f1gossipgirls : THREAD: The Catalina Sainz Situation – What We Know, What We Think We Know, and What Might Happen Next.

Buckle up. This one’s messy. (1/10)

So here’s the deal...rumors broke this week that Catalina Sainz—is dealing with a secret breakup and a custody issue involving her fiancé. Allegedly, he left her and took their son without warning. (2/10)

Who is the fiancé? Not confirmed, but fan detectives say he’s a lowkey entrepreneur Catalina’s been quietly seeing for a couple of years. Private IG. Almost no photos together. Suspiciously absent since March. (3/10)

Sources close to the situation say Catalina came home from a trip to LA for work and found them gone. Just a piece of paper that said he was done...Just—gone. (4/10)

Here’s where it gets interesting... Carlos has reportedly stopped following the fiancé on social media (they used to interact), and fans noticed he looked especially tense during a recent press moment and a fan interaction at the airport. (5/10)

Speaking of the aiport...Fan detectives found that Carlos' jet took off for Japan this morning when the drivers are not due at Suzuka for another 4 days...Catalina is rumored to be hiding out in Japan.

(6/10)

Some speculate Carlos has already hired lawyers to get Catalina’s son back. One tweet claims he’s “mobilizing legal resources across two countries.” If that’s true… this isn’t just messy, it’s international. (7/10)

Another theory? This was brewing for months. Catalina’s last public event appearance was in April—she looked off. No ring. No family. No fiancé. Just a carefully curated smile. Fans clocked it then. (8/10)

And let’s not forget... Carlos and Catalina are both famously private. If this went public, it’s not by his or her choice. Which might mean Catalina needs help—and someone close leaked it to apply pressure. (9/10)

Catalina Sainz may have been blindsided by her fiancé, who allegedly took their son and vanished. Carlos is probably involved behind the scenes. And this story? Just getting started. (10/10)

Stay tuned. We’re watching.

view comments

username : if a man took my kid and disappeared...i would def call my big brother too...esp if it was carlos. imagine trying to hide the kid from the whole f1 community #goodluckbro

username2 :the way Carlos is probably trying to keep this under wraps but has already called every lawyer in Spain, Italy, and the UAE...

username5 : netflix pls scrap dts and make a docuseries on finding baby sainz...

netflix : not a bad idea

username7 : IF Carlos shows up to Japan GP with a baby on his hip and no explanation, I’m gonna lose it. FULL TELENOVELA ENERGY.

username14 : me drafting an international missing persons report and i don’t even know them. i am rather emotionally involved now...CAT IS SO MOTHER SHE NEEDS HER BABY

username20 : need cat to come back with a breakup anthem that shames tf outta this man like...'you took my son i took the house'

usernameee : i cannot with you - bye

—

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : F1 announced this morning via Twitter that Carlos Sainz will not be present for Media Day at Suzuka. Williams states that it is due to 'personal issues'.

view comments

usernamee : this man’s sister is in hiding and his nephew is missing and y’all thought he was gonna sit down and chit chat w press??

username1 : 'personal reasons' in this particular situation from carlos means 'i am currently in my liam neeson taken arc...srry yall'

username3 : its giving 'media day is canceled because i am currently tracking someone across international borders.'

username4 : williams better be ready to lie, deflect, and deny all weekend because if a single journalist asks about this, it’s over.

username14 : williams : “It’s personal reasons.” us: kk but does “personal” mean international child recovery operation or revenge-fueled manhunt? just so we’re clear...

username17 : media day being cancelled is fine but if he shows up to FP1 wearing all black and dead silent I will SCREAM.

username21 : cat is hiding in the mountains. carlos is skipping press. williams abs giving us nothing...no longer a paddock—it’s a crime scene

usernameee : IF Carlos speaks at all this weekend, i hope it’s just “he’s been found.” then pure silence.

—

transcript of james vowles speaking to the press.

press : “James, can you comment on Carlos Sainz’s withdrawal from media duties today? There’s been a lot of speculation.”

jv : “Carlos is an incredibly dedicated driver. When he misses something, there’s always a good reason. Out of respect for him, I think it’s best we let him speak on it directly.”

press :

"Will he be completely pulling out of the race this weekend?"

jv :

"I am not sure the answer to that at this time. I will communicate who will be driving as soon as Carlos reaches out again."

press : “Is it true he's left the circuit entirely?”

jv : “Well, I can’t confirm anyone’s location—I’m not in charge of tracking my drivers,” “but I can tell you that williams supports him, whatever the circumstances may be.”

press : “So… is he okay?”

jv : “I think he’s doing what needs to be done. And I’ll leave it at that.”

—

flashback - catalina's home - madrid spain - 7:18 am

I slid gently out of the back seat of the blacked out SUV. I had just returned home to Madrid after being in LA for some work related issues. I gripped at my suitcases as I began to walk towards the front door. I was so excited to be at home. I was beyond tired and just wanted to crawl into bed and hold my son—my pride and joy.

The front door creaked open slower than usual. Maybe I was just tired. Maybe it was just the jet lag getting to me. My suitcase thunked softly against the tile as I dragged it inside. The house was still. Much too still.

No tiny socks by the couch. No squeals of welcome. No welcome home kisses pressed to my cheeks. No low hum of the TV playing in the background.

I tell myself over and over again that this silence is normal. Maybe they are napping- its early. Maybe he took him for a walk- maybe the park. I held onto that maybe with a death grip.

The air felt off...almost stiff...as if the house was even holding its breath.

"Hello?" I called out softly, hoping and praying for response. No answer not even an echo to be heard.

I stepped into the kitchen. The windows were open- he would never leave with the windows open. There was a folded piece of paper left under a mug...the mug he would always pour my tea in. I swallowed- hard.

My chest knew before my brain caught up. I reached for it slowly, my fingers like ice.

One line. Scrawled in that slanted, indifferent handwriting I used to trace on love notes.

“I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want you.”

No signature. No “I’m sorry.” No mention of the child we made together.

The edges of the paper blur. Not from tears. I haven't cried yet. I can’t. I am much too cold all of a sudden.

I fall back allowing the counter to help catch my footing. I suddenly feel my whole body go numb. I reach out and push myself up, not allowing those nine words to make me fall to my feet.

I walk the hallway in a trance and crack open the nursery door. The crib is gone. The rocking chair is gone. Even his little bear nightlight—gone. Like I had never once rocked my baby to sleep in there. Like he never existed.

I don't scream. I don't break. I just stand there, arms limp at my sides, until the silence becomes deafening.

I checked the drawers. Half empty. The wardrobe. Empty. The toy chest absolutely bare. A cold, calculated theft of love. Quiet, surgical.

I drop the note to the floor and wrap my arms around myself as I if I could protect myself from what I just experienced...protect myself from this deafening silence. I knew right then...I had to run. I couldn't live here without my baby— my joy, my reason to keep going. I didn't know where I would go but it didn't matter.

—

I booked the flight under my middle name. No return date, no checked baggage. Just my tote bag with a sweater, a passport and prescription for pills I haven't touched since I got pregnant with my son.

No one stopped me, no one even notices me. Not in the airport, not in the first class lounge, not even the flight attendant who handed me my tea and mistook my silence for sleep. If anyone looks twice, they look away just as fast. That’s the trick—move like you belong, and people won’t ask why your eyes are swollen or your hands won’t stop shaking.

Tokyo is loud, crowded, too alive. I took the first train out of the city.

A stranger on the platform told me about a village outside of Nikko- he called it peaceful and quiet. Said it was the kind of place where 'time forgets about you'. Sounds like that is exactly what I want- to be forgotten.

The train winds through mountains so green they almost look fake. Trees blur past like static. I had earbuds shoved in my ears, a hood covering my head and sunglasses so strangers won't ask why I am crying.

When I finally step off, the station is barely more than a bench and a vending machine. I breathe in silence like medicine.

The lodge is old, wood-framed, smells like steam and pine. The owner is a woman named Yui who speaks no English but offers tea and the softest futon I have ever touched. She doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t press.

I pay for everything in cash. Leave my phone on airplane mode. No Instagram or twitter. For all I know the public still believes I am in LA living my best life.

Out here, there are no mirrors. No headlines. Just mist and mountains.

Some nights I dream of my son’s laugh—those bubbling giggles when he tried to grab my hair. Other nights, I dream of nothing at all, which hurts more.

It sits in my chest like ice.

—

present time- catalina's lodge - nikko, tochigi - 8:56 am

Did I want to tell Carlos? No. Did I realize he would come looking for me sooner or later anyways? Yes. I needed him more than I realized. The more I cry, the louder the silence gets, the more that knife in my stomach twists even more. I knew that it wasn't long before the press took note of my absence and I wanted to get ahold of Carlos before those rumors did. That's what happens when you have shitty friends who will sell you out for a single dime.

I wasted seven years of my life for a man who just wanted to see me fail, wanted to see me suffer so badly. I made him. I gave him his career. I gave him our child. Any request was instantly granted. And this is what I get? Taking my only piece of joy away from me. I bet you are wondering...Cat...did you see this coming? And the simple answer is no...he never gave any clues to being miserable in this relationship...if anything I was the one who was miserable. However, that is a story for another time.

I haven't done much since arriving here. I sit outside, I cry, I occasionally scroll through my camera roll and listen to my son's laugh. Admire the way he smiles or how his eyes would light up when he looked at me. Every repeat of the video I feel myself become more pained. I haven't eaten, I vomit if I try. Yui brings me tea and snacks every morning attempting to get me to eat. She doesn't understand but she does at the same time.

I snap out of my thoughts as I hear a car pull up. A low rumble, uneven on the gravel road. It cuts through the silence like a thread being pulled taut. I feel my breath catch in my throat. It’s early. Still dark enough for the fog to cling to the edges of the pine trees outside her window. The room creaks around me, old and wooden, smelling of cedar and steam. I stand, but slowly—like my bones don’t trust it’s real. I move to the door barefoot, heart pounding loud enough to shake my core. Almost like I forget the amount of tears I have cried. That my mouth still tastes like tea I didn’t drink. That I have not slept in nearly 36 hours.

The door cracks open and my older brother is stood in front of me- eyes locked on me like I am the only thing left tethering him to the world. I expect him to say something—ask where the baby is, what happened, why I ran—but he just looks at me. And for the first time since it all broke open, I let someone see the full ruin of me.

"You came." I choked out, my voice barely audible.

Carlos doesn't speak. He steps inside and closes the door gently. He pulls me into him with no hesitation, holding me so tight and placing a kiss on the top of my head. I let myself be held. I gripped onto him like I never wanted to let go. I buried my face in his chest and began to sob.

"My baby...my boy." I yelped mid sob as I feel my feet begin to give out. Carlos catches me and helps me over to the futon- still holding me. Never letting me go.

“I know, Cat.” He murmured as he placed a kiss on the top of my head, holding me tighter.

—

I don’t know how long we sat like this— him holding me tight against his chest as if his life depended on it and me silently sobbing into his chest. I feel myself breaking more and more slowly by the minute — the kind of break that is silent and doesn’t make a sound.

When I finally pull away and sit up, my body aches. Like letting go of my safety raft in a body of deep, deep water. I don’t look at him right away— just wrap my arms around myself staring down at the floor.

He doesn’t say anything— he just waits. Then I hear him take a deep exhale.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” I say, and the words come out like an apology. I don’t know why—I didn’t do anything wrong. Except maybe I did.

“You should’ve called me sooner.” He states, not angry, just more of a disappointed tone.

I flinch. “I was ashamed, Carlos.”

There’s a pause.

“Why?”

I let out this stupid, dry laugh. “Because I let him do it. I didn’t fight back. I didn’t even know we were in a fight.”

I glance up at him, then down again, voice thinner now. “I was in LA for four days, Carlos. Just four. Meetings. A shoot. When I got back… everything was gone. The toys. The crib. His clothes. Mine. The drawers were empty. The house was clean. Too clean. Like he planned it.”

Carlos stays silent, but his jaw is tight. I see a muscle twitch in his cheek.

“He left a note,” I whisper. “Just one line. ‘I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want you.’ No word about my son. No ‘I am sorry.’ Nothing. Just left.”

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to stop the sting that creeps up again. “I didn’t know someone could hate you that quietly.”

Carlos’s voice is low and dangerous. “Where is he?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’ve called. Messaged. Emailed. Nothing. I even tried his parents. They won’t answer. They’re pretending I don’t exist. Like I lost custody or something, except—we were never married. There was never custody to lose.”

He mumbles various swear words in Spanish under his breath. Quiet and sharp.

Then, with a frightening amount of calm, “Alright, then I’ll find him.”

I blink up at him. “Carlos, you can’t.”

“I will.” His tone leaves no room for debate.

“You have a race in literally 3 days.”

“I don’t care.”

“You do care, Carlos.” I stated and rubbed my temples. “Your whole career—“

“This is more important.”

“You sound like Papá.” I muttered with half a smile.

He doesn’t smile back. His eyes are too full of something heavier. He looks…lethal.

“Good.”

And then, softer and almost gentle.

“You’re not alone, Cat. You never were. You didn’t lose him. We’re going to get him back. I swear to you.”

Something in my chest splinters. Not in a painful way—just in that awful, aching way that comes when someone offers you hope after you’ve already convinced yourself you don’t deserve it.

“I don’t know where to start,” I whisper. “I’ve looked everywhere. Checked his bank. Nothing. No charges. No flight. It’s like he vanished.”

Carlos leans forward, takes my hand. His grip is solid. Warm. “He didn’t vanish. People don’t vanish. They hide. And hiding leaves a trail.”

He says it like someone who’s spent a lifetime studying the details no one else sees. Racing lines. Different curves in every single track he’d ever raced. Tire degradation. Now— my ex.

I close my eyes. Let the silence settle around us again. The wind brushes the paper screens, and somewhere outside, a crow calls once, sharply.

“I was afraid if I told you, it would make it real,” I admit.

He doesn’t let go of my hand. “Mi Cariño, It’s already real. But now it’s not yours to carry alone.”

For the first time in days, I believe that might be true.

I let out a shaky breath, and for a moment, we just sit there. Two siblings in a borrowed room, far from everything we know, quietly starting to piece together a way back.

—

this will be a little mini series - probably 3 or 4 parts. i genuinely cried while writing this... i feel like it is some of my strongest writing. let me know what you all think so far!

tag : @klauslovemepls @omgsuperstarg @msliz @samanthaofanarchy , @mayax2o07 @goldenstrawberryx , @hannahmotors10 @alireads27 , @1800-love-me , @htpssgavi @cmgmikealson , @babygirl-4986 , @star73807-blog , @glow-ish , @just-tingz-virgo , @majapapaya4 @lina505 , @hc-dutch , @lost4lyrics , @angelluv16 @dilflover44

[bingbongsupremacy]

The Soldier's Baby

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus Sized fem!reader

Warning: Y/N use, swearing, mentions of sexual assault (Not graphic just mentioned a few times) & the word rape (No one raped reader, there was just confusion on what happened), fatphobia, trauma, abuse, insecurities.

Summary: Y/N, a former HYDRA captive, taken at 18, escapes with her young daughter-born not by choice but through HYDRA's experimentation using The Winter Soldier's genetic material. Traumatized and wary, Y/N is brought to the Avengers compound for safety and recovery. It's there she discovers that the father of her child, a man she had only seen in passing, was alive and nearby. Bucky, who has no memory of what HYDRA did to him and has never met Y/N, is blindsided when he learns he has a daughter. Will the two be able to work past this difficult situation to become the parents their little girl deserves? Will they find love along the way?

After Captain America TWS, Not cannon to movies just some things from the movies mentioned.

*Not Proof Read*

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 AU Version (What if you told Bucky while you were both in HYDRA)

□□□□□□□

The metal of the chair was cold against your skin, the sterile lab lights buzzing faintly overhead. You try not to shiver, though you are in nothing but a thin gown, one size too small, clinging to you uncomfortably in all the places they like to mock.

"Subject Nine," a voice crackles from above. "Remain still. This will be quick."

You don’t move. Not because you are obeying, but because your limbs are too heavy. Too tired. Too defeated. The restraints around your wrists dig into your flesh, but you barely notice anymore.

Dr. Johns, the lead scientist, enters the room with his usual haughty gait and bitter aftershave that made your stomach churn. He doesn’t look at you. He rarely does. You aren’t a person to them. Just a project.

"You should be honored," he says, flipping through a clipboard. "You’ve been chosen for something… special."

You don’t speak.

He looks up then, eyes sharp and smiling in a way that feels wrong. “We’re calling it Project Genesis. Has a nice ring, don’t you think?”

Still, you say nothing. You’d learned silence was the only control you had left. But you can’t stop your stomach from sinking, can’t stop the coil of dread tightening in your chest. What are they going to do to me?

“We’ve selected the optimal pairing. Your mind—remarkably resilient to manipulation and incredible intelligence—and his… well. You’ll see.”

You frown. “His?”

He finally smiles. “Yes. We’re combining your DNA with one of our finest specimens. You’ll be carrying a child.”

Your heart stops.

“What?” you croak. It was the first time you’ve spoken in weeks.

"A hybrid. The perfect balance of power and adaptability," he says matter-of-factly. “Your body will serve as the host. We’ll be implanting within the next week.”

“No,” you whisper, eyes wide. “You can’t—please. I don’t want—”

Dr. Johns leans in closer. “Want?” he echoes. “You don’t get to want. This isn’t about you.”

Here, nothing is ever about what I want. It's about what they can take and use.

The following week was hell.

You screamed. You cried. You begged. But the drugs were stronger than your resistance, and they didn’t even look at you while they did it. Just hands and needles and cold words behind masks.

Then it was over.

And you were left in a cell, aching, hollow, and furious.

For days, you lay curled on the thin cot, hands cradling your soft belly protectively, as if the new life inside you could already hear your sobbing. You didn't want this. Not like this. Not here.

But slowly—slowly—something inside you shifts.

The first time you feel the flutter, you are on your knees, scrubbing the concrete with shaking hands after they'd ordered you to "make yourself useful." Your palm pauses mid-swipe. A soft thump, deep in your stomach.

Your breath catches.

Was that…?

It comes again. A whisper from within. Not pain. Not control.

Just… life.

Tears fill your eyes as you drop the rag. You wrap your arms around yourself, hands shaking.

“Hi,” you whisper to the silence. “I’m your mom.”

This is not the life you want for your child. All you can do was love it and hope there was a way out.

Every time it kicks, your love for it grows stronger. The little baby underneath your heart. She is the only thing you have for yourself. The only thing that would love you back.

They try to stop you from talking to her. They say affection would ruin the experiment. But you don’t care anymore.

You name it in secret—just a name between you and it. A name you never speak out loud, but repeat every night in your thoughts. My baby. My child. My everything.

Sometimes you envision a different life with your baby. A life where it would be born into a safe, loving home-not a facility. A life where you can give it everything it could ever want or need.

They still taunt you.

“You’re barely holding together,” a guard snorteds. “Fat girl and a freak baby. What a combo. It's incredible they chose you as the surrogate. Clearly, there are better options.”

You stare straight ahead, your arms wrapped protectively around your stomach. Say what you want about me, you think. But don’t you dare touch my baby.

Time passes slowly. Days bleed into weeks. Your belly grows, and with it, a fragile hope.

You don’t know who the father is—not truly. They never say anything, and you know not to ask. You wonder if the father knows he's going to be a dad. If he is a victim like you, someone they forced into the same predicament.

That was likely the case.

Would your baby ever get to meet its father? Would it be safe for the baby to know him? All these questions yet no answers.

What kind of life will it have?

You try to escape numerous times. You try to get yourself and your baby out of the place you know as hell. It never works. They know you are too smart for digital locks. You can crack them within minutes. They settle for old-fashioned chain lock and cuffs. The more restricted you are, the less likely you would be able to find a way to get out of the situation.

-------

They make you give birth on a table. No warmth. No hand to hold. Just cold hands and barking orders.

You remember screaming. You remember crying. You remember the sharp pains wracking your body due to the lack of drugs to soothe them.

You remember the silence after her first wail.

"Let me see her!" you cry, body shaking. “Please—let me hold her—just once—please—!”

But they are already gone. The door slams. The silence returns.

And you bleed alone on the table, heartbroken. You knew this would happen. There was no way they'd let you keep her. You just wish that small sliver of hope buried deep in your chest had been correct.

You don’t move for days.

They threaten you. Drug you. Torture you mentally. But you stay silent, numb.

Then, one day, they come with a new offer.

“You’ll get to see her,” Dr. Johns says smoothly, “once a week. But only if you behave.”

You want to spit in his face. But the thought of your baby—of her eyes, her breath, her smile—shatters your resolve.

“…Okay,” you say. At least you can check if she was okay.

-----

She is beautiful. Everything you imagine and more. With beautiful brown eyes and tuffs of brown hair. There are a few features you recognize in yourself. Your pout, your lashes. And there are features you don't recognize, like birthmarks or the shape of her nose. Those must be from her father-whoever he is.

Even through the glass, even under guard supervision, she is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

And one day, you find the file.

It's stupid. Someone left it open. Maybe a test. Maybe a trap.

But you can’t help it. You have to know.

Subject: Project Genesis Maternal Donor: Subject Nine Paternal Donor: WS-13 (Winter Soldier)

You nearly drop it.

Him.

That man. The one with the metal arm. The one who never speaks.

Your heart breaks—not for yourself, but for him. He doesn’t know. There is no way he does. I've seen them wipe his mind hundreds of times. If he knew, they would immediately wipe him. That's the kind of people they were. He doesn’t know she exists.

You close the file, tuck it back carefully, and say nothing.

You don’t tell anyone. You don't tell him, even though you sometimes see him in the halls on his way to the next mission. His stoic eyes and rough demeanor scare you. He isn't here to mess around. He has a mission, and that is his only focus.

Who knows what he would do if he found out he had a child? A man like him, so badly tortured. He's a killing machine. There's no telling if he was even capable of caring for anyone. He could become a risk to her. He could cause her harm. He could hurt me, too.

Sometimes your mind would wander. What if he does know? What if he knows he has a child and but doesn't care? On the other hand, what if he found out and he did care? Would he try to protect the baby?

The what-ifs plague your mind. In the end, you decide it is too much of a risk. You have no idea how he will react, and that scares you. It's better safe than sorry.

Because if you die—there will be no one left to protect her. You are her only shot.

----

The guards give you one hour. That was the rule.

One hour, once a week. Under supervision. In a sterile white room with a single metal chair and your baby sitting behind reinforced glass, until they allow you to hold her.

They never say her name—never call her anything but the subject or the specimen. But you say her name in your head a thousand times a day. It is the only thing that feels like yours.

When they first let you hold her, she is so small. Lighter than you imagined. Warm, wiggling in your arms like she knows you.

You sit down and don’t move the entire hour, too scared they'll take her early if you do anything wrong.

“I missed you,” you whisper, brushing your nose against her tiny head. “Did they treat you okay? Did they… Did you eat enough?”

She cooes softly, hand brushing against the thin hospital gown you are wearing. Your heart breaks into a thousand glass pieces.

“You’re safe with me,” you promise, even though it is a lie. You really can't do much to protect her. You have no leverage to use against them. You also aren't a trained supersoldier, like her father. They are more focused on your mental abilities than your physical strength, so they never bother to train you. “Just for now. You’re safe.”

The guard coughs behind you, clearly bored.

You glare down at your arms. “Don’t listen to them, sweetheart. Mommy’s here.”

------

Weeks pass.

Your arms grow stronger from carrying her. Your body, tired and aching, moves faster in the cell training they force on you. You do everything they ask. Not because you want to—but because it keeps her safe.

She starts recognizing you.

She babbles when she sees you. Wriggle excitedly when you come into the room. One visit, she reaches her chubby arms out and gives the smallest, gummiest smile.

You cry so hard you can barely breathe.

When she falls asleep against your chest—her tiny hand wrapped around your finger—you pray time will freeze.

“Sleep, baby,” you whisper. “Please… dream of trees, and blue skies, and things I can’t give you.”

Most days are like that. Peaceful between the two of you. However, there are times when things get difficult.

There is one day, she is quiet.

Too quiet.

You feel the panic rising in your throat the moment you step into the room. She isn’t smiling. She isn’t moving.

“Is she sick?” you ask the guards, voice rising. “What did you do?!”

“No questions,” says the same monotone response. “One hour. No more.”

You clutch her tightly, holding her against your chest, rocking her gently.

Her little head lifts. She lets out a tired breath. Her eyes—a beautiful shimmering brown—blink up at you.

Relief hits like a tidal wave. You cradle her even tighter.

“You scared Mommy,” you whisper into her soft curls. “Don’t ever do that again, okay?”

Your voice cracks.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

You have no idea what they are doing to your child. It kills you to think they are hurting her. You have no control. All you can do is try to bring some comfort in the short time you have with her.

-----

Life stays like that for two years. You spend the time you can with her. You teach her how to talk and walk. Even though the situation is difficult, she is a resilient baby. She is smart. She learns quickly. She definitely develops skills faster than other babies do. That makes you proud.

Then the visits stop.

No explanation. No announcement. Just… silence.

Days pass. Then weeks.

You scream. You fight. You are drugged.

And when you come to—bleary, arms strapped down in your cot—you know something is wrong.

The halls are quieter. Fewer footsteps. Fewer voices. Then none.

The next time someone opens your door, it isn’t a guard.

It was no one.

A soft creak. A hiss of released air.

You wait.

No commands. No threats.

You pull the restraints free with little effort, too easily. The power has been cut. The systems are breaking down.

You stumble into the hallway, barefoot and filled with panic.

Lights flicker.

No soldiers.

No scientists.

Just the dead hum of a forgotten place.

And then—

A sound.

A baby crying.

Your baby crying.

Her.

You run harder than you ever have in your life.

Your legs burn, your body still weak from weeks of starvation and isolation, punishments for your lack of cooperation, but you run.

The lab is a maze. But your instincts—your love—cut through the fog.

You find her in a room filled with overturned equipment. She is crying, face red, fists curled. She is still in her tiny containment crib. But no one is watching her anymore.

You throw open the gate and collapse to your knees, cradling her against your chest.

“I’m here,” you sob, rocking her. “I’m here. I got you. I got you.”

She stops crying instantly, face pressed into your neck.

You clutch her so tight, your arms ache.

And then you find a room with a door that locks from the inside. It used to be a cell. Now, it's your only sanctuary.

You ration food. You keep her warm. You sing songs in a hoarse voice, trying to drown out your own fear.

You don’t know how long you can last. But as long as she is breathing, you’d try.

You know, at some point, you will have to leave the building. You will need more food and water.

The thought terrifies you. You haven't been outside in years. You haven't seen the sun or the outside in so long. The world is different. It has to be. While you were stuck in a building that never seemed to change, you know the outside is different. There is no one for you to trust outside. You will be so exposed and vulnerable out there.

At least you know what you are working with in the confines of the building. You can keep her safe here for now. You will figure out the rest later.

You scavenge the building for as many resources as you can find. It is enough to keep you both okay for a few months. Definitely not enough to last longer than 8 months.

---

Three months passed. Winter was coming. You know you need to leave soon. You will both freeze to death if you stay here much longer.

You are thinner. Paler. You know your body is getting weaker, but you do your best to be there for your baby and plan your next steps.

Then one day—it all shattered.

You hear footsteps.

Not like before. Heavier. Measured. Careful.

Voices. English. Not Russian.

You scoop her up. Her body is heavier now, growing. You run down the halls, bare feet slapping against concrete. The lights died long ago, and all you have is your memory of the maze.

She starts crying.

Too loud.

You hush her frantically. “Please, baby, shh—don’t cry, don’t cry, they’ll hear you—”

Too late.

Footsteps speed up.

Voices bark orders.

Then you turn a corner—and freeze.

A woman stands at the end of the hall.

Red hair.

Black suit.

Eyes wide.

She doesn’t raise a weapon.

“Hey,” she says, holding up both hands. “It’s okay. We’re not going to hurt you.”

You back away, toddler clutched tight. “No! Don’t touch her! Don’t take her!”

Others come. Bigger. Bulkier. You see a glowing chest light in the dark—hear a metal suit hiss.

You turn. You run.

But another figure appears behind you, this one carrying arrows.

You are surrounded.

The baby is sobbing now, screaming into your neck. She can sense your fear and desperation.

“Don’t kill her!” you cry, collapsing to your knees. “Please—I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt her—please—!”

The redhead approaches slowly. “We’re not here to hurt her,” she says gently. “Or you.”

You shake your head, body trembling. “Liar. You’re all liars—she’s just a project to you. She’s all I have. Don’t take her.”

“We’re the Avengers, we just want to help you. We are not a part of HYDRA,” she says. “You’re safe now.”

You cling tighter to your baby.

“Please,” you whisper, chest heaving. You don't believe their words. “Just let me keep her.”

The redhead crouches beside you.

“You will.”

------

The Quinjet is too loud.

You sit stiffly in a corner seat, clutching your daughter like she might vanish if you blink. She's curled up against your chest, worn out from crying and the chaos, her tiny hands fists in your torn clothes.

Your arms are shaking.

Everything feels like too much.

Too bright. Too fast. Too real.

You stare at the dark floor panels, heart pounding like a war drum. The whirring of the engines, the humming of voices you don’t trust—none of it felt safe. You don’t feel safe.

No one tries to take her from you. Not yet. That was the only reason you haven't fought.

She shifts in your arms, pressing her flushed cheek to your collarbone. Your hand automatically rubs gentle circles into her back, your mother’s instincts stronger than the trauma clawing at your brain.

“She won’t let go,” Natasha murmurs to Bruce, standing just far enough not to crowd you. “Even when she’s asleep.”

“She shouldn’t have to,” Bruce says softly. “Not after what she’s been through.”

They don’t think you can hear them.

But you did.

You heard everything.

They bring you to a room with soft lighting and gentle walls. It smells clean—but not like chemicals. Not like HYDRA.

Bruce Banner stands in the corner, hands folded, speaking in a voice like wind brushing over still water.

“I’m just going to take a look at you,” he says gently. “Both of you. I promise I won’t touch her unless you say it’s okay.”

You don’t move.

Your baby is wide awake again, sitting in your lap, staring with wide eyes at the stranger in the white coat.

You pull her tighter against you.

“She’s mine,” you say. Your voice cracks. “No one touches her.”

Bruce gives a small nod. “Of course. I just want to help.”

You don’t believe that.

But he doesn’t push. Instead, he pulls out a scanner and crouches—to your eye level.

“May I scan you from here?”

You hesitate… then give a tiny nod.

The scan was quiet. No pain. No poking. No restraint.

“She’s malnourished but stable,” Bruce says, looking at your daughter. “You’ve been feeding her from rations?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He nods again, with genuine warmth. “You did an incredible job.”

Your throat closes up. You tried.

You look down at your baby, who's pressing her forehead into your chest. She's calmer here. Calmer with you.

You’ve done something right.

“You’ve been through serious mental trauma,” Bruce continues. “I think your system’s still fighting the effects of long-term neurological exposure. We’ll give you space, but if you ever want help—therapy, or medication, or even just rest—we’ll be here.”

You don’t answer.

You are still waiting for the moment they take her away.

But no one moves.

They are waiting for you.

Later, they bring you to a different hospital room that was too nice to be real. Real bed. Blankets. A large mirror on the other side of the room. A window with sunlight. You can see the world. It was very different than what you remembered.

When you were taken, you were freshly 18. A time that was supposed to be exciting and full of new adventures was quickly robbed from you. All your dreams of finally getting to go to Harvard were crushed. You were from a smaller town, one that didn't have these massive buildings that surrounded you. You were used to fields and animals. Nothing like that was outside. It was a shock.

You don’t know how to sleep in a bed anymore. But your baby is finally dozing in the crook of your arm.

You sit, awake, staring at the door.

And then it knocks.

“Hey. It’s me. Natasha,” comes the voice from the other side. “Can I come in?”

You don’t say anything.

The door opens gently.

She enters slowly, hands empty. She sits across from you, not too close.

“I just want to ask you a few questions,” she says quietly. “Is that okay?”

You look at her for a long moment… then give the smallest nod.

“What’s your name?”

You lick your dry lips. “Y/N.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

Her expression softens. “And how long were you in that facility?”

You look down at your baby. “Since I turned 18.”

A beat of silence.

Natasha’s jaw tightens—just a bit. “That’s a long time.”

You don’t respond.

She nods to your baby, who is sound asleep now.

“What’s her name?”

You hesitate—but just for a moment. You are too proud to stay silent.

“Daisy.”

You always loved Daisies. Naming her that reminded you of the beautiful world outside of the building. A world you hoped you would get to show her.

Natasha smiles gently. “That’s beautiful.”

You nod slowly, brushing your fingers through your daughter’s hair. "I thought so too."

Natasha leans forward just a little. “Can I ask about her father?”

Your whole body tenses.

Your eyes drop to Daisy’s face again. So small. So innocent.

You swallow thickly. “I don’t… I don’t know him,” you admit. “I never met him. Not really.” You had only ever seen him in passing.

Natasha’s gaze flickers, and you see it—just the briefest flash of concern. Worry.

“It wasn’t like that,” you say quickly. “No one… touched me. I mean, not—not that way.”

She relaxes. Just slightly.

You toke a shaky breath.

“They called it Project Genesis. They told me they wanted to create a weapon with the perfect balance. My mind. His body. His strength.” You brush your fingers across Daisy’s head. “I didn’t even know whose DNA they used. Not at first.”

“You found out?”

You nod slowly. “They left a file out once. I don’t think they meant to. I saw his name.”

Natasha doesn’t speak.

“They called him… the Winter Soldier.”

You wonder what happened to him. You stopped seeing him about a month before they stopped showing you Daisy. Had he gotten away? Was he a free man, living his life as normally as he could? Sometimes you wonder if you should have told him. He did have a right to know. If he had gotten away, would he have taken Daisy with him if he knew? Would he have kept her safe?

The room goes so quiet, you could hear your heartbeat.

“I didn’t tell him,” you whisper. “I was scared. I thought maybe he’d take her. Maybe he’d hurt her. Or… maybe he didn’t know. I couldn’t risk it. I had to protect her.”

You looked up at Natasha, terrified.

“I swear I’m telling the truth.”

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

Her face said everything.

----3rd POV----

Outside, behind a one-way mirror, the rest of the team watched in stunned silence.

Steve stood stiff, fists clenched. His heart hurt for the woman. She had been forced into a situation no one should ever have to be. And he felt bad for his friend. Bucky had no idea. If Bucky knew he had a child, he would've told Steve. He also would've done everything in his power to save it from the horrors the baby undoubtedly experienced.

Sam glanced at Clint. “Is this even possible? Bucky's never mentioned having a kid before. Could she be lying? Trying to get something from him or us?”

Tony frowned. “HYDRA did a lot of things that shouldn’t have been possible. It's not out of the realm to think they would go this far. They were selectively breeding.”

“She doesn’t know he’s here. What's there to gain from lying about him?” Bruce said quietly. “I don't think she’s lying.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair. “I think she's telling the truth. I mean look at that kid. I knew she looked familiar. It makes sense now. She's got Buck's eyes and hair. We can also do a DNA test, right, Bruce?” he said, voice rough.

Bruce nods. “If he wants one done, I can try to convince Y/N to let us take some blood from the baby.” He observes the baby through the glass. "She does look a lot like Bucky."

“We have to tell him.” Clint looks around at the group of men.

“Who’s going to do it?” Sam asked.

“I will.” Steve volunteers. "It'll be better coming from me.

----- 3rd POV -----

The rhythmic thud of fists against the heavy bag echoed through the training room.

Sweat dripped from Bucky’s brow, soaking into the collar of his shirt. His knuckles—flesh and metal—were raw from the relentless assault. The gym was quiet, empty except for the sound of effort. That’s how he liked it.

Alone. Focused. Empty.

This was the only place where the memories didn’t claw so loudly at the back of his skull.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw faces—bloodied, terrified, dying. Faces he couldn’t name. Faces he’d hurt. Even now, even free, the weight of what he’d done pressed against his chest like a boulder he could never move.

So he hit the bag.

Over and over.

Like he could punch his past into silence.

His metal arm whirred with each movement—controlled and brutal. He wasn’t training to stay in shape. He was trying to feel something. Anything that wasn’t guilt.

But then he heard it.

“Buck.”

Steve’s voice.

He didn’t stop punching. Didn’t look.

“I need to talk to you.”

Still, he didn’t stop. Not until Steve stepped into his line of sight.

Bucky dropped his fists, breathing heavy, strands of dark hair sticking to his forehead. “What is it?”

Steve hesitated.

And that… that was never a good sign.

Steve's voice was low, careful. Like he was trying not to spook a wild animal.

“There’s a woman here. She was rescued from a HYDRA facility.”

Bucky blinked, wiping his face with a towel. “Okay…”

“She was part of an experiment. One of the worst ones. Mental manipulation. Long-term isolation. She’s been in there since she was eighteen.”

Bucky stiffened.

“I… I wouldn’t be telling you this if it wasn’t important.”

“Steve,” Bucky said, voice a warning. “What are you not saying?” Steve needs to stop beating around the bush.

Steve’s throat bobbed.

“She has a daughter.”

Bucky frowned. “Okay? So?”

Steve took a step closer. “We're... We're pretty sure she's yours. She looks a lot like you did as a kid. The mother says they used your DNA, Buck.”

The words hit him like a bullet to the chest.

“What?”

“She didn’t know at first. She found out later. The girl—her name’s Daisy—is about two years old. HYDRA created her. They used you.”

Bucky staggered back, as if someone had punched him in the gut.

“No.” His voice cracked. “No, that’s not—That can’t be—”

“I know it’s a lot,” Steve said quickly. “I know. She didn’t lie. She didn’t even know you were here. She wasn’t trying to manipulate anyone. All she’s done is try to protect that little girl. If you want more confirmation, we can try to get a DNA test from Daisy. It might take some time to convince her mom to allow us to get close to her, but we can try if you want.”

Bucky stared down at his hands.

His right hand—flesh and bone—trembled. His left hand—metal, inhuman—hung limp at his side.

“A kid?” he whispered. “My kid?”

His vision blurred. He didn’t realize he was shaking until Steve gently rested a hand on his shoulder.

“I didn’t even know,” Bucky rasped. “I didn’t even know what they were doing. They took it from me. They used me again.”

“I know, Buck.”

He turned away, eyes wild. “I don’t—What if I’m just like them? What if Daisy's like me? What if—”

“She’s not,” Steve said, voice firm. “She’s sweet. Gentle. She looks at her mother like she’s the whole damn world. She's a great kid, Buck.”

Bucky’s throat closed.

And then the question clawed its way out:

“Does she know I'm here now? The mother… does she hate me?”

“No,” Steve said quietly. “She doesn’t even blame you. She said she thinks you didn’t know. That maybe you were just a name to them. She didn’t tell anyone because she was scared. She’s just trying to keep her daughter safe.”

Bucky sank to the floor.

He didn’t speak. Just pressed his face into his hands, breaths coming short and fast. Should I get a DNA test? That might put both the mother and the kid through a lot of trauma. Steve said Daisy looked like me. How could she look like me if she's not somehow related to me? I don't have any family left alive. It couldn't be a niece or something.

A kid.

A real one.

A little girl who existed in this world, who shouldn’t, because of him.

And he didn’t know if he had the right to see her.

-----

The compound garden was quiet except for the rustle of wind against tree branches and the distant hum of city life beyond the security walls. It didn’t feel real, not after the concrete and cold metal of the facility. You still flinch every time someone closes a door too hard.

You sit on a bench near the far edge of the garden, your daughter cradled against your side, her tiny hands sticky with banana. The blanket around her small frame is a borrowed one—soft and blue with tiny stars stitched into the corners. It was Natasha’s idea, something comforting and warm to help your daughter adjust.

Your own comfort? That was a different story.

You're still in borrowed clothes. Still tense. Still not sure when someone is going to pull the rug out from under you again.

Daisy's humming a little tune, off-key but sweet. Your hand moves in her hair, soothing her even though she doesn’t need it. Maybe you do.

Then came the sound of slow, hesitant footsteps on the gravel path.

You don't move right away. You are used to the sounds of people coming. You’d learned that reacting too quickly made them think you were unstable.

But something about these steps made your body tense. Heavy. Measured.

You turned—and your breath caught.

It was him.

The man from the file. The man from the hallway glimpses when you’d been escorted for testing. The man who made your head race with a million questions.

The Winter Soldier.

No—Bucky Barnes. That's what Natasha calls him.

He looks like a shadow from the past given breath. His long hair is tied back in a loose band, strands escaping around his jaw. He's wearing a hoodie too big for him and boots that look scuffed from use. His vibranium arm shines in the filtered sunlight, catching faint reflections of the world around him.

His face—oh, his face.

He isn’t the weapon you remember. He's a man. And he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.

He stops several feet away, eyes locked on you, then flickers to the child on your lap. His eyes stay on Daisy as he takes her in, like he's trying to memorize her.

He looks like he wants to speak but doesn’t know how.

You sit up straighter, your arms instinctively wrapping more protectively around Daisy. She shifts, sensing your tension.

Bucky notices.

“I—” he starts, voice rough like gravel. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

You don’t answer.

“I shouldn’t’ve come,” he murmurs. His hands hover at his sides, uncertain. “I didn’t want to scare you. I just…”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking to Daisy again.

“She’s mine?” he asks quietly.

You nod, slow and cautious. “Yes.”

His jaw clenches. He looks like he might collapse under the weight of that one word.

“I didn’t know. They didn't tell me,” he whispers. “I swear, I didn’t know.”

“I believe you,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. He looks so different then how you'd seen him in the past. His face, which was usually stoic and emotionless, is filled with conflicting feelings. This has to be a lot for him to take in.

His eyes—startlingly blue, filled with pain—finally meet yours.

He takes one step forward and then pauses again. And then, hesitantly, in a voice that barely held together: “Did I—did I hurt you when she… when she was…” He trails off, the words choking in his throat. His eyes drop to the ground. “I hoped I wasn’t capable of shit like that but… I don’t know. I never know what they made me do. Not really.”

You stare at him, breath caught in your chest.

You know what he meant. He wants to know if they made him rape you. It was too hard for him to say.

That has to be a horrible feeling to experience. Knowing your mind and body could have been potentially used to so horribly violate another person. HYDRA controlled his actions, but in the end, he was the one having to live with the consequences.

“No,” you say softly. “You weren’t even in the room.”

His head jerks up to look at you. He's confused.

“It was in vitro,” you clarify. You tear your gaze away from his face, embarrassed by your vulnerable experience. I wish I could've protected myself. Stopped what they did to me. I couldn't, which makes me feel so weak. You continue. "When I was first brought into the facility, they took some of my eggs. They fertilized the egg with your sperm in a lab and then put it back in me. You were never physically involved in it." You try to reassure the man. "They never let me see who the donor was. I didn’t know until about a year after Daisy was born.”

You push yourself to look at his face.

Relief crashes across his features—brief, raw, and almost too painful to look at. He nods, a quiet breath escaping him, but the tension doesn’t leave his shoulders. Then sympathy and regret take over his face as your words settle in his head.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through that...I can't imagine what that must've been like. Living in a place like that, in those conditions while pregnant...it's hard enough to survive without a baby." Bucky apologizes like it's his fault. Like he had put you through that situation. "If I had known...I would've tried to get you both out or helped you. It's not fair that you had to do that alone." He speaks genuinely.

"It's not your fault. They used you like they used me. There's nothing you could've done. They would have killed you or sent you away." I don't hold a grudge against him.

"Still, I'm very sorry."

You look at him again—really looked at him—and realize something that unsettles you.

He's just as scared as you are.

And just as broken.

There was silence between you. Heavy, aching silence. You both had experienced so much at the hands of the same people. While your journeys were different, you were both left with trauma and nightmares. You both missed time with your daughter.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you." It's your turn to apologize. "About her. I-I didn't know what you were going to do or react. If you would even care. I didn't know if it was safe to tell you. I couldn't risk being hurt and getting killed or losing the time they allowed me to see her." You nervously continue. "I had seen you a few times in the halls. You always looked angry and emotionless. Like a cold weapon. I was nervous to talk to you."

Bucky face is stiff. His eyes, however, hold sadness. " I'm sorry. I couldn't control myself. They killed my personality and feelings. You did what you had to. She comes first. I'll never be angry for you putting her well-being first."

He isn't how you expected. Well, you didn't really know what to expect. It makes you sad he didn't get to spend time with her at all. At least you saw her once a week. This is the first time he's met her. While you missed a few milestones, he had missed them all. That's time he could never get back.

Then Daisy stirs.

She blinks up at the stranger, her small brows furrowing. “Mama?” she whispers.

You smooth a hand over her hair. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

Bucky slowly crouches down, still not closing the distance.

He looks at Daisy with a softness that shocks you. His metal hand flexes on his knee, uncertain.

“She’s… beautiful,” he says, voice cracking.

Your throat tightens. “She is.”

“How old?”

“Almost two and a half.”

He nods slowly, trying to work the math in his head. “God…”

You see him glance toward her again.

He wants to reach out. You can tell.

But he doesn’t.

And that matters more than anything else—he doesn't assume he has a right to her. He respects you. He's willing to go at your pace.

“Do you… do you want to sit?” you ask hesitantly.

He looks up, shocked. Then nods, barely breathing.

“I’ll stay back here,” he promises, lowering himself to the far end of the bench. “Just wanted to see her. That’s all.”

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as Daisy nibbles on the banana again, still watching him with curiosity. She giggles and waves at him with a wide grin.

Bucky's lips curl into a pained smile. He waves back.

“He good guy?” she asks, glancing at you.

You pause.

You look at Bucky again.

The sorrow on his face. The weight on his shoulders.

“I think he’s trying to be,” you said quietly.

----- 3rd POV -----

Bucky didn’t remember walking back into the compound.

He remembered standing up from the bench with a nod and a faint, careful thank you to Y/N. He remembered Daisy waving her banana at him in a tiny, sticky goodbye. He remembered the ache in his chest when he looked at them one last time.

But after that, it was a blur.

Now he was back in the gym, his hoodie on the floor, fists slamming into the punching bag like it had personally ruined his life. Sweat clung to his skin, hair stuck to his forehead, and the fabric of his shirt felt suffocating. The leather wrap on his right hand had already started to fray.

Wham.

Wham.

WHAM.

"You're gonna break the damn wall if you keep that up."

Bucky didn’t stop punching, but his jaw tensed. "Maybe it deserves it."

Steve stepped into view, hands in the pockets of his jeans. His voice was steady, but soft. “You went to see her?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose and gave the bag one last blow before stepping back. His chest heaved. “Yeah.”

Steve didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just waited.

Bucky ripped off the wraps on his hands, tossing them onto the floor. “Y/N, she’s scared of me.”

“She’s been through hell,” Steve said quietly.

“I know that,” Bucky snapped, more at himself than Steve. “I saw it. I saw it all over her face. Every time I moved too fast, every time I even looked at her wrong, she flinched like I was going to—”

He broke off, dragging a hand over his face.

“I didn’t mean to scare her.”

Steve walked closer. “You didn’t mean to have a kid, either.”

Bucky barked a humorless laugh. “No, I didn’t. Hydra made that choice for both of us. Took what they wanted, like they always did. Used me to make a baby and used her to carry it. That shit is cruel. All those procedures Y/N had to endure...going through pregnancy in a place like that. A time that was supposed to be happy for most must've been a nightmare for her. Yeah, they took sperm from me, but that was the end of my job. They made her carry Daisy and suffer alone. The fear she must've felt, Steve. The pain. And she had no one there to support her.” Bucky was pissed and guilty.

He had wanted kids when he was younger. Before the war, he wanted a family. He wanted to be there for his wife, whoever she was, when the time came for them to have kids. He wanted to help her and be there to get everything she needed or wanted. He felt like it was the responsiblity of the father to be there to support the mother of their child. He hadn't known, so he wasn't able to be there. That hurt. Besides that, he missed so many milestones. Daisy's first laugh, first word. And so many more.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, pacing a few steps away. “You know what’s messed up? For a second—I was terrified I’d hurt her. That they made me violate her...” He swallowed the bile crawling up his throat at the thought. “But she said it was in vitro. That I wasn’t even there. And I was relieved. Relieved I didn’t hurt her.”

“That’s not messed up,” Steve said. “That’s human. It'd be messed up if you didn't care what had happened to her.”

Bucky slumped onto a bench, metal hand resting on his thigh. “She said she’d seen me before. That I looked cold. Like a weapon.”

Steve sat beside him, not too close. “You were being used as one.”

“It doesn’t matter. That face still haunts her. Still haunts me.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “She was trying so hard to be brave. Holding that little girl like her life depended on it. Maybe it does.”

Steve was quiet for a moment. “Did you look at her?”

Bucky glanced sideways. “The baby?”

Steve nodded.

Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She’s perfect, Steve. Big eyes. Wild hair. She’s got this laugh—she laughed at me. Me. Can you believe that?” His lips pulled into a soft, disbelieving smile. Then it faded.

“I don’t know what to do. She’s scared of me. Rightfully so. I don’t even know what I am to that little girl. I don't know if I'm good enough to be a dad. I've never had a responsibility like that. I didn’t choose any of this.”

“No,” Steve agreed. “But you’re here now. You're going to be a great dad, Bucky. You're just going to need to learn a little bit. There's nothing wrong with that. Y/N is still learning too.”

Bucky closed his eyes, the weight of it all pressing into his spine. “What if I mess this up?”

Steve clapped a hand on his shoulder, firm and sure. “Then you keep trying. You show up and try again. You don't give up on your kid. And you let them set the pace.”

------

You watch Daisy sleep from across the room, arms wrapped around your knees, curled into yourself like you used to in your cell.

The compound was too quiet sometimes. Not the same kind of terrifying quiet like HYDRA, but… too peaceful. Like silence, you hadn’t earned.

You could still feel the warmth of the bench under your body. Still see the careful way Bucky had kept his distance. The way he’d crouched like he wasn’t sure if he should even breathe too close to your daughter.

Our daughter.

This isn't how you had planned to have a family. As a young girl, you had always wanted to have a family someday. You wanted a lot of things. You want to graduate from Harvard with honors and get into a great graduate program. You wanted an amazing career in an industry where you could make a difference with the help of your intelligence. You wanted to find a man who loved you completely, no matter how much you weighed or what you looked like. You wanted to get married and have children in a beautiful home you worked hard for. You wanted your husband to be there when you gave birth to your babies, to be able to share the moment with you. You wanted your husband to be able to share your baby's beautiful moments and milestones with you. You wanted to throw birthday parties and show your baby off. You wanted so much.

And you got none of it.

You didn't get to graduate or get married. You didn't get to fall and love and have support through your pregnancy. You were forced through hundreds of tests, surgeries, and experiments until your bubbly, confident self was turned into a shell of who you were. You were forced to experience the heartbreak of being forcibly impregnated by a stranger, growing a bond with your baby, delivering her in a traumatic setting, and then getting her taken away.

You shiver at the thought.

You had seen his face in so many nightmares. Those glimpses in the hallway, the times he’d walked by in black gear with no emotion behind his eyes. The Winter Soldier. A ghost of war, of death, of silence.

Now that face had looked at you with fear. Guilt.

And tenderness.

He had looked at Daisy like she was made of stardust. Like she was the one good thing in a world full of pain.

Your heart twisted.

You wanted to hate him. To blame him. That would be easier than trying to navigate this next stage in life.

But he hadn’t been in the room. He hadn’t made the choice. He hadn't known.

Neither had you.

You reach up and touch your side, remembering the cold, sterile ache of the implantation procedure. The way they drugged you and stole pieces of you before violating your body and forcing you to take those changed pieces back. Remembering the nurse who whispered, “You should be honored. He’s the pinnacle of perfection. Your child will be a masterpiece.”

You blink hard, pressing your forehead to your knees. Rage and shame twist in your stomach.

You hadn’t even known his name when Daisy started to grow inside her. Just a number. A file. A myth.

And now he was real.

So painfully real.

You weren't ready. You wanted to be—but you weren't. Not yet.

But the way he’d looked at Daisy…

It made something shift in you.

A glimmer of hope.

A flicker of trust.

You didn’t know what was going to happen next. Didn’t know if you could ever let him in completely. But maybe—just maybe—Daisy could have the chance at something better.

Maybe they all could.

------

It was late afternoon when the hallway outside the common room falls quiet again, the golden sunlight slants across the polished floors. The Avengers Compound always seems to hum with a soft, underlying rhythm—doors closing gently, distant voices, the faint clinking of cups or laughter echoing down corridors.

You sit on the floor with Daisy again, this time carefully braiding your daughter’s hair—short, wavy strands that refuse to stay in the little plaits. Daisy keeps giggling and squirming, half-playing, half-patient. A picture book lies forgotten on the rug, open to a page about rainbows.

It feels… almost normal. A warmth in your chest you don’t dare name yet.

You don’t hear him at first.

“Um… hi.” The voice was gravel-soft. Low. Hesitant.

You look up slowly, hands still tangled in your daughter’s hair.

Bucky stands a few feet away, not moving any closer, shoulders drawn in like he's trying to make himself smaller. He's wearing a dark sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up just enough to show the glint of his metal arm. His eyes, usually so guarded, are careful now—open in a quiet way, like he's trying not to spook you.

You stiffen slightly, but don’t pull Daisy into your lap the way you might’ve just a few days ago.

He notices.

“I—I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says quickly, raising one hand in a peaceable gesture. “I just… I was wondering if I could… if I could talk to her. To Daisy. Just for a little bit.”

His voice cracks slightly on the name.

You blink. Daisy keeps playing with her plush porcupine, blissfully unaware of the tension between the two adults hovering above her.

“I wouldn’t—” Bucky looks down at his boots, then up at you again, almost painfully slow. “I wouldn’t touch her. Or scare her. I’d just… like to sit nearby. Maybe say hi. If that’s okay.”

There's a long silence. The kind where you can hear every breath.

You look at him—really look at him. He isn’t trying to loom or press. If anything, he looks like he's bracing for you to flinch. For you to say no. For you to shut him down completely.

And yet… he's still here.

Still trying.

“Yeah sure. She’s just playing,” You say, finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “You can sit. If you want.”

The relief that passes through Bucky’s body isn't loud—but you feel it, somehow. Like something in the air softened.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

He steps over slowly and settles on the floor, leaving a comfortable space between them. He sits cross-legged, not facing Daisy directly—just angled enough to be part of the circle, but not too close. He doesn't speak right away. Just watches.

Daisy looks up from her toy and blinks at the new face.

She tilts her head.

Then offers him her porcupine.

Bucky lets out a breath of laughter, barely audible, as he reaches forward with a hand that trembles just slightly.

“That for me?” he asks softly.

Daisy nodded solemnly. “His name’s Pokey.”

He takes the plush in his large, careful hands and holds it like it is something delicate. “Pokey, huh? That’s a good name.”

You watch them both. Your hands drop from your daughter’s hair as you sit back against the couch, unsure of what to feel. Your heart is beating a little too fast.

Daisy begins stacking plastic cups again. Her porcupine now rests between her and Bucky, like a silent peace offering.

“She likes you,” You say after a beat. “I can tell.”

“She’s brave,” Bucky says, watching her. “She’s got your smile.”

The compliment stirs something warm in your chest, though you don't show it.

You two sat like that for a while. Not friends. Not strangers. Something in between. A fragile beginning.

And Bucky doesn't push. He just stays.

Careful. Quiet.

Present.

----3rd POV----

Bucky sat alone on the balcony connected to his room, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his mouth. The sky was slipping into dusk, streaked in lilac and orange, and the air carried that subtle shift toward nighttime—the kind of cool that made you breathe a little deeper.

He hadn’t moved for nearly an hour.

The image of Daisy—stacking plastic cups with gentle concentration, her nose scrunched, her little fingers brushing his when she passed him the porcupine—played on repeat in his mind.

She didn’t know who he was.

And still, she smiled.

Still, she trusted him—instinctively, openly, like no one ever had without reason.

It was unbearable in the best and worst way.

The door behind him opened softly.

He didn’t look back.

“Figured I’d find you out here,” Steve said, stepping onto the balcony with two mugs in hand.

Bucky took one without a word. It was warm—chamomile or something equally Steve-like.

They sat in silence for a few long beats. The kind of silence only decades of friendship could make comfortable.

Steve finally spoke.

“How’d it go?”

Bucky let out a breath through his nose.

“She let me sit,” he said. “That’s more than I expected.”

“She trust you?” Steve asked gently.

“No. Not yet,” Bucky murmured. “But she didn’t flinch when I talked. She didn’t grab Daisy and run.”

Steve nodded. “That’s progress.”

“She looked scared of me,” Bucky said finally, softly. “Even though she was trying not to be. I know that look.”

Steve tilted his head, studying his best friend.

“And Daisy?” he asked.

“She gave me a damn stuffed animal,” Bucky said, shaking his head. “Called it Pokey. Just… handed it to me like she already knew I wasn’t gonna hurt her.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get this,” Bucky said, almost too quietly. “A kid. Even just… knowing there’s someone out there who’s part of me.”

Steve set his mug down carefully on the railing.

“You didn’t get this, Buck. It was taken from you. From both of you.”

Bucky nodded slowly, staring at the darkening horizon. His hands clenched around the mug.

“I want to know her,” he said. “But I don’t wanna push Y/N. I don’t wanna be that guy who comes in and messes it all up just because I showed up too late.”

Steve looked at him, steady and kind.

“You being cautious already tells me you’re not gonna mess it up. You care. You’re trying. That counts.”

Bucky exhaled deeply.

“I just hate that HYDRA used us both like that,” he said. “Violated her. Used my DNA like it meant nothing. I feel like I’m walking into a house made of glass. One wrong word and it all shatters.”

Steve nodded again, silent in understanding.

“You’ll figure it out,” he said. “She’ll see it.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just stared at the horizon, holding the warmth of the tea in his hands like an anchor.

----

The compound was quiet again.

You stand at the crib beside your bed, your fingers brushing softly over Daisy’s soft hair. The toddler was fast asleep—tucked up tight, one arm around Pokey, the other sprawled across her blanket.

She looked so small like that. Fragile. But she wasn’t, not really. Daisy had known nothing but chaos and confinement, and yet she still smiled. Still trusted.

Still shared her toys.

You turn away and sit down on the bed, your knees pulled up toward your chest. The sheets were soft. Clean. The scent of lavender drifted from the pillow.

It was all so different from the concrete cell.

From the cold, sterile walls of the lab.

And yet you couldn’t stop the way your heart pounded anytime you saw someone unexpected in the hallway. Couldn’t stop the way your body tensed when someone spoke too loudly. Couldn’t stop glancing at the exits.

One of the moments with Bucky played in your head over and over.

His voice, low and cautious. The way he sat across from you, like he didn’t want to breathe too loudly.

“Did I… did I hurt you…”

You swallow hard, your chest tightening again.

He’d been so careful. So afraid that he had done something monstrous without knowing. And when you told him he hadn’t, you saw him breathe again. Like someone had finally taken the weight off his chest.

He wasn’t the man who hurt you.

He’d never even been there.

And yet… he was the man whose face haunted you back then. Cold. Silent. Deadly. The Winter Soldier had passed by your cell more than once. You remembered the way guards stood straighter. How even the doctors looked nervous.

But this Bucky?

This was someone else entirely.

Gentle. Broken. Kind.

And you didn’t know what to do with that.

How could someone be the ghost in your nightmares and also the man your child smiled at?

You curled tighter into yourself and closed your eyes. Your body ached with memory and fatigue. Your heart felt stretched thin with confusion and fear and… something else. Something warmer that you didn’t dare name.

Not yet.

But maybe, if he stayed gentle… if he kept giving them space and showing up without demanding anything…

Maybe you could learn how to name it.

----

Bucky now spent a little more time with you and Daisy every few days—never too long, always careful not to push. Sometimes he brought little things for Daisy: a new picture book, a wooden toy. He always checked with you first.

And you two started to talk.

It started out slow with things like 'How are you?', 'Do you like the tower?', or just general conversation about their baby.

“She reminds me of Becca sometimes,” Bucky says one afternoon as Daisy scribbled chalk shapes on the pavement. His soft eyes gaze down at her, a small smile curling on his lips. “My sister.”

You tilt your head. “Was she older or younger?”

“Younger,” he says, his smile widening at a memory. “Bossy. Tougher than I ever was.”

You smile back. “I had a brother. He was older. He… tried to stop them when they came for me.”

Bucky looks over, eyes shaded with something dark and aching. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” you whisper. “I don’t even know if he made it.”

Bucky gives you a sad smile. “My sister got sick and died a long time ago. This was after HYDRA got to me.”

There was silence for a moment, not heavy—but shared. Bucky sits back on the bench, arms resting on his knees.

“You were only eighteen,” he murmurs. “I read your file.”

Your stomach clenches. “Oh.”

“No— I just…” He sits up straighter. “I’m not trying to dig into your past. I just—wanted to understand. What they did to you, what they made you go through…”

His voice cracks a little, then hardens again. “It’s not fair. None of it.”

You look at him carefully. He was trying to understand you. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“But it’s still part of me,” he says. “HYDRA’s part of me. And I hate that.”

You are quiet for a while. Then softly you speak: “They tried to break both of us. But we’re still here.”

He looks at you. Really looked. There was something in his eyes—a kind of admiration you didn’t know how to respond to. He gives you space, respects every boundary. And still, there's warmth. There's safety.

And you were beginning to feel it.

Your chest aches with something too complex to name. You knew you were starting to like him. To care. But you couldn’t let it show. Not yet.

You turn your eyes to Daisy, who is now chalking a stick figure with dark hair.

Bucky smiles faintly beside her. “That one’s me, isn’t it?”

You laugh under your breath. “Looks like it. Strong jaw and everything.”

He grins, and for a moment—just a fleeting second—you feel like a girl again. Not a prisoner. Not a lab rat. Just someone…normal.

And that was new.

---

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 AU Version (What if you told Bucky while you were both in HYDRA)

[starkeymeow]

plot ── after you undergo a procedure to erase rafe from your memory, rafe, devastated by the realization, decides to do the same, only to find himself fighting to hold onto the love you shared, proving that some connections can never truly be forgotten.

content ── another fucking mini series bc i cant stop, rafes perspective, memory loss, emotional distress & heartbreak obvi, dysfunctional relationships, existential themes

authors note ── sorry guys ive been so busy w my new life that i have NOT touched tumblr in a good while. plus this semester is more demanding in terms of my workload ugh so im never writing anym its so lame

main masterlist | next

rafe stares at the card, his fingers gripping the edges so tightly the paper starts to bend. his breath is slow, shallow, like his body is forgetting how to function properly. the words blur together, but it doesn’t matter. he’s already memorized them.

he lifts his gaze to his father. ward stands stiff, arms crossed, staring down at his shoes like he’s the one who’s been blindsided. like he’s the one who just had his entire world gutted out of him in a single fucking sentence.

there’s guilt in the way he exhales through his nose, in the way his jaw slides ever so slightly, but rafe doesn’t give him the chance to speak.

“this is real?” his voice comes out rough, barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loud will make it more true.

ward hesitates, then nods.

rafe lets out a short, breathless laugh, his chest rising sharply before sinking under the weight of it all. he shakes his head, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he looks down at the card again, like maybe this time the words will rearrange themselves into something less impossible.

“so, what?” he scoffs, wetness pricking at his eyes. “they just . . . deleted me? like a fucking file on a computer?”

ward sighs. long, slow, through his nose. he knew this would be hard to explain.

“how many?” rafe asks. how many memories are gone now?

his father doesn’t answer right away. his jaw shifts, gaze dropping to the floor like he doesn’t want to say it. or maybe he’s just trying to soften the blow of something that can’t be softened.

when he finally speaks, his voice is careful. deliberate. “all of ‘em, bud.”

rafe scoffs again, but it’s weaker this time, like his body is struggling to keep up with his disbelief. he smiles, but it’s the kind that only comes when someone is trying not to fall apart.

“no . . . no. she didn’t. she wouldn’t do that.” he shakes his head again, faster this time. “that’s not even a fucking thing— i mean, erasing someone from your mind? since when did we have the tech for that bullshit? that didn’t happen.”

he throws the card onto the table like it burns to hold it any longer. gets up so fast his chair scrapes loudly against the floor. his chest is rising and falling too quickly, hands threading behind his head as he paces across the kitchen, back and forth, back and forth, his fingers digging into his scalp.

ward doesn’t stop him. he just watches, his own grief settling deep in his expression. and maybe it’s not the same kind of grief. maybe it’s not the gut-wrenching, all-consuming, ‘i’ve lost the love of my life kind’, but it’s still there.

because he’s seen lucuna inc. before, out near the edge of the island, where no one really looks unless they’re desperate enough to. he’s seen it and he’s hoped no one he loves would ever consider walking through its doors.

but you did. a girl who once sat at his dinner table, who used to laugh with his family, who was supposed to be his daughter-in-law one day.

was rafe really that bad? bad enough to make you want to erase him?

rafe stops pacing so suddenly it’s like something clicks into place inside him. he turns, slipping out of the kitchen without another word. his father calls after him, but he doesn’t listen. his hands move on their own, grabbing his keys from the hook by the front door, pushing outside, stepping into the thick outer banks air like he’s coming up for air after drowning.

he doesn’t know where he’s going.

apparently, he can’t go to you.

but he’ll do something.

a/n: just the short little prologue so def let me know if ud like to be tagged for this one!

[enigmatist17]

Continuation/just ideas I have of the Mecha Pilot Jazz Au by @keferon

First part can be found here :)

A03 version -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/60978709

---

No one is really sure what to think when Jazz finally returns to the general populace, the crowded common room he steps into with Prowl at his side going silent at the mech's arrival.

No, not a mech, a frame piloted by an organic Wheeljack swore to the Pit and back was smaller than most of their servos.

"Soooo, what's up?" Jazz leaned against the closest table as Prowl got himself some energon, no longer keeping up the pretense he needed such liquid.

"That's what you have to say?" Starscream gawked from his seat, the seeker looking like he wanted to start dissecting Jazz's mecha as much as pry the pilot out. "Are all organics from your planet this...this flippant?"

"Not really?" Jazz shrugged, glad no one could see the grin on his face when Prowl rejoined him, placing himself between Jazz and everyone else in the room with a minute flick of his doorwings. "Hell, you sound like one of my commanders, he'd be having a fit right about now."

"Rightfully so, I should say." Mirage commented from behind Jazz, the pilot grinning to himself when he turned, only to see what was supposedly a blank wall. "Then again, you seem to be the type of bo - organic to cause mayhem on the regular."

"Human." Jazz could hear more than a few processors whir at the strange term, and after a moment, grabs a seat at the table next to him. "Organic sounds weird to me, so you can call me human or just my name, I'm not picky."

"Human...weird." Jazz isn't sure who spoke as his visor offlined, ensuring his mecha was supported before fully breaking the connection. The entire room went silent when Jazz's chassis made a soft click before opening, noises of alarm escaping vocalizers as they expected to see a spark, wondering what in Primus' name the org - human was thinking when something moved. What should have been a spark chamber was something else entirely, the central interior some sort of piloting seat that housed the human they'd all come to trust and fight alongside, who waved as he undid a harness. Prowl was the only thing stopping the Cybertronians around Jazz from moving any closer, his doorwings up in a sharp V when he carefully placed one of his servos just below Jazz, Mirage shimmering into view on the other side of Jazz's mecha when the human hopped onto the limb.

"Hey, fellas." Prowl kept his hold on Jazz as he stepped back from the temporarily deactivated suit, setting him on the table's surface as carefully as possible. "Aw, thanks Prowler!"

"You look strange for an organic." Thundercracker tilted his helm slightly, wanting a closer look but not stupid enough to test how close he could actually get.

"I guess?" Jazz reached up to unlatch his helmet, biting back a laugh when there were a few surprised vents at the reveal of his hair. "Back home, I'd say I'm about the best we humans can look."

"With an ego to match." Mirage cycled his optics with a smirk, eyeing his friend curiously while keeping himself between any bot stupid enough to try and sneak up on Prowl's blindside. "Your frame suits you."

"And don't I know it." Jazz winked, setting his helmet on the table by his feet. "Man, you guys are just...so much bigger in person. I mean I know you are, it's just weird ta see it with my own eyes, er optics."

"Trust me, it's weird for us too." Sideswipe commented from his spot among the crowd, amused more than anything when the inevitable questions started pouring in. To his credit, Jazz tries to answer some of them, but he steps back when Prowl draws himself to his full height and silences almost everyone when he crosses his arms, smiling to himself when the bot speaks.

"If you have any further questions, you can ask them another time, most of you are late for your assigned duty shifts, Jazz included."

"Ya wound me Prowler!" The human let out a whine at the supposed betrayal, but the grin never left his face as he turned to his mecha. "I guess I could get movin', don't want to keep Brawn too late."

"Indeed." Prowl offered his servo once more, aware of the many prying optics watching as Jazz hopped onto his palm, slipping his strange helm covering back on as he was safely delivered back to his larger frame. They watched Jazz buckle himself back into the harness within the spa - piloting chamber, the chassis closing up when something connected with the back of his helm covering, the visor on the frame they were all accustomed to lighting up with a slight hum.

"Fun time's over." Jazz waved his servo, everyone murmuring to each other while they slowly dispersed. "Man that was fun."

"You find most activities fun, dangerous or otherwise." Prowl shook his helm in exasperation as Jazz laughed, the human leaning over to gently bonk his helm against Prowl's.

"I'll see you later, gorgeous." With that Jazz sweeps out of the room, Prowl watching him go with a look that made Mirage do a double take.

"You definitely chose someone...interesting." The saboteur chuckled, saving the image of a soft smile on Prowl's face for some future use.

"So I have..."

---

Jazz had wondered what Prowl's face felt like from the moment the met, in awe at how the metal creased and smoothed out much like his own skin did. Would it be cold and stiff, or warm and pliable? Ah the thought plagued him from time to time, becoming worse when he fell for said mech.

So, when he comes across Prowl asleep (no recharge) at his desk, a data pad clutched in his clawed hands, Jazz grins. Locking the door to Prowl's office, more for the tactician's peace of mind than his own, Jazz quietly grabs the only other chair in the room and sets it down on the other side of Prowl's desk, resting one arm on top of the table. Prowl is still asleep when Jazz powers down the link with his mecha, shivering at the sensation of becoming so small before slowly unbuckling himself, setting his helmet aside before starting the (admittedly) long journey across the room. Thankfully his magnetic lock boots made his journey down the arm of his faithful mecha relatively safe, staring up at his boyfriend (boybot? Ugh no, no way in hell) with an amused smile.

"Always gonna be the smallest huh?"

Now, here comes the hard part, one that could end up getting him flung across the room or smashed into paste if he triggered the wrong response from his sleeping partner. Okay, deep breath, and with a quick crossing of his fingers, Jazz activated the magnetics in his gloves before placing them on Prowl's arm as a test run. One doorwing twitched at the initial contact, but Prowl remained still, and with a deep breath Jazz started climbing, climbing up his mech's arm nice and slow. It was a little tricky when he reached Prowl's shoulder, but with a little awkward shuffling and a twist of his upper body, Jazz was within reach of his partner's face.

Now here comes the Hard Part Two: Electric Boogaloo.

It took a few tries to unwrap the base of his glove with his teeth, heart racing when he was only attached to Prowl via his shoes and magnetized knee pads in order to free his hand, but soon he was ready to do the biggest thing he's wanted to since he first laid eyes on Prowl. His hand is shaking slightly, but that doesn't matter when it makes contact with Prowl's cheek, brain short circuiting at how...soft and warm the metal was to his touch. While it didn't exactly move with his touch, Jazz could feel the nanites that were on the outer surface of every Cybertronian react, twitching when he felt a buzzing under his finger tips. He becomes used to the buzz as he takes his time mapping out the dips and curves of Prowl's face, missing the cycling of optics before a loud chirp breaks the silence, Jazz yelping as he jerked back in surprise far enough to detach from Prowl's shoulder. He doesn't fall very far when he lands on a hand (servo dude) with a grunt, Prowl looking worried as Jazz propped himself up on one arm.

"Are you alright?"

"Yep! Next time I need ta clip a harness on you or somethin', don't want to fall again." Jazz waved with his uncovered hand, sitting cross-legged on Prowl's palm. "Saw you asleep, an' I couldn't resist."

"Resist what?" A quick look at his chronometer showed he'd not been asleep too long, optics flickering down to his partner when he felt something strange touch one of his digits.

"This might sound kinda weird, but I've wanted ta touch your face since we met." Jazz had uncovered his second hand and was touching the closest digit, a look he couldn't classify crossing Jazz's face when he gave it a squeeze. "Weird, these are warm, but not as warm as your face."

"Did you enjoy your...examination?" Something fluttered in his spark at the smile Jazz gave him, and once again gave thanks to Primus that he'd been given a chance.

"Mhm! I'd love to again some time, see those pretty lil' optics of yours." Jazz winked, watching doorwings give a full on flutter. "Glad we both agree."

"You shall be the end of me, Jazz." Embarrassment colors Prowl's words as he sits back in his chair, watching Jazz lay back on his palm, hands underneath his head as he sighs happily.

"Your hand is pretty comfy...not a sentence I ever expected to say to my boyfriend, but it is what it is."

"I suppose you shall have to make yourself comfortable then, I still have some reports to finish." Prowl clicked, grabbing the pad he'd been reading before he fell asleep.

"Gives me an excuse to nap then." Jazz moved to remove the outer layer that supported his pedes, his processor supplying the word shoe as Jazz resumed his position with a yawn. "Have fun Prowler."

"Have a pleasant recharge, Jazz."

Jazz doesn't need to know he had already completed his work before his "nap", merely settling in for a novel he'd wanted to get through as his partner slept in his grasp.

[ssa-dado]

Stale Cigarette(s)

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: Deep talk instead of deep throat (pre-relationship mutual pining?) Hurt → comfort → hurt → final reminder that old dogs don’t change, they just find warmer corners to lie in Summary: You get dragged to a bar by your coupled-up friends and end up chain-smoking on a bench with your FBI crush. He offers you cigarettes untouched for exactly two years... so- um... what the hell happened two years ago? Warnings: age gap dynamics, smoking stale cigs, they're both a bit tipsy, objectification of the Hotchner body, grief (Haley mentioned), reader is not a reliable narrator! HOTCH SUCKS. HOTCH REALLY SUCKS. Word Count: 4.8k Dado's Corner: To all my readers named Haley: no you don’t. Not for a full 4.8k words, anyway. My deepest apologies. (Feel free to send hate mail. I deserve it.) Edit: if any of this sounded self-indulgent… that’s because it is. An ode to loneliness. Yours, always, Phi :3

masterlist

It’s not always the right historical era to go out with your two very not single friends.

You try. You make an appearance. You sip something overpriced and pretend to be fascinated by the structural integrity of the ice cube.

“My fiancé-” This man used to be called Matt until he got on one knee.

Not that you’re judging.

You’d absolutely pull the same shit if someone proposed to you. You’d probably milk it even more. Refer to them exclusively as “my betrothed” and update your mailing address to include your ring size. But the problem is-

It hasn’t happened.

You. As always.

“…the food was amazing…”

You smile. Take a sip. Your face performs basic social functions, trying to channel what middle-aged FBI speedo guy would do if he were politely enduring small talk at your place.

You are happy for your friend. Truly. (She’s your friend, for fuck’s sake. You should be happy.)

But sometimes happiness is… situational.

Sometimes, out of nowhere, you get blindsided by this sudden, lurching gut-punch of awareness of just how alone you really are.

Every empty seat next to you turns into a flashing neon sign that screams “STILL SINGLE LMAO, ENJOY DYING ALONE”

And then everything goes kind of foggy after that.

“…ever been there?” Not a question meant for you, obviously. (When are they ever?)

You kill time wondering what it might feel like to be someone who’s not just… a guest in this kind of life. To live in it full-time. With central heating.

“No, but Jonah took me to this really cute little-”

Cute little gentrified colonizer gastropub.

Ah, Jonah. The man. The myth. The boyfriend with the brilliant idea to bring his girl (your other friend) to an overpriced bar that looks like it was designed by a tech bro who hasn’t spoken to his mother in six years.

And tonight, instead of the usual dive you could actually afford, they decided this was the perfect friends night out venue.

You’ve never seen this many white men packed into one place outside of a church service. Or a David Fincher retrospective.

To be fair - Jonah does earn some credit.

The eavesdropping is phenomenal.

Behind you, someone is monologuing about astrophysics and the scientific inaccuracy of some Star Wars stuff.

You’re actually kind of into it - until he’s immediately shut down by a dude who goes, “Bro, A New Hope came out before you were even the fastest swimmer in the race. Oh- oh, wait… speaking of someone who’s swimming for real…”

“What about this pool guy?” your friend yanks your attention back, firing a perfectly accurate laser beam straight from the 1.40-carat rock on her finger (it’s cut so clean it reflects light directly into your retinas… ouch. It fucking hurts.) “I’ve heard from a certain someone…”

(Aka the woman sitting directly beside her-)

(Aka your other friend-)

(Aka the only one who actually knows the whole story because she’s the one you drive to swimming lessons every week since Jonah’s dick is allegedly 7.5 inches long but apparently can’t drive stick. Or park. Or show up on time. Or do anything but say “vroom” and hope for the best.)

“…Something you’d like to share about your new boy?”

(Ah. So this is what it takes to be included in the conversation - find a real, non-fictional man to thirst over. Got it. Message received.)

“Oh, definitely not a 'boy',” #PoolFriend adds, laughing.

“But you said-” (Mystery solved. Certain someone = swim friend. Wow. Shocking.) “Wait… is he a she?” (God, you wish.)

“No… it’s just that he’s… older?” you try not to sound defensive. (Defending your mighty little FBI princess is, of course, a sacred duty - but you’d rather not look that pathetic in front of the other feminists.)

“Sooooo old,” she beams. “Like, 60? You can see the forehead lines even when he’s resting his face.”

…Which is meant to be a dig, but actually makes you weirdly feral. You try to be diplomatic. You do. “He’s actually forty–”

“Oh- also, guess what?! He’s a dad too!”

Right. Great. Perfect.

Denied even the dignity of curating the lore drop on your old man, you make the emotionally mature decision to nurse your disappointment with alcohol.

You’re not getting drunk – it might soothe your soul, but one too many and you’ll be working your one day off just to pay the plumber who still hasn’t fixed the leak. So... fuck no.

Still, it’s funny how the tiniest buzz in your limbs, compounded by the fact that dinner was just…a whisper of carbs and a prayer, has evolved into such a deep, primal craving.

You want a cigarette.

One. Just one.

A menthol, preferably.

You’d trade your last serotonin molecule. You’d set fire to your own moral compass for a single drag.

But no. Life (your friends), in its eternal comedy, has placed you (without warning) here: in a… *drumroll* cop bar.

“Jonah said this is where the forces of order” (cops) “usually hang out. What if you find your FBI dilf here?!?”

First of all, that man is definitely not here, slumming it with the masses. He’s at home, swaddled in his sacred cocoon, reading a 700-page book on the macroeconomic collapse of the 1970s and calling it a wild night by page 26.

Second of all, you didn’t catch what she said next because your brain automatically dissociates in spaces that reek of both beer and casual misogyny disguised as patriotism.

Anyway: cop bar.

Which makes the mission of bumming a cig both ten times more illegal… and ten times more boring.

Like - sorry - when did smoking become lame?

When did it stop being for artists, rebels, and hot French women who cry in alleyways, and become the property of fascists puffing cigars the size of traffic cones?

(One comically large cigar to overcompensate for their undersized... moral compass. Among other things.)

Can’t they leave one thing alone? Just one? No. Of course not. They’ve colonized tobacco too.

You don’t even bother looking up from the sad little bench you parked your ass on the second you escaped.

Just sit there sulking, already familiar with the sound: the front door creaking open on hinges that haven’t seen oil since the Clinton administration (fascists don’t believe in lube - it’s too homosexual), and that cheap-ass bell above the frame, probably bulk-ordered from a themed decor warehouse trying to Irish-wash this bar into charm.

(It’s all performative heritage, anyway. Just so a white dude with a colonial guilt complex can feel like his ancestors survived the potato famine, instead of, you know… causing it.)

(Not that he could find Ireland on a globe if it came with a magnifying glass and a voiceover.)

Anyway, the bell rings, it’s time to strike again, “Do you have a cigar-”

“Hello to you too…” Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Hello to you too, Aaron Hotchner. So much for your bedtime tea and lights out by 10. No. Of course he had to be here. Now. Tonight. And of course he’s caught you mid-junkie act.

Stunning. Absolutely divine timing.

“Um- hi- so- I was kidding-”

“Hold on,” he says, already turning on his heel. No urgency. Just casually blessing you with a full high-definition shot of the jeans he clearly chose for tonight’s FBI Besties Night Out.

Jeans that almost, miraculously, give him an ass.

Almost.

(It’s more myth than meat. You know there’s nothing back there except air and possibly unprocessed ambition. [Maybe a little guilt in there too. {Or maybe he just padded}])

(You don’t care. You’re willing to suspend disbelief.)

He makes a beeline for his Serious Government-Issue Black Vehicle™, opens the passenger door, grabs something, shuts it again, and strolls back - front view this time (superior).

That something? Your desired little cancer sticks.

The universe provides.

“Shit, you a smoker?”

“If I were, don’t you think I’d keep them in my own pocket?” he says, topping it off with a little cherry on top (a sigh) that tells you he’s already regretting his detour, as he takes out his lighter.

One that’s clearly been used. A lot. The kind of wear no casual user puts on a Bic.

Unless Aaron’s got a Yankee Candle addiction (doubtful), that thing’s been through it.

“Look…” he starts. (Ah. So he noticed you noticing.) “I used to smoke a lot back when I was…” he fumbles - clearly seconds away from saying your age before veering off, cowardly, at the last second.

Loser.

“I quit when Jack - my son,” he adds, as if you haven’t already bookmarked his LinkedIn, archived Facebook, and the BAU team photo from 2009. Still, you nod, all “ohh” and innocent, so you don’t blow your cover. “-was born. I wouldn’t have been setting a good example. And it was bad for his health.”

“Yours too,” you murmur.

“Sure…” he musters the guts to chuckle. Tipsy? Maybe. Maybe just… soft. “Fuck that shit.”

(Definetely not soft.)

Except he’s full of it. Because if he’s so retired, why does he even have the pack in the first place?

You glance at it. Then down. (Not that down. Okay, a little.) The contradiction is right there in his hands. (And, arguably, in his jeans. But focus.)

Aaron goes all starey and confused, like he’s trying to telepathically summon a reaction from you. Maybe expecting you to scold him for swearing like a big boy. Maybe waiting for you to drop something coy like Wow, I’m sooo impressed, sir. Either way, he’s clearly starving for commentary.

So, in true martyr fashion, he opens the box.

Red Marlboros. Lame-ass classics. Of course. (You mentally pin that detail to your Bullying Vision Board.)

Only one cigarette is missing. Wait - no. Two.

Because he slides one out, tucks it between his lips, and just like that, your primal urge to bully him gets temporarily eclipsed by your even more feral desire to suck that exact cigarette out of his mouth.

“So much for being a quitter… aren’t you training for, like… some sports thing right now? You sure any of this is good for you?”

The cigarette bobs between his lips, his chin tilting just enough to let him peer down at you through half-lidded eyes - drawing a perfect little cardiogram of your heart rate spiking into cardiac arrest as he asks, “And how do you know I’m training for something?

Um...

By his tits.

Specifically: the ones bursting at the seams between the third and fourth button of his denim shirt, testing the tensile limits of ready-to-wear denim.

This is what happens when a man dives headfirst into some unsupervised fitness spiral and forgets to monitor his pec-to-fabric ratio.

Volume expansion was clearly not accounted for - or maybe it was, and this is all part of the plan. (Tactical slutwear.)

Because through that tiny, blasphemous gap in fabric: chest hair. An irresponsible amount of pale pec flesh. And a single freckle positioned so seductively you’d happily trade your liver, your birthright, and three months of overpriced therapy just to tongue it.

“Educated guess.” You’ve been caught - whatever. Still. Bless his midlife crisis. Unironically* the best decision he’s ever made.

…You’re joking, of course.

*Ironically. Yes.

Because all you get as a reply is one boyish little shake of the head instead of some broody retort in his usual Middle English.

He’s showing off.

Lighting up while you’re still empty-handed, selfishly enjoying the moral high ground and the taste of the butt of a cig.

Right hand cupped against the wind like a practiced sinner, flicks the lighter, flame kisses the filter.

He inhales slowly. Cheeks go hollow. Lashes dip low. Lungs greedily taking in what, by all laws of karmic justice, should’ve been your hit.

He leans back the tiniest bit, exhales with a sound that could be a sigh, a groan, a spell - and sends a perfectly petty swirl of smoke drifting up into the night sky…

And directly into your face.

“Are you gonna let me steal one of those or are you just getting off on making me watch?”

He squints. Takes another drag. Blows the smoke directly past your cheek. “Bought these exactly two years ago. I’m just making sure you’re not inhaling mold or… God knows what else.” (Why is God always the third wheel in your conversations?) “…You could try being grateful instead of giving me lip.”

You bite down the urge to say something about lip (or head, being medically accurate). “But I never asked you to do that… I just asked for a fucking cigarette. Let me inhale mold in peace.”

Anyway. Because you’re nothing if not polite - and not in the mood to witness a grown man get misty-eyed outside a bar at whatever-the-fuck o’clock - you sigh, lift your hand toward him, and slap on the biggest, fakest smile in your arsenal. “Please.”

The federal martyr mutters something - probably just for himself - about your relentless display of patheticism, but you’re too busy delightedly accepting a lone cancer stick as it emerges from the raven-haired 40-inch emotional support wig he calls knuckle hair.

“It’s a bit stale. Tastes like shit, honestly - just a heads up,” and drops onto the far end of the bench, manspreading just enough to make it clear that his long-ass legs now own every inch of that square meter.

The lighter gets passed to you wordlessly.

His fingers do not.

They linger - just behind your shoulders, just beyond plausible deniability.

Not touching (God forbid), but drifting into your orbit with the kind of casual inertia that feels anything but. One breath away from contact. From consequence.

Convenient, really - how something can feel so deliberate while technically doing absolutely nothing at all.

Just like how he jolts from his relaxed pose the second he hears you cursing the wind for cockblocking your nicotine hit. No hesitation. His hand curls in around yours, close enough to shield the flame - but closer still for the effect.

And you smell it.

Tonka bean.

Supposed to be subtle. Barely a base note.

But here, up close and concentrated and radiating off his pulse point, it turns narcotic. Sickly sweet and warm and grounded by something woodsy. It spins your head more than the nicotine ever could.

The lighter sparks.

And so do you.

His beautiful eyes.

The fire warms them into the richest hazel - gold spun through molasses - eyes that cast shadows so sharp they immortalise him into myth. Cheekbones all angles and darkness. Jaw tight, like he’s holding back the next thought from spilling out.

You’d kiss him. You would. Kiss his face, kiss his mouth, kiss that stupid expensive smell off his pulse point, kiss the glow from his lashes-

If only your own lips weren’t already wrapped around a filter. (If only you weren’t a monumental fucking coward.)

You hate that his gaze does this to you. That it tastes metallic on your skin, sharp and mineral and weirdly sour-

Just like the cigarette.

Especially when he finally breaks it, glancing down at the concrete like the tension might drain there, too.

“Man, this is barely hitting,” you wheeze - blaming the stale stick, of course, not yourself. Never yourself. Always safer to fault an inanimate object than admit you’re the common denominator of all of your problems.

“Told you,” Aaron gloats, flicking ash off the edge, all giddy because #HeWasRight. “It’s old and fucked. You’ve gotta wait it out. If you’re lucky, the nicotine kicks in and it just sucks slightly less... not as good as a fresh one but - this is all I’ve got.” (…Right. He’s so totally referring to the cigarettes.)

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. This is better than nothing,” you mumble, dragging again. “Anything that helps me forget this waste of a Friday.”

Which is a lie, obviously. Because sitting on a sad bench chain-poisoning yourself with a middle-aged… (oof) cop… is easily the best part of it.

Not that you’d ever admit that out loud.

God forbid he ever clocks the fact that all your chances with him are already in the gutter because of how openly, stupidly rueful you’ve been acting.

Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s his fault.

Maybe he’s pulling some sick, gravitational field of pitifulness out of you just by existing.

Just by making you feel more at ease than your actual friends do - friends who drag you out to overpriced bars and call it “catching up” but barely ask a single question.

Maybe it’s because he actually listens. Doesn’t rush to fill silence. Doesn’t take and take and take.

And that’s all it takes.

One line of smoke down your throat, and the floodgates swing open. Words start tumbling out like it’s a compulsion. Like he’s the first pair of ears that hasn’t immediately gone looking for someone shinier.

“Let me guess… you’re one of those people who only smoke when they fuck something up? What happened? Divorce?”

Aaron tuts (man?!), “Close… though I’m not sure you’re in any position to judge - seeing as you only seem to smoke when someone else fucks up.”

How ironic.

If you were ever stupid enough to end up together and he managed to fuck things up (which he would) you’d both be right back here, smoke in your lungs, hands shaking, pretending it’s not about each other.

Hopeless. You’d never work. You’d ruin each other on principle.

Maybe it’s the cigarette. Maybe sharing something as self-destructive as this creates a kind of camaraderie. You’re both shaving off a few years of your lives, like the ads promise, so it only feels fair to share the minutes too.

So as ash falls onto the concrete, he learns a few things about you. That this was your friends’ idea. That it was supposed to be “a fun night out.” That you didn’t really want to come. And somehow - God knows how - maybe it’s his Catholic guilt boiling in his bloodstream over dying in sin - but he finally says,

“You didn’t really look like you were part of the conversation.”

You nearly drop the cigarette.

He was kind of right. The nicotine takes a while to hit - but maybe it’s more the hit of being noticed.

By him, no less.

(A man.)

(With a tit out.)

Suddenly, the whole thing feels archaic - like you’ve time-traveled back to the era when women weren’t allowed to vote, but still hoped the town’s handsomest soldier might remember what color dress they wore at the spring fair.

Or when tampons were taxed as luxury items. (Wait a second...)

What a world.

What progress.

Progress also means he admits he recognized you… by the back of your head.

He’d been sitting behind you. Of course you hadn’t seen him. But he’d seen you. Not your face. Just your outline. Your posture. Your absence. And still - he knew it was you.

Which should make you feel triumphant. Gloaty, even.

FBI DILF has your silhouette burned into the folds of his premature memory loss? That’s deranged. That’s power. You should weaponize it.

Feels… bittersweet.

Because it wasn’t the presence of your face that triggered recognition. It was the lack of it. The gap. The space you take up when no one else is looking. And somehow… he looked anyway.

Fucking hell.

You need to stop smoking Aaron’s cigarettes.

They don’t just burn your throat - they peel you open, down to the bone. Turn your lungs to pulp and your brain to mushy existential soup. This is not you.

Or maybe this is you. Maybe this is the real you. The needy one. The one who just wants someone to see her.

And worse - he does. He might. And maybe that’s what makes him dangerous.

Maybe he sees things about you that you haven’t even admitted to yourself yet.

Or maybe he’s just like every other man who ever looked at you and called you a friend. Right after unzipping his pants.

Stale cigarettes, overpriced alcohol, and unsolicited introspection. The worst threesome of all.

“It just fucking sucks, man,” you mutter. You’re not blaming yourself. Plato probably said something similar while chain-smoking scrolls or whatever. “Like, I know love is fake. I know it. But even if it’s childish - rooted in all that patriarchal storybook bullshit - I still feel like I deserve the kind of love they read to me about as a kid.”

“Oh, no,” Aaron softens his voice. “I disagree with that first part.” Of course you do, old man. “I don’t think love is fake, maybe the forever part is what’s unrealistic. The happy ending…” (What’s wrong with him???) “The happily ever after, that’s the myth. But you shouldn’t blame yourself for wanting something that lasts.”

…Something real. Something that doesn’t flake like ash in the wind.

You can smell the incoming boomer sermon from a mile away - and yep, here it comes. “I just don’t understand this fear men seem to have now about settling down. Is it fear of choosing? Dating apps make everyone feel disposable. Like if you commit, you might miss out on someone better. So you never do. Or maybe it’s something worse. Fear of feeling. Of loving.”

Shit.

How exactly are you supposed to explain to Aaron Hotchner that he just accidentally summed up your entire Notes app without sounding like you’re about to snap into a spoken word piece about modern loneliness?

"Easy to say when you’ve only got a few years left and don’t want to die alone." You’re not being mean. You’re just out of emotional vocabulary. That was the cleanest sentence you could manage with the filter still burning between your fingers.

He taps his cigarette against the bench. Smoke curls out of his smirk. “Funny - I was just about to say you don't sound like a horrible person.”

You snort. “See? You’re not that different from all the other dickheads out there.”

"Maybe, but that doesn’t make you unworthy of being loved .” (Pause. Beat. Murder.) “And - frankly - you underestimate how many masochists would find your tendency to call people out when they’re being dickheads… oddly endearing."

“Masochists? Really?!”

“Miss, you called me a dickhead… heavily implied, yes, but still,” he chuckles, “Masochists aside - I’m serious. I hope you know that.”

“Well… thank you then.”

“Anytime.” Said like it doesn’t cost him anything to be generous for three seconds. Must be nice.

You’re not naïve.

This (whatever this is) this rhythm of trading barbs and pretending not to notice how good it feels to be seen? It’ll end with the cigarette. That’s the expiration date.

Once the last drag’s done, so is the spell. Back to real life, back to no obligation to talk. Back to being strangers again.

So maybe that’s why it slips out.

“I think what gets to me the most is... I just want someone to actually listen. Like, really listen. Not out of pity, not out of politeness. Not because it’s their fucking turn to play therapist. Just… because they want to. Because they care enough to. I want to be helped. I want to be seen. And it sucks. It sucks that no one ever really does. It sucks not knowing if that someone… exists. Ever feel that kind of lonely?”

“I understand what you mean. If it helps… loneliness might be the most universal condition there is. It’s paradoxical - everyone feels it, but no one wants to admit it. You grow up being told people are essential. That you need connection to be whole. But the truth is… most of the time, it’s just you. You think your own thoughts. You carry your own weight. The rest… they’re- complimentary. Temporary. Additions. They matter, but they’re not the foundation.” (Man… that’s depressing.) “Or at least, that’s what I’ve always believed.”

“And you’re fine with that?! Not having anyone who can help you make sense of… everything?” You shake your head, baffled. “I don’t even know how you function.”

He breathes in deep, doesn’t look at you when he answers. “I compartmentalize. I separate myself from the problem and keep going. If I let myself really sit with it… I wouldn’t be useful to the people who need me more.”

Hero complex. Exhibit A.

“You’re telling me you never talk to anyone about your feelings?” you ask. “Like… not even one friend? Not even one of your little apocalypse buddies you save the world with?”

“We’re colleagues, not friends.” (So he’s basically admitting he has no friends… isn’t he?) “And for the record, I am opening up to you right now, aren’t I?”

“Dude…” This man. This man is the emotional equivalent of a locked filing cabinet at the bottom of the ocean. And you want him. Disgusting. “Despite some of the stuff you’ve told me being… like… genuinely borderline horrible, and you’re so lucky I didn’t deck you-”

He smirks. “You could’ve. I probably deserved it.”

You glance over. He’s chuckling to himself now, the corners of his mouth tugged upward just slightly, cheeks flushed, probably from the scotch finally catching up with him.

“Aside from calling me a dickhead, of course…” he adds.

You fumble. Damn it. “I was trying to say - despite that - your words did help. A little.” Smug little upturn of his mouth. You want to slap it off him. For real this time. “Not like… made-everything-better kind of help. More like - didn’t make me feel worse. Which is basically the same thing, right?”

He smiles. Pretentious asshole. You need to stay strong - not linger on it, not let it do things to your insides.

So you pivot. Hard.

“Sometimes it helps, you know? Getting a fresh pair of eyes on your mess. You just have to - I don’t know - admit you’re a loser, peel off a couple layers of that bulletproof manhood you’ve wrapped yourself in, and actually say what you’re feeling. To someone. Out loud. With words.”

He looks at you. He’s supposed to take another drag, but he doesn’t. Just watches. Still. Quiet.

“Yeah, I know. Wild concept.” You shake your head, let yourself soften - just a little. Just for him. Maybe he’s worth it. “But if you don’t do that, no one’s ever gonna get it. Not really. People can’t read your mind, Aaron. They’re not gonna understand unless you tell them. And even then, it’s a gamble. But it’s the only shot you’ve got.”

“You always make it sound so easy, Hales.”

“That’s… not my name.”

“What?” *The Bluetooth device is ready to pair.* You can hear the connection click in his skull. “Oh – God - I’m so sorry.” *The Bluetooth device is connected successfully.* “I didn’t- didn’t mean- I’m sorry, you just… you sounded exactly like her.”

You don’t know who he means. Not for sure. You have a guess, of course. Everyone has a guess when a man like him says “her” with that look in his eye.

But you’re too annoyed to admit it. Too annoyed and – maybe - just a little dizzy. From the cigarette. From the him of it all. From the ache in your chest that shouldn’t be there, not really.

Because the one fucking time someone actually seems to listen to you, to hear you, it’s not even really you they’re hearing.

It’s her. It was always her.

You were just close enough in shape and tone and timing to wake the shadow of someone else.

“It’s just that… it’s been two years today.”  Oh, mysterious boy. From what?! From what?

You want to yell. You want to pull his stupid loose shirt tighter so it stops falling open every time he leans forward and says emotionally damaging things.

“Actually…” he gives a watery little laugh, and you hate how beautiful it is, how it lands soft and splintering right in your chest.

“It’s been two years since I bought these too,” he says, pulling out the same battered pack of Marlboros. Same lame-ass, fermented cigarettes from his glove compartment. Same pack with only one missing - until tonight. The same ones he offered you.

 The same ones he last smoked two years ago.

“…And two years since my wife’s funeral.”

The filter tastes rancid.

You know the situation is deeply, apocalyptically fucked when not only does he casually drop a circumstantial bomb to imply she’s dead - because actually saying the words would clearly cost him something vital - but he also slips. Calls her his wife.

Not ex-wife.

(You may or may not have stalked him so thoroughly that you accidentally uncovered his signed divorce papers on a weird, half-archived subpage of her attorney’s old website. Whoopsies.)

So it’s not just the grief. It’s the grief plus the guilt plus the very subtle, very devastating slip that he maybe never stopped thinking of her as his wife.

Even after.

Even now.

Which would be a perfect cue to walk away. To protect yourself. To not indulge whatever haunted cathedral of unresolved feelings he’s got going on behind those wet lashes.

You should leave.

You should definitely leave.

…But he’s so hot when he cries.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @donttrustlove ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kiwriteswords ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @msfreedom ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @purechaosss ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[hoshifighting]

Whai kind of camboys would svt be? What content eo of them would offer?

       seventeen as camboys

WARNINGS: smut, public sex, fingering/handjob, sub/dom, degradation, porn, tantric sex, porn asmr, dirty talk, edging, denial, sex toys, porn filters, amateur, sex partners, masturbation, forced orgasm, hand fetish...

seungcheol dom daddy af pov. full-on bdsm content. he’s got the handcuffs, the restraints.. he’s the type to sit back, shirtless, broad shoulders on full display, he’s telling the audience when they’re allowed to touch themselves, making them wait until he gives them the okay. sometimes he’ll tease by stroking himself, not showing his cock on camera. uses a mask too. and prize draw a fan for him to fuck on the channel's birthdays.

jeonghan edging and denial. always with someone new on cameras, he’ll start his stream fully clothed, just smiling that devilish grin, playing with his hair, “oh? you want me to take it off?” but he’ll drag it out for so long, giving lil’ peeks of skin here and there. sometimes he’ll straight up dip after a tease. he moans all breathy, making eye contact with the camera.

joshua hear me out.. asmr & dirty talk. joshua’s got a voice that’ll melt you, so ofc he’d be doing those long, drawn-out sessions where he’s whispering right into your ear, breathing heavy like he’s right next to you. audio experience—close your eyes, and it’s like he’s fuckin’ you with just his voice. “you want me louder? fuck, i’ll give you loud.”

junhui body worship. there for the visuals, his streams are all about him showing off—slow, oiled-up body shots, flexing, maybe even a lil’ self-praise thrown in. “yeah, you like what you see?” it’s basically softcore porn for your eyes, just… him flexing and jerking off like a fuckin’ greek god. “fuck, i make you so wet, don’t i?”

hoshi messy sex, rough sex & overstimulation. everything with hoshi is physical af, like he’s tryna fuck you through the screen. the type that even gets the camera dirty. absolute chaos. every stream is like a workout, sweat dripping down his body while he’s all breathless, flexing between rounds. “fuck, lemme catch my breath,” he’ll say, grinning at the camera, then he’s back at it, moaning loud enough to wake the neighbors.

wonwoo public sex. wonwoo’s always in public spaces, daring his partner to keep quiet while he fucks them somewhere they could get caught. or just masturbating in public. “don’t make a sound, or we’ll get in trouble.” dirty whispers, his hands everywhere while people walk by, totally unaware. pure adrenaline. all of that with him looking around, and them looking at the camera through his glasses.

woozi hands-only content = fingering&handjob masterclass/tutorial. man’s got skills, and he’s showing them off. finger-fucking a silicone cunt or fisting a dildo, or his cock, while he mutters filth under his breath. it’s like a fuckin’ anatomy lesson. he’s so damn precise with it, it almost feels unfair. you know he could make you cum in record time.

minghao tantric sex & roleplay. minghao’s streams are straight-up sensual. artful af. his streams are like some softcore art film, everything in slow motion, dim lights, silk sheets, slow burn. it’s less about the dirty talk and more about the vibe. but when he does speak, it’s smooth, deep, and straight to the point. “you’ve been waiting for this? let’s make it worth your time.” every moan perfectly timed, like he’s orchestrating the whole experience.

mingyu sub humiliation. big puppy turned sub, tied up, begging for more while he gets humiliated. he will moan pout, getting all flustered when called a good boy. the humiliation only turns him on more—loves begging. the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

seokmin sex toy review. mr. too sweet, all polite, “hi, how was your day?” then he gets into it and fuck, you’re blindsided. he’s got this wholesome look, but once he starts testing the toys, he’s so vocal too. moaning, breathless, almost embarrassed at how into it, because he needs to talk about the whole experience, he gets but also loving every second. the type that reads mostly of the streaming comments. “i hope you have a good night.” he’ll flash that sweet smile, by the end of the stream.

seungkwan mean dom, forced orgasm. this man is cruel in the best way. he’s tying someone to a chair, not letting them cum until they’re crying, pleading with him. “aww, baby, you’re all messed up, huh? too bad, i’m not done.” won’t stop until you’re a wreck. every tear is a turn-on for him.

vernon twitter-porn-style, faceless porn. faceless, purple bedroom lights, and it’s just his giant cock on display, no face, no extra fluff. the vids speak for themselves. slow strokes under fuzzy lighting, letting you focus on just the action. simple but devastating. maybe a low grunt or two if you’re lucky.

chan amateur couple content. chan’s a full boyfriend experience—enthusiastic af, experimenting, maybe even bringing in a partner sometimes. he’s loud, whimpering when he gets close, showing off how excited he is to try new things. you’re in it together, and his moans are infectious.

[itsonlyjoseph]

Port Valley | Bucky Barnes x Reader - Chapter 1

Synopsis: After catching your boyfriend with another woman, you pack up and move across the country to a small logging town. swearing off men forever, a certain grumpy lumberjack might change your mind.

Warnings: for this chapter nothing. little angsty

Word count: 2.1k

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Winter was already settling deep your bones and it was only a week and a half into the season. The brisk New York City air flew past your jacket and down your back, chilling you instantly as you rounded the corner, heading back to your apartment. Well, your boyfriend’s apartment.

It had been 2 and a half years since you started dating and 9 months since living with Adam. It was nice. He was nice. You met him at a bar downtown and hit it off instantly. You had similar interests and values and could see yourself marrying him and popping out a few of his kids one day. The thought warmed your cheeks despite the temperature outside.

The sudden heat of the inside of the brownstone welcomed you as you made your way up the stairs. You had been planning on talking to Adam about potentially getting a dog or a cat or something to take your relationship to the next step and were going to ask him today.

Your key slotted into the keyhole and turned leading you inside the home. Your home. Yours and Adam’s home. Life was nice.

Once the door opened, you heard the music playing. Adam was big into rock music and often played it to help him concentrate on this work. Walking into the study, you expected to find him holed up behind his computer, furiously typing away but were instead met with an empty room. Odd

You furrowed your eyebrows and made your way to the bedroom, opening the door.

You found Adam. You were about to open your mouth to speak when the scene before you suddenly registered. Adam and another woman. In your bed. Having sex.

They hadn’t noticed you yet and your stomach turned. He was moving so passionately with this woman in a way that he'd never moved with you. He was touching her in a way he'd never touched you. Making sounds with her in a way he'd never done with you. It felt like a shot gun blast to the face, honestly.

A loud shriek in the form of a what the fuck left your mouth as your eyes turned as wide as saucers.

They finally noticed you. Adam pulled the blanket up to their chins as if that would somehow make things better. Better for her, obviously. That hurt.

“Y/N..” Adam exclaimed, clearly very surprised.

“What the fuck!?” You repeat, just louder.

The interaction was a big blur after that. Adam didn’t even try to give you some lame, half baked excuse. He was just speechless. Didn’t know what to say and did think he’d get caught. He did tell you he loved you though. Told you that he still wanted to be with you. If you weren’t so blindsided you might have laughed.

That’s how you ended up here, a week and a half later, at your dad’s house in Port Valley, on the other side of the country. Port Valley was a sleepy logging town in Washington State that your father and late mother retired to 8 years ago. They found it on a map and decided that that was their new home because it gave a sense of calm and belonging. At least, that what they said about.

You’d never actually visited, considering work and travel and Adam was always busy with whatever but you had spoken to them everyday since. Your dad now texted you twice a day since your mother’s passing.

You were wearing your dad’s big button down shirt, some horribly worn sweatpants from high school and socks so fuzzy your feet were starting to sweat despite the gentle snow fall outside. Some bad hallmark movie was playing on the tv in the living room and you were surrounded by empty boxes of chocolates. You had a tummy ache after all the sweets and junk but you didn't have it in you to care.

When you called your dad that fateful day, he was expecting the usual. Talk about work, talk about the show you were watching and so on but you were sobbing, barely understandable as you told him what happened.

He didn't get angry like typical dads would. He was sad that his baby girl was hurting at the hands of someone who was mean't to love and care for her and that hurt him. He paid for your airfare the next day and picked you up from the airport.

He walked into the living to find you scoffing at the male love interest proclaiming his undying love.

"You just wait, sister. You just wait." You groaned, annoyed at the movie.

“Sweetie, you’ve sat on this couch for a week. Does your job know that you’re here?” Your dad asked.

“No.. I’m not going back anyway.”

“Back…”

“To New York, to that job. To those people. None of it. It makes me sick to think of that city now” You mumbled.

“Baby, I’d love to have you stay here with me, I really would. But you need to work. You need to live.”

“Yeah, yeah.. I know.”

“I can ask around for you if you’d like? Try to get you a job here? If you really plan on staying for a while.”

You looked at your dad and saw his hopeful smile. He was a good man and only wanted the best for his family and now that your mom had passed away, he was extra attentive.

“Okay, dad. Thanks.” You managed out a small, sad smile.

****

The snow was getting heavier as the nights wore on. Bucky was working overtime at the lumberyard trying to make ends meet and distract himself from the boredom of his life. He’d lived here in Port Valley for the last 32 years and knew that he’d probably never leave. He didn’t care to. His job was here, his friends were here, his mom was here. Life could be worse.

Obviously life could be way better too.

Bucky’s jaw was locked tight as the cold nipped at him, hauling log and after log around as if they weighted nothing.

Bucky was a strong man. Stronger than most. He knew that. He also knew that it came with downsides. He was always hungry. So very hungry. His stomach rumbled at the thought of dinner after his shift.

Just a few more logs to go…

He was going to see his mother after work and eat with her since she’d begged him to a dozen times in the last week alone. He had to yes to his mom eventually or he wouldn't hear the end of it.

****

The bookstore your dad took you to the next day was located about a 5 minute walk from your dads house but felt longer with the cold wind against your face.

“Winnie! This is my daughter, Y/N.” Your dad called out to the woman sitting behind the counter of the Port Valley bookstore. She was short, sweet looking older woman with curly brown hair and glasses perched on her little nose. She looked up and smiled as the two of approached.

“Hi, I’ve heard so much about you! Oh my, you are so stunning, you look just like your mother.” She beamed.

I gave her a half smile and said thanks.

Her expression turned from warm to remorseful in seconds, though so you knew your dad had told this woman what had happened.

“Your father told me about what happened. I am so sorry dear. I know just how awful men can be.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” You said to her statement, somewhat amused. You were still kind of in shock about it all.

“How old are you dear?” She looked at you with an inquisitive brow.

“Uh, 27..” You mumbled out, tired.

“Oh! You’re a few years younger than my boy, James. You’ll meet him soon. He’s a nice man. Gentle giant as they say.” She smiled.

You tried to smile at her and nod your head, but it probably came off very strained. You honestly didn’t care to meet her son, or anyone else’s son for that matter. The thought of a man made you want to roll your eyes.

Winnie thankfully turned back to your dad and started talking about some town event that was coming up that they both needed to organise a booth for. You zoned out during this.

Your dad had mentioned to you that this Winnie woman would gladly give you a job if you were half as kind as your parents were. You were thankful of course and truely hoped you lived up to that claim, but it was hard to show these days. That’s why your dad brought you down here to meet her and check out the store before you started. You felt like a teenager again and you hated it. So young with no control, needing your dads supervision in public. It made anger bubblenunder your skin. It was all Adam and that floozy’s fault-

Before the anger could bubble over and explode out of you, the doorbell chimed and you heard Winnie talk.

“James! There you are!”

You turned at the sound, somewhat curious, and saw a man standing in the doorway with a hard emotionless look painted on his face.

“This is Albert’s daughter, Y/N! She’s going to be working with me. She just came in from New York last week!” Winnie smiled.

James, apparently Winnie’s son, looked rather uncomfortable. He gave a stiff nod and then his eyes went back to his mother. He had long dark hair that stopped just above his shoulders, hidden underneath a baseball cap, he looked to be around 6’4 or close to it and built like a brick house. You’d never actually seen a man so… large. Strong looking… you could see the muscles flexing and tensing under the tight shirt as he shifted on his feet.

You quickly let the thoughts evaporate from your mind.

No. Men bad.

“Well, I have a dinner date with my son. Y/N, I’ll see you on Monday morning?”

“Uh, yeah, thanks again.” You said as you turned back to her.

She smiled and the three of you walked back to the front door to close up. James was already out and waiting by his truck.

You’d said your goodbyes and watched as James and Winnie drove off towards the diner on the other side of town. Not a far drive at all considering the tiny surface area. Half of Port Valley was just forest land. You guessed that's why this was a logging town.

You’d gathered that James was either in a bad mood today or just a grumpy asshole. You’d be offended if you weren’t so heartbroken from Adam.

****

“So, what did you think?” Winnie asked Bucky, with a sly smile on her face as they slide into a booth in the far end of the diner.

“About what?” Bucky mumbled, his voice gruff and hard, as he looked over the menu that hadn't changed his whole life.

“About Y/N. She’s beautiful, right?” Winnie gushed.

This made Bucky finally look up at her, narrowing his eyes at her grin.

“What are you trying to do, ma?”

“Nothing, nothing. I’m just saying.” She had her hands up in mock surrender. “I think she’s going to be staying with Albert for a while, so I'd like to make her feel welcome. And that includes you.”

They got their food after 10 minutes and started digging in.

“Her boyfriend cheated on her. In their bed. She walked in on them.” She started up again, cutting into her meat..

“Ma!” Bucky sighed. “Can we just eat?”

There was a moment of silence, but if Bucky knew his mother, and he knew her well, that silence was short lived.

“When was the last time you were with a woman?”

“Jesus, ma!” Bucky nearly choked, dropping his fork and reaching for a napkin. The idea of talking to his mother about his non existent sex life was actually mortifying.

“I just want you to be happy, James. That’s all I care about.”

“I know, ma, I know.” He mumbled, mouth full of food. “I am… happy.”

Winnie looked at her sweet boy with a sad smile.

She knew Bucky wasn't depressed or suicidal or anything. He’d always been a quiet boy. Even before he went off to Afghanistan. Even before his father left when he was a teenager. But he’s never brought a girl home or really “hung out” with the guys besides his lunch breaks. She wanted him to be whole, in whatever form that took.

He wanted him to have a purpose beyond his job. Maybe that purpose would be a family.

“I know, my baby.” Winnie smiled, digging back into her food.

[anashins]

So this just happened to me but I found out my bf doesn’t have my contacts saved with any kind of emoji or cute nickname. Maybe a suggestion for a Drabble? Feel like a child writing this but idk how this has me so bummed and sad

Pairing: Jaehyun x You

Genre: fluff, romance

Word Count: 1.1k

Summary: As you find out that Jaehyun doesn't have your contact saved on his phone under a cute nick name, you start comparing your relationship to others. After all, that must mean you're not special to him - right?

A/N: I hope everything went well for you, dear! My bf always says, “I don’t know, you have to tell me!” - so just tell him! Because men are simple but their partners' feelings matter to them, even if they seem childish to you 💞

“Under which name did your boyfriend save you on his phone? You know that?”

You looked at your best friend who tilted her head as though in deep thoughts. For a moment, you hoped she wouldn’t know, wouldn’t care, and that you were overdramatic after all like you had feared all along, but almost instantly, she replied,

“When we started dating, he had me saved as ‘my girl’ without any kind of emoji. When we officially decided to get together, he saved my contact as ‘baby’ with a pink heart, and it remained like this until now.”

Your best friend wasn’t the first one who you had asked and whose answer was almost identical to your other taken friends you had questioned about this topic: Their boyfriends all had them saved on their phones with either a cute nickname, some meaningful emoji or both.

Your own boyfriend had you saved on his phone under your government name. 

You usually never looked at his screen as there were always so many things going on with different people from his group, from his management and from people in the industry in general, so it was always buzzing anyway. 

But when a week ago you had been lying next to him, sending him pictures from the activity you had done together shortly before, your name popped up in his chat history.

Your full name.

You had been bummed, and he had happily continued on as if he hadn’t minded you seeing this, as if this was the most normal thing in the world and didn’t make you feel less special among all his other contacts - and there were a lot for an idol.

After all, even when you didn’t have as many connections as him, you had your boyfriend saved as,

‘Yuno-ya’ with a pink heart.

It wasn’t the most romantic nickname as you weren’t calling each other pet names at all, but still cute and emphasized his contact to filter his name out of all other people.

Now, hearing all the other boyfriends having your female friends saved as something special, it made you feel even sadder as if the entire thing hadn’t been bothering you for a week already. 

“Under which name has your boyfriend your contact saved on his phone?” your best friend questioned back.

You sighed out loud.

-

“I don’t like it when you make that face,” Jaehyun immediately said to you instead of a greeting when you came over to his house later that day. “And you have randomly started making it the last time we met. I’ve been worrying all week, but on the phone you always say everything is fine when it’s clearly not. Tell me now, did I do something wrong?”

You bit into your bottom lip. You felt that now was the chance, now or never before it would eat you up from the inside and you would never be able to let go of it. “Under which name do you have me saved on your phone?”

Jaehyun widened his eyes, completely blindsided by this unexpected silly question, apparently. “Pardon?”

“My contact,” you described it better for him. “Under which name can you find me in your contacts?”

He confusedly proceeded to speak out your full government name.

“Exactly!” you called him out.

“I don’t understand.”

“You have me saved in your contacts under my full name!”

“Well… isn’t that your full name? Under what name should I save you then? Should I make one up or…” He shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on! What’s the problem here?”

You folded your arms in front of your chest. The longer you went on to explain this situation to a very oblivious Jaehyun, the sillier you started to feel. Were you exaggerating? But none of your friends had said so and claimed your feelings were valid.

Suddenly, your voice was very low when you poured out your feelings to him as there was no turning back anymore. “My friend’s boyfriends have them all saved on their phones under some cute nickname. Or with a cute emoji at least. I also have you saved as Yuno-ya with a heart. It makes the other person feel special and makes the contact stand out from everyone else. It gives you a little surge of excitement whenever that person’s name pops up. As you have me saved with my full government name… it makes me think if you see me as everyone else and I’m not that special to you.”

Your breakout followed a few moments of silence in which you kept your gaze locked to the ground as you were now kind of too embarrassed to face Jaehyun. Hearing these words… you felt so childish.

The pat you felt on the top of your head only shortly later convinced you of the opposite though. When you lifted your head, Jaehyun wasn’t laughing and he didn’t look like he wanted to make fun of you or didn’t understand your feelings at all.

“I’m sorry,” he said with genuine concern. “I… didn’t know. I have everyone saved on my phone with their full government name as there are just so many people that it really gives me a hard time to separate them all or even remember who they are. Even the members aren’t an exception, only my parents. It was just a habit I followed when we exchanged contacts and I was never bothered enough to change it. If I had known it was this important to you, I would have done it right away.”

Was it really this simple? Some men like your boyfriend just didn’t know, were totally unaware of such things and you simply needed to tell them to change whatever bothered you, no matter how silly and childish it might sound?

He was a perfect partner for you and you couldn’t believe you let such a futile thing question his feelings for an entire week.

Jaehyun smiled at you and pulled out his phone. “Don’t ever think again that you’re not special to me and I never feel excitement rushing through me whenever your name pops up on my phone. Your chat is pinned at the very top and your number saved as favorites. Among everyone I regularly keep in contact with, even if I don’t answer for hours, I always answer you first. I always recognize your picture, no matter how many times you change it. Upon first glance, I always recognize it’s you. My beautiful girl.”

He gave you a kiss on the cheek and then proceeded to type something into his phone with a wide grin, obviously changing your name name.

“What did you save my contact under now?” you asked and wanted to catch a glimpse, but Jaehyun quickly pulled his phone away from you.

“Text me now and you’ll see.”

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

you know what's delicious? yn who started wearing flavored lip balm/lip tint because of suguru — so that every time suguru ate a curse, he could just easily pull the man into a kiss to get rid of the disgusting taste suguru hates so much ((bonus points if yn also pops in a candy/sweet/chocolate in his mouth before feeding it to suguru through a kiss — anything to help suguru forget the taste of curses)) yeah... just... suguruyn for the win man 😋🫶

((even more bonus points when satoru finds out later and he gets all jelly because 1. he doesn't know the lip balm/lip tint can come with a flavor so he felt blindsided and of course, he humphs and puffs because of it and 2. he wanted a chocolatey sweetness kissies too!!!! and of course lastly, 3. he felt left out because he never knows that suguruyn always makes out every single time suguru ate a curse so he's all pouty about it — ask him to join in next time!!!))

❝ He's just like candy, he's so sweet ❞

polycule (Satoru x r! x Suguru)) | alternate universes (Suguru is not a cult-reader), fluff, NSFW | vers. bottom. reader (AMAB) | NOT PROOFREAD | wc: 3.6k

warnings: foodplay, threesomes, pouty satoru & smug suguru, semi-public sex, d/s dynamics

masterlist; part 1; part 2; part 3; alternate ending; playlist; au's and what if's

author's note: in this au, they slayed the links that made me lose my mind (thank you @xuxitheii for making me squeal and kick my feet): geto suguru : gojo satoru : gojo satoru being a big baby

Curses. Ugly as sin and tastes just as foul. Suguru remembers the first time he discovered he could devour them; how awful it felt as it went down his throat, bulging out and staying there — blocking his airway as he struggled to find it in himself to swallow.

The way his teeth ached. His throat convulsed and his instincts forced it back up but his fingers blocked it from doing so. It warbled in the back of his mouth, begging to be let out and 7-year-old Suguru just knew he couldn’t bear for it to disturb him again. He couldn’t handle it speaking nonsensically into his ear, slinking under his bed or even staring right at him as it grinned so wide Suguru swore he could see his reflection in its yellow, wicked-sharp, teeth.

The pills his parents (his poor, non-sorcerer, parents) had given him to help with his “hallucinations” made him feel as though a thick fog was obscuring his brain. His thoughts faded and his movement groggy, his emotions caged while his body still felt the anxious tremors that ran through him when he saw them.

The curses made him feel like he was constantly in a deep pit of despair. Everything wrong in the world, the depravity and impulses of humanity that manifested into these grotesque creatures in the palm of his hands made his nose sting, till this day, as an 18-year-old; it made his eyes well with tears.

Suguru can't describe it in a way people could understand. But if asked, he’d used the viscera of a vomit rag being forced down your throat.

But the strong protect the weak. While your lips protect them from his ire. This one goes down with a loud gulp, his fingers blocking his lips as he tosses his head back. The worst is almost over, the aftertaste will linger but not for long. Because then, he feels your weight on his chest and Suguru is pliant as you gently pry his fingers away.

“You did a good job, baby.” Suguru flutters his eyes open and he can’t help the way his lips twitch eagerly. Your lips are glossier than usual, he can smell the cherry flavour on them. His hands wrap themselves around your waist. It’s a firm grip.

Mine, he says without speaking, mine — all mine.

He pulls and a huff of air escapes you in a series of chuckles. “I know we haven’t been out in a while, but did you miss me that much, Su-Su?” Suguru frowns at your jest. It’s rare for him to pout. That role is often delegated to your boyfriend, Satoru. So this must truly upset him.

Because, yes, he did.

You’d been called overseas to complete a mission. It was the norm for sorcerers considering the population of sorcerers in Japan; outsourcing they called it. Your curse technique was needed for this mission and truly, it didn’t take long but Suguru had done solo missions and he missed you.

Three solo missions. Three disgusting, dog-shit, vomit-stained rags, down his throat. Three days without you by his side.

He hated it.

“Don’t ask a silly question like that ever again,” he mumbles. Silly. The way he scolds you always makes you smile. Never crass or rude — his voice reminds you of the symphony of leaves singing with the wind as they danced and speckled light onto the forest floors and cool water bubbling over rocks.

“Why? Why can’t I ask silly questions?” You tease, placing your elbows on his shoulder and hanging your hands behind him. Purposefully lax despite the coquettish smile on your face.

“You already know the answer.” He speaks with such sincerity. Every word is heavy with nothing but candour and adoration. It makes your eyes soften and Suguru squeezes you closer.

“I do?” He nods at your words, the tip of his nose brushing over yours and his tan skin so flushed on the apples of his cheeks.

“Kiss me like you miss me, baby.”

Suguru’s lips land on yours like a feather. Supple as always he begins it with a long-lasting peck. Pouty lip against pouty lip. His hands climb up your back and he presses between your shoulder blades to somehow hold you closer; his jaw opens and yours does the same. There it is — that heaven that’s your mouth. Suguru groans and you feel his tongue sneaking in, devouring you like a starved man.

The cherry flavour on your lips, the sweetness of the candy you let melt on your tongue, the way your fingers grip his hair, the way he can feel your breath on his cheek as you try to breathe. He wishes that the two of you never needed air. Suguru wants nothing more than to kiss you forever and ever and ever —

“Hey!”

You part with a gasp, cheeks warm and lips almost bruised as the line of spit between the two of you breaks. At the mouth of the alleyway was your boyfriend; Gojo Satoru.

His arms are crossed and he taps his foot in a cartoonish fashion. Despite that, both of you know that the frown on his face is very much real. “What gives? I exorcised the other curses and I came back to the two of you making out. So unfair!”

Suguru parts with a sigh, rolling his eyes to the side and pouting his lips to the side as he muttered about Satoru having FOMO. It makes you giggle and he smiles when you lean forward to place your face right under his jaw.

“S’toru, you’re being a baby. Suguru did a lot of work and I was just thanking him.” Satoru unfolds his arms and flaps them around in protest.

“I did work too!”

And it has begun — Satoru’s famous little tantrums. Oh, he could go for a full hour if he was really worked up but there is a saving grace in him having them. He closes his eyes when he’s yappering. Suguru is listening to his huffy boyfriend but then you kiss his chin and he tilts his face down to look at you.

“Hm?” your teeth brush over his lower lips, then plant firmly on his. “Baby?” he smiles in the lip-locking and you whine about it because his lips should not stretch into that handsome smile, they should be pursed outward and part to let you in.

He tastes chocolate on your tongue. The creaminess of the chocolate makes him groan along with the citrusy notes. That combined with the fruitiness of the cherry tint on your lips makes the taste of the curses he’d ingested (exorcised) all but disappear. Your hands climb to the lobe of his ears and his breath hitches when your fingers trail the curve of it, he protests a bit as you undo his bun; then you whisper his name and Suguru tightens his grip on your waist.

“Hey!”

Satoru is whining again but this time he’s closer. Close enough for Suguru to grab a fistful of Satoru’s white button-up and pull him in. As his face turns you giggle, wiping away some smeared gloss as you watch Satoru turn red from Suguru’s heated kiss.

Satoru groans with his eyebrows twitching. Listless in his attempt to remain angry at Suguru. He pounds his fist against Suguru’s shoulder and attempts to crane his neck away. When he turns, he gasps as you steal his breath.

Satoru’s graceful legs tumble over themselves as his boyfriends press him to the rough wall of the alleyway. There’s a constant hum of an A/C machine and the noises from the pipes keep the intimate noises between the three of you contained. Suguru’s blunt nails drag onto the faded plastered-on advertisements — yours grip onto the bars of the window that had been covered up by old newspapers.

Satoru’s grip onto the front of both of your shirts. His glasses go askew as he struggles to keep up with his boyfriends. Suguru misses Satoru so much. He’d been away too, the Higher Ups sending him overseas at the same time as you and Shoko had to deal with a depressed Suguru for those 3 days.

“Mah, Satoru,” you drag your lips to Satoru’s sensitive neck. His hands don’t seem to know what to do with themselves. It grips and pushes and stutters. “I always give Suguru special kisses after a job well done, you’ve just always been too busy to notice.”

“S’not fair,” Satoru retorts with no real venom in his words. “I deserve special kisses too, don’t I?” Suguru chuckles, forcing Satoru to look his way and shut him up. Satoru glares over the rim of his crooked glasses as Suguru’s thumb presses down on his canines.

“What a jealous brat.”

“Can’t even handle a little teasing.”

Satoru would heavily disagree with that. A little teasing? You called being pushed to a wall, groped, kissed, and bitten by your handsome and powerful boyfriends a little teasing?

Satoru was a sign of change, his birth instantly tipped the scales of the sorcerer world, but he was still human!

Suguru grins that irritatingly pleased grin when Satoru’s protests die out thanks to your hands slipping down his pants. “Oh shit,” he hisses. His speech is odd with Suguru’s thumb in his mouth, casually inspecting it. But you laugh anyway.

“You know, since he has been away too, maybe he does deserve a bit of sugar from you, (Y/N).” You glance at Suguru, your cock chubbing up in your pants as he pointedly motions his gaze to the ground. You kneel in front of Satoru and drool slips down his chin as his pupils chase after you. Suguru chuckles, wiping it away and wiping it off on Satoru’s shirt — to which he hears no complaint. Suguru stands behind you, bending at his waist to peer down. It’s unfair how pretty he is from any angle. The Gods took their time making him. Of that, you are certain.

“Ready, sweetheart?” you nod, opening your saccharine-sweet mouth; Suguru pats your cheek as praise and undoes Satoru’s pants for you. His cock springs out, nearly bumping into your nose as it strains and twitches in the open air. When Suguru holds it, Satoru grunts and raises his hips. Fucking into his fist like a dog in heat. Suguru regards this with a shake of his head and guides Satoru to your mouth. You form a fist around your thumb, looking up at Satoru through your lashes as you wrap your lips around him.

Suguru straightens his composure. He takes in the sight.

Satoru and you know better than to be handsy. The pale-haired man grabs onto the bars of the window behind him, breathing through his nose as the toe of his shoes dig into the floors. You slip your eyelids close and languish in the taste of Satoru’s cock — breathing through your nose as well as you bob your head.

Fuck, Suguru missed this. He really did. He could get off on this alone. Just watched as both of you enjoyed the other. His darling boyfriends, who so obediently listen to his whims even if he didn’t say it out loud.

Who could ask for more?

Suguru strokes over your eyebrow and barely stifles a laugh when you tilt your head so Satoru’s tip pokes your cheeks.

“Good boy. My sweet boy.”

His voice alone makes you want to give in to whatever it is he asks of you — it’s insane how much power and sway he has. Your charming Suguru.

Satoru moans, swiftly reaching out and gripping onto the collar of Suguru’s top. They kiss. Fighting for dominance because Satoru needs to be pushed into submission. He relishes being put in his place — smacked around a little.

You could pinpoint this kink originating from his frivolous childhood and naturally talented self needing some sort of edge to sink down into a more fuzzy headspace.

Or perhaps Satoru was just a brat and he trusted his lovers enough to relinquish that control. Both theories worked.

Suguru grunts as Satoru tugs at his hair, the pleasant tinge of pain making his dick strain against his loose pants. You spot it from the corner of your eyes, an obscene slurping sound coming from you as you attempt to not make this blowjob too messy. An impossible task, really. But a worthy effort.

“Your lips taste like cherry, why?” Satoru’s question catches Suguru off-guard. He expected Satoru’s usual quips and huffiness. He indulges.

“(Y/N) wore cherry-flavoured lipgloss.”

The proof is in the coloured streaks on his dick. You feel it twitch on your tongue and pull away, your hot breath on his cockhead making precum leak out of his blushing tip. You rest it on your velvet tongue, unabashedly pouting to kiss the tip and then taking him inside again. Those slightly shimmery streaks made Satoru grit his teeth.

“I didn’t know those came in flavours,” Satoru moans. “How come you don’t wear that for me too?”

“Because it’s for me, you little shithead,” Suguru growls lowly. Their foreheads touch as he tightens his grip on Satoru’s neck, the pressure making Satoru’s eyelids flutter for a second. “It’s my prize for exorcising curses.”

“You jealous?” you wonder out loud. The answer was clear but there was a rush to make Satoru admit it.

“Yes, I am!” He curses for a moment as you descend further down to lick at his balls, looking up at him still as if this conversation was taking place over a dinner table and not in an alleyway with society just a few meters away. As if his dick wasn't on your face while you feel his balls tightening up on your tongue.

Seriously, if somebody peered down long enough they would most definitely catch sight of the three of you here.

“I just – just...fuck, I missed the two of you too. It’s completely unfair you’ve been keeping this from me too! I’ll never forgive you.”

Suguru grabs the back of your neck and pulls you backward. His large hands effectively push your head down further and further until your nose is at the neat patch of pubic hair Satoru has. You relax your throat and jaw, eyes watering while you brace your hands on Satoru’s thighs.

“So why didn’t you just tell us that, darling?" Suguru purrs. "Instead, you chose to be a brat and stomp around. You’re better than that, Satoru. Aren’t you? Hm?”

You gag but Suguru holds you in place. His hand barely has any real strength behind it. If you jerked backward, he would not hold you in place. No, no. Suguru’s power comes from the lack of strength he needs to exhibit. His dominance is in the ease Suguru commands it.

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You needed him inside of you.

“Screw you, Suguru,” Satoru chokes out.

He pulls you off. You cough, spit staining your chin as you smile loosely at them. Suguru then pulls you onto your feet, pushes you to the wall, and undoes your pants. You bite down on your lower lip, staring at Satoru as you brace your hands onto the wall just next to him. Satoru watches on, trying to keep himself strong by pretending he isn’t affected by the sight before him.

Suguru gathers spit in his mouth but pauses as he feels the candy wrapper in your pockets. The chocolate brand makes his brows raise. It’s expensive. No doubt Satoru’s influence had rubbed off on you. Only one company in the world made this chocolate, its pink colour is a dead giveaway. No wonder your cherry-flavoured gloss tasted so strong, it was complimented nicely by the leftover taste of this ruby chocolate.

He lets your pants pool around your ankles while he takes a bite. It wasn’t disgustingly soft, but your body heat made it melt quickly on his tongue. He spreads your ass apart and spits a thick glob of his spit and pink chocolate. The sensation sends shivers up your back and you arch your back further, unsure about the new sensation.

“Suguru, that was expensive — ngh!”

Your eyes widen as he presses his cock inside. You were thankful for your morning romp with them. It loosened you up enough that Suguru’s impatience didn’t cause pain and only mild discomfort — he reaches forward to jerk your cock off to ebb it away and you moan out his name.

“Shh, shh, not so loud. We’re still outside, baby.”

Satoru groans, reaching to toss his glasses away as he turns his back to the entrance and gives you his full attention. He’s craving touch. To taste or to mark you up. To do anything, really. He is goddamn hypnotized by the way Suguru’s dick thrusts in and out of you. Suguru gives you a good fucking for too short of a time — pounding into you like a jackhammer and making you nearly bite your tongue off in an attempt to keep quiet before he pulls out.

Your knees buckle, thighs twitching as you try to keep yourself upright. Satoru’s knees thud onto the floor and he greedily laps at Suguru’s cock, moaning at the creamy taste. The same flavour leaks out of you while you catch your breath. The mouth of the alleyway is quiet but there are still the faint noises of the city just there. A few big strides away. But there. It excites you. You imagine it’s exciting your equally perverted boyfriends too.

"Satoru," Suguru groans at the sight of him. You peel yourself from the wall. Shoulders thudding onto the hard surface while your pants drop to your ankles. Shakily, you use your feet to push it all the way off, eyes trained on Satoru savouring the flavour of Suguru and the ruby chocolate. He pulls away with a breathy 'pwah!' and strokes Suguru's creamy dick.

You're tempted to join Satoru. Just sharing Suguru's cock, kissing Satoru with his cockhead between your lips. Fuck, just the thought has your dick slapping lightly against your navel. Suguru plants a hand near your head, turning his head to kiss you while the other is tugging on the roots of Satoru's head. a

"Both of my boys are being so obedient," he says after a deliciously deep groan of Satoru's name. "We missed you," you reply in a whiny whisper.

"Missed you so much, S'guru..."

Satoru moans, pulling away as he catches his breath and shares a heated gaze.

"Fuck, I missed you so badly. Missed this dick too," Satoru turns to your crotch and kisses the underside of your dick. It makes your breath hitch, hips jerking forward. The wetness of your precum smears on Satoru's cheek a bit but he doesn't even mind. Nor does he seem to notice.

"These cocks are the only ones that make me this hungry."

Suguru glances at the alleyway. You're not loud enough to draw attention. Still, better safe than sorry.

"Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure." You throw your head back to laugh. A veil was meant to conceal, protect those outside of it, and maintain secrecy. To use it so improperly.

The three of you were truly perverted.

"What's got you all giggly?" Suguru speaks against your lips. Tilting your chin upwards then squeezing the sides of your neck just to relish in the way you bare your neck to him.

"You used a veil," Satoru speaks for you. He raises, ignoring Suguru's pointed glance in favour of unbuttoning your shirt and kissing down your chest. His lips are sticky, smears of pink tainting you but you find it hard to care. "He's laughing because he thinks we're perverts."

"What are you? A mind reader now, Satoru?" You huff.

"I might as well be, huh?" Satoru smirks. He's so handsome that it makes your chest hurt sometimes. You're against the wall, exits blocked by Suguru and Satoru and you wouldn't have it any other way. "You know, I missed you too. It's been weeks — "

"Three days," Suguru and you corrected.

"Weeks. And this morning wasn't enough. We did such a good job, those wrinkle bags can't complain if we just so happened to work overtime, right?"

Ijichi can't stop his cheek from heating up. It's painfully, painfully, obvious why the three of you took your time for this mission. He had waited in the car for the first hour, then occupied himself with some coffee at a nearby cafe but by the third hour, Ijichi almost called Principal Yaga.

Three Special Grade Sorcerers took that long to exorcise an abandoned building. Surely, something must have happened!

Yet, seeing you sleeping on Suguru's lap with your legs across Satoru's lap confirms the real reason why it took the three of you that long.

Satoru has a weighted eye mask, head tossed back as he recuperates. This gives Ijichi a clear sight of his marked-up neck. Your shirt is wrinkled, hitched up from the bend of your waist, and giving him the whispers of handmarks. Suguru met his gaze from the rearview and Ijichi whispered out an apology.

"No, please. We're sorry for keeping you waiting." Suguru is brushing your bangs back, gently wiping down some residual stickiness on your cheeks with wet wipes (that Ijichi had made a point to stock up on in the car after earlier missions involving you three).

"No, I understand," he says with a shaky voice. Sighing a little he laughed awkwardly from the driver's seat.

"You must've been missing them a lot for those three days they've been gone, Mr Geto."

Suguru's expression softens, leaning one shoulder down when Satoru leans to place his head on his shoulders.

"It's hard not to. I love them."

[wolftarotcrafts]

Hope you enjoy this short tarot reading.❤️

Pile One

TW: Family issues and abuse (I'm not getting anything too serious, but I just wanted people to be warned and not blindsided if something in a way resonates with those topics.)

Hello, pile one, your spirit guides want you to know that it's okay to speak up and use your voice. Communication is important, and it is your key to success. I see you are at war with yourselves and others. I see that some of you are struggling to speak up about something revolving around your past. This could be something revolving around your childhood, or if you have kids, this could be talking about them. I think you are the one holding yourself back talking about a situation or something that's been bothering you. I think this has to do with your home life, like past grievances with family that have never been resolved, but people just pretend like it isn't happening or happened; possibly you are not proud of your actions when you were younger, someone hurt you in some kind of way, or you could be dealing with a custody battle. You could be struggling with a person. Whatever it may be, your guides want you to speak up and use your voice, because you shouldn't have to keep quiet to make others happy because this will only keep you trapped, and others' happiness should not always be put on you, nor should it matter more than your happiness. You should have to make people's lives easier and, in turn, make yours harder. You need to have courage and remember that your guides and the people that love you will be there to support you every step of the way. So, whatever has been weighing on your heart and mind, it's time to let it out and speak. The truth will set you free.

Extra: She Used To Be Mine by Sara Bareilles, 4, 9, 15, 16, 40, 444, 777, "Everything will be okay," pain, trapped, chained up, worried, anxiety, clarity and truth, family, children, August, February, Gemini, Taurus, Aries, B, I, P, R, snakes, purse or bag, scorpion, claws, therapy, crying, Cinderella.

Pile Two

Hello, Pile two. I think that your guides want you to know that you are going to level up. What I mean by that is, some of you may start taking your spiritual and religious practices to the next phase. You are getting more serious about your practice. An example being you may stop just reading books on deities and may try to start communicating with one in particular. For others of you, I see you leveling up in your career or studies. I see some of you may be in law school, and you specifically are going to level up in your studies, but there is also an importance of leveling up in your self-care. I see many of you getting a promotion and getting in a higher position at work, like a supervisor or manager, something with authority. They want you to know that all these good things are going to happen to you because you deserve it and because of the hard work you put in. You should be proud of yourself. 

Extra: Put Your Records On by Ritt Momney, 2, 4, 16, 18, 33, 42, 888, Libra, Aries, Sagittarius, Taurus, Capricorn, earth signs, D, C, Level up, spiritual, religion, win, promotion, money, law school, hardworking, fighter, "keep going.".

Pile Three

Hi pile three. I see that you have been struggling with your finances and career. You have been fighting this battle, and don't worry because the end of the battle is near. I see you are going to come out on top, and, very clearly, your guides are cheering you on and encouraging you not to give up since you are on your last stretch. You are heading for a calmer state of mind. Your hard work is going to be paying off very soon. They just want you to know to keep going and don't give up because they got your back. 

Extra: Wishbone, smiley face, anchor, K, A, R, The caduceus, medical field, snake, love life might start improving too. War is over. I might have picked pile two as well. 

I also have paid readings available here. ❤️

[magic-shop-stories]

reader has to win the trust of bts back after losing it ?

💌 Reply:

hey, there🥺✨ first off, so sorry this took forever... I had so much to do and wanted to make sure each member’s HC's felt true to their heart but I wasn't sure how to write it - so I added a lot "reader parts" too - not sure if I said this right💔 But your request is now posted! THX for trusting me with it - I hope it's what you wanted... xo - c -

BTS (OT7) HEADCANONS - READER HAS TO WIN BACK TRUST

↳ BTS × READER

NAMJOON

WHAT HAPPENED

you’d been Namjoon’s confidant for years

you're the one he trusted to handle sensitive details about BTS’s collaborations

last-minute conflict arose with a producer

= missed deadline that risked delaying the album

you chose to bury it

believing you could fix it quietly

you didn’t want to add to his stress

producer called him directly, frustration sharp in their tone

Namjoon stood frozen in the hallway

phone clutched too tightly

realizing he’d been blindsided by someone he’d entrusted with his art

HIS REACTION

Immediate Response

doesn’t raise his voice

doesn’t need to

when he finds you, his posture is rigid

shoulders squared like he’s bracing for a storm

“We need to talk"

voice low and steady

knuckles white around the edge of his notebook

leads you to his studio

air smells like stale coffee and ink

Internal Monologue

Why? 

= loops in his mind like a broken track

replays every conversation you’ve had about transparency

he’d once said: “No secrets, even the ugly ones.”

is trust isn’t just emotional

it’s strategic

questions his own judgment

"Did I make you feel you couldn’t come to me? Or did you just… stop believing in us?"

Actions & Subtle Cues

Avoidance

stops lingering after meeting

When you speak, he nods

but types aggressively on his phone, thumb jabbing the screen

Hyperfocus

reorganizes his bookshelf at 3 a.m.

categorizing by genre and color

as if control over something might steady him

Lyrical Clues:

you find a crumpled draft in the trash: 

“A bridge half-built trust in the mortar but the rain came first.”

Dialogue

try to explain

“I thought I could handle it...”

cuts you off, tone glacial

“This isn’t about your capability. It’s about you deciding my limits for me.”

glasses slide down his nose

doesn’t push them back up

“Do you know how it feels? To stand there, unprepared, because someone you trusted… edited your reality?”

WHAT TO DO

Apology Letter

write it three times

first draft is tear-smudged and defensive

second is too clinical

third is raw

“I treated your trust like a shortcut instead of a compass. I’ll never do that again. Every day, I’ll prove I’m someone who deserves to walk beside you, not behind you.”

slip it into his copy of his favorite book

Silent Presence

show up to his late-night walks along the Han River

trailing 10 steps behind

he doesn’t turn around

but you catch him slowing his pace so you can keep up

compile a dossier of backup producers

annotated with strengths and risks

leave it on his desk

doesn’t thank you, but the next day, his coffee cup rests on top of it

ring-stain circling your notes like a stamp

Fallout

when the team argues about the delay = speak before he can

“It’s my fault. I’ll handle the rescheduling.”

watches you over the rim of his glasses

jaw tight, but doesn’t correct you

HIS RESPONSE

First Crack

two weeks later

he “accidentally” leaves his studio door open

hover in the doorway

he mutters

“If you’re coming in, at least fix the coffee. Two sugars, not one.”

his tone is gruff

nudges his mug toward you

= a peace offering in ceramic

Conversation

waits until you’re both knee-deep in lyric revisions

doesn't look at you

“You know what’s worse than a mistake? Silence.”

pen taps the paper

“I need your voice, not your silence. Even if it’s messy.”

Actions Speak Louder

starts texting you screenshots of vague, stressful emails with no context

= a test (Will you ask? Will you push?)

bring him a new plant to replace one he overwatered

names it “Phoenix”

places it where you both can see it

AFTERMATH

Rebuilding

trust returns in increments

lets you preview a solo track titled “Dichotomy"

= song about fractured trust and stubborn hope

during a VLIVE, he mentions “someone” who taught him forgiveness is a choice, not a feeling

doesn’t say your name

his dimple flickers

New Normal

still double-checks your work

now he leaves Post-its with questions instead of corrections

“What do you think?”  “Is this fair to us?”

realize it’s his way of saying: “I need you here. Stay.”

Final

months later, at 2 a.m., he calls you

“Can’t sleep. Let’s walk.”

you're at the river

hands you a poem he’s written

lines crossed out and rewritten

one phrase remains untouched:

“You are my flawed, necessary mirror... breakable, but brighter for the cracks.”

you glance at him

he’s staring at the water

his pinky finger brushes yours

JIN

WHAT HAPPENED

Jin had spent weeks planning a special dinner for the group

= a way to celebrate Yoongi’s birthday and lift morale after a draining promo cycle

he’d confided in you

voice uncharacteristically soft

“I want it to feel like home. No managers, no cameras. Just us.”

you promised to handle the setup

= decorating the dorm, hiding gifts, and most importantly, distracting Yoongi until the surprise was ready

but you got swept up in a last-minute fan event

lost track of time, arrived two hours late

dinner was ruined

Yoongi walked into a half-decorated room

Jin scrambling with cold tteokbokki and deflated balloons

HIS REACTION

Immediate Response

laughs, loudly

claps his hands like it’s all a hilarious joke

“Wow, this is a twist! Who needs surprises when you can have… uh… spontaneity?”

his ears burn red

won’t meet your eyes

Yoongi quietly says: “Hyung, it’s okay.”

Jin’s smile cracks

disappears into the kitchen

sound of aggressive dishwashing fills the dorm

Internal Monologue

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

replays the hours he spent marinating the meat

or the way he’d practiced Yoongi’s favorite childhood dish three times to get it right

even wor his “Worldwide Handsome” apron unironically

he feels foolish

not just let down, but exposed

his vulnerability is a raw nerve

Do they think I’m just the clown? That my efforts don’t matter?

Actions & Subtle Cues

Deflection

next day, he jokes to Jungkook

“Guess I’ll stick to gaming! At least my teammates show up.”

his voice lacks its usual lilt

Avoidance

stops initiating movie nights

you bring up his new cooking video = he shrugs

“Eh, it’s just content. Doesn’t need to be perfect.”

Overcompensation

gifts Yoongi an absurdly expensive bottle of alcohol “just because”

refusing to acknowledge the birthday disaster

Dialogue

catch him alone

chopping vegetables with unnecessary force

“I’m so sorry...”

he interrupts, waving the knife like a prop

“Relax! It’s not a big deal. Yoongi prefers takeout anyway.”

his hand trembles slightly

nicks his finger

sucks the blood away, muttering

“See? I’m fine. Always fine.”

WHAT TO DO

Apology

he’d never accept a tearful plea

drag him to a private karaoke room

order his favorite snacks

with zero shamebelt “Epiphany” off-key

he cringes, laughing

“You’re not just ‘the funny one.’ You’re our glue. And I treated your heart like a punchline. I won’t do it again.”

Feed His Love (Literally)

learn his mother’s kimchi recipe through trial and error

first batch is inedible

you leave it at his door with a note

“Round 1: deserves better. I’ll keep trying.”

every Friday, you bring him homemade broth

rolls his eyes but starts leaving empty Tupperware outside your room

Public Acknowledgment

next group dinner, raise your glass

“Jin planned this whole night. He’s the reason we’re family.”

kicks you under the table, cheeks pink

later texts: “That was… not terrible.”

HIS RESPONSE

First Thaw

“accidentally” buys two tickets to a comedy show

“Ugh, someone bailed. You wanna go? Don’t make it weird.”

during the show, he snorts so hard he spills popcorn

for a moment, his shoulder brushes yours

Late-Night Confession

find him on the balcony at 1 a.m.

he's staring at the city lights

“You know why I cook? It’s the one thing I can control. The one way I know… I’m needed.”

flicks your forehead

“But you? You’re not allowed to need me until you prove you’ll stay.”

Actions Speak Louder

starts texting you ridiculous memes at 3 a.m.,

gift him a custom apron embroidered with “World’s Okayest Chef”

wears it for a live stream

“A fan sent it!”

lies, winking at the camera

AFTERMATH

Rebuilding

trust returns in layers

lets you assist with his next cooking video

you burn the rice

he laughs genuinely, eyes crinkling

“Wow, you’re worse than Namjoon!”

confides his anxiety about enlisting

“Don’t let them eat junk every day.”

pretending it’s a joke

= it’s a plea: Take care of them. Take care of me

New Normal

still teases you mercilessly

but there’s a softness now

saves you the last piece of steak, grumbling

“You look too skinny.”

when you’re late again (traffic, this time), he meets you at the door with a smirk

“I started without you. But… I saved the best part.”

Final

you recreate his failed dinner, perfectly

walks in, sees the table set with his fancy dishes, and groans

“Yah, you’re so extra!”

his voice cracks

later, pulls you aside

“You did good."

flicking your ear

“But never outshine me again, okay?”

YOONGI

WHAT HAPPENED

Yoongi had been working on a deeply personal mixtape

one he’d described as “pulling bones out of my ribs to make something alive”

you were his sounding board

= the only person he played raw tracks for

= the one he trusted to guard his unfinished art

during a late-night studio session (frustrated by his perfectionism) you vented to a mutual friend

“He’s never gonna release it. It’s just… self-sabotage.”

friend, trying to “help,” leaked a snippet online to “motivate” him

the clip went viral

dissected by fans and critics before Yoongi even knew it existed online

HIS REACTION

Immediate Response

finds out via Twitter

stares at his phone for minutes

jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitches in his cheek

he stands, walks to the studio bathroom, and slams the door

emerges, his face is damp

sleeves rolled up to hide trembling hands

doesn’t look at you

Internal Monologue

Idiot. You trusted an idiot

betrayal isn’t just emotional = it’s artistic

track was a confession

= a scream he hadn’t finished shaping

now it’s reduced to a meme (and a TikTok trend)

wonders if you meant to undermine him

Did you think I was weak? That I needed saving from myself?

Actions & Subtle Cues

Locked Doors

studio is off-limits

changes the passcode

when you knock, he blasts Agust D’s “The Last” until you leave

Professional Detachment

in group meetings, he refers to you as “the team” instead of your name

signs emails with a curt - Min Yoongi

Self-Isolation

sleeps in the studio

surviving on iced Americanos and protein bars

only hint of anger = a dent in the wall where he kicked it

hidden behind a poster of Nujabes

Dialogue

catch him at dawn

shadows under his eyes

“Yoongi, I'm...”

cuts you off

voice gravelly from sleeplessness

“Save it. You don’t get to apologize for my work.”

steps closer

for the first time, you see raw hurt beneath the ice

“That track was mine. Mine. And you turned it into content.”

WHAT TO DO

Radical Accountability

no excuses

write a public statement taking full blame

refuse to name the friend

post it without consulting him

he’ll see it

he sees everything

don’t tag him

don’t beg for absolution

Unseen Support

handle the fallout silently

compile legal docs for copyright claims

scrub leaked snippets from forums until your eyes burn

send the files to his manager, not him

leave a USB drive outside his door with two playlists

Track 1: “Anger” (Hip-hop beats, distorted guitars, lyrics about betrayal)

Track 2: “Regret” (Piano covers of First Love, rain sounds, a 10-second voice note: “I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger”)

Earned Silence

stop talking about the incident

show up instea

bring his favorite iced tea every morning, placing it by the studio door

he finally emerges

gaunt and disheveled

wordlessly hand him a clean hoodie

HIS RESPONSE

First Thaw

a week later

leaves the studio door cracked

inside, the USB drive is plugged into his laptop

“Regret” playlist on loop

doesn���t acknowledge you

but when you set down his coffee, he grunts

“Sugar. Two packets.”

Test

assigns you a mind-numbing task

= transcribing 12 hours of old voice memos

“If you’re so loyal, prove it.”

find notes buried in the file

“2017. Bad day. [Your name] brought tteokbokki"

= realize it’s a twisted olive branch.

Breaking Point

at 3 a.m.

finds you asleep at your desk

headphones still on

hesitates, then drapes his jacket over your shoulders

next day, he slides a scrap of paper toward you

“Fix the second verse. It’s shit.” 

lyrics? 

“A thief in the temple but the god left the door open.”

AFTERMATH

Rebuilding:

trust is a slow remix

lets you back into the studio

you sit against the wall, not beside him

first time you critique a track

he pauses

“Louder. I can’t hear you over the bass.”

releases the mixtape with a new title = “Daechwita (Reborn).” 

leaked snippet is now a distorted intro

fans call it genius

only you know it’s a middle finger to the past

New Normal

never says “I forgive you.”

but throws his empty coffee cups at you (affectionately)

you flinch at a loud noise

“Relax. I don’t waste kicks on idiots anymore.”

Final

months later

tosses you a flash drive

“New track. Don’t fuck it up.”

file is titled “Interlude: Bones Mend.”

lyrics include a line from your voice note

autotuned and woven into the chorus

he’s smirking at his screen

“What? It’s just a sample.”

J-HOPE

WHAT HAPPENED

you’d been Hobi’s dance partner for a high-stakes solo performance at an awards show

= a routine he’d spent months choreographing

blending his signature energy with intricate & emotionally charged moves

during rehearsals, you hid a sprained ankle

downing painkillers and laughing off his concerned glances

“I’m fine, Hobi! Let’s go again!”

you didn’t want to disappoint him

during the final rehearsal, your ankle gave out mid-jump

sending both of you crashing to the floor

the silence that followed was worse than the pain

HIS REACTION

Immediate Response

doesn’t yell

doesn’t even look at you

he stands slowly

dusts off his pants

walks to the corner of the studio

hands shake as he rewinds the music

when he finally speaks, his voice is eerily calm

“We’re done for today.”

Internal Monologue

Why didn’t you tell me? 

he’s furious

not at the mistake, but at the lie

prides himself on reading people = on being the someone who notices everything

now, he wonders

Did I push too hard? Or did you never trust me to care?

he blames himself

This is my fault. I should’ve seen it

Actions & Subtle Cues

Professional Mode Activated

switches to honorifics

“Please ensure [Reader]-ssi consults a physiotherapist.”

no more “Hey, superstar!"

no playful shoulder bumps.

Overcompensation

rehearses alone for hours

blasting music loud enough to drown out his thoughts

studio mirror fogs with swea

his reflection blurry and furious

Avoiding Eye Contact

during group dinners, he sits diagonally from you

laughing too loudly at Jin’s joke

when you speak, he stares at his rice like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world

Dialogue

catch him after practice

voice trembling

“Hobi, I’m so sorry...”

cuts you off with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes

“No, I’m sorry! Clearly, I didn’t create a safe space for you to be honest. My bad!”

bows slightly

= parody of politeness

he's walking away

WHAT TO DO

Public Accountability

next team meeting, stand up before he can speak

“I lied to Hoseok. I put our performance at risk because I was scared to admit I was struggling.”

your voice cracks, but you push through

“I’ll earn back his trust, even if it takes years.”

Hobi stares at his sneakers

jaw clenched

he doesn’t interrupt

Match His Effort

Choreo Notebook

transcribe every step of the routine by hand

add notes on breath control and emotional intent

leave it on his desk with a single Post-it

“You deserved this.”

Sunrise Vigils

send him a photo every dawn

= your ankle taped, you mid-stretc

captions like “Day 7: Ready to follow your lead.”

he never replies

after two weeks, he “accidentally” leaves his favorite coffee brand on your desk

Silent Support

attend every practice

even when sidelined

he stumbles during a spin

=you’re the first to clap

“Again, Hobi! You’ve got this!”

he freezes

then repeats the move perfectly

refusing to look at you

HIS RESPONSE

Breaking Point

find him slumped against the studio mirror, head in hands

music’s off, but his foot taps an anxious rhythm

he whispers

“Why’d you do it? I thought we were a team.”

sit beside him

not touching

“I wanted to be someone you could rely on… but I messed up.”

he laughs wetly

“You idiot. I rely on you because you’re human. Not in spite of it.”

Actions Speak Louder

Playlist

sends you a Spotify link titled “HYBE’s Newest Torture Methods”

= a mix of aggressive hip-hop and ballads

Duo Practices

reinstates your sessions but starts with trust falls

“You fall, I catch. Always.”

hands linger on your shoulders a beat too long

AFTERMATH

Rebuilding

trust returns in shared sweat and shaky laughter

assigns you the killing part in a new choreo

watches your ankles like a hawk

when you nail it, he whoops

“That’s my partner!"

blushes and pretends to check his phone

during a VLIVE, a fan asks about teamwork

“It’s like… dancing in the rain. You gotta hold hands so no one slips.”

doesn’t look at you

his sneaker nudges yours under the table

New Normal

he’s softer but vigilant

when you yawn, he throws a protein bar at your head

“Eat. Now.”

when you grimace during stretches, he’s there before you can speak

“Ankle? Wrist? Talk.”

Final

at the rescheduled performance, he grabs your hand backstage

“Ready?”

palm is sweaty, but his grin is real

mid-routine, he improvises a move

a leap toward you, arms wide

you catch him on beat

“Thanks for staying”

JIMIN

WHAT HAPPENED

Jimin spent weeks preparing for his first solo stage performance in years

including contemporary dance piece about vulnerability

he confided in you about how terrified he was

you promised you’d be there front-row to watch

on the day of the show, you missed it

work emergency/ miscommunication? = 8t didn’t matter

there was crushing silence when he scanned the audience for your face

later saw your texts: “Something came up, I’m so sorry”

he crumpled his bouquet backstage

HIS REACTION

Immediate Response

doesn’t yell

Jimin never yells

tho wraps himself in a practiced calm

= like a silk scarf pulled too tight

you finally meet a day later

his smile is flawless

his voice is hollow

“It’s okay. These things happen.”

calls you “y/n-ssi” instead of your usual nickname

the distance sharp as a blade

Internal Monologue

Why wasn’t I enough? 

replays every time he’s felt abandoned

= his trainee days, the times he’d practiced until his feet bled

wonders if you see him the same way as people before he became famous

blames himself for expecting too much (for letting you matter that deeply)

Actions & Subtle Cues

Polite Avoidance

stops initiating late-night calls

at group dinners, he sits diagonally from you

always laughing a beat too loud at others’ jokes

Overcompensation

volunteers for extra rehearsals

dances until his ankles swell

posts cryptic Instagram stories: “Alone but not lonely 🌙” 

Fragile Deflection

bring up the performance?

he shrugs

“It was just a dance. You didn’t miss much.”

his hands tremble as he stirs his tea

Dialogue

catch him after practice

sweat dripping down his neck

“Jimin, please... let me explain.”

he freezes, back still turned

“What’s there to explain? You chose something else. I get it.”

voice cracks on the last word

“Just… don’t make promises you can’t keep, okay? It’s exhausting.”

WHAT TO DO

Radical Honesty

write him a letter

not with excuses

with ugly truths leave it in his dance bag

Unseen Support

film his rehearsals from the back of the studio when he thinks no one’s watching

edit the clips into a montage of his progress

set them to his favorite piano piece

send it anonymously

buy every vitamin drink he likes and stock the fridge with them

he raises an eyebrow?

“The staff did it.”

knows you’re lying but drinks them anyway

Patient Presence

start arriving early to his schedules

sit in the parking lot with his preferred iced americano

he gives them to staff at first

then, one day takes a sip

“Too much ice.”

next morning, the coffee has half the ice

HIS RESPONSE

Breaking Point

two weeks in

corners you in an empty hallway

his eyes are red-rimmed, fists clenched

“Why now? Why bother?”

voice trembling

“Do you know how long I stood there after the show? I waited like an idiot, thinking… maybe you’d run in, maybe you’d...”

cuts himself off

throat bobbing

Reconciliation

don’t reach for him

just tell him: “I’ll wait as long as you did. Longer.”

he will crumble then

forehead pressed to your shoulder

tears soaking your shirt

“You hurt me,”

he chokes it out

“You promised.”

hold him as he shakes

"I know. I’m here. However long it takes.”

Actions Speak Louder

starts leaving his studio door cracked open

you hear him humming your favorite song

= a test but you knock

“forgets” his sweater at your place

you return it?

he says, “Keep it. It looks better on you.”

AFTERMATH

Rebuilding

trust returns in fragile, beautiful steps

invites you to a private rehearsal

new choreography= raw, angry, then tender

= a story of betrayal and hesitant hope

you’re the only audience

texts you at 3 a.m.

“Can’t sleep. Tell me something real.” 

reply with a voice note of your insecurities

ge sends back a 10-second clip of his heartbeat

= recorded against his chest

New Normal

he’s clingier now

it’s tinged with fear

he’ll grip your hand too tight before going onstage

“You’ll stay?”

answer by pressing his VIP pass into your palm until it leaves a mark

Final

months later, he books the same theater for a new piece

this time, you’re backstage

holding his hands as they tremble

“Look at me, if I fall… don’t let go.”

you don’t

when he bows, flushed and breathless, he mouths: “You’re here” 

TAEHYUNG

WHAT HAPPENED

he had been working on a photography series for months

capturing fleeting moments of human connection

=a project he called "Eternal Ephemera."

invited you to his private exhibition

= a deeply personal showcase he’d only shared with a few

you canceled last minute, citing a work emergency

the truth?

you forgot, prioritizing a casual hangout with friends

he texted you a photo of his empty guest seat

caption: “Guess some moments aren’t eternal” 

you brushed it off, joking

“Next time, Tae! You know I’m your biggest fan.” 

days later, you stumbled on his Instagram story

= a close-up of a wilting rose

quote: “The loneliest feeling is sharing your soul with someone who chooses not to see it.”

HIS REACTION

Immediate Response

doesn’t confront you

he becomes a ghost in your shared space

his laughter, usually loud and boxy, is replaced by silence

when you try to apologize, he tilts his head

eyes unreadable behind his round glasses

“Hmm? Oh, that. It’s fine." 

voice airy

his smile doesn’t reach his cheeks

Internal Monologue

Why didn’t you care? 

replays your promises

“I’ll always be there for your art, Tae”

wonders if he romanticized your bond

camera becomes his confidant

= takes photos of empty chairs, shattered mirrors, lone footsteps in snow

Actions & Subtle Cues

Artistic Retreat

disappears into his studio for hours

blasting Chet Baker

the door, usually open, stays shut

Fashion Armor

wears oversized coats and berets pulled low

hiding his face

you compliment his outfit?

he mutters

“Clothes don’t lie."

walks away

Cryptic Posts

Instagram fills with abstract edits

=a blurred figure walking away, a burning photo frame

captions are poetry fragments: 

“Seeds planted in concrete / you watered the wrong roots.”

Dialogue

catch him feeding Yeontan outside

“Tae, let’s talk...”

interrupts you

voice soft but sharp

“What’s there to say? You saw my heart and called it… what? A hobby?” 

adjusts Yeontan’s sweater

avoiding your gaze

“Not everyone understands art. I get it.

WHAT TO DO

Unspoken Apology

create a photo series

titled “What I Failed to See.” 

each photo captures a detail Taehyung loves

leave a USB drive in his mailbox with no note

Patient Curiosity

attend a jazz bar he loves

sitting alone at the bar

he notices you, you don’t speak

slide a Polaroid across the table

= a shot of his favorite street musician

captioned “He plays your song better when you’re here.”

learn film photography

burning through rolls of failed shots

he finds your discarded negatives

he sees dozens of attempts to capture light the way he does

Space to Speak

at a group dinner, someone jokes about “artsy types being too sensitive.” 

you shut it down

“Art’s how some people breathe. Mock that, and you suffocate them.” 

Taehyung’s chopsticks pause mid-air, then drop

HIS RESPONSE

First Thaw

leaves a single photo on your desk

=a shot of your USB drive sitting beside his keyboard

back reads: “Exposure time: 7 days. Still processing.”

Conversation

finds you crying in the darkroom

surrounded by botched prints

“You’re wasting film.”

his voice is gentle

guides your hands to adjust the enlarger

“Light isn’t something you force. It’s something you… wait for.”

Actions Speak Louder

texts you a location pin at 4 a.m.

= an abandoned train yard

you arrive - he’s silhouetted against sunrise, camera in hand

“You frame the shot” 

he's pressing the camera into your palms

“Show me what you see now.”

gifts you a scratched vinyl record

“Kind of Blue” by Miles Davis

scrawled on the sleeve: “Some harmonies take time to tune.”

AFTERMATH

Rebuilding

trust returns in stolen moments

lets you name his new photography series

“F/1.8 (Fragile Hearts, Infinite Depth).”

during a V LIVE, he plays your jazz Polaroid on screen

he smiles, tilting his head

“A reminder that even broken lenses can focus… if you let them.”

New Normal

he tests you subtly

leaves half-developed film in your bag

“Finish this story.”

asks for your opinion on his outfits

but only in metaphors

“Does this color sound like regret or rebirth?”

Final Scene

invites you to a gallery months later

= his “Eternal Ephemera” reprise

final photo is you

standing in the rain outside the jazz bar, holding his forgotten umbrella

caption: “Ephemeral? Maybe. But the developing process… that’s forever.” 

you turn to him

he’s already looking, eyes glinting

“You stayed in the darkroom long enough to see the image. That’s all I needed.”

JUNGKOOK

WHAT HAPPENED

you’d been Jungkook’s closest friend since pre-debut

= the one he trusted with memories he’d never shared with anyone else

= like the panic attacks he’d hidden during trainee days, or the crumpled letter he wrote his parents apologizing for “chasing a dream instead of being a good son”

on the anniversary of his trainee contract, he’d asked you to meet him at Namsan Tower at sunrise

a tradition you’d kept since 2013

but you canceled last-minute for a work emergency

dismissing it as “just another sunrise”

when he confided his fears about enlisting, you accidentally leaked the conversation to a mutual friend

rumor spread, and he heard it from a staff member first

HIS REACTION

Immediate Response

doesn’t confront you

he stops showing up

his texts go from sporadic to silent

you finally corner him after practice

he’s drenched in sweat

punching a bag with violent precision

“Not now”

voice flat

his yes are red-rimmed

he blames it on exhaustion

Internal Monologue

You promised. 

those words loop in his head like a curse

replays every moment he’d leaned on you

= the night he cried over a vocal mistake, the time he gave you his childhood bracelet “for safekeeping.”

wonders if you ever took him seriously

or if you saw him as just the “golden maknae"

=too naive to need real loyalty

Maybe I trusted too much

he's biting his lip until it bleeds

Actions & Subtle Cues

Isolation

starts arriving early to the gym

leaves late

when you wave, he pretends to adjust his AirPods

Overcompensation

posts Instagram stories of solo hikes at sunrise

captioned “Self-reliance mode 🔒.”

Artistic Outlet

sketches a charcoal drawing of a broken chain

tags it “#growth.”

Dialogue

catch him after a concert

desperate

“JK, please, let me explain.”

he freezes, back still turned

“You know what sucks? I still want to believe you.”

his voice cracks

“But I can’t even look at you without feeling… stupid.”

WHAT TO DO

Relentless Consistency

text him every morning

“6:15 a.m. — at the trailhead if you want company.”

he never replies

on Day 12, he’s there

hoodie pulled low

walks three paces ahead

but doesn’t tell you to leave

learn the choreography for his solo song

practice until your knees bruise

he walks in on you panting

“Teach me?”

rolls his eyes but adjusts your stance

hands lingering a second too long

Tangible Penance

track down his childhood bracelet (lost years ago) and restore it

add a new charm

= a tiny shield engraved with the date you met

leave it in his locker with a note

“I’ll earn the right to hold this again.”

his enlistment rumors flare up?

you publicly take the blame on Weverse

“I broke his trust. Redirect your anger to me.” 

he deletes the post within minutes but doesn’t text you

Rebuild Nostalgia

recreate your first hangout

= arcade games and strawberry/banana milk

scoffs when you beat his racing score

“Beginner’s luck.”

he pockets the prize ticket you win for him

send him voice notes of old inside jokes

like the way he mispronounced “sarcasm”

he listens on repeat but never reacts

HIS RESPONSE

Breaking Point

one rainy night

you find him sitting alone in the practice room

he's replaying a clip of your first dance cover together

he’s shivering in a damp shirt

“Why’d you come back?”

you kneel beside him

“Because you’re my home.”

he laughs bitterly

“Homes don’t lie.”

he doesn’t pull away when you drape your jacket over his shoulders

Turning Tide

two days later, he texts

“Trailhead. 6:15.” 

when you arrive, he tosses you a protein bar

= your favorite flavor

“Don’t faint. I’m not carrying you.”

halfway up the trail, he mutters: “I kept the bracelet.”

Actions Speak Loudest

starts leaving his AirPods case in your ba

= silent invitation to join his walks

during a live stream, a fan asks about trust

he hesitates

then says: “It’s like… doing a trust fall every day. Even when you’re scared.”

his eyes flick offscreen to where you’re standing

AFTERMATH

Rebuilding

he tests you

asks you to hold his phone during a night out

watches to see if you glance at his notifications

you don’t

lets you back into his studio

but only if you sit cross-legged in the corner

“Don’t touch anything.”

weeks later, he slides you a lyric sheet

“Forgiveness is a tattoo... hurts like hell, but you wear it anyway.”

New Normal

he’s clingy in private

possessive in public

links arms with you too tightly at events

like he’s afraid you’ll vanish

he also shares secrets again

shows you demos he calls “too raw for anyone else.”

Final

next anniversary, he wakes you at 4 a.m.

“Namsan. Now.”

at the summit, he clips the restored bracelet onto your wrist

“If you lose it again...”

he warns, but his thumbs brush your pulse point

as the sun rises, he whispers: “You’re still my star. Even when you’re an idiot.”

[cakesunflower]

lovelorn (and nobody knows) [rafe cameron au fic] chapter 23

Summary: Isla Carrera had planned for the summer before college to be focused on three things: helping out at her family’s restaurant (the helpful daughter), preparing for college (the good student), and having fun with the Pogues (the loyal friend). But one fateful night, where her car breaks down and her rescuer is none other than Rafe Cameron, seems to send her summer down a path she didn’t see coming–one teeming with a secret, illicit romance with the last person she expected. And if her friends and sister found out, Isla isn’t sure they’ll be so understanding, no matter what her feelings are.

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22

A/N: oh my good lord i am sooo sorry for how long it's taken for me to update this i've been down the pitt/mohabbot rabbit hole and im still there but i got out long enough to write this chapter oh boy oh boy im sorry

When Rafe feels someone come stand next to him at the bar, the last person he expects for it to be is John B.

Rafe leans against the bar on his elbow, waiting for one of the bartenders to get their drinks, when John B joins his side. But while Rafe’s pose remains at ease, he can just sense the tension in John B’s body as he leans forward with his arms crossed on the bar. Rafe arches an eyebrow at him but doesn’t say anything, easily noticing the tic in John B’s jaw, his gaze ahead since he doesn’t look at Rafe just yet.

Things felt civil enough when he and Isla had arrived; he and John B hadn’t shook hands or anything, but it was still progress, in Rafe’s opinion. The fact of the matter is, Rafe doesn’t give a shit about the old Kook versus Pogue mentality that he had lived in for years, not when having that kind of thought process would mean he would lose Isla. She’s far more important to him than old rivalries, and he’s more than ready to move past them and make nice with her—and, in turn, his sister’s—friends if it meant the stress would fall off Isla.

So, instead of running his mouth and antagonizing the situation like his old self would, Rafe simply quietly, and patiently, waits for John B to speak first.

It doesn’t take him long.

“You get it, right, why it’s been hard for us to accept Isla and. . . You,” John B says, speaking haltingly like he was trying to find the right words as he drags his gaze to Rafe’s.

Briefly pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, Rafe exhales sharply through his nose. “I get why you guys have a hard time looking past our shit history. I don’t get how it was easy for you to ice Isla out like that,” Rafe replies. He’s trying to be civil, he really is. But then he thinks of how heartbroken Isla has been, how many tears she has shed, and Rafe is filled with the primal, visceral urge to protect her from anything and anyone that could even potentially hurt her. And whatever his history with the Pogues, he hates that her own friends had been the ones to inflict that kind of pain on her. 

Though, it’s not surprising. It’s the people you love the most that have the greatest potential to hurt you.

John B’s jaw works and Rafe can tell he’s frustrated. “It wasn’t easy,” John B argues, and when Rafe’s expression remains unconvinced, John B lets out a huff. “It wasn’t,” he insists, his spine straightening. Rafe still has a few inches on him. On all of them, really. “I—Look, it’s not right how we reacted. I know that. But we all just felt. . . Blindsided by your relationship, alright? With everything in our past, none of us really understood why you of all people.”

If Rafe had thinner skin, he’d be more insulted by John B’s words. He won’t lie to himself—it does sting a bit that her friends took one look at his relationship with Isla and immediately wrote it off simply because of him. He gets it and, not for the first time, he regrets all of the shit that has gone down between him and Isla’s friends. The unnecessary fights, provocations, the put-downs. Sure, it was all mutual, each side dishing an equal amount, but it certainly doesn’t gain Rafe any brownie points with the Pogues.

“But—” John B continues, pulling Rafe out of his thoughts as he takes a look at the other guy. John B fiddles the sleeve of his suit jacket, his jaw working. “I miss Isla. We all do. We’re not us without her.”

Rafe shakes his head, releasing an almost disbelieving chuckle. “She’s right there, man,” he says, vaguely gesturing in the direction where she sits with Sarah. “She’s been waiting for you all to get over it, or at the very least, fucking talk to her instead of shutting her out.” He thanks the bartender who places their drinks in front of them, and Rafe pushes one of the glasses towards John B, who looks at the glass briefly before lifting his gaze to meet Rafe’s pointed one. “If you all miss her as much as you’re saying, then do something about it.” Rafe grabs two of the glasses, while John B also takes the one for Sarah. “And, for shit’s sake, get JJ to take back that stupid ultimatum. Get through to him, will you?”

It pisses him off just thinking about it and based on the radio silence Isla has been facing from JJ, Rafe has no doubt he was serious about giving Isla those choices. He has seen the way it weighs on Isla even if she tries to push it away with smiles that don’t quite reach her eyes always. Rafe knows all of her smiles, each of them beautiful in their own way, but it hurts to see the sadness in that specific smile—the one she forces because the pain of her strained relationship with her friends makes her hold back. 

“Yeah,” John B responds with a sigh, nodding when Rafe eyes him. “Yeah, I’ll talk to him. All of ’em.”

Rafe nods stiffly. While he’s glad that John B will finally get their group to get their heads out of their asses, he’s still a little annoyed that John B didn’t do it already—that it took a conversation with Rafe to kick his ass into gear. Maybe he just needed to see Rafe and Isla together to realize they aren’t fucking around, that their relationship has nothing to do with her friends, and make John B see the truth of it. Whatever. He wishes they just listened to Isla, took her word for it. 

He and John B return to the table and Rafe isn’t surprised that Isla and Sarah are eyeing them both curiously, a touch of worry in Isla’s green eyes. Rafe gives her a reassuring smile as they approach them, setting the glasses down on the table as he returns to his seat next to her. 

Isla’s hand finds his knee, leaning closer as she whispers, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he tells her truthfully with a smile. “All good, baby.” He takes her hand that’s on his knee and laces their fingers together, feeling her relax under his touch. Rafe presses a kiss to the back of her hand and is relieved to see the smile that curves at her lips, leaning into him more as Rafe mirrors her smile.

From behind her, he sees John B watching them. Rafe sees the smile on the other man’s face and he takes it as a sign that things between Isla and her friends will be looking up. 

Cocktail hour passes uneventfully, with Rafe and sometimes Sarah having to make the rounds as Ward’s kids—plus, there are plenty of people here Rafe works with, too. He doesn’t drag Isla around with him and often catches sight of her talking to John B, the two of them far more relaxed with one another as the night progresses. They all have dinner together once the welcoming and keynote speeches are done, and as the tables are being cleared away, John B excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

Sarah is pulled into a conversation with someone Rafe vaguely recognizes and Isla turns in her seat to face him. Rafe mirrors her position to face her as well, legs parted to make space for her, his arms resting on his thighs as his back hunches forward a bit, looking up at her. Not for the first time, he’s struck by how stunning she is, effortlessly so. The dress brings out her green eyes, fitting her perfectly, and his blood thrums with the desperate need to peel it off of her, run his fingers along every dip and curve of her body that he already knows intimately well.

“It’s going well, I’d say,” Isla quips with a smile dancing at the edge of her lips as she looks down at him, as she sits with perfect posture and he’s leaned down, weight on his arms resting on his thighs.

“What is?” he asks with a tilt of his head.

Her smile widens a bit, showing off dimples he’s brushed his fingers along countless times already. It’s a breath of fresh air, every time he sees her smile. Drives him crazy. “You and John B being in the same room,” she tells him quietly, like it’s a secret between the two of them. “I’m glad you two decided not to give me and Sarah heart burn.”

“Anythin’ for our ladies, I guess,” Rafe replies with a teasing grin, fingers idly running up and down the length of her calves, one of them exposed thanks to the delicious slit of her dress.

Isla huffs out a laugh, her jewelry glimmering under the lights. “What were you two talking about? At the bar?” she asks curiously, fingers idly playing with his tie.

“He told me how he missed you,” Rafe tells her truthfully, watching as Isla’s eyes widen slightly. It kills him, a little, at the idea that that’s so surprising to her. “They all miss you. And I told him there’s a very easy way to fix this, and that he should just talk to the rest of your friends because everything about this is stupid.”

Her lips tremble with the effort of suppressing her laugh, shaking her head as her gaze softens, fond and warm. “I appreciate it,” she says and the way her eyes shine, Rafe knows she means it. 

Rafe smiles, giving into the urge to kiss her as he leans towards her, only to be interrupted by Sarah coming to stand next to their chairs. “Hey, sorry,” Sarah says, getting both of their attention as they look up at her. Sarah shoots Rafe a concerned look, and it has his back straightening. “I—John B went to the bathroom a while ago and hasn’t come back. Can you go check?”

Rafe blinks. “You want me to check in on your boyfriend. . . In the bathroom?” he asks slowly, face scrunching up.

Sarah bounces from one leg to another. “I saw Topper head in that direction and I—just—can you please?” 

Rafe runs his tongue along his teeth, suddenly understanding Sarah’s apprehension. He wouldn’t put it past Topper to corner John B in the bathroom and, frankly, Rafe is pretty sure John B can hold his own. But then he sees Sarah’s, and now Isla’s, worried expressions, and he’s on his feet without much thought. “I’ll check,” he tells them, earning grateful smiles from them both before he turns to walk out of the hall.

He smooths down his tie as he strides out of the room, leaving the party behind as he heads towards the bathrooms. Rafe’s jaw works at the idea of what he might be walking into, though he has a pretty good idea if Topper did, in fact, go to the bathrooms to confront John B, what Rafe is about to see. Topper, it seems, doesn’t know when to quit, and while Rafe didn’t bat an eye when they were friends, it pisses him off now.

Especially when he opens the door to the men's room and sees, unsurprisingly, Topper getting up in John B’s face.

Rafe’s voice is casual as he says, “Any closer and you’ll be kissin’ him, Top.” John B’s gaze meets his around Topper as the bathroom door swings shut behind Rafe. “What the hell are you doing?”

Topper doesn’t turn to look at him. “Nothing we haven’t done before, man,” he answers, his gaze no doubt fixed on John B. It’d be a bet Rafe wins, he knows, as he stares at the back of Topper’s blond head. “What, you here to defend your new friend?” he asks with a sneer that has Rafe rolling his eyes.

Rafe tilts his head slightly. There’s no one else in the bathroom, as far as he can tell. “No. I’m here to make sure you don’t get your ass kicked which, honestly, I don’t really give much of a shit about. But if I were you, I’d back up.”

He notes the tension lining Topper’s shoulders under his suit jacket before he takes a step away from John B and turns to face Rafe. “What, are you two besties now? You’re gonna defend him?” Topper tilts his head. “Weren’t you the one who said he wasn’t good enough for your sister or your family?”

Rafe doesn’t wince or flinch at the words he had spoken in the past being thrown back in his face. Frankly, he has said worse things to John B’s face. Behind Topper, John B doesn’t look upset, either. Whatever Topper’s goal was, he misses it as Rafe levels a flat stare at him. “Yeah, and I also said I’d prefer Sarah dating you over him.” Rafe shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “Clearly, I said a lot of shit I was wrong about.”

That, he notices, takes John B by surprise a bit, his eyebrows rising behind Topper. But Rafe is being honest—now that he knows how much Sarah loves John B, and how much that love is returned, he regrets ever questioning their relationship. Now that he has Isla in his life and has gotten a taste of the kind of happiness that comes from being with someone you know, deep in your bones, you are meant to be with, Rafe would never want that to be taken away from his sister.

He thinks he might go crazy if it was taken away from him.

“Unbelievable,” Topper laughs as he gapes at Rafe, bewildered and mocking as he walks over to him. “You’ve become one of them now, is that it? You fuck a Pogue long enough and you turn into one?” His smile is more of a sneer. “Just like your sister, huh?”

Ice freezes over Rafe’s blood as his temper simmers, a protective sort of rage seeping through him. His voice stays eerily steady as he says, “Better watch your mouth, Top. I don’t think John B or I take it too well when people talk about our girls like that.”

He sees how that triggers, so to speak, Topper. The idea of Rafe accepting John B as Sarah’s boyfriend, even though they’ve been together for a year, pisses Topper off, clearly. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing with fists curling at his sides. And maybe the guy is stupider than Rafe could see before, because he steps up to Rafe, obviously trying to be intimidating and falling short. Rafe would laugh, if it weren’t for Topper musing, “Maybe I should get myself a Pogue.” He flicks the front of Rafe’s tie, widening his eyes in feigned wonder. “Hey, you think Isla would be interested in taking turns? Maybe I can see what the hype’s about, since Sarah’s been pretty used throu—”

It was Topper’s own fault, really, for thinking he’d be able to finish that sentence without taking a hit.

The adrenaline numbs Rafe to the pain in his knuckles right after it collides with Topper’s jaw. The blond stumbles back and John B locks his arms around him, pinning Topper’s own arms to the side as he struggles and thrashes against John B’s grip, but it’s tight and unrelenting. John B’s expression is hard, lips curled in a sneer as he prevents Topper from swinging back at Rafe. 

Topper’s lip is bleeding, his teeth having cut it upon Rafe’s fist’s impact, and Rafe steps towards him, flexing his fingers and feeling the tension and sting as he grips the lapels of Topper’s suit jacket. He sees the anger in Topper’s blue eyes, the curl of his bleeding lip as he’s forced to still in his struggle. Rafe easily towers over him and a primal sort of satisfaction rushes through him at the flicker of fear in Topper’s eyes, rearing back as far as he can, but John B is right there, not giving him much room to cower.

Rafe’s voice is dangerously low, the intent to put Topper’s head through a wall loudly clear in his tone. “Let’s get one thing clear, Thornton—I’m sick of you actin’ as if you’re owed something by everyone. You walk around picking fights with people you think have fucked you over, but you’re only embarrassing yourself.” Rafe’s grip on Topper’s jacket tightens, his blood boiling and pulse rapidly firing. “If you ever think about Isla and Sarah again, I’m going to ruin your fucking life. You won’t be able to show your face in the entire state if you keep this bullshit up. Not even your judge grandpa will be able to save you. You fucking get me?”

Indignation swims in Topper’s eyes, staring at Rafe as if he’s never seen him before. “You’re throwing away seventeen years of friendship for—”

“Yeah,” Rafe says tightly, not bothering to let Topper finish. “I am.”

He lets go of him then, his gaze meeting John B’s behind Topper, who waits a beat before he lets Topper go. Topper shoves away, straightening himself and his suit jacket out, his gaze never straying from Rafe. A trickle of blood leaks from the corner of Topper’s mouth, his perfectly styled hair in slight disarray, which makes Rafe feel more satisfied than it should. 

He stares at Topper, though, and Rafe can feel their near two decade long friendship crumbling between them. Topper’s been his longest, oldest friend; they’ve known each other since pre-school, have made countless memories together, raised plenty of hell. Rafe knows that things have been shifting between them as he was becoming more familiar with his feelings for Isla, as the two of them started going out. The whole Kooks versus Pogues mentality seems so far away to him now, and he wishes that the same could be said for Topper.

But it’s abundantly clear that while Rafe has started a new chapter in his life, Topper has fallen far behind.

And it hurts, if he’s being honest, to see their friendship implode. But Rafe also isn’t going to let Topper get away with the shit he spews about his girlfriend and sister. The friendship, despite its longevity, isn’t worth that.

Topper pulls out his handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket, glaring at Rafe as he wipes at the blood on his face. “You’ve lost your damn mind,” he mutters with a shake of his head,  moving to walk past him. He throws him and John B another dirty look, sharper towards John B and—more hurt towards Rafe, who swallows down the tightness in his throat. “Fuck this.”

He storms out, the door falling shut behind him, and the bathroom is left in a tense silence. Rafe runs his tongue along his teeth, fingers once again flexing at his side as he looks down at them, taking in the harsh redness already forming where the skin broke a bit. Slowly, the tension seeps out of his muscles—very slowly, and the silence of the bathroom is broken when John B speaks up.

“Didn’t see that coming,” he says idly, straightening the front of his shirt and suit jacket as well. 

Rafe exhales roughly through his nose. “It was a long time coming,” he corrects with a mutter as he looks at him. He looks fine, but Rafe still asks, “You good, man?”

There’s a flicker of surprise in John B’s dark eyes before it disappears and he nods. “Yeah, I’m alright.” His gaze dips to Rafe’s hand. “What about you? Might need to ice that hand.”

“I’ll live,” Rafe says with a short chuckle before he lifts his chin. The air shifts, not as tense, but he still looks John B in the eye and asks meaningfully, “We good?”

John B stares at him for a beat before he lets out a breath as well, the corners of his lips tipping up in an accepting smile. “Yeah, man, we’re good.”

Rafe nods, feeling more relieved than he anticipated, and he and John B leave the bathroom to head back to the party. He doesn’t look to see where Topper scurried off to as he and John B head back to the table. Rafe’s knuckles aren’t bleeding, but they are a bit raw, and he doesn’t have a hope in hiding it because the second they near the table where Isla and Sarah are sitting, his girlfriend immediately clocks the injury.

“What happened?” she asks, alarmed but hushed as she gets to her feet, her hands immediately grasping his—gingerly, her fingers holding his as she looks at the raw knuckles with concern creasing her forehead. 

Even Sarah stands up, coming over to them with her eyebrows furrowing together. “It’s not a big deal,” Rafe assures them and despite the tension from earlier, he feels a smile ease onto his face as he gets crowded by his girlfriend and sister.

Sarah shakes her head. “You punched Topper?” she asks, disbelief coloring her tone. And a hint of laughter, if he listens for it.

Isla looks up at him, eyes slightly wide in surprise. He shoots her a flat look that has the corners of her mouth curving up. Before either of them can say anything, a hand appears holding a bag of ice, wrapped in one of the white cloth napkins. All three of their heads follow the hand that leads to John B, who raises his eyebrows at a surprised looking Rafe.

“It’ll help with the swelling,” he says, gaze unwavering, and when Rafe takes it with his uninjured hand, it feels like accepting an olive branch.

“Thanks,” Rafe says genuinely with a dip of his chin, which John B returns, as Rafe places it on his knuckles. His gaze flickers, then, and he catches Isla and Sarah looking between the two of them as if they both grew a second head. When he looks back at John B, the brunette is clearly fighting back a smile, and Rafe finds himself huffing out a laugh as he looks back at a bewildered Isla and Sarah. “You two are gonna dry your eyes out if you don’t blink soon.”

“What is going on.” Sarah asks, though it comes out more as a statement, a demand. 

John B drops an arm around Sarah’s shoulders, grinning. “We kissed and made up,” he says with a casual shrug.

It has Rafe snorting out a laugh, surprisingly enough, even as he sucks in a quiet breath when he adjusts the ice on his knuckles. Isla grimaces, still holding his hand from the bottom, as Sarah shakes her head, blinking at Rafe and John B. “I’m so confused.”

Isla cracks a smile in her direction. “Don’t question it.” She looks back at Rafe, her voice quieting, just for him as she looks up at him through long eyelashes and asks, “Are you okay?”

Rafe meets her gaze, the world around them slipping away as he sees the way she searches his eyes. He knows, right then, she doesn’t mean just physically. That she knows what it’s like to be on opposite sides of a friendship, and that something fundamentally has broken between him and Topper. But right now, Rafe can’t make sense of it all.

So he gives her a gentle smile and responds, “Ask me again later?” and, to his relief, she nods after a beat of hesitation. 

“Uh, should we leave before Dad finds out you punched someone at this party?” Sarah pipes up, brown eyes darting around the room.

Rafe’s jaw tightens. “If Dad knew what Topper was saying, he wouldn’t be upset.” He blows out a breath through his nose. “But I’m ready to head out,” he adds, glancing at Isla in question, who nods in agreement.

John B smiles. “I know a place we can go.”

*****

If anyone had told Rafe, months ago, that he would be having a beer in John B’s backyard—in the backyard of the Chateau—Rafe would’ve laughed in your face. Maybe said something rude and condescending for even suggesting such a thing.

Yet here he sits, in one of the hammocks even, with a cold beer in his hand and legs spread so Isla could slot hers in the space in between. Through the leaves of the trees around them, Rafe sees the clear dark sky, stars winking in and out of existence as the hammock gently sways under their weight. John B and Sarah are in the next one, their positions mirroring his and Isla’s, and it all feels a little surreal to Rafe.

Inside the Chateau, a few of the lights are on where Big John hangs out. Rafe hadn’t missed the surprise in his eyes from behind his wiry sunglasses when he realized Rafe was accompanying the group of them, but the man had greeted and welcomed him with the same kind of friendliness he always did whenever Rafe happened to see him. Which is a little more than often, given that Big John and Rafe’s dad are friends.

“I’m thinking another boneyard party,” John B muses thoughtfully, his head resting back as he, too, gazes up.

Sarah snorts. “Yeah, because the last one definitely wasn’t broken up by the cops.”

But Isla hums with a smile. “But the last one did have a hand in us getting together,” she says, meeting his gaze.

Rafe grins, remembering that night well. John B looks between them. “Wait, really?”

Isla nods, chuckling. “Remember I said some touron gave me a ride home after we all split up when the cops came?” John B nods and Isla jerks her chin at Rafe. “My knight on a shining motorcycle.”

Sarah feigns a sniff, one hand to her chest and the other wiping a fake tear. “He does have a heart.”

“You’re so funny,” Rafe says sarcastically with a roll of his eyes, but Sarah’s responding laughter has him shaking his head with a small smile of his own. His eyes land on Isla opposite of him and she’s watching him with that gentle smile, one that hints at her dimples, and Rafe’s chest tightens at the sight of her.

Still in her dress, though this time his suit jacket is draped over her shoulders to shield her from the night chill. “It was very sweet,” Isla tells Sarah and John B with a smile before her gaze flicks back to Rafe. She’s looking at him as she tells the couple in the next hammock, “He didn’t have to save my ass, but I’m glad he did.” Rafe’s pulse thumps happily as she nudges her painted toes against his hip where her legs are stretched out next to him. “Who knows if we’d be here if he hadn’t?”

Rafe watches her, unable to see anything or anyone else. “I would’ve found a way,” he replies, the words wrapped in a vow.

Isla’s smile widens, dimple deepening. He loves the sight of them. To his right, he hears John B groan. “Ugh, you were right. They are cute together.”

Both Rafe and Isla look over at them, catching Sarah’s grin and John B’s head shake, though he seems to be hiding his own smile in his next sip of beer. Hearing John B say that clearly delights Isla, green eyes shining in the dark, and Rafe finds himself appreciative of John B’s words, too.

Sarah just grins smugly, triumphantly. “I love being right.”

-

taglist: @jenniesbuttercup-blog @combatbabys-world @talkfastromance4 @you-got-me-starry-eyed @invisiblexcth @freshsturniolo346 @theafournier97 @danismyth04 @fl0werlver @perfectprettypisces @pameluuu @melsbels-zip @gabrielaperez11 @katieeeeb @cenzie811148

[crushoncaleb]

Be my valentine

Rafayel x reader

Fluff

1.4k words

You try to ask Rafayel to be your valentine. The keyword is try.

A/N. First time I have written something for a holiday or event and actually managed to post it in time! Basically, I couldn't sleep, and Rafayel possessed me. Hope y'all enjoy!

My masterlist

Is this...rejection?

You'd spent some time planning it, even bribed Thomas to get Rafayel the day off. But when you and Rafayel arrived at your usual spot at the beach. He didn't seem to take note of the seagulls at all.

The seagulls you had somehow managed to train into landing in the right order so the letters you stuck to them would ask him to be your valentine. Now, you'd be the first to admit, the whole plan was a little crazy, but with your and Rafayel's history and connection to the seagulls choir, you'd thought it would be cute.

If it had been any more subtle, you might've believed he genuinely missed it. But it's quite hard to believe someone like Rafayel would not see the literal seagull choir the two of you were here to visit. So naturally, you had to assume he was letting you down easy.

Even being let down easy hurt. It completely blindsided you. You were absolutely certain something had been brewing between you and the artist. Hell, last time you'd spent time with him after wearing new perfume, he'd spent about an hour shoving his face against you to breathe you in. You were SO certain that crossed the line of platonic.

You start questioning if perhaps you'd been reading social interactions wrong your entire life, as next to you, Rafayel starts getting antsy.

"Cutie, as much as the sky is beautiful today and I would love to spend time staring at it with you, we should go get lunch now. Thomas' endless texting has tired me out, and I'm huungry. " He speaks, his tone light and whiney as always, and for a second, you consider him world's greatest actor.

You decide that what you felt for Rafayel combined with the effort you'd put into this plan was worth the risk of heartbreak, so in a final effort to get him to acknowledge you, you speak up.

"Don't you want to see your trusty choir first? They're right there behind you. I'm sure they've missed their conductor." You're not sure if you manage to keep your tone quite as light and playful as intended, desperation tinging the edges of your words, but you've spoken them, now he HAS to respond.

A pause, anticipation clogs your veins, and you practically feel your blood pressure rising. "...there's a boat ride with a buffet that might be nice today, since the weather is so nice and all."

Your eyebrows raise, the casual tone of his voice so steady that you almost start questioning if you even did bring it up at all. But the quick look he takes at you and the way he turns away tells you he is definitely doing this on purpose.

It was truly rejection then, your stomach twists and a buffet and a boat ride with Rafayel suddenly sound daunting. You could get over rejection, but maybe not within 10 minutes.

"Hmm, that sounds nice but I'm actually starting to feel a little off," you muse on your excuse "I think I might head home a little earlier than planned today, Rafayel, rain check?"

He turns to face you now, slowly. Eyes wide and brows furrowed, expression reminiscent of that time you gave him a single apple when he checked himself into the hospital. A mix between shock, offense, and a silent command to change your mind.

He grabs your wrist and starts pulling you along. His expression changes in a heartbeat, and it's like you never said anything.

"They apparently have like a super long waiting list, but I got in pretty easily. Guess being well known does have its perks after all, huh?" He keeps talking in that same casual tone of his, which is starting to frustrate you to no end.

"Rafayel, I get that a rain check for the boat might not be easy if it's like that, but I really need to go home." You plead, trying to pull yourself out of his grip but he just turns to you, gives you that same expression that you're convinced only Rafayel can make properly, and then keeps going like you never opened your mouth.

You're baffled at his behavior, and by the time you recover, the two of you are making your way onto the boat.

"Now, I'm going to need you to stop looking so surprised, cutie." He reaches out to gently smooth his fingers over the muscles of your brows, which you will admit are a little tense from how you've had them raised the entire way here. "I need you looking as cute as you always do for the pictures we're gonna take here."

It was one thing to completely ignore what was practically a confession, another to blatantly ignore your request to go home, but the audacity to tell you to not be surprised at his antics? That was too far.

He tries to pull you along again, but you hold steady. He shoots you a questioning look. As if you're the one acting out of the ordinary.

"Rafayel, I want to go home," and you're proud of yourself for standing on business, convinced there is no way for him to just ignore that. In your defense, he doesn't.

Instead, he huffs, his gorgeous features taking on that oh so familiar, annoyed expression. His response is a short "no, you don't" before he takes a step closer to you, only to link your arms and pull you along with the new leverage that gives him.

Then, before you know it, you're standing at the front of the boat as it slides through the water. With no way home except a very prolonged dive.

Rafayel entertains you, and the entire situation had been confusing enough to distract you from his blatant rejection, but now that his weird behavior seems to be settling, reality starts creeping in. You're stuck with him now, so you'll have to keep yourself together until you manage to get off this boat. How vexing.

His first cough doesn't shake you out of the deep thoughts you're in and neither does the second so, Rafayel resorts to nudging you with his elbow when a red fish surfaces with a bottle in its mouth.

You look at him, but he pointedly looks away, like he didn't just practically poke your ribs out. When you lean towards the railing, the fish jumps, and the bottle flies towards you.

You're not actually in the mood to catch it, but your hunter instincts kick in, and in the blink of an eye, the intricate glass bottle is in your hands. You can see a note neatly curled up and tied with a bow, resting inside it.

"Wow, cutie, those are some reflexes." Rafayel feigns being impressed and then presses on. "You should open it. You won the bottle's secrets fair and square once you saved its life."

You narrow your eyes at him. This could not possibly have been more obviously set up by him. Though you will say, his sheer determination to have things go his way is admirable.

You comply, already knowing the only other option was to face his huffing and puffing before then having to comply after all.

The cork takes more effort to open than you'd like, and Rafayel smiles fondly at the slight flush that rises on your face in result. Once you unroll the note, though, your eyes widen.

There, in Rafayel's eclectic handwriting are the very words you'd strung up on your seagulls.

A beat passes, and Rafayel looks at you expectantly. A cute expression on his face, and for a second, you are torn between accepting just to keep him looking like that and raining down righteous retribution on him.

You decide you'd do both. "Rafayel, of course I'll be your valentine, but did you really ha-" his lips halt yours before you could complain at all and you feel said complaints melting away.

The kiss is sweet, Rafayel brings you into his arms as he starts to deepen it, you'd always suspected he'd be a needy kisser, but he pulls away before he gets carried away.

"Sorry, cutie. Couldn't have you interfering with my plans though, you have no idea how long I've waited to make this move." His voice sounds breathy, and his eyes don't leave your lips. His words are so sweet you could almost ignore how he's pretending this was your fault. Almost.

Yet, you'll let it slide. Because as he leans in for another kiss, you just can't find it in yourself to be upset with him.

[disneyprincemuke]

the second seat * fem!driver

the question of who gets the second seat in the new season has been unaddressed for months

pairings: logan sargeant x femreader, oscar piastri x femdriver, liam lawson x femdriver, mick schumacher x femdriver

notes: guys omg i always thought liam n rocky being in the same time would mean marketing chaos and absolute borderline insane team antics,, if only i hadn't been too lazy to write nonlogan fics when it comes to vr LMFAOOO

(series masterlist) | (📂 the sophomore year)

"it has to be me, right?" mick grins, turning to the small girl as she dances around the living room with her cat in her arms. "you said you'd get me the second seat."

"doubt it, mate," oscar mutters, fingers slamming down on the buttons of his controller as their game of mario kart plays out on the tv screen. "don't trust a word she says. she's a serial liar."

"am not!" she shrieks, turning around to glare at oscar. "he's the serial liar!" she looks at mick. "i tried to get you the seat, mate, but apparently i don't have that much of a say after all."

logan shrugs, eyes stuck on the screen as he bites down on his lip. "i know who got the second seat."

"what? that's insane!" oscar scoffs, shoving logan quickly before returning his hands on his controller. "and you haven't told me? are you crazy?"

"it's not my fault i live with her! you know she can't keep a secret to save her life," logan snorts, rolling his eyes. "you're just gonna have to wait for andretti's statement like everybody else."

"that's stupid. we're already here," mick points out. he looks at the girl and scowls. "who is your teammate for the new season? no way you keep your mouth shut long enough for them to make the announcement in the next 10 minutes."

she shrugs, disappearing into the kitchen. "what can i say? i turned 21 and suddenly i'm a new person."

"she'll tell us before they can post about it. don't sweat it," oscar laughs, putting his controller down. he pumps his fist in the air as he beats logan at yet another mario kart race, giggling when logan punches his arm.

"well, my teammate should be here any second," she hums, walking back in with a pint of ice cream in her hands. she holds out the pint to the group. "ice cream?"

mick looks at the pint. "you have an ice cream problem, rocky."

"perhaps." she takes a seat next to mick on the couch as oscar takes the pint from her hands. "but they signed him before telling me about it. so i, too, was blindsided."

"sad."

"truly," she shakes her head as kidnapper finally releases his claws from her shirt, padding over to mick's lap. she takes the ice cream pint back in her hands. "but it's a pretty good catch. i think we'll be good together on the track."

the front door swings open. "i'm here!"

"your teammate's lily?"

"are you fucking stupid?" she kicks logan lightly, rolling her eyes as she throws her head back. "obviously it's not lily."

"oh, you haven't told them yet?" lily giggles, skipping over to where oscar is sitting on the ground. she presses a quick kiss to his cheek, making the other 3 people in the room groan as they throw their head backs.

"gross!"

"get a room!"

"trigger warning next time."

"wait. what does she mean by that? you mean my girlfriend knows and we don't?" oscar frowns, pointing at the redhead who has her arms strung around his shoulders. "what's with the secrecy?"

logan laughs. "yeah, i told her."

"unfair! that's blatant favouritism!" mick scoffs, throwing a pillow at logan. "why'd you tell her before us?"

"i had to tell someone. i knew lily would never speak if i told her not to tell anyone," logan grins, clearly proud of his decision. "what time is he getting here, rocky? can't believe he's late for lunch."

"ah, cut him some slack. he's just flown in from home," she giggles. "any moment now, actually."

"he'll arrive soon?"

she feels her phone buzz in her pocket. "check your instagram."

there's a moment of silence, the two clueless men fishing hurriedly for their phones to check their social media.

it's followed by loud gasps and bewildered screams. mick jumps up, startling the cat sitting peacefully on his lap. kidnapper quickly settles on her lap again. "you kept this a secret for this long – how, exactly?"

she shrugs just as oscar screams. "you're mentally unsound! you hid a secret this large from me?"

"that's right," the door swings open, slamming against their shoe rack as a familiar face walks by the entryway of their small apartment. he throws his arms up into the air and puckers his lips. "meet the fine lad who's managed to scam andretti into giving him the second seat to start in the new season."

oscar holds a hand on his chest. "lily, call an ambulance."

"good lord," mick slowly sits down, scratching his head. "you crazy son of a bitch. how did you manage to pull this off?"

she giggles, moving over to the other end of the couch to make space. he drops himself between mick and the younger driver, slinging his arms around their shoulders and resting his leg over the other. "that's right. it is i, liam lawson, driving for andretti this season."

"oh, we're gonna be insane this year, mate," she laughs, holding her hand out for a high-5. "i got you an ice cream pint to celebrate."

"oh, lit. what flavour did you get me?" liam hops up and runs over to the kitchen. "chocolate too?"

"mint."

liam's head pops out of the kitchen, an unimpressed stare boring holes at her. "you know i hate that."

"welcome to the team."

taglist: @wcnorris @treehouse-mouse @laura-naruto-fan1998 @mindless-rock @vellicora @leilanixx @ironmaiden1313 @angsthology @cherry-piee @christianpulisic10 @elliegrey2803 @cashtons-wife @darleneslane @nikfigueiredo @happy-nico @namgification @sadg3 @a10vely-yutazen @mellowarcadefun @glitterf1 @megatrilss1885 @peqch-pie @gentlyweeps-world @woozarts @meadhbhcavanagh @2bormaybenot @inejismywife @love4lando

[boujiestpoet]

STARCROSSED

SOCIAL MEDIA/NEWS chapter 1: Appaled

NEXT CHAPTER.

MASTERLIST

Summary: Two people and the rest of the world discover that their partners ain't shit

FACECLAIM: The extraordinary Tems

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. THE BEHAVIOUR OF THE CHARACTERS DOES NOT REFLECT THE REAL PERSONALITIES OF THE INDIVIDUAL UPON WHOM THEY ARE BASED. I AM MERELY BORROWING THEIR PHYSICAL LIKENESS AND THE PROFESSION THEY HAVE FOR THE SAKE OF THIS NARRATIVE

TW: Cringiness from the writer, grammatical errors (have mercy english is my semi firsr language)

Heartbreak in Hollywood: Renee Bennett’s Devastating Betrayal by Boyfriend Ben Field and Best Friend Leah Dawn

By: Sarah Caldwell | Celebrity Insider

In a shocking twist that has left fans reeling, beloved actress Renee Bennett has found herself at the center of a scandal that could rival any of her on-screen dramas. The star of the upcoming epic “Northern Winds” has been blindsided by the ultimate betrayal—her boyfriend, model Ben Field, and her best friend, influencer Leah Dawn, were caught in a scandalous embrace that no one saw coming.

The Scandal Unfolds: A Shocking Revelation

Renee Bennett, who recently returned from a grueling five-month shoot in Norway, had been looking forward to reuniting with her boyfriend, Ben Field. The couple, who had been dating for nearly two years, were widely regarded as one of the most stable pairs in the industry. But all that came crashing down when Ben and Leah were spotted kissing in New York City, a moment that has sent shockwaves through Hollywood.

Paparazzi captured the scandalous moment late last week, with Ben and Leah sharing a passionate kiss outside an upscale Manhattan restaurant. The photographs, which quickly went viral, have left fans in disbelief and sparked a media frenzy. To make matters worse, Renee had just returned to the U.S., believing she was coming home to her loving boyfriend—only to discover this devastating betrayal.

Best Friend Betrayal: Leah Dawn’s Double Life

What makes this betrayal even more heartbreaking is that Leah Dawn wasn’t just any woman—she was Renee’s closest confidante. The two had been inseparable for years, often seen vacationing together and supporting each other through the ups and downs of fame. Leah, a well-known social media influencer, had built her brand on the image of friendship and loyalty, making this act of treachery all the more shocking.

Leah Dawn was also dating F1 driver Charles Leclerc, a relationship that had its own share of drama. Rumors swirled that Charles was on the verge of proposing to Leah, but according to a recent blind item, his mother was reportedly not in favor of the union. The news of Leah’s infidelity has now thrown that relationship into question, leaving fans to wonder if the engagement is now off the table.

Renee’s Response: Silence Speaks Volumes

Since the scandal broke, Renee Bennett has maintained a dignified silence. Friends of the actress describe her as “heartbroken” and “utterly blindsided” by the betrayal. Renee, who has always been known for her professionalism and grace, is reportedly focusing on her career and taking time to process the situation away from the public eye.

“Renee is devastated,” a close friend revealed. “She never imagined that the two people she trusted most would betray her like this. Right now, she’s just trying to come to terms with what happened and figure out her next steps.”

Where Do They Stand? The Aftermath for All Involved

As for Ben Field and Leah Dawn, neither has made a public statement about the scandal. However, insiders suggest that both are facing significant fallout. Ben’s modeling contracts may be in jeopardy as brands distance themselves from the drama, and Leah has lost a significant number of followers on social media as the public turns against her.

Charles Leclerc has remained silent amid the scandal, leaving fans wondering about the status of his relationship with Leah. The F1 driver has not been seen with Leah since the photos emerged, and sources close to the couple suggest that the situation has left him reeling. With rumors of a potential engagement now in doubt, it’s unclear whether Charles will continue his relationship with Leah or if this scandal has irreparably damaged their romance.

A Love Story Shattered

This heartbreaking turn of events has left fans and Hollywood insiders alike questioning how such a betrayal could happen. Renee Bennett, who has always been the picture of strength and grace, now finds herself facing one of the most challenging moments of her life. As she navigates this painful chapter, her fans are rallying behind her, offering support and urging her to stay strong.

While the future remains uncertain for all involved, one thing is clear: Renee Bennett’s story is far from over. This betrayal may have shattered her trust, but it has also shown the world just how resilient she truly is. And as she steps into the next phase of her career, all eyes will be on Renee to see how she rises above the heartbreak and emerges stronger than ever.

Author's Note: And I'm back as I promised how do you find the social media chapters, advices are always welcome