#half of the map is still empty

[daddyjackfrost]

In The Woods ; B. Barnes

The truth is stranger than in all my dreams. Oh, the darkness got a hold on me.

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky x Ex-Avengers!F!Reader 

Synopsis: He left you behind to keep you safe, but safety never stopped the heartbreak. Now, a year of grief, silence, and sleepless nights unravel the moment he shows up at your door with his new team—bruised, breathless, begging. You’re angry and he’s sorry, but the love is still there. It always has been. 

Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, y/n is mean & angry (for a bit), bucky is guilty, swearing, ft. thunderbolts, bleeding/injuries, sambucky break-up (mentions), yearning, not dating but a secret third thing, mentions of natasha & her death, y/n is “team sam”, mentions of tfatws (briefly), mentions of hell/religious imagery, violence/blood, SMUT, MDNI, kissing, oral (f), spit, p in v, creampie, unprotected sex (don’t), happy ending, no tb spoliers/ WC: 13.5

A/N: Bucky in Thunderbolts….mind goes brrr. Not helping the SamBucky divorce allegations but alas, anything for the story. Ignore any choppiness in the timeline or story, I wrote this with the worst migraine.

The forest was bleeding.

Not with colour—but silence. With snow falling slow and heavy, catching on branches and burning footprints as fast as they were made. The trees stood like sentinels, black-limed and reaching. Nothing but white, wood, and blood. 

Bucky’s breath came ragged through the hush, fogging the air. His gloved hands were soaked red. Yelena was slung between him and Walker, unconscious but breathing, the warmth of her body slowly seeping through his coat. 

They weren’t going to make it. 

He should have known. He should have been prepared for it, but he hadn’t been. 

“Bob,” Bucky called, voice tight, hoarse. “Stay close.” 

Bob—still limping, still glassy-eyed from the explosion—nodded and trudged forward, boots crunching through the snow. He wasn’t built for this. Not yet. Not like this. Val had shoved him onto the field too soon, too eager. 

Bucky had tried arguing, tried telling her that he was still fragile—a liability—but she hadn’t listened. And Bucky didn’t need more on his plate, but he’d take care of him. Or, at least, he’d try. 

Ava phased in and out ahead, scanning, ghostlike. When she disappeared for a moment too long, Bucky felt the silence of the clearing, tenfold. She was trying to stay ahead of whatever might still be behind them. 

But, Bucky could feel it. He could taste it. 

They were done. Just miles of snow and trees and nowhere to go. 

Yelena was bleeding out and Walker wasn’t any better, wobbling on his legs as he tried to stand up straight. They wouldn’t last long out here, certainly not while dragging each other. 

“Shit,” he muttered, stopping long enough to fumble with the tablet in his pouch. His hands shook—exhaustion, adrenaline, guilt—never ending guilt, swimming in his veins. He tapped into the satellite overlay, breathing hard, as their current location pinged into view. 

Grid 48-F. 

The North woods. Nothing but a snow storm. Cold, empty—remote. No outposts for miles. 

These weren’t woods happy campers visited. Untouched land, ridged and slanted, surrounded them. A perfect place for illegal activity but not so perfect to do the right thing. 

But—there—just there—barely on the edge of the map. 

A single black dot, beeping in and out existence, almost as if a trick of the light, like it wasn’t meant to be found.

His chest caved in around it. 

The coordinates suddenly looked familiar, as did the landscape. He narrowed his eyes, held the tablet up, heart slowing down. 

He knew these coordinates. 

Bucky stared at it for a long, frozen second. 

A place he hadn’t let himself think about in almost a year. 

A place filled with half-buried memories—laughter over old vinyl records, the sound of boots on the porch, a sweet voice telling him to sit as he was cleaned up. Steam curling from a mug handed to him without a word. 

Nights too quiet and long to pretend the tension wasn’t there. That the affection, curling around the wood and into the floorboards, wasn’t there. That the flicker of love, of want, wasn’t soaking into his skin.

Your eyes, warmer than firelight, watching him with a softness he’d never be able to find anywhere else. 

He hadn’t been able to go back. 

Not after deciding to leave you. Not after ignoring your calls when you got back from your mission. Not after telling himself it was for your safety—for your distance, from him and the darkness and chaos that seemed to follow him. 

He’d convinced himself that cutting the cord meant saving you. 

But now? 

Now the cord was pulling him back, wrapped around his neck and tugged, and he couldn’t rip it off even if he tried. 

“Bucky?” Bob’s voice small, nervous. He glanced at Bucky before focusing ahead, cold and wet. 

Bucky looked up, snapped out of it. “We’re not going to the evac point,” he said, voice low yet carrying. “We won’t make it. We’d freeze before the rendezvous got here.” 

“Then where?” Walker grunted. “We’re going to die out here.” 

Bucky hesitated, eyes on the trees, on the white mist curling through the frozen pines.

Finally, he said, “There’s a cabin.” He paused, like it hurt to admit. “It’s not far.” 

He didn’t say who it belonged to. He didn’t say it was the one place in the world he’d once felt safe and at peace. Didn’t say he hated every second of his life since they landed in this cold hell a few hours ago. 

Instead, he just adjusted Yelena’s weight on his shoulder and started moving. 

They reached the edge of the clearing an hour later. 

The sky was bleeding to black now, dim with twilight, blue shadows sinking low between the snowdrifts. The cabin stood half-hidden beneath a thick layer of frost and pine, smoke curling softly from the chimney. Warm light flickered behind the frosted windows.

It felt like a punch to the gut. 

Bucky paused at the treeline and held up a fist. The team crouched, quiet, bodies stiff from cold. He scanned the clearing, fingers twitching at his side. His mouth and eyes went dry. 

He didn’t think you’d be here.  

You hadn’t been the last time he checked. A year ago. After he stopped answering your messages. After he told himself staying away was the only way to protect you from the mess he was about to wade into with Val. 

Just once, last year, in a moment of weakness, he looked for you. Actively searched for you. He just needed to know, just needed to make sure you were okay, safe. He couldn’t find you. Sometimes, he can still feel that raw panic, the way his heart had stopped breathing when he came up empty, the way he had fallen to his knees and clutched at his chest like someone had ripped his heart out of him. 

The smoke was fresh. The path to the shed was shoveled. There were footprints. 

His stomach dropped. 

You were here. 

He turned, eyes on the snow. “Stay put. I’ll clear it.” His voice was low. 

“What if someone’s inside?” Ava asked, curious at Bucky’s shift in behaviour. 

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll handle it.” 

He crossed the snow like a ghost.

Every step was agony. Every crunch of ice beneath his boots cracked open another memory.

The porch creaked under his weight.

His hand slid along the doorframe. He knew exactly where you kept the spare key, the trick to the lock. He’d fixed it once, after you kicked it shut too hard. He remembered the way you’d rolled your eyes and offered him a beer while he worked. 

He didn’t want to break in. 

He didn’t want to disrespect this place, the peace that surrounded it. 

He didn’t want to hurt you again. 

He just—

He just needed somewhere to hide. 

His fingers curled around the doorknob, heart in his throat. You wouldn’t have been able to tell that he was once an assassin, once a killing machine. 

And then—

Click. 

“Don’t move.”

He froze, muscles stilling. 

The cold metal of a rifle barrel touched the base of his skull. It was the first time it had in years. He forgot how hard it was, how chilling. 

“Turn around. Slowly.” 

The voice behind him was sharp, cold, measured—devoid of any emotion and warmth. 

Your voice. 

Bucky turned. 

And there you were. 

Wrapped in flannel and fury. Face hard as ice, sharp eyes, steady behind the sight of your rifle. Your finger on the trigger didn’t even shake. It was steady, pressing. He felt a sliver of fear, something foreign and familiar all at once.

He drank in the sight of you like he was breathing for the first time, like he had been drowning at the foot of an altar and hadn’t known peace, hadn’t known salvation until this moment. 

Your hair was a little longer, circles under your eyes. New, faded scars on your face, under your eyebrow and lips. Same old boots. 

Still exceptionally beautiful as the day he lost you. 

The only thing different was your expression. 

New. 

You didn’t look surprised. Not the way he was. You weren’t drinking him in. 

You looked furious, angry, murderous. 

That, he decided, was the worst part. 

“...Y/n,” he breathed, voice cracking.

You stared at him, eyes like knives. Finger pressing the trigger harder, like you were going to pull. 

“What the fuck are you doing here, Barnes?” 

The barrel of your rifle didn’t drop. 

Even as the snow clung to his hair, melting down his jaw. Even as his expression cracked open into something half-empty, half-anxious. 

Even as his lips parted like he might say something real, something soft, something that would make you pull the trigger. 

You didn’t let yourself care, didn’t let yourself even entertain the thought of anything except the press of the barrel into his skin. You couldn’t—couldn’t even take a moment to comprehend that he was in front of you, alive. 

“You’re trespassing,” you said, voice ice-edged and flat, and dangerous. “So either tell me who’s bleeding in the trees or I put one in your leg and call Sam.” 

That hit him. 

It hit him. 

He flinched—subtle, almost imperceptible—but you caught it. Just like you used to catch every other shift in him. The way he’d crack a knuckle when he was anxious. The way his jaw would tighten when he was lying. The way he could never look you in the eyes when he said goodbye.

You clicked the safety off. 

He didn’t even raise his hands. 

“Yelena’s hurt. So is Walker,” he said, voice lower now. Rougher. Sandpaper. “Bob’s with us. We just needed a place to—”

“You think you can just show up here?” 

It came out sharp. Too sharp. Quick, something prickling. 

Something behind your ribs cracked open. A dam you didn’t even realize you were still holding back. You stepped forward, closer, gun still pressing against his forehead. Snow on your boots, fury in your chest, your heart pounding so loud it echoed in your ears. 

He was still standing on your porch. 

Your space. 

A sacred, secret spot you had once shared with him, but no longer. 

You were seething. How fucking dare he?

“I ought to shoot you, you know that? Put a bullet in your arm, maybe your shoulder.” 

“I didn’t know you were here,” he said quickly, eyes on you, like it made it better. “I wouldn’t have—I wasn’t gonna stay. I just—”

“Just what, Bucky?” you snapped. “Thought you’d break in? Treat it like another asset to use up and leave behind? Like you did with me?” 

He could feel his heart crack, his resolve, all the effort he’d put in himself to forget you, all came crashing down. He felt small, guilty. 

He didn’t even think about his team, the ones watching him from the treeline, taking in this new version of him. They’d never seen him stand so still, so disarming. 

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed thickly. 

His shoulders curled in just a little. Like he’d been waiting for this. Like it still hurt more than he expected. 

Your hands shook, once. His eyes fell on them before lifting, piercing into yours. You lowered the rifle only because you didn’t trust yourself not to pull the trigger on accident. 

And then—movement. A shuffle behind the trees. 

Bucky turned his head slightly, called out, “Come on out.”

You watched as Bob stepped into view first, arms braced under John’s weight. Blood stained the sleeve of Walker’s coat, and his jaw was clenched with pain. Ava phased beside them a second later, hauling Yelena, unconscious and pale, her forehead slick with blood. 

Your stomach turned. You swallowed the bile. You knew them, or, knew of them. Although you had removed yourself from society as best you could, you still kept in touch. Listening, watching.

They looked like shit, like they’d been through hell. 

But you didn’t look at them, not really. 

You looked at Bucky. Watched the way his lips turned down at the sight of them in concern. 

It made you sick that part of you still cared. 

That the sight of Yelena’s crumpled form made you shove the pain down into your gut. That instinct took over and you stepped aside, jerking your head toward the door. 

“Inside. Now.” 

Bucky didn’t move, not right away. 

Maybe he was stunned, or trying to think of something to say. 

But you didn’t wait. You turned your back on him—on all of them—and pushed the cabin door wide. 

The warmth hit you like a slap, familiar and inviting yet surprising. 

The fire was still crackling in the hearth. Your mug of half-finished tea sat forgotten on the windowsill. The cabin smelled like pine and old wood and the lilac cleaner you used on the floors just that morning.

It smelled like you. 

And then they all stumbled in, dragging the snow and blood and silence behind him. 

Ava pulled Yelena onto the couch. Bob dragged Walked across the carpet, propped him up somewhere. He hovered close, face pale, eyes wide. You moved fast—medical kit from the cabinet, extra blankets from the trunk, towels tossed in the sink. 

Your movements were sharp, precise. Practiced and automatic. 

You didn’t look at Bucky. 

You didn’t need to. 

You could feel him behind you, like a storm gathering behind your spine. Like a memory clawing up your throat. 

Your voice was low when you finally broke the silence.

“This place isn’t a fucking outpost.” 

“I know,” Bucky said quietly. Almost like he couldn’t believe you’d think he’d disrespect this place, one that had once been so kind to him. 

“Then why the hell are you here?” 

“I didn’t have a choice.” 

You snorted. “There’s always a choice.” 

His voice cracked, desperate. “I didn’t think you’d be here.” 

“Yeah?” You turned, eyes meeting his briefly, hard and angry. “You make a habit of not thinking and being an idiot?” 

The silence after was thick enough to drown in. 

And he felt it. Drowning, deeper and deeper. 

“They’re good people.” It’s all he could say.

“Don’t care.” You did. You couldn’t help yourself, because they hadn’t done anything to wrong you—except Walker—but even then. Their past had no relevance to you. You’d take care of them. It was who you were. 

“I just… I thought—”

“What, Bucky?” you snapped eyes narrowed, voice shaking. “What did you think would happen? That I’d open the door and thank you? That I’d be so grateful for the ghost of you showing up on my fucking doorstep that I’d forget everything else?”

He flinched again. Didn’t try to defend himself.

Good. He shouldn’t.

You stepped toward him, close enough that he could feel the heat of your fury.

“I waited, you know. After I got back. I waited. Every goddamn day. Thought you’d call. Thought you’d explain. But you didn’t. You just disappeared. Like none of it meant anything.”

Bucky’s eyes burned.

“It meant everything,” he said, voice low. Raw.

You shook your head. “Too late.”

He wanted to say something else—there was so much to say, so much to apologize for, but you moved away from him, left him standing near the kitchen. He felt something crack at the distance, which was funny, he mused painfully. 

For a year, he spent thousands of miles away from you, but he hadn’t felt the distance—the loss—till now. Everything inside him was aching and his hands curled into fists as he watched you, eyes burning into your back. 

You worked in silence. 

Yelena’s breathing was shallow but steady, her wound cleaned and wrapped beneath layers of gauze and tape. She hadn’t woken yet, but the colour was beginning to return to her face. You tucked another blanket around her, brushing damp hair back from her forehead with a gentleness that surprised even you. 

There was something about her, something so achingly familiar in the way she held herself, even unconscious. She had a scar, a small faded one right on her chin. Briefly, your mind flashed to Natasha, of a story she told you years and years ago about her sister and a stapler. 

Bob hovered nearby like a kicked dog—wide eyes, oversized hoodie stained with someone else’s blood. His hands trembled as he offered a clean towel, his lip caught between his teeth. 

You took it from him carefully, fingers brushing his.

“Thank you,” you murmured. Your voice dipped, just for him, something softer and inviting, like you knew who he was, what he had done, and decided he deserved kindness anyways. 

His face lip up like a spark had caught in his chest and he smiled bashfully before he looked away. 

Ava sat perched on the arm of a chair, arms crossed. Her eyes tracked every move you made, sharp but not hostile. Just watchful, trying to familiarize herself with you. You caught her eye and nodded at her. She nodded back. Quiet understanding passed, soldier to soldier. 

Then you turned to Walker. 

He was half-reclined on the floor near the fire, jacked peeled off, blood soaking the side of his shirt. Bob had done what he could—pressure, bandages—but the bleeding hadn’t fully stopped. 

You knelt beside him, jaw locked. You didn’t speak at first, rage bubbling in your throat. Just the sight of him, of his battered face made you angry, made you remember the way things were, back when Walker was the biggest pain in your ass, before Bucky had left. 

He winced when you pressed against the gauze. 

“You know,” you said, voice low, steady, “I ought to let you bleed out. If it were up to me, you’d be lying in the snow somewhere, half-dead.” 

He didn’t respond, just looked at you through gritted teeth. 

You didn’t look away. You wondered if he was remembering it—the violence, the hatred. The man he was, and very well may be. Growth can’t be disguised under darker clothes and new management. 

Resentment lingers—you’d know. 

“You’re lucky I give more of a shit about him,” you added, nodding toward Bob. “And Yelena. That’s the only reason I haven’t thrown your ass back into the cold.” 

Walker’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. I got that.” 

You peeled back the soaked bandage with clinical detachment. You didn’t even bother to be gentle.

Across the room, Bucky flinched. 

He was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, a storm in his eyes. He felt a flicker of something—regret, guilt—familiar, so fucking familiar, as he watched you. Your shoulders were rigid, tight with restraint. 

You disliked John, you always had. Before, you had fought with him about his morals, about the way he held himself and the shield. Bucky had stood behind you, behind Sam. He had agreed. 

There was something borderline repulsive about the scene in front of him, of you cleaning up John Walker as Bucky watched with mild concern and his friend—Sam—was nowhere to be found. 

He wondered if you found it disgusting, who he had become and who he had decided to work alongside. He’d understand. He hated himself most days, too. 

You handed Bob another towel. 

“Keep pressure here,” you instructed, something softer in your voice as you addressed Bob. “Don’t let him bleed through it again.” 

Bob nodded, instantly obedient. 

You turned away.

Bucky followed you with his eyes like he couldn’t help it. Like he hadn’t been starved of you for too long. Like he had any right. 

You moved past Ava, brushing her shoulder. “You hurt?” 

She shook her head. “Just bruised.” 

“Bathroom’s through the back,” you said. “Towels under the sink. You can clean up.” 

She looked at you, eyes narrowing like she wasn’t sure how to read your tone. But she nodded once and stood, disappearing down the hallway. 

And then—silence again. 

Except for the fire. And Bob whispering something to Walker, Yelena’s slow, shallow breaths.

You turned, arms crossed, lips turned downwards. 

And finally—finally—you looked at Bucky. You silently begged your heart not to give out.

He was bigger, healthier. Gaunter around the eyes. His hair was longer, curling at the ends, damp with snowmelt. His coat was torn. Knuckles scabbed over. Metal hand twitched like he wanted to reach for something—someone. 

You didn’t let yourself soften—not at the look in his eyes, not at the way his entire body looked like it was a second away from giving out. 

“You can take the cot,” you said, jerking your head toward the corner. “If you think you’ll sleep.” 

It was a low-blow, something petty and mean, bringing attention to his trouble with sleeping, but it was all you had. Just these quips, the coldness in your voice. It was all you could throw at him, all you had since he had taken everything else—your trust, heart, and smile. 

“I—” He cleared his throat, hoarse. “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough, and came out too quickly, too quietly. It was too heavy, too weightless. 

You scoffed, eyes shifting to the floor before meeting his. “Fuck off.” 

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed again. 

You turned your back to him. 

It was past midnight when Yelena stirred. 

You were sitting at her side, fresh gauze in your hands, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. It had been steady for hours—but now, her fingers twitched, lashes fluttered. Her body went still before she relaxed. 

“Yelana?” you murmured, trying to keep your voice soft, safe. 

She blinked slowly, disoriented, as her pupils adjusted to the low light of the fire. Her mouth moved, cracked lips forming words you couldn’t hear. 

“Hey,” you leaned in. “You’re okay. You and your team are safe.” 

Her gaze drifted, found your face. Her eyes drifted along your skin, taking in your features. Recognition flashed in them before they moved to the room behind you. 

“...we made it?” she rasped, voice hoarse and dry. 

You nodded, features softening a bit at the slight accent in her voice. It reminded you of Nat’s, the way it slipped out sometimes, because of certain words, when she felt safe. 

“Bled all over my floor, but yeah.” 

A small, broken laugh escaped her and she winced immediately, bringing a hand to her ribs.

“Try not to move,” you said gently. “You’ll ruin my fine patch job.” 

She was quiet for a beat before she lifted her eyes, lips curled downwards. “You were her friend, weren’t you?”

You blinked in surprise, lips parting. You had heard about Yelena from Nat, near the end. During the blip, when she had decided that she had kept enough to herself, she told you about her little sister. You never thought you’d get to meet her.

“I was,” you swallowed. “We were good friends.” 

“She told me about you,” Yelena said, quietly, like it was a secret. “Just once. Told me I could come to you for anything.” 

Your heart tightened in your chest and you nodded, trying for a smile. “Yeah. You could—can.” 

Something dark, a mixture of grief and anger bubbled in Yelena’s chest and you saw it, saw the way it pulled at her from her hair. It was familiar, a feeling you knew well. “She talked about you,” you offered, trying to pull her out of her own mind. “She loved you.” 

“Yeah,” Yelena swallowed, “I know.” 

You patted her shoulder gently before pushing yourself up. Her hand caught your wrist and you looked down, eyebrows raised. 

“I didn’t know,” she whispered. 

You crouched down. “Know what?” 

“That you’re her.” 

You frowned, tilting your head in question. “Her?” 

Yelena’s eyes lingered on your face, tracing your scars and the bridge of your nose. “The one he never talks about.” 

Your breath caught, and your eyes widened, just a bit, but enough. You said nothing. 

“He’s in love with you, you know.” She winced as she tried to sit up. “He doesn’t know how not to be.” She paused, glancing at your trembling fingers. “It leaks out of him.” 

Your jaw clenched and you looked away, heart falling to your stomach and fingers curled. She watched as you kept your eyes on the fire, hating how dry your throat had gotten. 

“I’ll check on you in a bit,” you said finally, quietly. “Try to sleep.”

She didn’t protest, just smiled softly before shutting her eyes. 

They were all asleep by two, or pretending. But it was quiet, tense, something weighed. 

Walker was sprawled ungracefully on the rug, arm bandaged and elevated, snoring softly. Bob had curled up in the armchair, long limbs tucked close, face peaceful.  Ava took the cot near the back wall, one leg bouncing softly until it stilled.

And Bucky—

Bucky sat in the kitchen, silent, staring into the dark like it held answers he hadn’t earned. It was too overwhelming—being here. There were memories, soft laughter and lingering touches that had crawled into the crevices of the wood, peeled the stains back until the entire cabin felt smaller, haunted. In the warmth of the kitchen, the wood groaning under his weight, he felt like he could have done it. 

He could have stayed. Could have fought off Val for you, kept you out of the limelight. 

He could have fought harder. 

He should have fought harder. 

He doesn’t know what that made him—a coward, maybe. Someone afraid. He had grown, gone to therapy and made friends, but the fear, the curling of unworthiness in his bones would never leave. He knew that. 

He stared down at the table, eyes focusing on the swirls and edges of the wood. His herbal tea, the one you had forced them all to drink, was sitting cold in front of him. He was glad you hadn’t given him the one he used to drink—the exotic ones, ones he’d never heard of and couldn’t imagine. It would have felt like holy water in hell, something condemning and horrid, but sweet all the while. 

You slipped on your boots and coat and eased the front door open, letting the cold bite at your face. The stars above were clear, silver on black. The trees whispered in the distance, inviting. 

Bucky heard the door open and froze, stilled as he stared into the open space. 

You sat on the porch steps and pulled the knife from your side pocket. 

It was old now, worn. The handle smooth from your thumb, the constant rubbing and brushing.

You’d never stopped carrying it. 

Sam had found it at a vintage store. “Some kind of weird sentimental symbolism,” he’d said, when he gave it to you. “Sharp. Pointed. Quiet. Soft around the edges. Like you.” Bucky had added your initials to the leather sheath in his own careful scrawl. 

You used to carry it just to remember the two of them. When you were on long missions, when they had stumbled into some trouble far away—when it was quiet. 

Now, you carried it because it was all you had left.

You pressed your thumb into the base of the blade, not enough to break skin, but just enough to feel something—to wake you up if this was a bad dream. It felt like one. It felt strange, like you could guess the ending but it changed every time you searched for it, when the flicker of want, of fear, grew larger. 

The cabin behind you creaked softly, weight shifting and the wind howling. 

You didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. 

His footsteps were heavier now. Not loud, but familiar—measured, hesitant. A bit like when he first arrived here, years ago. The way he never pressed his full weight into the wood until he grew comfortable, until he was sure that the wood—that you—could support him. 

He sat beside you.

Not too close, but closer than he had been in a year. The porch was old pine and groaned beneath his weight, like the cabin couldn’t help but mimic the sadness that dwelled in you—in the absence of him. 

You stared at the trees, eyes fluttering shut briefly as the cold wind brushed against your skin. The moonlight was sharper now, illuminating you both perfectly, a silent spectacle for the Gods. 

The knife gleamed in your palm like it could split you open. Something was tearing apart. 

“It’s…colder than I remember,” Bucky said, after a long silence. 

You said nothing.

A part of you wanted to lunge at him, plunge the knife into his heart and ask him if it hurts, if the pain measures to your own. You gripped the hilt of the knife tighter, looked at a tree where a gun was hidden. 

He exhaled slowly, white breath curling in the air as his nose twitched. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He said it like it made it better, like he knew you were bleeding out and these words were all he could offer, little bandaids he kept on hand. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice sharp and bitter. “You’ve mentioned that.” 

He rubbed his hands together, flesh and metal and yet he hadn’t felt warmth in months, years—whenever he touched you last. A brush against your shoulder, knees bumping under the blanket. 

“You shouldn’t’ve been.” 

You turned sharply, eyes narrowed into slits. He almost moved back. “You think you get to decide where I go now?” Your hold on the knife tightened, slipped into place. 

“No—” 

“Because last I checked,” you interrupted, “you lost that right. When you ghosted me. When you walked away from Sam and into fucking politics. When instead of taking her down, you joined up with Val fucking Fontaine and turned into some New Avenger.” 

You were seething, jaw clenched as the words came out like bullets. Your fingers twitched around the blade and you almost, almost, lifted it, just to see what he would do. You were angry, so fucking angry, and hurt, and worried, and—God—Why was he staring at you like that? 

“I was trying to protect you,” Bucky said quietly, a whisper that floated into the wind. 

“Don’t,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare say that to me.” 

He looked down, hair falling across his face as his fingers curled into fists. 

“Do you know what it felt like?” You whispered, voice cracking, mentally blaming the cold. “Coming home after six months to find no one there? I saw Sam. He looked at me like I’d been buried alive. And then I had to ask about you and he just—he looked so tired. Like he didn’t have any energy left.” 

Your grip on the knife loosened but his shoulders tensed, pinched together like he was trying to keep himself still. 

“Sam was busy with the government and he had Joaquin and I…I had no one.” You inched forward, wanting him to see the look in your eyes. “I called you. Every day. Texted you, sent voice messages. I got nothing. Nothing, Buck. Not even a fuck-you.” 

Bucky couldn’t breathe, he was sure he had stopped breathing the moment he sat down but now his chest hurt, his eyes stung and his fingers twitched. “I couldn’t,” he said, almost begging, his voice cracking.

“I couldn’t.” 

You finally turned your full body toward him. If this conversation was finally happening, maybe for the last time ever, you wanted to be present for it. If he was truly going to rip your heart out of your chest, you wanted him to have a clear shot. “Why not?” 

He met your eyes—red, bright blue, and so exhausted. 

“Because Val knew about you.” 

Your stomach twisted. The way he said it—haunted, like it was the worst thing in the world, like he’d never been more shaken. 

“She knew everything. She had a file, your name. Where you trained, where you came from. She knew. And she told me…if I didn’t cooperate, if I didn’t step in line, she’d make you vanish.” 

You stared at him, lips parting in surprise. The air thinned around you. It was less about what he said and more about the way he said it, the way he panted out the words, like they’d been taking so much space in his body. 

“She said it like she was doing me a favour,” he whispered. “Like she was giving me an option. I knew what she was capable of. I’ve seen what her people do, Y/n.” 

“So you left,” you breathed out. “Without a word.” 

“It was the only way to keep her away from you,” he said, his eyes pleading. You had to understand—understand that he’d do anything to keep you safe. “I had to disappear from your life. I thought…if I stayed gone long enough, she’d think you didn’t matter.” 

Your throat closed, anger bubbling into something colder—grief. “I did matter.” 

“I know,” he said, eyes piercing into yours, pink lips pulled into a frown. “Christ, I know. Don’t you think I’ve thought about it every day? Don’t you think I regret it? I thought I was saving you. But I was just…just a fucking coward.” 

Silence—the woods watched, trees listened. 

The stars did not blink, just stayed still, offering as much comfort as they could.

You breathed in the fresh air, trying to get your blood circulating. Your pulse pounded in your chest and you wiped at your face, angry and so fucking sad. All you wanted was to live in your anger forever, to keep it at the surface and present, but here he was, hands trembling, telling you how far he had gone to keep you safe.

“I missed you,” you admitted, softly. “Every day. Even when I was angry.” 

Bucky turned toward you, jaw clenched. His hand reached out before he dropped it. His eyes were wide and bright and sorry. 

You looked down at the knife. “I came here, once. After you left. I thought maybe being here would help. That I could feel close to you.” 

He swallowed hard, dug his nails into his palm. 

“But it just…just made it worse. Every corner. Every stupid crevice. You’re in all of it.” You paused, a small smile, filled with everything but warmth. “Ended up staying. What does that say about me?”

He looked small, like he might shatter. Like the weight of your words was too much, like his superhuman strength was nothing against them. 

“I wanted my best friend,” you said, voice small. It was easier to be like this—sad, fucking pathetic, and angry, with him. It always had been. “I needed you, Buck. And you weren’t there.” 

“I wanted to be,” his words came tumbling out, hurried and harsh. “You think I didn’t want to break every fucking rule and come running the second I saw your name pop up on my screen? I wanted to call, to explain. But Val—she had eyes. I thought if I held out long enough, she’d lose interest.” 

“She didn’t,” you mused. “She sent you here.” 

Bucky looked startled, exhaled sharply, like he hadn’t considered it. This whole time—he thought it was a coincidence. His bad fucking luck. But it was Val—of course. That scared him, made him want to pick up his team and leave you, the sooner he left the further Val got to you. 

“I shouldn’t’ve come.” 

“No,” you said, softer, a bit surprised at your immediate answer. “But I’m glad you did.” 

He looked at you, startled. His eyes, so blue, so bright, widened a fraction. 

You wiped at your eyes again, trying to brush away the feelings that had bubbled out of your chest and out in the open, dancing across your skin.

“Because now you get to see what you left behind…and I—I get to see you. Alive.” 

Bucky’s breath caught and his fingers shook. His shoulders dropped and a part of you, a small, horrible part of you relished in it. Briefly, but it pleased you. 

“You’re my best friend,” he said, like a confession. Like it meant something else, something he thought about, something that burned bright and warm in his veins every night. “That’s the problem. I had to walk away.”

He said it with heat—desperation.

Please, he was saying, understand—I love you. 

You looked at him then, fully, completely. And for the first time in nearly a year, your anger cracked, just a little—then crumbled, until it fell off you like rain. It was still there, soaking into your skin, but slid off. 

“Then stop walking away,” you whispered, responding to the words he wasn’t saying but was leaking out of him. “If I’m your best friend,”—if you love me—“stay. Stop running.” 

The words found a life of their own, stumbled out of your mouth before you could catch them, before you could measure their consequences—they fell along Bucky’s skin like snow, soft and beautiful and cold and unseen. 

The moon above you was heavy and silver and listening—waiting, glowing, yearning.

The silence stretches on, hovers softly over the snow, a blanket over the cold. 

You don’t say anything for a long time. 

Not after you ask him to stay. 

There’s just the knife in your hand and the throb in your chest and the goddamn moon staring down at you like she knows, like she understands—despite your embarrassment, the hole in your chest that was once filled with anger and pride and hurt. Now hollow, remnants of it all dried and crisp. 

And then—

You laugh. 

It’s not soft, not amused. It’s empty, something clipped. 

“I can’t believe I just asked you to stay,” you admit, bitter and in disbelief. “I’m your best friend. Right. You care about me so much I had to grieve you.” 

He flinches, chin tipping downwards. 

You’re on your feet before you even realize it, pacing the porch like it’s the only way to stay upright. You had imagined having this conversation with him hundreds of times, all different. When you had come back and Sam told you he didn’t know where Bucky was, your entire life fell apart. Sometimes, on bad days, you can still feel the ache in your chest. 

For a moment, a day, a week, a while, you had thought you had lost him. Until he turned up on your fucking television. 

 “I lit a candle for you in some tiny church in Madrid. Did you know that?” you spit. “I thought you were dead. Or worse—I thought you’d become someone I didn’t recognize.” Your eyes met his and they fell along his suit, the black, the A that had once meant so much to you. 

“I’m not sure I recognize you now.” 

Bucky doesn’t say anything—can’t. His heart is beating out of his chest and he’s blinking too fast. He never meant for this to happen—never wanted you to be in pain because of him. 

“I hated you,” you whisper into the air. “But I never stopped—” You stopped, swallowed the words, the ache. “You don’t get to say that to me. Best friend? Please.” 

“You always have been,” he said, quietly. “Even when I tried to forget you.” 

You whirled on him, a flicker of anger raging in your eyes. “And what? I’m supposed to be grateful? Being your best fucking friend? Like it didn’t crush me? Like it’s enough?” 

“No,” he responds, throat dry. “I don’t expect that.” He knows, he fucking knows. 

“Then what do you want, Bucky? Forgiveness? Closure? You want to cry under the stars and say you’re sorry and pretend like that makes it better?” You can’t breathe, fingers trembling. 

“No.” 

“Then what?” 

Bucky stood slowly, took a step forward—didn’t reach for you. 

“I just wanted you to know,” his voice is so quiet, his breath warm and cheeks pink. “That I never stopped choosing you. Even when it looked like I didn’t.” He moved closer, needed you to see him, hear him. 

“You have been, and always will be, my first choice. Even if it won’t lead me to you.”

You look away, shaking and eyes shining. “I didn’t—don't—want your protection. I wanted you.” 

I always have, you didn’t say. 

“I know,” he says, voice breaking and heart heavy. “I know that now.” 

You wanted to hit him—to kiss him. You wanted to break every bone in your body until the pain matched the ache in your chest, just so it could feel real. 

You pressed your palms to your eyes, feeling too much and pathetic and like the facade you had tried to bolt into place for months was slipping. “You let me think you didn’t care.”

“I thought it would make it easier.” He was close now, his body heat caressing yours, inviting and sorry. 

“It didn’t.” 

“I was trying to keep you safe.” 

“I’m not made of glass,” you hissed. “I’m not something fragile. Stop acting like I am.” 

“I know that,” he admits, voice gruff and shaking. “I know how strong you are. That’s never been the problem.” 

“Then what is?” Why couldn’t he just say it—how many years had passed in this dance, in this slow waltz you both were determined to participate in. 

Bucky looks at you and your heart skipped a breath. He heard it, almost smiled, but he was lost in your eyes, in the way they glowed and were on him. 

“I don’t get to keep good things,” he says, words coming out like glass in his throat. 

“I don’t get forever, Y/n. I don’t get safe. I don’t get to love something without watching it get taken from me.” 

You stopped breathing, head tilting back as he moved closer, lips parted. His words collided into your chest, ripped through layers and layers of skin until they sat heavily on your bones, pried their way inside your heart. 

“You think I was protecting you? I was protecting me.” His hands were fists at his side. “Because the second I saw her file, the second Val mentioned your name, all I could think about was you bleeding out somewhere—and it being my fault.” 

His voice cracks—hard, raw. He’s looking at you like he’s never going to see you again, like he’s at the crossroads and at any moment, he’ll be dragged to hell. The way the damned look an angel, in yearning and mourning.

“I couldn’t lose you,” he whispered. “So I walked away.”

You shook your head, fingers uncurling and curling. “So you lived with a ghost.” 

He nodded, solemn. “Better than your blood on my hands.” 

“And what about me?” You snapped. “What about what I had to live with? You think it didn’t kill me, wondering why I wasn’t enough to stay for? Why Sam and I weren’t?” 

His whole body tensed and his breathing hitched. 

“I would’ve rather had you,” you said, words trembling. “Ruined. Broken. Afraid. I would’ve taken every messy fucking day, every stupid risk, every scar. I wanted you. I didn’t want safety.” 

Bucky’s quiet for a long time. 

His shoulders shake once—twice. 

With stark apprehension, your eyes widened—- he’s crying. 

Not softly, but like it’s wrenching out of him. Like the pain has been festering for years, decades, even. Like he’s refused to feel any emotion for so long that now, it’s tearing out of him. 

You don’t move—can’t. You’ve never seen Bucky cry before—not when Steve left, not when his nightmares had him yelling in his sleep. 

He didn’t ask for comfort. 

You stood still. 

“I kept thinking,” he said, through the tears, absolutely wrecked, “that maybe if I left early on, it wouldn’t hurt as much.” 

“Did it help?” You asked quietly, resisting the urge to rub his arm. 

He shook his head. “I’ve never been more miserable.” 

You’re both quiet again. 

Just the wind now, the trees. 

He sat back down, slowly, like the weight of it all is too much. 

After a long, long beat—you sat too. 

The knife is still in your hand.

You don’t touch him. He doesn’t try. 

He just sits there, eyes red, face raw. A man undone. 

And for the first time in a year, the silence between you is not empty. 

It’s full—of pain, history, of the soft, slow pulse of something broken that still wants to live.

The silence stretched again—different, not bitter. Just tired. 

The kind of quiet that lived after grief has passed itself, after all the screaming is done. What remained is ache, the king you can breathe through, if you sit still long enough. 

You stared at the woods, the snow drifting off the trees. Your fingers curled tight around the knife.

“I kept it,” you said, suddenly. Filling the silence. “The knife.”

Bucky turned his head slightly, eyes falling on the metal in wonder. 

You traced your thumb over the hilt. “You and Sam gave it to me after Belgium. Said I earned it, saved both your asses. A gift.” 

“You did,” he murmured, licking his lips. 

You almost smiled.

Instead, you nodded towards the woods. “I took it on this last mission.” 

Bucky’s quiet for a beat, then, “What happened?” 

You don’t answer right away—breath curling in the cold. “I don’t know if I want to tell you.” 

His voice is gentle, understanding. “That’s okay.” 

You shifted, momentarily uncomfortable, knife balanced on your knee. 

“I was in Kaltag,” you said, finally. “Started as intel extraction. Easy, in and out. But it wasn’t. Not even close.” 

Bucky hated how haunted you sounded, how winded, even after a year, you seemed to be. Like you weren’t sure if you had outrun the threat, or if it loomed behind you still. 

You swallowed and ran your hand through your hair. “It went on for three months longer than it should’ve. I lost my whole team.” 

You could feel him tense, the way the guilt inside and around him increased tenfold. 

“I made it out,” you said softly, reminding him and yourself that you were okay. “But it was close.”

He turned slightly, not touching you, but near. Closer than before. 

You tried to ignore how good it felt, how it immediately eased the tension in your own shoulders. 

“When I got back to New York,” you continued, “I called you, first thing. I couldn’t think about anything else. Just—telling you I was alive.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenched

You wrapped your arms around your knees and rested your cheek against your arm, eyes on him. He looked so beautiful, so tortured as he sat there, listening to you. 

“I left you a voicemail. Told you I missed you.” 

“I listened to it,” he said, hoarsely, pained. 

“I almost wish you hadn’t.” 

He opened his mouth before shutting it. He couldn’t argue—not when your voicemails, your voice, kept him sane for so long. It was the only physical thing he had of you. 

You pressed your lips together when the wound felt like cracking open again.

He pressed his hand to his mouth, exhaled hard. “I’m sorry.” 

You nodded once, expecting it. Taking it better than you did earlier. 

He glanced towards the cabin, peeking inside. You followed his gaze.

“Your team,” you started. “They’re good people.” 

Bucky shook his head. “Not exactly.” 

You shrugged, the ghost of a smile passing by your lips.

“Yeah. Maybe not good. But…they’re trying. I think.” 

He nodded then. “Yeah. They are.” 

There was something in his voice, something soft and vulnerable and uncomfortable. “You care about them.” 

He paused, like he didn’t like how fast he might’ve answered. “I do.” 

You traced the knife again. It felt a bit like your spine–rigid, cold, worn out. You glanced at him once, just to understand, to dig the pain in further. “Are you happy?” Your voice is soft, almost serene. “You said you were miserable but did you find something with them? Something you didn’t have before?”

Bucky looked at you, his whole body stiffening. There’s more beneath your words, he hears it. The sharp edge of grief, of doubt. He doesn’t answer immediately because the truth is—he doesn’t know. He hasn’t thought about himself, about his wants or his feelings in months. 

You were braced for it—the soft, diplomatic lie. Bucky missed you, you knew that. He missed Sam too, even if he hadn’t said it. But you saw the way his eyes narrowed when one of them winced. It was a look you were more than familiar with—what you weren’t familiar with—was not being on the other end of it. 

He clears his throat and looks up, his eyes twinkling under the starlight. “It’s not the same.” 

You looked at him, wary. He sounded older, exhausted. 

“It’s good. They’re good,” he said. “But it’s not the same. Not even close.” His throat was clogged with sadness, with nostalgia. 

You turned away, tried to breathe. You hated how he could get you like this, all unraveled and messy. He was the only one who ever could. 

Bucky waited. Then said, gently, “It’s okay.” 

You shook your head, gripped the knife tighter. “No, it’s not.” 

“It’s okay to ask me.”

You blinked, knife slipping slowly from your hand. You both had said so much tonight, opened the floor to feelings and anger and questions neither of you had ever thought you’d get to. It felt a bit like going in circles, like he couldn’t help but keep you safe and you couldn’t help but hate him for it over, and over again. 

“To wonder,” he added. “You can ask. You always could.” 

You gripped the knife tighter and your lips trembled, partly due to the cold and partly due to the weight of what you wanted to ask.

Were you ever going to come back? You wanted to ask, scream into the air. Did you find a new family? 

Bucky breathed in deeply, closed his eyes. When he opened them, he turned his head to look at you. His eyes were bright, earnest. “I’ve only ever belonged to one place,” he said, softly. “One person.” 

His words, wrapped in gentle warmth, brushed against your skin and you froze, stilled as your eyes widened a bit. 

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.” 

Something quiet, a mixture of grief and love and sadness paints across his face and the corners of his lips quirk upwards momentarily, like he imagined this conversation, but not like this. 

“I’ve never meant anything more.” 

The knife dropped slightly in your lap. You wanted to believe him. Wanted to take his words and cradle them to your chest, coo at them. 

But your heart was still wrapped in barbed wire, hands bloody as you tried to keep him at arm's length. 

There’s a long, still beat. 

“What about this mission?” You cleared your throat, tried to push the warmth away with your cold breath.

“What brought you here?”

Bucky exhaled and looked out over the snow. His jaw flexed and he ran a hand through his hair. It was longer, parted and freshly cut. He looked so good. You looked away. 

“There was a compound,” he started. “Hidden in the mountains. Yelena had a lead. Val gave the green light, but the intel was wrong.” 

He shook his head, looking years older and frustrated—jaw tight.

“It was a trap. A set-up. Ava nearly got blown apart. Yelena and Walker took shrapnel. Bob was doing well but then he panicked. We barely got out.” 

You looked at him then, quietly stunned. He sounded like a proper leader, someone who cared. He sounded a bit like a Sergeant and a small—large—part of you almost winced in pain. You always knew he was a leader, despite following Steve everywhere. It was who he was, a man who took the lead, control, when he had too. 

“And then you came here.”

His voice dipped, a little bashful. “Didn’t realize where I was at first. Not until I checked the coordinates again.” 

“And when you did?” 

His eyes were glasser now, glowing brightly, like your very own temptation. “I didn’t want to.” 

“But you did.” 

He nodded, solemn. “Because I knew it was the only place they’d be safe.” 

You understood, in retrospect. He was right. You knew this terrain, and had heard whispers of the death that followed. It’s why you chose this place for solitude, not just anyone can survive in a place like this. 

“I would’ve helped, you know.” You brought your knees to your chest. “Even if you weren’t there.” 

He nodded, like it was obvious. “I know.”  You’re a good person. The best he knows. But he was a coward and he was selfish and there was a part of him that would have done anything to see you, even if it meant shooting himself in the foot.

There’s a long pause—seems to welcome itself between every moment. 

And then—his voice breaks a little, vulnerable. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You don’t look at him. You can feel the fire melting. It’s all gone and now he’s smothering the burned ambers, making sure there isn’t anything left. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Bucky said, again, harder, wetter. “For all of it. For walking away. For staying away. For not calling. For letting you think—” 

“Stop, Buck.” 

He stopped, eyes wild and lips parted. You stared out at the snow, the rising light. You often stayed awake until sunrise, but you had barely done it with company. 

“What’s done is done. And you can’t fix it.” You paused, pretended not to notice his full-body flinch. “Not with words, at least.” 

“I know.” He sounded so defeated, like he was about to be dragged away and he was using his last breath on this, on apologizing, even if it didn’t mean anything to you. 

You glanced down at your hands, brushed your thumb across the engraving. It was still warm, still smelled like him if you pretended long enough. “But,” you almost smiled, “thank you. For apologizing. It’s a start.” 

Bucky released a short breath and his eyes gleamed. He nodded and slowly—so slowly—you let your shoulder brush his. 

Just barely—enough. The first touch between you both in a year, something soft and passing, weightless, but so incredibly heavy. 

His breath stuttered and he froze, almost as if his stillness could convince you to do it again. 

You don’t say anything. 

Neither does he. 

The sun began to rise, gold light spilling over the trees. It touched your porch, your boots, the blade of your knife. The world around you began to glow. 

And for the first time in a long time, you both felt warm—not whole, but alive. Like there was meaning now, like maybe, just maybe—you could start again.

The morning came quietly. 

Fog clung to the trees like ghosts reluctant to leave, coiled through the branches and rolling over the forest floor. It muffled the sounds of birds and leaves, wrapped the cabin in a kind of hush—a sacred, fragile peace. You didn’t sleep, just sat near the front window for most of the night, listened to the crackle of the dying fire, feeling Bucky’s presence behind you like static in the air. 

When you finally stepped outside, the grass was slick with dew. Cold bit at your ankles through your boots. You made your usual perimeter check—like muscle memory, a prayer. 

It wasn’t until you circled behind the old shed, half-hidden in undergrowth, that you noticed it. Something thin and taut stretched between two trees—nearly invisible unless the light caught it just right. 

Infrared wire. Trip-triggered—directional. 

Your heart stuttered. That wasn’t yours. 

You crouched, studied it. It was recent—clean. Hadn’t been disturbed by animals. That meant one thing—someone had been here. 

And not long ago. 

You didn’t make a sound, just rose and moved, boots silent against the snow.You ducked back into the cabin and found the team already stirring. 

Yelena sharpened a knife by the fireplace, Walker was rubbing sleep from his eyes, Ava said cross-legged with a datapad balanced on her knee. Bob was quietly eating dry granola and leaned over the arm of the chair he was sitting in, trying to get a closer look at whatever Ava was looking at. 

And Bucky—

Bucky watched you before the door even closed. 

You didn’t say anything at first, just met his eyes, that solemn blue set into all that worry and quiet guilt. The heat from the night before was still burning in those eyes, still warm and attentive. 

You looked away and cleared your throat, shattering the comfortable silence that had built upon the slow fire.

“We’ve been compromised.” 

They all stilled, exhaled quietly. 

You stepped towards the table, pulled the map out, laid it flat. “Infrared tripwire. North perimeter, ten meters past the old woodpile. Wasn’t there yesterday.” 

Yelena stood immediately, trying to hide the wince of pain. “Can you show me?” She wheezed a little. 

You shook your head, held up a hand. “Not now. I already marked it. We need to assume they know you’re here.” 

Bob cursed low under this breath as Walker rubbed his temples. “That’s just great.” 

Ava’s voice was sharp, “How long do we have?” 

“Not long enough,” you said, voice tight. 

And that’s when Bucky moved. Just a step, but the whole room shifted with him. The air charged, the team straightened. 

“I’ll handle it,” he said, voice calm, strong. Like there wasn’t a world, a situation, where he wouldn’t handle it. 

You turned to him, sharply. “You’ll—Bucky, you think I can’t handle my own perimeter?” 

“That’s not what I’m saying.” 

You crossed your arms. “Then what are you saying?” There was almost no heat behind your words—very little curtness, nothing like the day before. The team noticed, the way your shoulders weren’t as tense, the way Bucky slightly leaned towards you, like he couldn’t help it.

He looked at you, pain flickering through his expression. “I’m saying we brought this upon you—I did.” 

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and dropped your arms.

“Oh, please.” 

“We did,” he said, louder now, more insistentent. The moment he noticed that look in your eyes, like you were disturbed, he knew what had happened. His heart had stopped beating at the idea of drawing danger to you. 

“You were off the radar and safe. And we dragged you back into this.” 

“I took you in,” You reminded him. “You didn’t force me.” 

“You shouldn’t have had to,” he snapped, worried and furious with himself. “You should’ve been allowed to live without the past coming to your front door with guns and tripwires.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you hissed, low, stepping in close. “We talked about this. I’m not some fragile memory in your head. I’m right here. I chose to help. I knew the consequences.” 

His voice dropped, low and softer, like he was pleading. “And I’m choosing not to let you get killed because of us.” 

There it was. 

The silence was sharp, crackling. Everyone else disappeared into background noise, blurred by the weight of what passed between you, the anger and softness of last night, the years in between. 

Bucky knew—knew the likelihood of you actually dying was low, you were strong, so fucking strong and so intelligent and one of the best fighters he knew, but he couldn’t get the image of you—hurt, bleeding—out of his head. 

“I know you think you have to fix everything,” you said, quiet, tired, understanding. “But not this.” 

“This is the only thing I can fix,” he said, and his voice cracked. Like he had spent the few hours after your time on the porch just thinking, mulling over everything you had said, everything he hadn’t said. “Please, let me.” 

The rest of the team had scattered quietly, trying their best to give you space. They shifted away, towards the fireplace and the wall, made themselves smaller, but watched carefully, nosey and interested. 

They didn’t know much about Bucky. He had always been a private person, preferred to listen to their stories than share any of his own. But in the beginning, when it was all new, they could tell his heart wasn’t in it, that obligation and morality drove him. 

His heart had always belonged to another, he had left it somewhere—ran without it. 

Now, they had finally seen it—the woman that kept his heart, the one place his guard hadn’t been up, the way he let himself be small, let himself be, with no title. They weren’t even sure if he knew, if he knew that his heart lived here, existed in the palm of your hand, in the edges of the wood. 

You stared at him, and maybe it was adrenaline, or just the years of knowing him—of knowing his heart even when he wouldn’t speak on it—but something in your chest broke. The softness in his eyes, replacing the usual hardness and fury. The way he had naturally moved closer to you, like you were the center of his gravity. 

“Y/n,” he said then, softly. Your name felt holy on his tongue, something divine. Like he was standing at the top of some cathedral and the beauty overwhelmed him and all he could do was utter the name of his worship. It felt like a promise, something far deeper than the word itself. 

“James,” you whispered back, just as softly—delicate. It slipped out, something instinctual. You watched his entire body tense before it relaxed, before the wrinkles near his eyes smoothed out and his eyes gleamed—just for a moment, but blinding. 

He stared at you like you’d just torn open the sky. He hadn’t been called that in years, not by anyone else but you. It was his name, but it felt like yours, something you held onto. 

But then the moment passed. The threat crept back in, like a shadow reasserting itself. 

He shook his head, leaned back. This always happened, he always got lost in you, lost his mind as soon as he laid eyes on you. “We’re leaving.” 

“What?” you said, breath catching, feeling like you had been pushed off a cliff. 

“We’re going to pull the enemy off your trail. Lead them into the open. Finish it.” 

“No,” you said, chest tight, feeling like a child and the blanket was being ripped off of you. “You need me.” 

“I can’t ask you to do this.” 

“You’re not asking,” you told him. “I’m telling you I can. I’ve fought beside you. I’ve bled beside you, you know I’m good for this.” 

“I know,” he said, like it pained him. “God, I know. You’ve always been better than me at this. But let me do this. Let me protect something, just once, without destroying it.” 

“Bucky—” 

“I’m not leaving you,” he said, quickly, breathless, stepping closer. “Not forever. Just for this. Let me end it, and I swear—I’ll come back.” 

Your throat closed, his cold, metal hand closing around your heart. You didn’t even know when he had reached in, when the barbed wire had fallen away. “You can’t promise that.” 

“I can,” he said, his forehead almost touching yours. His breath was warm as it brushed your cheek. He sounded so sure, so confident. “And I am. I will come back.” 

The firelight in his eyes wasn’t desperate, wasn’t afraid—it was resolute. “I can’t let you go again. I’m not strong enough.” 

He was already pulling on his gear when you stepped in front of him again, heart in your throat.

“This isn’t fair,” you said. None of it felt fair—felt real. You had just gotten him back, just made peace with him, with the familiarity that gripped you by the jaw. 

“I know,” he replied. 

You looked into his eyes, in the way they drank you in. They shifted downwards, over his body, memorizing. Without thinking too hardly, you reached for his hand. 

His fingers closed around yours instantly, like they’d been waiting—like he’d been falling and you had just reached out for him. His calluses scraped against your knuckles, grounding you. Heat flooded your body, almost tipped you over. His thumb brushed against your pulse point, pressed on it. 

“I hate you,” you whispered, not a single hating bone in your body. You were sure the hatred, the anger was somewhere deep within your body, hiding and floating and real, but it wasn’t present, wasn’t pressing against your skin the way the fear, the love—the want—was. 

“I know,” he said again, smiling just a little. “I don’t.” 

You pulled him into a hug and you both breathed for the first time. He held on like he never wanted to let go, his arms instantly wrapped around you, hands pressing into your skin. The silence between you was fuller now—stitched together with hope, with fear, with the half-formed shape of something possible—real. 

He pulled back, looked you in the eye. He looked younger, someone in love. 

“I’ll come back,” he said again, and this time, it felt like a vow.

You let him go. 

Stood there as he went, silent and still as snow fell. Let him hold your hand for a second longer than he should have. Let his eyes rest on you like they always had—gently, painfully, like it was the last time. 

“Stay safe,” he said, smiling softly.

You watched as they disappeared into the mist and the trees with soft smiles and nods, into the fight that waited beyond the edge of safety. 

He had promised. He’d whispered it in the hush between your porch and you, where things had often been left unsaid but then he said it. 

“I’ll come back. You don’t have to let me in—but I’ll come back anyway.” 

You stood on the porch until they were gone, arms wrapped around yourself, chilled to the bone.

You just stood there, empty and filled with hope—waiting. 

And hoping he wouldn’t break this promise too.

It snowed again that morning. 

This white lace drifted down from the treetops, quieting the woods like a lullaby. Two weeks had passed since he left. Since he stood at the tree line with his eyes locked to yours like it would be the last time.

You tried not to count the days. Tried to act like it didn’t matter—but the ache in your chest made a liar of you. It always did. 

Each morning you opened your door just a little too fast. Each night you lit the fireplace and left the hall light on, telling yourself it was just for warmth, for visibility. But really, you didn’t want the place to feel so empty if—when—he came back. 

Today, you wore one of his old shirts. Soft cotton and faint cologne still clinging to the collar. You hadn’t meant to put it on, not really, didn’t even know it was his at first, but when you touched the fabric, it felt like a memory.

And that’s when it happened. 

Three slow, heavy knocks at the door. 

You froze, heart in your throat. Then you rushed, stumbled barefoot through the living room, fingers fumbling with the handle. When the door creaked open, the cold hit you first—and then him.

Bucky. 

He stood there, snow in his hair, lips split, knuckles scraped, breath heaving like he’d run through the forest without stopping. A duffle hung over one shoulder. His blue eyes were glassy, rimmed red with exhaustion and something else—something soft, searching. 

“I’m sorry it took so long,” he breathed out, quickly. “I had to make sure everything was finished. That you were safe.” 

You said nothing, couldn’t speak. You just stared at him, wide-eyed, chest rising. 

“I didn’t know if I’d make it back,” he continued, like he knew you were barely breathing and wanted to give you a second. “Didn’t know if you’d still want me here. And if you slam the door in my face, I’ll understand.”

You didn’t. 

Instead, you stepped out onto the porch, into the snow. Shoved him hard in the chest—once, twice. And he took it, didn’t move or flinch, just let you. He looked at you like you were sunlight. 

And then you grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him down and kissed him. 

God, the kiss. It wasn’t gentle. It was fire—heat and years of longing poured into it like you both had been holding your breath since the day you met. His hands dropped the bag, found your waist, warm and trembling and real. You opened your mouth to him and he groaned, low and guttural like he’d waited years for the taste of you. 

He stumbled into the cabin with you in his arms, the door shutting behind him. Snow melted off his jacket onto the floor as he pressed you against the wall, mouths locked, hearts wild. 

He kissed you like a promise, like he’s finally letting himself fall. His lips moved with yours in slow, lingering passes, breath hitching slightly when your fingers tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Bucky…” you whispered, breathless, as he pulled back just a little, just enough to look at you again. 

“I’m right here,” he murmured, brushing his lips along your jaw. “Not going anywhere.” 

He kissed you again, deeper this time, hungrier—but still gentle, like every kiss was him saying I’m here without needing the words. 

“I love you,” he rasped out, pressing his lips firmly against yours. “I’m in love with you,” he whispered against your mouth, breathing like a man starved. “I’ve always been in love with you.” He sounded reverent, voice raw. 

You pressed your forehead to his, blinking back tears, lips plump and breathless. “You hurt me.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m still so angry.” 

He pressed a soft, hovering kiss to your jaw. “I’ll take all of it. Every piece of it.” 

You swallowed hard, blinking away the tears. “I’m in love with you, you idiot.” 

He smiled then, the softest, most brightest thing you’d ever seen. A man who had been lost in the woods, in the snow, who finally found his way home. 

The fire cracked behind you, casting everything in gold and flickering shadows. He looked beautiful, something magical and unreal, like he had been crafted by the most expensive stained glass. 

You looked up at him, slid your hand to the base of his throat. “What does this change?” 

“Everything,” Bucky said, voice raw. “But it doesn’t have to change all at once. You don’t have to let me in tonight. You can hate me, scream. I’ll wait.”

You exhaled shakily, shifted closer. “I’ll be mad at you tomorrow.” 

He nodded, like he expected worse, like he was so enamoured by you. 

“But tonight—” You touched his jaw, traced the bruises like they were yours to soothe. “Tonight… I just want to feel you. Want to know you’re mine.” 

His mouth opened like he might say something, but all that came out was a soft, wounded nose before he kissed you again. Slower, deeper. His tongue traced his devotion into his gums as he slid his trembling hands under your—his—shirt and when his palms found bare skin, he sighed against your lips. 

“I’ve always been yours.” 

You took his hand and led him down the familiar hallway, toward the bedroom. The fireplace crackled low in the other room. Moonlight spilled across your floorboards. A few candles flickered by your bedside, forgotten after another sleepless night—but now, they painted him in gold. 

The door shut behind him and he watched you like he didn’t believe you were real. “Are you sure you want this?” He asked gently, eyes soft. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

You nodded, looking up at him like he had always belonged here, in your room, desperate and panting and beautiful. 

“Do you know how many nights I longed for you? Wanted your touch?” 

He reached for you then, slow and gentle, like he was afraid that if he moved too fast, everything would fall apart. His lips found your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Kisses layered like apology, like worship. 

“I’ll make up for lost time,” he murmured, unbuttoning your shorts with careful fingers. “I swear to you.” 

When your shirt slipped off your shoulders, his breath caught. 

He stepped forward, hands devout, fingertips grazing your skin like he was afraid to wake from a dream.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “You don’t know what it did to me—thinking I’d never get to touch you. Never get to love you.” 

He touched you like you were something sacred, something so beautiful and otherworldly. He made you feel wanted, loved. 

“You’re here now,” you whispered, lips lifting into a small smile. You watched as his breath hitched, as his fingers flexed and he almost fell into you.

He kissed you again, rough and deep and messy. Like every second he’d spent away had built this fire under his skin and only you could soothe it. His hand slid into your hair, pulled you closer. His lips moved to your jaw, your collarbone—and he moaned softly, like the taste of your skin was salvation. 

You unzipped his jacket, whimpered as Bucky’s teeth grazed against your ear, the skin just below. You pulled at his shirt and with one hand, he pulled his henly off, reattaching his lips to your skin, kissing down your neck. 

Your hands slid down his chest as you leaned into him, panting against the side of his head. His lips sucked and licked your skin, finding comfort in leaving marks on your skin. 

You pulled away, needing to see him, to breathe him in. “I wanted to take care of you,” you whispered, reaching for the waistband of his pants. You kissed his neck, licked a bead of sweat. 

“Wanted to—”

He caught your wrist gently, kissing your knuckles. You were glowing, something ethereal and his heart almost gave out. “Let me,” he said. “Please. Let me love you first.” 

He sounded so pretty, so breathless. You melted, relishing in the way his gaze burned into you. Fell back onto the bed as he knelt between your thighs, spreading you open like something holy. His kisses trailed lower, burning a path down your body. Over your breasts, your stomach, down the soft skin of your hips. 

He pressed hot, wet kisses all over your breasts, cupped one while he sucked on your nipple, tongue swirling. He whispered against your skin, his devotion, his cries of your beauty. 

He sucked, licked and kissed the skin of your hips, just above your panty-line. Blew air onto the mark, kissed it once, twice, then grinned. Bucky looked up at you—eyes dark and tender—and his smile turned into something soft, something so devastating. 

“You’re so beautiful, Y/n.” He nudged your thighs apart even more, shifted you up on the mattress so he could lay down on his stomach comfortably. He kissed your inner thigh before brushing his nose against your cunt. You almost squeezed your legs shut when he sniffed, a moan escaping his lips. 

“Can I taste you, pretty girl?” He asked, voice husky. When you nodded, slid your hand into his hair and pulled, desperation and heat dancing in your eyes, he pressed a kiss to your folds. 

“Please, Buck,” you breathed out. 

That was all he needed. He buried his mouth between your legs like he’d been born for this. Like nothing mattered more than making you feel it. He moaned into you, fingers gripping your thighs, pulling you closer, letting his tongue swirl and suck and worship until you were crying out his name, hips trembling under his hands. 

You gasped when his tongue swirled around your cunt—broad, slow licks that made your knees shake. He moaned like it was his release, like your pleasure soothed something deep in him. He sucked your clit with such reverence, it made you sob. 

“James—” 

His arms wrapped around your thighs, grounding you. He pressed his nose against your clit, rubbed your slick all over his face as his tongue fucked you, curving just right.

“That’s it, baby,” he moaned into your pussy, the vibrations making your head spin. “Say my name.” 

“So good,” you panted, grinding your hips against his face, pulling at his fair. His metal hand spread your folds and you almost screamed, the sudden cold mixed with the heat of his warm breath was too much. 

He sucked and licked, tongue swirling around your clit. He felt your whole body tense, the way you tried closing your legs around him. He held your hips still, sucked harder. “Cum for me,” he whispered. “Want to taste you. Need to—fuck, baby, please.” 

And when you did, when you shattered his tongue, cried out his name, he didn’t stop. He kissed you through it, breathed your name like a prayer as he sucked and swallowed your cum. He kissed your thighs and your belly, rested his cheek against your stomach like he could live there. 

“That’s it. So sweet. So fuckin’ good for me,” he babbled, kissing your skin. “That’s my girl.”

He stripped, pulled his pants off and kicked off his boxers. His cock was hard, red, pre-cum dripping like it never had before. 

When he finally climbed over you, lips swollen, pupils blown, you grabbed his face and kissed him hard. You could taste yourself on him and it made your head spin. You needed him, needed all of him. 

“What do you need, baby?” He asked against your lips, sucked on your tongue. 

“You,” you breathed out. “I want you. Please, Bucky—need you inside—” 

He gripped his cock and slid it in between your folds, hissing in pain when your pussy fluttered around him. He met your gaze and smiled, something soft and wicked and angled his cock, sliding in, slow and thick, his mouth open as he groaned, long and low. 

“Oh, my sweet girl,” he groaned. “Fuck—so tight—” 

He pulled out, slowly, moaned—loudly—forehead pressed to yours, his hand gripping your waist as he thrust in slowly, deep, claiming you like he meant it. He was so big, so thick and veiny. Heavy on top of you, metal arm braced beside your head. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he rasped. “Always dreamed of it being like this. Of being yours.” 

“You are,” you whispered, seeing stars. “You’ve only ever been mine.” 

He groaned against your throat and fucked you with everything he had, slow and worshipful, but every time your hips met, he whimpered like it was too much, like it wasn’t his cock sliding in and out of your sopping pussy. The candlelight danced across his skin, sweat glistening on his back as he hovered over you, panting against your mouth, begging softly with every thrust. 

“Tell me I’m yours,” he begged, practically growling into your mouth. 

“M-mine, James, fuck. You’re—mine.” 

“That’s right,” he moaned. “I’m yours. And you’re mine. My perfect girl. My fuckin’ everything.” 

Bucky’s obsessed with you, with your pussy, with the warmth of the cabin and being where he belongs, here, with you—loving you. His lips are all over you—biting, sucking, kissing your throat, your tits, your mouth. You look up at him and roll out your tongue, eyes glassy. His hips stuttered for a moment before he spat in your mouth, watched you swallowed with this groan that sounded like he’s in pain. 

His cock dragged along your walls, bruised your cervix, making you sob. Your nails dragged across his back as his dog tags dangled in your face. “Fucking me so good,” you moaned, kissing his ear. 

“You’re so good,” he panted. “Takin’ it so well, my sweet girl.” 

He pulled out halfway, smiling briefly when you whined. 

And then—he slammed back in, hips snapping hard, cock punching into your cunt so deep you scream. 

“Please,” he whispered. “Let me make up for everything.” 

“You already are,” you breathed, toes tingling and the coil in your chest tightening. “I love you, Buck.” 

He kissed you again, messy and open-mouthed, your tongues tangling, breath mixing, spit shining your lips. He was so deep, so thick inside you, and when he angled his hips just right, you cried out, clutching his back, nails digging in. 

“Gonna come,” you gasped, drooling a bit, pussy gushing. 

“Do it,” Bucky said, desperate. He kissed you again, licked the edge of your mouth. “Come for me, sweet girl. God, I need it.” 

He pressed his chest harder against yours, fucked into you harder. Your breath stuttered as white flashed across your gaze and the coil in your chest unravelled and you cummed, body wracked with pleasure. 

His name left your mouth like a prayer. You pulled him down, kissed his cheeks, his neck, held his face in your hands as you whispered the words he’d waited a lifetime to hear. 

“Come inside me” 

He stilled, shuddered. His eyes found yours, full of disbelief and adoration. 

“Please,” you said, eyes almost rolling back. “I’ve only ever belonged to you.” 

He surged forward, pressed his lips hard against yours as he cummed with a broken moan, hips rocking, cock pulsing inside you as he whispered your name over and over. He fucked his cum into you, collapsed into your arms, buried his face in your neck. 

“I love you,” Bucky breathed out, pressing a soft kiss under your ear. 

You hummed, ran your fingers through his hair, feeling full and content. “And I love you.” 

Neither of you moved for a long time.

Eventually, he shifted, just enough to pull the blankets over you both. His body stayed half on top of yours, your arms around his waist, holding him tightly. 

Outside, the snow fell silently. 

Inside, wrapped in each other’s arms, you both had finally found home. 

[lynbels]

29 mr nishimuraaaaaa

whiplash (m)

#29 You tease the quiet boy in your friend group too far, and he snaps—fucking you hard enough to make you cry and then cuddling you like nothing happened.

niki x reader · prompt request list

synopsis: You thought teasing the quiet boy in your friend group was harmless—until Ni-ki finally snapped, fucking you hard enough to make you cry, then pulling you into his arms like nothing ever happened. ✉️ 980wc - ‼️ friends to lovers, size kink, rough sex, crying kink, overstimulation, breeding kink, aftercare, quiet boy snapping, bratty teasing, manhandling, creampie

📝: niki manhandling me pls

Ni-ki was always the quiet one in your friend group—stoic, reserved, always watching but rarely talking. It wasn’t that he was shy, necessarily, just… too chill to participate in the chaos. The rest of the group was a walking circus: Woonhak always yelling, Sungho deadpanning, Jaehyun micromanaging everyone’s snack bags, and you, the mouthy one who never shut up. Especially around Ni-ki.

“Do you even speak?” you snorted one day while everyone was lounging around in Leehan’s basement, half-buzzed on soda and sleep deprivation. Ni-ki just glanced at you, face unreadable, while the others burst out laughing.

“That’s not fair,” Riwoo piped up between bites of seaweed chips. “He talks. Just not to you.”

“Ouch.” You clutched your chest mock-dramatically. “I’m offended. Actually, I think I’m his favorite. He’s just playing hard to get.”

Ni-ki didn’t say a word. Just kept sipping his drink with that same maddening calm.

But you liked getting a rise out of him. Over the next few weeks, the teasing escalated.

“Blink twice if you’re real.”

“You’re like an NPC, you know that?”

“I bet your phone autocorrects everything to ‘k.’”

He never snapped. Not once. Not even when you flicked a popcorn kernel at him across the couch and it landed in his hoodie.

But something changed the night of Jaehyun’s birthday party. The group had rented a karaoke room, and somewhere between terrible rap verses and awful renditions of ballads, you and Ni-ki ended up sitting alone in the hallway. The others had gone back in to sing “Love Dive” at full volume.

You nudged his arm with your shoulder. “You know, if you ever decide to speak to me, I might faint.”

Silence.

“Like, actually. Flat on the floor. Need CPR and everything. Might be your only chance to touch me.”

And that’s when it happened.

He turned. Looked you dead in the eye. And said, “You should shut the fuck up for once.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious,” he said, voice low and calm—too calm. “You act like you want attention, but I don’t think you’re ready for what happens when you actually get mine.”

Oh.

Oh.

You weren’t expecting him to stand up, take your hand, and lead you down the hall like it was nothing. Weren’t expecting to end up shoved against the wall of an empty storage room, lights dim, his hoodie off and jaw clenched.

“Still think I’m an NPC?” he asked, fingers already under your skirt.

“Ni-ki—”

“Be quiet,” he said again, this time pressed against your ear. “You’ve been talking all month. Time to listen.”

And listen you did.

To the sound of your own whimpers as he bent you over a forgotten couch, shoved your panties aside, and fucked into you like it was something he’d been planning—mapping out in that silent mind of his for weeks.

“You always run your mouth,” he muttered, pulling your head back by your hair just enough to kiss your throat. “So loud. Always poking me like I’m not gonna do anything.”

“You never—ah—said I had to stop—”

Ni-ki didn’t hesitate. One of his large hands gripped your waist, the other fisting in your hair, forcing you to arch your back just enough. You barely managed a breath before he shoved the thick head of his cock against your entrance, pressing in hard.

The stretch made your mouth fall open in a silent gasp. He didn’t ease you into it—he drove himself inside you all at once, splitting you wide open on his cock in one rough, overwhelming thrust. Your nails dug into the couch cushions, back bowing under the sudden, brutal pressure.

“Fuck—Ni-ki—” you whimpered, the force of it nearly knocking the air from your lungs.

He wasn’t gentle. His hips slammed into yours over and over, heavy, relentless, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the room. His cock pounded deep inside you, thick and hot, making your pussy spasm around him with every brutal stroke. Each thrust forced needy, broken sounds from your lips, louder than you could even think to control.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, spilling over when he fucked you harder, chasing the tight clench of your walls around him. You cried—not just from the stretch, but from the pure overwhelming feeling of being used and filled so perfectly, so completely, you couldn’t even think straight.

“You wanted attention, right?” Ni-ki growled low against your ear, voice a deep, dangerous rumble. His hand slipped between your legs, fingers rubbing fast, brutal circles over your swollen clit. “Take it.”

You sobbed, legs trembling uncontrollably under the weight of him, mind blank from how good it felt, how rough he was giving it to you. Every part of you was reduced to raw sensation: the thick drag of his cock splitting you open, the helpless clenching of your cunt around him, the burn in your thighs from how hard he kept you pinned in place.

Your orgasm hit you like a slap, sudden and devastating. You wailed his name, body convulsing, squeezing tight around him as he fucked you through it mercilessly. His pace grew frantic, sloppy, chasing his own release. With a broken, low groan, he slammed deep one last time and came inside you, cock pulsing thick spurts of hot cum against your walls.

Neither of you moved for a long moment, just breathing hard.

When you finally collapsed forward, boneless and dazed, Ni-ki gently pulled you onto his lap, his cock still buried inside you, softening slowly. His hands roamed your back soothingly, like he hadn’t just wrecked you five minutes ago.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice soft again, brushing a kiss to your temple.

You could only nod weakly, mind swimming.

He smiled faintly, arms wrapping tighter around you. “You talk too much,” he said, a little smug. “But I guess I like you anyway.”

wanna read my longer ffs? check out @shy9-29 || prompt req list

[cobbled-peach]

˗ˏˋ જ⁀➴ The JJ Issue

when Spencer has to work late on a case with JJ, you find yourself spiralling with jealousy. And now, you're determined to make him remember exactly what he's been missing.

cw: 18+ Spencer reid x jealous!fem!reader. NSFW content. Mildly insecure reader, explicit language, alcohol use, mentions of masturbation, heavy making out, slightly toxic relationship and emotional manipulation if you really really look a/n: so this was a request, but I'm technologically inept and deleted it when trying to copy it to my word doc. ANYWAY, I feel like I veered slightly off topic, but I present my take on jealous!reader and some dumb bitch-ish Spencer™ for you mwah mwah please feel free to send in more requests i am happy to take whatever!!! wc: 3k

The clock flicks to 11:00 PM.

You watch the numbers change with quiet contempt, the harsh glow of the display slicing through the darkness. The sheets beside you remain cold and untouched. Empty. Too still and too silent.

Still no Spencer.

It’s the third night this week. The third night of cold pillows and even colder silence. The third night of laying in a bed made for two and wondering if your boyfriend was going to crawl in before the sun came up – or if he’d even bother returning home at all. 

He’d been busier at work in the past month, his absence only being amplified by the newest case.

You’d tried to follow along when he explained it. Something about Montclair, Virginia. Weird geographical patterns, overlapping jurisdictions, unusual victims. Apparently, it was the kind of bureaucratic mess that kept the BAU tangled in an endless supply of paperwork.

But all you’d really heard – what had stuck and started looping in your head – was JJ.

JJ.

JJ and Spencer. Working late nights in close quarters.

Beautiful, capable JJ. With her glossy hair and understanding eyes. Who could read a room in seconds and had helped Spencer through numerous cases. JJ, who had history with him. Real, lived-in history. She probably understood the way his brain worked in ways you hadn’t even discovered yet.

JJ. Who had the privilege of seeing him more often than you did lately, while you were stuck eating leftovers and watching the clock tick toward midnight.

You tried not to be the jealous girlfriend.

Tried so hard.

But it’s easier said than done when you’re alone in a dark apartment, with your texts left on read since 12:23 PM.

You can picture it too clearly – Spencer and JJ tucked away in some dim conference room, heads bowed over maps and files, shoulders brushing. JJ laughing softly. Spencer glancing up from his notes with that boyish smile that he reserves for only his favorite people. A room of shared trauma and comfort, of inside jokes and a history you can’t compete with.

You hate how vivid the image is. 

You hate how much it turns your stomach even more.

Your fingers curl around your phone, thumb hovering for a beat before you start to type:

Any idea when you’ll be home? x

You stare. Waiting.

The dot-dot-dot appears almost instantly. He’s always fast, when he can be.

No, this case is a mess. JJ and I are still trying to determine the geographical patterning. I’ll be home when I can.

That’s it.

That’s it?

No “I miss you.” No “Sorry for the late night.” No acknowledgement that its eleven-fucking-o’clock and you’re still alone, curled up in his shirt, half-hoping for the sound of him returning to break you out of this fog. Just plain, clipped Spencer-speak. Cold. Factual. Like he’s updating Hotch, not the person who shares his bed.

“JJ and I.”

Of course.

Your jaw tenses and you type again:

Should I leave the door unlocked, or is your work wife walking you home tonight?

No response. Probably back to his files. Or worse – laughing with her about something brilliant he said. You picture her touching his arm. Picture him not pulling away.

Two minutes pass, and you try again:

Let me know if she likes it when you quote Voltaire.

Maybe she even moans when you pull out statistics too.

Still nothing.

You throw your phone to the end of the bed with a dull thud, resisting the urge to follow it with your wine glass. You’re not drunk – not quite – but your veins are warm and the wine bottle is getting low. Almost as low as your patience.

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face.

It’s not that your insecure.

But it’s been a long week. And you’re tired. And lonely. And a little more than marginally horny.

And all that serves to make a deadly combination.

You glance at the wine bottle on your nightstand, dragged in here from when the living room started to feel too big. Half-empty now, or maybe half-full, but you don't feel like looking on the bright side today. Your fingers wrap around the stem of the glass like a lifeline, and you take a slow sip.

The taste of sour grapefruit and poor decisions.

It doesn’t take long for you to start wondering things you shouldn’t be wondering.

Like if JJ’s ever seen Spencer shirtless, skin flushed from an adrenaline-fueled takedown. Like if she notices the way his lashes flutter when he gets focused, and the subtle tick in his jaw when he’s trying to hold back a dirty comment. Like if she’s ever heard the quiet, shaky sound he makes when you touch him just right – a sound you haven’t heard in what feels like forever.

You huff, irritated with yourself.

This is not the kind of spiral you want to be in.

But how are you supposed to feel okay when the man you love has spent more nights with someone else this week than with you?

Someone brilliant and bright and right beside him.

Your mind drifts – dangerously, again – to what he might be doing if he was here. What you wish he was doing. Your hand plays absently with the hem of his shirt, sliding a little higher up your thigh, feeling the fabric brush over bare skin. Skin and air and silence.

You wonder if he’d even notice you were awake if he walked in right now.

Or if he’d still be thinking about JJ and her smiles.

Your stomach twists again.

You set the wine glass down, staring into the dark, heat curling beneath your skin like a storm on the verge of breaking.

You’re not proud of the jealousy. Or the spite. But tonight?

You’re not sure you care.

It’s 1:00 AM when you hear the door open.

You’ve migrated back to the couch now. Curled up like a forgotten thing in the quiet throb of the living room. A blanket is pulled tight around your shoulders, forging a cocoon of spite and cheap Sauvignon Blanc. The bottle on the coffee table is empty. There’s half a glass still in your hand, warmed by your palm. Your fingers are molded around the stem like its something keeping you grounded.

The door shuts gently.

Spencer enters the apartment the way he always does when he knows it’s late. Softly. Cautiously. The guilt doesn’t show on is face right away, but seeps in to the little things. The way he trades his leather shoes for worn slippers like they might squeak loud enough to wake you up. The careful way he sets his keys down, not with the usual absentminded clatter, but softly, like he might disturb you.

You hear the rustle of his cardigan being shrugged off and flung over the back of a chair. He moves through the apartment with the measured care of someone navigating a crime scene. Almost like a ghost; present, but not where you need him to be.

The bedroom door creaks. A pause. Then a soft, confused hum, like he’s surprised the bed is cold and vacant. 

You don’t move.

His footsteps return, still soft and hesitant, and then the living room light clicks on. It’s not bright, just enough to paint his face in a warm gold shadow. When he sees you, wrapped up and still, his features settle somewhere between relief and worry.

‘There you are,’ he says gently. ‘I didn’t think you’d still be up.’

His voice is warm. Too warm. Like he’s dealing with a wounded animal, already prepared for a potential fallout.

You don’t answer right away. Just lift the glass and sip what’s left of the wine. It brought warmth before, but now just feels thin and useless as it settles in your stomach. A comfort that has already faded.

Spencer looks like he always does after a long day – exhausted. Shirt untucked and wrinkled at the collar. His hair is tousled like he’s raked his hands through it a dozen times. His lips are parted, already searching for the right apology.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ you say. The words land flat and cold. Sharper than you intended, but not enough to make you regret it.

His brow furrows as he takes a tentative step forward. ‘Oh no. Are you okay?’

‘Oh, just peachy.’ You flash him a malicious smile and tilt your head. ‘How’s JJ?’

‘JJ?’ he repeats. ‘She’s… fine?’

‘I bet.’

You see it in him. The subtle shift. His brain starts ticking, trying to process the change in tone, piece together context clues. His hands twitch slightly at his sides. You’ve seen it before, when he’s dealt with a particularly messy profile. It’s how he acts when trying to decode erratic behavior.

But this time, you’re the chaos.

‘What’s going on?’ he asks, slower this time. Careful.

You finally meet his eyes, steady and level. ‘You’ve spent more time with her this week than you have with me.’

He exhales and crosses his arms. Not intentionally defensive, but it comes across that way. Just the subtle shift of someone bracin against a growing storm.

‘Me and JJ? We’re working the same case,’ he offers. Not patronising, just explaining. ‘That’s how assignments work.’

A rational answer. Reasonable. Sensible. And completely useless to the part of you that’s been sitting in silence every night, nursing bitterness like it’s a glass of wine.

‘That’s not what I said,’ you reply.

You toss off the blanket and stand, wanting to be level with him.

His gaze drops, almost instinctively, to your bare thighs peeking out from beneath his shirt. Snaps it back to your face instantly. Like he caught himself doing something inappropriate, even if it wasn’t.

‘She get’s your attention,’ you say softly. ‘Your thoughts. Your little facts. Your laughter. Your time.’

His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You keep going. Getting closer enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. 

‘And I get cold sheets and texts left on delivered.’

‘I didn’t mean to ignore you–’

‘She gets to share your space. Share your mind. Is that what gets you off now? Criminal profiling and shared trauma? Is that your kink, Doctor?’

His cheeks go red immediately.

‘She’s married,’ he points out, like that’ll resolve the tension.

‘Married women flirt too, Spencer.’

He’s still red, sputtering slightly now. ‘I don’t—I don’t think of JJ like that. I never have.’

‘Do you think of me like that?’ you challenge. ‘Or have I been bumped down your priority list below paperwork and tactical briefings? Do I need to start talking about blood spatter patterns during foreplay? Or maybe I need to join the FBI just so you’ll remember me.’

He swallows visibly, jaw tightening. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘No,’ you snap. ‘What’s not fair is me touching myself alone in our bed to the sound of your voice in some old Quantico press briefing because it’s the only version of you I could get this week.’

His eyes widen slightly. His breath catches. 

‘I think about you constantly,’ he says, almost desperate. 

You scoff. ‘Sure. Right after filing case summaries.’

‘No,’ he says, firmer now. ‘I do think about you. I just—I hyperfocus. And when I hyperfocus, my brain sort of queues everything else. It’s not about priority or importance. It’s about sequence. You’re just… waiting in line.’

‘Great,’ you say flatly. ‘I’m a fucking deli number.’

He winces. ‘That came out wrong.’

You look at him, taking a breath. Run a hand through your hair.

‘Do you think I’m crazy?’

‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘I think you’re angry and hurt. And I think you’re trying to make me angry and hurt too. Like earlier, your messages were mean. That’s why I ignored them... Now, you’re just sort of scaring me.’

That stops you. Not because you’re insulted, but because he looks genuinely lost. Innocent.

‘I’m not trying to scare you,’ you say quietly. You deflate slightly, some of the heat leaving your voice. ‘I’m just… trying to remind you that I’m still here. Wanting you. Waiting for you.’

There’s a silence.

Then–

‘I didn’t realise it was this bad. I thought you just wanted some space.'

You nod. Not spitefully, just confirming the truth.

‘Do you even remember what it was like?’ you ask. ‘When you used to come home and fuck me like you were starving. Like you couldn’t stand being apart from me. Like the space between us physically hurt you.’

He doesn’t answer. But you see the recognition in the way his jaw ticks, the way his hands clench at his sides. 

‘I miss that,’ you say. ‘I miss you.’

That look returns to his face, unsure if this is a test. If you’re being serious. If you’re going to snap at him for misreading your cues.

So you lean in – slow – until your lips are just inches from his. ‘You say you think about me constantly… prove it.’

He hesitates. Blinks. ‘You mean like—right now?’

‘Preferably in a way that makes me forget I’m mad.’

He pauses. ‘...Sexually?’

‘That would be ideal.’

He clears his throat. ‘I just want to make sure. Because sometimes when you’re upset, you use sarcasm to—’

You lift your hand, cutting him off. ‘No sarcasm now, Doctor.’

He shifts his weight, brows still drawn a little.

‘Right, okay.’ Another pause. ‘So, just to clarify – you’re asking me to have sex with you. Now. Because you want to stop being angry. Or is the sex part of the anger expression?’

You stare at him.

He continues. 

‘Because if you’re just using me to release emotional frustrations, that’s fine, I want to have sex with you, but I’d just like to know in advance so I can—’

You step in and kiss him. 

Not sweetly or softly. 

It’s the kind of kiss used to shut him up. Open mouthed and hard, tongue sweeping across his lower lip before he’s even realised your lips are touching his. For a moment, he’s caught between instinct and hesitation. Trying to figure out if this is you just getting back at him.

Then you feel him give in. His hands grip your waist, grounding himself, allowing his mouth to move with yours in a way that’s messy and uncoordinated – like he’s catching up with weeks of missed makeout sessions.

When you finally pull back, his pupils are blown wide, his lips flushed and slightly parted.

‘I’m not asking you to give me a therapeutic exercise,’ you state. ‘I’m asking you to stop thinking and touch me.’

He nods, too quickly. ‘Right. Touching… now?’

‘No. In another three days,’ you say sarcastically, grabbing his hand and sliding it beneath the hem of your shirt – his shirt – until his fingers are splayed across your ribs. 

His palm is warm. Touch a little tentative.

‘Do you even remember what touching me feels like?’ you ask, breath brushing against his cheek.

Spencer exhales sharply, the memory hitting him and punching the breath from his lungs.

‘I think about it all the time,’ he whispers.

‘Then why are you still just standing there like this is a goddamn team-building exercise?’

He snaps into focus. ‘I’m sorry. You’re just—when you’re mad, and basically half-naked, it’s hard to follow all the emotional subtext and my working memory has lost it’s buffer—’

You roll your eyes, pushing him backward until his knees hit the couch. He drops onto the cushions with a surprised noise. Part yelp, part breathless laugh.

His hands instinctively settle on your thighs as you straddle him. He stares up at you like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he doesn’t deserve for it to be happening.

You place your palm on his shoulder, playing with the soft cotton of his shirt.

‘Spencer.’

‘Yes?’

‘Please stop thinking.’

‘I’m trying.’

‘Try harder.’

You lean down and kiss him again. Slower, this time. Deeper. He responds instantly now, hands sliding to your waist, then up your back, holding you close to him. His mouth moves with less hesitation, more purpose.

‘I missed you,’ he murmurs between kisses. ‘Missed you so much. I’m sorry—I didn’t know what to say without it sounding like I was making excuses before.’

You shift your hips against him, just enough to feel him getting harder beneath you. 

‘I don’t want an apology,’ you say.

‘You don’t?’

‘No.’ You grind down again, a little harder. ‘I want you to make it up to me.’

He moans softly, head tipping back against the couch cushions. He nods in understanding, taking a moment to catch his breath before pressing his lips to your jaw, trailing them down to your throat, feeling your pulse fluttering beneath his tongue.

‘You’re so…’ he pauses for another kiss to your skin. ‘I mean, you always look good, but—God, you’re so, so pretty. I missed you.’

His fingers dig into your hips, and then his mouth is back on yours, rougher now. He’s kissing to make up for all the nights you went to bed alone, all the hours he spent at work while you touched yourself to a crackly echo of his voice. 

His hands slide up beneath your shirt again. Tracing your skin. He gets to your breasts, and gasps softly, like he’s surprised.

‘You’re not wearing anything under this.’

You roll your eyes at his astute observation.

‘You want to keep narrating?’ you ask, a little breathless. ‘Or do you want to do something about it?’

‘Doing something. Yes.’

He lifts the shirt off your body. Slow and tentative, like you’re something delicate. It’s a sight he’s seen numerous times before, bit his eyes still go wide as he takes you in. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares.

‘Jesus, Spence,’ you say, nudging his shoulder, getting impatient.

‘Sorry. You’re just gorgeous. And naked. And still angry. And you—’ he pauses, runs his hand up your ribs again. ‘—feel like something I shouldn’t be able to touch.’

‘Well I’m letting you touch me.’

You grab his wrist, guiding your hand to press between your legs. He sucks in a breath, still looking up at your face.

‘This is how mad I was,’ you whisper.

His brain seems to short-circuit again. ‘I have… no response to that.’

You push your hips down against his hands. 

‘Then shut up, and make me come.’

a/n: i ummed and ahhed about putting an aftermath scene but decided not to because I lowkey like 'em toxic >:) We also do NOT hate JJ in this house, she was just convienient. I also (can you tell I like to yap?) don't know what era of Spencer Reid I pictured for this. Somewhere in the earlier seasons, maybe? But idk. You choose. I have a taglist now! Please comment if you want to be added, or go to this post here. I've decided not to put tags on my 18+ fics, just as I don't want any minor interactions with them Also, to the person who requested this: if it did not align with your request I'm so sorry and I can do if you really really want xxxx

[goldfades]

Please please please protective Joe over postpartum wifey 👏🏻

ofcc!! here it is, my love <3

There was a time when life felt like a perfectly thrown spiral — smooth, certain, easy to catch. Joe made everything look like that, honestly. Sundays on the field, Saturdays back home, even the lazy Tuesday nights when he’d crawl into bed still smelling faintly like grass and laundry detergent and something that just was him.

You built a whole life on those little certainties. A white house with black shutters. A golden retriever named Beau who never quite grew into his paws. And now, tucked into the curve of Joe’s arm, a baby girl with his sleepy blue eyes blinking up at the world like it was brand new and way too bright.

It was supposed to feel perfect — or at least that’s what all the books and well-meaning advice said. But nobody really warned you about this part. About how raw it would feel, the way your body and mind would shift like continents no one could map. About how tired your bones could get, or how sometimes you looked in the mirror and hardly recognized the girl staring back.

Joe saw it, though. He always did.

He moved through the house like a man on a mission lately, whisper-quiet but everywhere all at once — refilling your water bottle before you realized it was empty, pulling you in tighter at night like he could keep the world out with just his arms. He was careful with you in a way that wasn’t suffocating, but fierce, like he was guarding something sacred and breakable.

And maybe you were, in a way.

Joe was a patient man. He had to be — quarterback wasn’t a job for the impulsive, the hot-headed. It was a role built on timing, on seeing a flash of movement and trusting it, threading the ball through chaos with an almost stubborn kind of calm.

But nothing had ever tested his patience like today.

Because today, for the first time, the guys were coming over to meet her. His daughter.

You were curled up on the couch, fresh out of the shower with your hair damp and your skin soft and flushed. The baby was snuggled against your chest, making those small, content newborn sighs that Joe swore he could listen to for the rest of his life and never get tired.

And he was on edge. Not because he didn’t trust his teammates — they were his brothers, in every way that mattered. But because this — this little piece of the life you built together — wasn’t game film or post-win beers or locker room jokes.

This was you. This was her.

And Joe Burrow, the man who could stand in the pocket while a 300-pound linebacker bore down on him without flinching, suddenly found himself running scenarios in his mind like some half-crazed security guard.

He adjusted the throw blanket over your lap. Checked the thermostat again. Made sure the baby’s little hat was pulled low enough over her ears, even though you were sitting inside with the heater humming low. He hovered, adjusting pillows, bringing you your water bottle with a bendy straw tucked in so you wouldn’t have to move too much.

“You’re fussing,” you murmured, voice lazy and warm with affection.

Joe just shrugged, standing above you with his hands on his hips, chewing the inside of his cheek like he was gearing up for a press conference.

“They’re not gonna hold her unless you say it’s okay,” he said, dead serious. “They’ll wash their hands first.”

He ticked it off like a checklist. “No strong cologne. No loud voices. And if she gets fussy—”

“She won’t,” you interrupted, smiling because you could tell he needed it.

But Joe wasn’t so sure. Babies were unpredictable. Teammates even more so. And Joe? Joe didn’t like unpredictable when it came to the two people he loved most in the whole damn world.

The doorbell rang.

Beau barked from his spot by the window, tail wagging excitedly. Joe shot you a quick look — a silent, are you good with this? — and only when you nodded did he open the door.

Ja'Marr was first in, grinning from ear to ear, a pack of diapers slung under one arm like a football. A few others trickled in behind him — Sam, Tee, a couple of the offensive linemen — all of them with that same reverent, wide-eyed look guys got when they saw a newborn up close.

Joe moved fast, intercepting the herd before they could even make it two steps inside. “Shoes off,” he said briskly, nodding toward the mat. “Wash your hands.”

He pointed toward the powder room like a dad corralling a team of unruly Boy Scouts. There was a second of stunned silence — and then laughter, low and easy, but respectful.

They knew better than to mess around with Joe right now.

One by one, they complied, teasing each other about it but following orders all the same. Joe hovered by the couch while you adjusted the baby's position, brushing a kiss against the top of her head before you offered a soft, “You wanna come say hi?”

Even then, Joe stayed close — a silent wall between you and the door, the human equivalent of a velvet rope.

The guys took turns, keeping a cautious distance, most of them too nervous to even ask to hold her. Ja'Marr cracked a few jokes under his breath about Joe looking ready to deck anyone who breathed wrong.

He wasn’t wrong. Joe’s eyes stayed sharp, tracking every movement, every laugh, every time someone leaned in a little too close. His hand hovered near your shoulder the whole time — not touching, but there, a steady reminder that you weren’t doing this alone.

When the baby whimpered once, just a little squeak of protest at all the unfamiliar voices, Joe reacted before you even had the chance — plucking her gently from your arms with that easy, practiced motion he had already mastered.

“She’s good,” he said, voice a shade softer now, one hand cradling her tiny head as he pressed her to his chest.

The room went still.

It was one thing to see Joe Burrow command a huddle. It was another to see him sway, slow and absent-minded, in the middle of his living room with a baby tucked against his heart like she was the whole playbook and the end zone all wrapped up in one.

You leaned back, your heart stretching wide and aching with it — the fierce, stubborn tenderness of this man you married.

The visit didn’t last long. Joe made sure of that. An hour, tops. No overstaying. No “let’s hang out awhile.” When the goodbyes started, Joe stood by the door again, thanking each of them with a handshake.

After the last car pulled away, he locked the door, turned, and exhaled like he hadn’t breathed properly all afternoon.

You were still on the couch, baby sleeping against your chest again, your head tipping back into the pillows. Joe crossed the room in three strides, crouching in front of you like he needed to be eye level, like he needed you to feel it when he said: “You did so good, baby.”

It wasn’t just about today. It was about all of it.

The way your body had carried her. The way you endured the long nights, the painful moments nobody talked about. The way you fought to smile when your heart felt shaky and raw.

He reached out, cupping the side of your face, brushing his thumb over your cheek with infinite gentleness.

“We’re good now,” he whispered, like a promise. “We’re good.”

You closed your eyes, sinking into the safety of it — the safety of him. Of knowing that no matter what storms came, no matter how unpredictable the world could be, Joe would be right here.

Arms up. Heart open.

Always, always guarding the things he loved most.

[miedei]

roommate!spencer gets home late and you know each other so so so well <3

drabbles mlist | roommate!spence fic

roommate!au drabble inspired by an alisha (@siriuslylantsov) voice message and our shared roommate au obsession

When Spencer walks in, the apartment is quiet, but not silent. It’s not the mute nature of an empty home, but instead there’s a lived-in undertone to it. 

The faint sound of your white noise machine reaches him from your room, the car noises that float in through the kitchen window you always forget to close, and, if he strains his ears, he can hear the repetitive, rocking sounds of your breathing. 

Despite the exhaustion that weighs down his shoulders, he feels warmed from inside out. Seeing the living room in the dim moonlight sends a tremor of deep affection and comfort through him. After days and days on this case, sleeping in the unfamiliar hotel room, hunching over maps and interviewing suspects, he’s been craving the ease of home. 

Glancing at the grandfather clock shoved up against the left wall, Spencer winces. Three am. Setting his messenger bag down on the couch, he slowly pads through the apartment, darting into the kitchen to close the window (and to scarf down a handful of dry cereal). Next, he heads for his room, tapping in the code to his gun safe. Removing his holster, he carefully places it inside, locking it away. 

His mind seems to go on autopilot at this point, all his thoughts quieted into a low buzz in the back of his head. Without much contemplation, he goes through the motions of changing, brushing his teeth and washing his face (with your cleanser). Just as these actions are routine, so is his next one. 

Quietly, he walks across the hallway from the bathroom, softly pushing open your door. Pacing slowly over to your bedside, he can’t help but smile, seeing how you’ve tangled yourself up in the sheets, half your body uncovered. 

Like he does most nights he’s home, he picks up the water bottle on your nightstand, the weight of it indicating that it’s empty. He knows that you’ll probably wake up obscenely early, your throat dry. If the bottle stays empty, you’ll have to get out of bed for a glass of water, and then you’ll be too awake to go back to sleep. 

So, like he’s done countless times before, Spencer grabs the bottle, walks into the kitchen to fill it up, and returns to your room. 

Placing it on your nightstand again, he lingers for a moment, feeling the fatigue of the last few days wearing him down. He reaches down slowly, making sure his touch stays light. Brushing against the hair that covers your face, he can feel himself trying to return to his body. His mind is still far, far away, however. A sigh rushing past his lips, he retracts his hands, walking out of your room and shutting the door behind him. 

When you wake up, sleep weighing down your eyelids, the first thing you notice is that it’s pleasantly warm. There are no sounds coming in from the street. Instead it’s more quiet, as if all the windows have been closed. 

The next thing you feel is the nagging dryness at the back of your mouth. Rolling over in bed, you grope blindly on your nightstand. Despite remembering draining your bottle dry before you went to sleep, you’re hoping against hope that there’ll be a few drops left at the bottom. 

When your fingertips find purchase against the metal, you’re surprised to find the bottle heavy to lift, somehow full. After gulping down several mouthfuls, it's only then that you have the wherewithal to actually process what you’ve noticed. 

It’s still dark. The windows are closed. Your bottle filled. This has happened before, and you know exactly what that means.

Somehow tired out by that feat of cognitive excellence, you place your bottle back down, shifting to sit up on your bed. Allowing your mind to fall back into the welcome embrace of half-sleep, you grip your blanket around your shoulders, standing with a wobble. 

Following the route that your feet know better than your brain, you shuffle into the hallway, down a few doors before pushing open the wooden door. 

Half-lidded eyes fall on the lump under the navy-blue covers, and your shoulders droop impossibly further, drawn to the softness of that bed. Without another thought, you pad forward, flopping unceremoniously on the bed next to Spencer. 

Drowsily rearranging both your and his blankets so that you’re both covered up, you slot in behind him, your knees flush against the backs of his. Burying your face in the surprisingly wide expanse of his back, you exhale, melting against his warm body. 

A sleepy grumble emanates from his chest, and he shifts, one large hand moving to rest atop the forearm you’ve got slung over his middle. 

The apartment is quiet, the windows are closed and both of you are quickly caught by the tendrils of sleep.

[sh4nksslvt]

Surgeon’s Strategy

Law explains a battle plan, his hand brushing yours as he leans close, his smirk carrying a dangerously playful edge.

Law x reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, teasing a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe n akward word count: 1.8k masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The Polar Tang’s map room was a sanctuary of sorts, a quiet corner of the submarine where the hum of machinery faded into a distant murmur, and the world outside seemed to pause. The walls were lined with charts and maps, some pinned haphazardly, others meticulously organized, reflecting the duality of Trafalgar Law’s mind—chaotic genius wrapped in calculated precision. A single overhead lamp cast a warm, amber glow over the large wooden table at the center, strewn with papers, compasses, and a half-empty mug of coffee that smelled faintly of roasted beans. You stood there, leaning over the table, studying a map of the next island on the Heart Pirates’ route, your fingers tracing the coastline as you tried to make sense of the scribbled notes in Law’s angular handwriting.

“You’re holding it upside down,” came a low, amused voice from behind you.

You froze, glancing over your shoulder to find Law leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed, his signature spotted hat tilted slightly to one side. His golden eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and something else—something that made your pulse quicken. He was dressed in his usual polo shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the inked patterns on his forearms, and his sword, Kikoku, rested against the wall nearby, a silent reminder of his ever-present vigilance.

“I am not,” you retorted, though you quickly double-checked the map, heat creeping up your neck when you realized he was right. You flipped it with a huff, avoiding his gaze. “Maybe your handwriting is just terrible.”

Law’s lips curved into a smirk as he pushed off the doorframe and sauntered toward you, his boots clicking softly against the metal floor. “My handwriting is impeccable,” he said, stopping just beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. “You’re just distracted.”

“Distracted?” You raised an eyebrow, turning to face him, your hands planted on your hips. “By what, exactly?”

His smirk widened, and he leaned forward slightly, resting one hand on the table next to yours. “You tell me,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing drawl. “You’ve been staring at that map for ten minutes, and I’m pretty sure you haven’t read a single word.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words caught in your throat as his hand brushed against yours, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through you. It was deliberate, you were sure of it—Law never did anything by accident. His fingers lingered just long enough to make your skin tingle before he pulled back, picking up a pencil to annotate the map.

“Let’s focus,” he said, though the playful edge in his tone betrayed his attempt at seriousness. “We’re docking at this island tomorrow, and I need you to understand the plan.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the way your heart was still racing. “Right. The plan. Go ahead, Captain, enlighten me.”

Law shot you a sidelong glance, his eyes narrowing slightly at the playful lilt in your voice. “Don’t get cheeky,” he warned, but there was no real heat in his words. He tapped the map with the pencil, pointing to a cluster of buildings marked near the island’s port. “This is the main town. Intel says there’s a Marine outpost here, small but well-guarded. We need supplies, so we’re avoiding direct confrontation.”

You leaned closer, your shoulder brushing against his as you studied the map. “So, stealth mission?” you asked, tilting your head to look at him. His face was close—too close—and you could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his eyes flicked briefly to your lips before returning to the map.

“Exactly,” he said, his voice steady despite the tension crackling between you. “You’ll be with me, scouting the market for medical supplies while the others handle food and ship repairs.”

“Me?” You blinked, surprised. “You usually take Bepo for scouting.”

Law’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Bepo’s great, but he’s not exactly subtle. You, on the other hand…” He paused, his gaze sweeping over you, lingering just a moment too long. “You blend in. Plus, I trust you to keep up.”

Your cheeks warmed at the compliment, though you tried to play it cool. “High praise from the Surgeon of Death,” you teased, nudging his arm lightly. “Careful, you might make me think you like me.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that did nothing to calm your nerves. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he said, but his hand brushed yours again as he reached for a marker, and this time, his fingers lingered, curling slightly around yours before he pulled away. “Pay attention.”

You tried—really, you did—but Law’s presence was distracting. He explained the layout of the town, pointing out entry points, escape routes, and potential hazards, his voice calm and authoritative. But every time his arm brushed against yours or his fingers grazed the back of your hand as he adjusted the map, your focus wavered. He was doing it on purpose, you were certain, and the smug little smirk playing at the corners of his mouth only confirmed it.

“—and if we get separated,” he was saying, “you head to this rendezvous point.” He tapped a spot on the map, then glanced at you, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not listening.”

“I’m listening!” you protested, crossing your arms. “Rendezvous point, got it.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Repeat it back to me.”

You hesitated, racking your brain for the details you’d only half-absorbed. “Uh… head to the… north side of the town square?”

Law sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Wrong. It’s the old lighthouse on the eastern cliffs.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “If you get lost, I’m not coming to find you.”

“Liar,” you shot back, grinning. “You’d tear the island apart looking for me.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the playful banter faded, replaced by something heavier, more intense. “Maybe,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But let’s not test that theory.”

Your breath caught, and the air between you seemed to thicken. Law was close now, his hand resting on the table just inches from yours, his body angled toward you. The map room felt smaller, the walls closing in as the tension grew. You could smell the faint scent of antiseptic and sea salt on him, a combination that was uniquely Law, and it made your head spin.

“Law,” you said, your voice quieter now, “are you trying to distract me?”

He tilted his head, his smirk returning, though there was a heat in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “If I were trying to distract you,” he said, his voice low and teasing, “you’d know it.”

“Oh, really?” you challenged, stepping closer, your chest almost brushing against his. “Because it feels like you’re doing a pretty good job right now.”

His smirk faltered for a split second, replaced by a flicker of surprise, but he recovered quickly, leaning in until his face was mere inches from yours. “Careful,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Your heart was pounding now, but you refused to back down. “Maybe I like dangerous,” you whispered, your eyes locked on his.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the tension between you taut like a drawn bowstring. Then, slowly, deliberately, Law reached out, his fingers brushing along your jaw, tilting your chin up slightly. His touch was light, almost tentative, but it sent a wave of heat through you, making your breath hitch.

“You’re impossible,” he said, his voice rougher now, laced with something that sounded almost like affection. “You know that?”

“You’re one to talk,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re the one who keeps touching me.”

His thumb grazed your lower lip, and his eyes darkened, his smirk replaced by something more intense. “You’re not complaining,” he pointed out, his voice low and husky.

“Maybe I’m just being polite,” you teased, though your voice trembled slightly, betraying the effect he was having on you.

Law chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Polite, huh?” He leaned closer, his lips hovering just above yours, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath. “You don’t strike me as the polite type.”

Before you could respond, a loud clang echoed from somewhere in the submarine, followed by the unmistakable sound of Penguin and Shachi arguing over who broke what. Law’s hand dropped, and he stepped back, the spell broken. His smirk returned, though there was a lingering heat in his eyes as he shook his head.

“Saved by the idiots,” he muttered, turning back to the map. “Let’s finish this before they burn the ship down.”

You let out a shaky laugh, trying to steady your racing heart. “Right. The plan.”

Law resumed explaining, his voice returning to its usual calm, authoritative tone, but the air between you remained charged. Every time his hand brushed yours or his shoulder bumped against yours, you felt it—a spark, a promise of something more. He was focused now, pointing out the finer details of the mission, but you caught the occasional glance, the way his eyes lingered on you when he thought you weren’t looking.

As he wrapped up, he leaned back against the table, crossing his arms. “Any questions?”

You shook your head, still trying to process the last few minutes. “Nope. Crystal clear.”

“Good,” he said, but he didn’t move, his eyes studying you with that same intensity that made your skin prickle. “You’re with me tomorrow, so don’t screw it up.”

“I won’t,” you promised, then added with a grin, “As long as you don’t get distracted.”

His lips twitched, and he stepped closer again, his voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur. “Keep talking like that, and we’ll see who’s distracted tomorrow.”

You laughed, pushing him lightly on the chest. “Focus, Captain. You’ve got a mission to lead.”

He caught your wrist, his grip gentle but firm, and for a moment, you thought he might pull you closer again. But instead, he released you, his smirk softening into something almost fond. “Get some rest,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You’ll need it.”

You nodded, turning to leave, but you paused at the door, glancing back at him. “Law?”

He looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Yeah?”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you dodging my question earlier,” you said, grinning. “You totally like me.”

His smirk returned, sharper this time. “Get out of here,” he said, but there was no hiding the amusement—or the warmth—in his eyes.

As you left the map room, your heart still racing, you couldn’t help but smile. Tomorrow’s mission was going to be interesting, and you had a feeling Law’s teasing was only the beginning.

[22ayla21]

Hi! I have something for Leona.

Could you do Leona with wife reader where she call him by his full name. How he, his family and kids will react. Maybe bonus that Leona try to coax his wife for his to escape the situation.

Love your writing with my whole heart ❤

Full Name - Full Defeat

One innocent snack turns into a catastrophe when Leona realizes that his full name, spoken by his wife, is not just an address, but a sentence.

The heat in the Sunset Savannah was its usual mild and dry self. The day rolled on: the children were playing chess, servants bustled in the kitchen preparing dinner, and Leona... well, Leona was napping after lunch as always. No one batted an eye – it was his established routine, practically a law of life.

Everything was going as usual until a clear and almost ominous voice echoed from the kitchen.

"Leona Kingscholar."

The yard fell silent at once. Even the breeze seemed to quiet down, not wanting to miss a word.

The children, engrossed in a game of chess, froze. The boy slowly raised his eyes from the board where he was setting up the pieces. His sister, only ten minutes older, mouthed:

"Dad's in trouble."

Farena peered into the yard, papers in hand. He had already opened his mouth to say something, but upon hearing his brother's full name, he immediately darted back into the shade, as if observing a scene in the wild jungle where a lion had suddenly encountered an enraged lioness.

Farena's wife raised an eyebrow and said softly:

"She never calls him that. Only if..."

"...he's really messed up," finished Leona and Farena's mother, folding her arms across her chest and fixing her gaze on the kitchen door.

At that very moment, Leona, lazily stretching after his siesta, appeared in the doorway with a plate in his hand. An empty plate. He licked his spoon. Heard his full name. And froze in place.

"What the—?" he began, but stopped short, meeting his wife's gaze.

She stood tall – not very tall, but her look was formidable, her eyes narrowed, and the towel draped over her shoulder seemed not like a kitchen accessory, but a banner of righteous retribution.

"Please repeat," she said in an even, icy tone, "exactly what you just ate?"

"Um..." Leona, who was unfazed by magic, duels, or even Malleus's tantrums, suddenly felt his mouth go dry. "There was a plate there, and... I thought it was up for grabs."

"That was mine. I specifically left half to finish later. You knew that. I said it out loud. Three times. I even pointed at it once."

He scratched the back of his head.

"Well... it looked kind of lonely. And it smelled really good. I didn't want the food to go bad."

"Leona. Kingscholar," she repeated, and this time it wasn't just a voice – it was a tocsin.

A quiet movement began in the yard. The children started to slowly retreat towards the back door.

"Hurry, before Mom starts the lecture on personal boundaries," whispered the daughter, nudging her brother.

"Or, heaven forbid, she brings up 'that mango incident' again," he added with horror.

Farena, hiding behind the curtain, whispered to his wife:

"This is worse than when he spilled sauce on the archive maps. Much worse. At least it wasn't his food that was ruined then."

"She was saving that portion," Farena's wife nodded. "It had smoked meat in it; she specifically asked for it to be made. The chef said there are no supplies for next week."

Meanwhile, Leona, still holding the spoon, tried to force a guilty smile.

"Well, even if you're angry, I'm still your favorite, right?"

She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Leona Kingscholar. You ate my food. Without asking. Without apologizing. Without the slightest remorse. This is – betrayal."

"Oh, come on, that sounds a little too serious..."

"You knew perfectly well how much I wanted to finish it. You heard me. I saw you nod. And then... you. Ate. It. All."

He flattened his ears.

"Sorry..."

She rolled her eyes, turned away, and walked out of the kitchen, tossing over her shoulder:

"Make your own meat today. And look for any remaining conscience you might have."

Leona remained standing in the empty kitchen, ashamed, with the spoon in his hand and the face of a man who had finally realized what he had done.

He turned and saw his whole family watching him from the window.

Farena gave him a thumbs-up.

"Welcome to the club."

His mother sighed heavily.

"Well, at least she remembered his name. He's been getting too lax lately."

And only the children, hiding in the next room, giggled:

"Mom won. Dad's knocked out."

[pankowcrumbs]

Blurred Lines X Pedro Pascal

MasterList

Word count: 6.8K

Sex implied in a movie scene but no actual smut.

Plot: You and Pedro are romantic love interests in a new movie but there is a 25 year aged gap and it gets complicated when the feelings are becoming real underneath the characters.

There’s always a strange rhythm to film sets. Long stretches of waiting around, interspersed with bursts of concentrated magic. I’d learnt that quickly, although this set Falling Slow was different. Maybe it was the subject matter, maybe it was the man I was working opposite. Or maybe it was both.

The film was a sweeping, slow-burn romance between a young academic and her older, world-weary professor. Forbidden, scandalous, but written with nuance and aching tenderness. And, yes, it was about a large age gap. Just like us.

I was twenty-five. Pedro was fifty.

On paper, it should’ve been awkward. But Pedro had this way about him all warm smiles, self-deprecating humour, and inappropriate dad jokes that made the whole cast and crew instantly at ease. He was like the sun on set. Infectious. Easy. Except when it came to scenes with me. Because when the cameras rolled, he changed. He became something else entirely. Something... intense. Something that curled low in my belly.

And today, we were filming that scene. The one everyone had been whispering about for weeks. The sex scene.

It was a closed set. Just Pedro, me, the director, the sound guy, and Elodie, our lovely but terrifyingly precise intimacy coordinator. We’d choreographed it all beforehand where my hands would go, when to kiss, how long to linger down to the second. Every move mapped like a dance. Modesty garments in place. No actual sex. All smoke and mirrors.

But even with all the prep, I could feel the tension humming under my skin the moment I stepped onto the set a dimly lit bedroom dressed with crumpled linen sheets, soft golden light, and a half-empty bottle of red wine on the nightstand.

Pedro was already there, shirt unbuttoned, lounging against the headboard, eyes flicking up when he saw me. He smiled warm and reassuring but there was something unreadable beneath it. Like he knew the weight of what we were about to do. Like he felt it too.

"You good, cariño?" he asked softly as I sat on the edge of the bed.

I nodded, smiling back. “Just thinking I might’ve had one less coffee if I’d known I’d be straddling you today.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “I’m flattered. I didn’t even have to buy you dinner first.”

Elodie raised a brow. “Alright, Pascal. Save the charm for the camera.”

We all laughed, and the tension eased just a little.

After a final rundown of the choreography, we got into position. I climbed onto the bed, straddling Pedro, knees on either side of his hips. He was warm beneath me. Solid. I could feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing under my palms as I pressed them lightly to his chest.

“Scene twenty-two, take one,” came the director’s voice.

The clapper snapped.

And then the world narrowed.

In the scene, my character was supposed to kiss him first shy at first, then hungry. So I did. I leaned in, my lips brushing his gently, then deeper, letting it linger. Pedro kissed me back not as himself, but as Henry, his mouth soft but full of restraint, like he was holding back years of want.

Our movements followed the choreography: my hands sliding up his chest, his fingers trailing down my sides, my hips rolling ever so slightly.

But somewhere, somewhere between the scripted kisses and the unspoken glances, something shifted.

His hands gripped my waist a little firmer. My fingers tangled in his hair, not because the script said so, but because I wanted to. And then just barely I felt it.

The faintest shift beneath me.

A subtle, growing pressure against my inner thigh.

Pedro stilled for the briefest second. A breath caught in his throat. And then he kissed me again slower this time, deeper. Less scripted. More real.

I should’ve pulled back. I knew I should. But I didn’t.

The lines blurred.

Heat rose in my cheeks, pooling low in my stomach as I rocked against him again, instinctively, almost imperceptibly. And this time, the pressure was unmistakable. He was getting hard.

I didn’t look away. Neither did he.

His pupils were blown, lips parted, chest rising faster than it had a minute ago. I could feel his fingers flexing where they held me not guiding me, not moving me, just feeling me.

“Cut,” the director called, his voice slicing through the air like a blade.

I jumped slightly, pulling back, blinking as if I’d just surfaced from underwater.

Pedro cleared his throat, giving me a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry. Got a bit... carried away.”

The intimacy coordinator stepped in immediately, her voice gentle. “That was great work. Let’s just take five. Everyone okay?”

I nodded quickly, slipping off Pedro’s lap and wrapping the robe around myself, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin.

Pedro stayed sitting on the bed, running a hand through his hair, then glancing at me with a crooked grin. “If I say I’m too old for this shit, do I sound appropriately flustered or just creepy?”

I laughed, breathless, still flushed. “Bit of both, honestly.”

He chuckled, then sobered, his eyes searching mine. “Hey. You alright?”

I met his gaze. There was no sleaze in it. No arrogance. Just genuine concern. And maybe a flicker of something else.

“I’m fine,” I said softly. “It was... intense. But I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “You were incredible, by the way. I mean that. Professional. Committed. Very distracting.”

I raised a brow. “Distracting?”

He smirked, that familiar playful spark back in his eyes. “In the best possible way.”

We stood there for a beat, just looking at each other, and I wondered if he felt it too that slow pull. That blurred edge between fiction and something else entirely.

Then Elodie called us back.

The rest of the takes went by in a haze. We stuck to the choreography, reined it in, kept it clean. But the charge lingered. Like the air after lightning.

When we finally wrapped for the day, Pedro caught me just as I was leaving the trailer.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Walk with me?”

I nodded, tugging my coat tighter around me as we stepped into the cool evening air. The sky was bruised with twilight, the last of the crew packing up around us.

We walked in silence for a while, side by side, shoulders brushing. Then he stopped.

“Today was...” He trailed off, frowning at the gravel beneath his boots. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” I said quickly. “Not at all. If anything... I don’t know. I felt safe. Even when it got a bit... blurry.”

He looked up, meeting my eyes. “Yeah. Blurry’s a good word.”

Another pause.

Then: “You’re not just good at this, Y/N. You’re magnetic. I’ve worked with so many people, and you” he broke off, exhaling. “You’re dangerous.”

I smiled, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “So are you.”

He chuckled, the sound warm but laced with something heavier. “We’ve got more scenes like that coming up.”

“I know.”

“And we’ll keep it professional. Of course.”

“Of course.”

But neither of us moved. Neither of us turned away.

The next morning, set felt quieter than usual.

Not in the literal sense there were still cables being dragged across floors, PAs shouting about coffee orders, the wardrobe trailer buzzing with life. But there was a hush in the way people looked at us. Or maybe I was imagining that.

Maybe it was just the way he looked at me.

Pedro had always been good at eye contact playful, expressive, sincere. But today? He barely held mine for longer than a second. A quick glance. A smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A soft “morning, cariño” that sounded more distant than usual.

And I understood. God, I understood.

Because the moment I’d gotten back to my flat last night, I’d played the scene over and over in my head the way his hands had felt on my waist, how his breathing had changed beneath me, the weight of his body and the way our kisses had slowed, deepened, blurred.

It had been just a scene. Technically. But we both knew it wasn’t just a scene.

Today’s call sheet had us shooting a quieter moment our characters sharing wine in the kitchen, stealing kisses in between bites of takeout. Innocent. Sweet. No sex. No straddling. Still, my heart had already begun its steady, traitorous drumbeat the moment I saw his name next to mine.

I was perched on the counter, wrapped in a faded jumper that wardrobe insisted made me look “young and lovesick”, when Pedro walked onto set.

He looked... tired. Not in the usual way actors did. This was something heavier. Like sleep hadn’t come easy. Like he’d been wrestling with something all night. His jaw was tight, his eyes shadowed.

But still, he smiled. Softly.

“You alright?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper as the crew adjusted lights around us.

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Just... head’s full. Long night.”

Before I could ask more, the director called for quiet, and we rolled straight into the scene.

We were mid-take when Pedro, in character, leaned against the counter beside me, close but not touching. I offered him a chip from our fake takeout box, and his fingers brushed mine when he took it. He didn’t pull away right away. Neither did I.

Our eyes met. The silence stretched.

It wasn’t scripted.

“Cut,” the director called gently. “That was nice. Really natural. Let’s reset and go again.”

Pedro stepped away immediately, exhaling through his nose, like he’d just run a mile. I could feel the shift in him something coiled and tense, barely held together.

After the take, he hovered near me, hands shoved in his pockets. Then finally as the crew fiddled with lights and lens changes he stepped closer, voice low.

“Can I talk to you?” he murmured, eyes still not quite meeting mine.

I nodded, following him off-set to a quiet corner behind a lighting rig. The hum of activity faded, and suddenly it was just us. And the air between us felt impossibly thick.

He ran a hand through his hair, took a breath, and finally looked at me really looked at me.

“Listen,” he started, voice rough. “I need to say something, and I hope to God I don’t make this weird, but I can’t keep pretending nothing’s happening.”

My pulse spiked. “Pedro”

“I’m not going to cross a line,” he said quickly, firmly. “That’s not what this is. But yesterday… you felt it too, didn’t you?”

I swallowed. “Yeah. I did.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, like hearing it out loud confirmed some terrible truth. When he opened them again, they were filled with guilt and ache and something so tender it made my throat tighten.

“You’re twenty-five,” he said softly. “You’re brilliant and talented and beautiful and kind. And I am exactly double your age. I’ve been doing this for twenty years longer than you. I’m more famous. I have more power. That’s... that’s not a dynamic I want to mess with.”

I nodded slowly, my heart cracking open. “I know. I’ve thought about all of that too. People would talk. They’d assume the worst. I’ve already seen what they say when any young actress is seen next to an older man. They’d crucify you.”

His jaw flexed. “It’s not about them. It’s about you. I don’t ever want you to wonder if I respected you. If I saw you as just a... a pretty face or a fantasy. Because I don’t. You’re so much more than that.”

I blinked back sudden tears, overwhelmed by the gentleness in his voice.

“I don’t think you’re creepy,” I whispered. “Not even for a second. You’re not that guy.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m not crossing internal lines,” he murmured, looking down. “Because I wake up thinking about you. And then I come to set and try to be professional, and then we’re kissing, and suddenly it’s not acting anymore, and I hate how easy it is to forget where the fiction ends.”

A silence fell between us. Neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed.

Finally, I said, “So what do we do?”

He looked up, eyes heavy. “We be smart. We finish this film. We keep it clean. We don’t give anyone a reason to whisper.”

“And after that?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

He hesitated.

“If you still feel the same when the dust settles... I’ll ask you to dinner. Properly. Not as a co-star. Just as me.”

My heart flipped, twisted, bloomed.

“I think I’d say yes,” I whispered.

He smiled small, tired, but real. “That scares the shit out of me.”

I laughed quietly, because it did the same to me.

We stayed there for a minute longer just two people suspended in that blurry space between right and wrong, between reality and longing. Then someone called for us, and the moment shattered.

Back to work. Back to the act.

The set is quiet, save for the sound of the camera rolling and the soft direction from the crew. The kitchen set is warmly lit, almost intimate, and it’s just the two of us in the frame. My heart races, and I can’t tell if it’s because of the scene we’re about to film or the electric tension between us. The weight of our confessions earlier still hangs in the air, unacknowledged yet palpable.

The director calls for a pause as the crew resets a light. I catch my breath, watching Pedro lean against the counter, his expression unreadable. He looks good in this scene his dark hair a little tousled, his shirt slightly undone at the collar. But there’s something deeper in his eyes, something I’ve never seen before. I know he’s feeling it too the same heat, the same unrelenting pull.

"Ready when you are," he says, his voice low, warm, almost inviting.

I swallow hard, nodding as the director signals for us to reset. My body feels light and heavy all at once. This scene it’s supposed to be a simple kiss. Nothing more. But the way Pedro looks at me makes it feel like everything else has faded away. The crew, the cameras, the world outside of this kitchen they don’t exist. It’s just him, and it’s just me.

We’re called into position, and my stomach flutters as Pedro moves closer. His hand brushes against my waist as he adjusts his position, and I feel it all the way down to my toes. It’s a light touch, but it carries an electricity I can’t ignore. This is the moment where everything we’ve been dancing around comes to a head.

The director calls out, “Action,” and I look up at Pedro, my breath catching in my throat. His eyes soften, his lips curling into a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes not completely. I feel my chest tighten, my heartbeat accelerating.

Then, we kiss. It’s slow at first, tender, like we’re still testing the waters. But there’s something else now, something different that wasn’t there before. The kiss deepens, and I can feel his hands on my back, pulling me closer. He’s no longer just my co-star he’s the man I’ve been trying to keep my distance from, and now he’s here, wrapped up in my arms, his lips on mine.

And for a moment, everything blurs. The scene, the cameras, even the crew they’re all nothing compared to the heat I feel building between us. It’s as if we can’t stop ourselves anymore, as if the line between acting and reality is fading.

“Cut,” the director calls. But it’s not a relief. It feels like a premature end to something we both want to continue. I pull back slightly, our lips just a breath apart, and I see it in his eyes desire, conflict, the same storm I feel swirling inside me.

“Sorry,” I murmur, stepping back to give us both space. I’m not sorry for the kiss, not exactly. But I am sorry for the mess this is going to cause. “That was…”

“I know,” Pedro interrupts softly. His voice is low, almost a whisper. “It’s getting harder to pretend, isn’t it?”

I nod, unable to speak. I’ve been trying to ignore it, trying to convince myself it’s just the job, that the attraction is all part of the performance. But this? This is something different. Something real. And that makes everything so much more complicated.

The director seems to notice the shift, and he smiles approvingly. “That was perfect. We got what we needed. Let’s take a break, everyone.” The crew begins to pack up, but I can’t shake the tension in the air. It lingers, thick and palpable.

Pedro stays where he is, watching me carefully. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I can see the internal battle on his face. He knows this is all so wrong so forbidden but the chemistry between us doesn’t lie. He’s feeling it too.

The lights are blinding, and the cameras flash relentlessly as we make our way down the red carpet. The press tour for our film is in full swing, and I can feel the tension building inside me. Pedro walks beside me, as always with that calm, collected presence of his, but I know he’s feeling the weight of the questions just as much as I am.

“Y/N, Pedro! Over here!” A reporter calls out. They wave their hands, trying to catch our attention. We both smile, the practiced, polished smiles we’ve been wearing all day.

“Your on-screen chemistry has everyone talking,” another reporter chimes in. “What’s the secret to that incredible dynamic?”

Pedro chuckles lightly beside me, his arm casually brushing against mine as we pose for a photo. "I guess we just have a lot of fun with it," he says with his usual charm. "But, honestly, the whole thing is a team effort. It’s about trust, right?”

I nod, glancing over at him. There’s something almost too knowing in his eyes, but the smile on his face says it all. “Exactly. It’s all about trust and respect. We’re both in it together, and that’s what makes everything flow so naturally.”

Another reporter jumps in with a question that makes my heart skip a beat. “So, there’s been a lot of talk about the age gap between you two. How did that affect your dynamic, both on and off screen?”

I feel Pedro’s hand subtly brush against the small of my back as I step forward to answer. It’s almost imperceptible, but the touch still sends a wave of heat rushing through me.

“Well, I’ll say this,” I begin, keeping my voice steady, even though I’m aware of the weight of every word. “Pedro was always incredibly respectful, both in the work and outside of it. He’s very aware of the power he holds in this situation, and he made sure that I never felt pressured or uncomfortable in any way. It’s something that’s really important to me, especially with the age difference.”

Pedro turns toward me then, his smile warm, but there’s a flicker in his eyes that tells me he’s not quite as unaffected by all this as he’s trying to seem. “Yeah, it’s not lost on me that I have a certain... position, you know?” His gaze shifts, and I see the sincerity in his eyes. “But it’s all about making sure that everyone feels safe and respected. That’s the priority.”

The reporters are eating this up, their cameras clicking nonstop as we both speak. They want more, but they’re not going to get anything out of us that feels too revealing.

“I think we’ve both been really aware of the situation,” I continue, glancing back at Pedro to make sure we’re on the same page. He gives me a small nod, clearly in agreement. “We’ve worked together as equals, and that’s what makes the chemistry on screen feel so natural. It’s a partnership.”

Another reporter presses further. “So, with that in mind, do you think the age gap affected the way you approached the romantic scenes?”

Pedro gives a soft laugh, his hand running through his hair. “I don’t think it’s something we dwelled on. We’ve been doing this for a long time, both of us, and we know how to keep things professional. Of course, there’s always a certain level of vulnerability in those scenes, but you can’t let the circumstances get in the way of what you’re trying to achieve artistically.”

“Exactly,” I agree, trying to keep things light but feeling the tension in my chest as the press continues to ask about the dynamics between us. “We had an amazing team around us, especially the intimacy coordinator. Everything was choreographed with such care. So, honestly, it just made the process feel safe. And that’s key to making the chemistry believable.”

One reporter, seemingly a little more daring, steps forward and lowers their voice. “There’s obviously so much palpable chemistry between you two are you ever worried about people reading into it too much? I mean, you’re clearly very comfortable with each other. And let’s face it, the age gap is something that has a lot of people talking.”

I see Pedro stiffen beside me, his jaw tightening just slightly. He’s trying to keep his composure, but I can feel his internal conflict. I know what he’s thinking: This is a line we’re toeing, and if we’re not careful, it could all unravel.

“Well,” I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation, “Pedro and I have worked incredibly hard to develop this connection. It’s all been about creating a space where we both felt comfortable, respected, and safe. And yes, the chemistry is definitely there, but we’re also very aware of how people can interpret things. We have a responsibility to each other, as actors, to make sure we’re always in sync.”

Pedro’s eyes flick to mine then, something unspoken passing between us. He smiles again, but this time there’s a sadness in it, like he knows that the truth is always just beneath the surface, and yet we can’t allow ourselves to fully acknowledge it.

“Y/N is an amazing actress,” he says, turning to me. “She makes it so easy to get lost in the scene. But the most important thing is that we always communicate. Always make sure the other person is comfortable. And I think that’s what made the whole process work.”

I smile at him, feeling my heart swell a little. I’ve praised him countless times today, and I know he’s doing the same for me. The interviews, the questions they’re all just a front, a way to avoid saying what’s really on our minds.

But the truth is, we’re both terrified. Not of the chemistry or the age gap but of what it means if we were to ever let this connection spill over into something real. It’s not just the press, or the fans, or anyone else watching us that’s the problem. It’s that neither of us wants to cross that line. Not yet, at least. Not in a way that can’t be undone.

As we move on to the next round of questions, we’re both exhausted, but the answers keep coming, just as rehearsed, just as careful. Every word a mask for the real truth, the one we can’t say aloud.

I think Pedro feels it too the tension, the pull. But he’s always been good at keeping a straight face, keeping his emotions close. And for now, that’s what I’ll do too.

Because as much as we might want to, we can’t allow ourselves to fall too far into this. Not yet. Not when the consequences would be so much greater than the fleeting thrill of what we feel in this moment.

One month after the movie’s release the buzz still hasn’t died down.

Even with the press tour wrapped and the red carpets rolled away, the film has taken on a life of its own living, breathing, and growing in whispers and headlines, most of them no longer about the movie itself.

They're about us.

Pedro and I have been texting constantly. At first, it was innocent. A few “saw this meme, made me think of you” or “did you see that fan edit?” But slowly quietly it shifted. The texts got longer, deeper. Little confessions snuck in. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was thinking about that night we wrapped filming...” or “Do you ever replay our kitchen scene in your head?”

Now it’s every day. Every night. Sometimes I fall asleep with my phone in my hand, mid-conversation with him, and wake up to a sleepy reply at 3 a.m.

We’re not dating. We haven’t said that out loud. But we’re something.

Something complicated.

Something neither of us can define, because we’re both too scared to say the words.

So we start small.

A coffee run. Somewhere tucked away in a quiet part of the city. We wear sunglasses and hats and keep our heads down. But people notice. Of course they do. The blurry photos hit Twitter before we even finish our cappuccinos.

The headlines follow within the hour:

“Pedro Pascal & Y/N Seen Grabbing Coffee Post-Press Tour: Just Friends or Something More?”

Our publicists are fast. The statement goes out before the afternoon:

“Pedro and Y/N have remained close friends since working on the film. They’re simply catching up and celebrating the success of their project.”

And maybe that’s true. Maybe we are just catching up.

But then it happens again. Another coffee. Then brunch. Then dinner with a group, but we still leave together.

The press might be playing along, but the fans?

They know better.

And they’re relentless.

It’s a rainy Thursday night when we finally cave and just let ourselves be still for once. Pedro’s place is warm and quiet, a world away from the noise. We’re on his couch, legs tangled beneath a throw blanket, my head on his chest. He smells like cedarwood and clean laundry, and his heartbeat is soft beneath my cheek.

He’s reading a book. I’m scrolling.

Bad combo.

“Oh my god,” I say, half-laughing, half-horrified. “Listen to this one: ‘Y’all, they’re not just friends. Look at the way he looks at her during interviews. That’s a man down BAD.’”

Pedro lets out a low chuckle, still not looking up from his book. “They’re observant, I’ll give them that.”

I keep scrolling, barely blinking. “This one says: ‘They think they’re being subtle, but the tension is screaming. Pedro blinked eleven times when she said his name.’”

That gets a real laugh from him. “Okay, that’s impressive. Eleven?”

“I’m serious! I think there’s a spreadsheet. These people are invested.”

I scroll again, my stomach sinking a little now. “Here we go... ‘Let’s not forget the age gap. I don’t care how good the chemistry is it’s inappropriate.’”

I feel Pedro tense slightly beneath me, just for a second.

I try to laugh it off. “Some people are really loud on the internet.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Then, gently, he reaches down and takes the phone from my hand, placing it on the coffee table.

“Hey,” he says softly. I glance up at him. “You don’t need to read that stuff.”

I bite my lip. “I know. I just... it’s hard to ignore. It’s like they’re waiting for us to mess up. Like we’re already doing something wrong, even though we’re not even...”

“Even though we’re not even saying what this is?” he finishes for me.

I nod.

He sighs, his hand finding mine under the blanket. His fingers are warm, steady. “People are always going to find a reason to tear something down. Especially something that doesn’t fit their version of what’s acceptable or normal.”

He pauses, then adds, “But this you and me this is real. Whatever it is, however it started... I’m not playing pretend anymore.”

My breath catches.

“I think about you constantly,” he continues, voice low and sure. “Even when I’m trying not to. And I’ve tried, believe me. I’ve run every reason through my head for why this shouldn’t happen. The age gap. The public eye. The press. But none of it matters when I’m with you.”

I blink, tears suddenly pricking the corners of my eyes. “Pedro...”

He reaches up, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “You’re smart, and kind, and brilliant at what you do. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. And I’m here. I’m real. And I’m... I’m falling in love with you.”

The words hang between us, so soft and certain, I swear the world goes still.

I sit up slightly, just enough to look at him properly. He’s nervous I can see it in the way he swallows hard, waiting for me to respond.

So I kiss him.

It’s slow, sweet, careful like we’re finally stepping into something we’ve both wanted for months. His hand cradles the back of my neck, anchoring me. When we pull apart, his forehead rests against mine.

“I’m scared,” I whisper.

“Me too,” he admits. “But I’m more scared of not trying.”

We don’t say anything after that. We just settle back onto the couch, wrapped in each other, the rain still tapping gently against the windows.

And for once, there’s no press. No fans. No judgment.

Just us.

Three Months Post-Release we went on a holiday together to Amalfi Coast, Italy

What started as a “casual friends getaway” to Italy Pedro’s idea, after months of carefully planned dinners and movie nights behind drawn blinds turns into the headline of every entertainment outlet before our second gelato cone has even started to melt.

The pictures hit the internet first.

Pedro and I on a yacht, sun spilling across our skin, his hand around my waist as I laugh at something he whispered against my shoulder.

Then one of him pressing a kiss to my temple, his sunglasses pushed up into his curls, his fingers twined with mine.

Another of us walking along a cobblestone street in Positano, clearly mid-conversation, clearly not aware of the lens trained on us from a balcony above.

And the one that makes every news outlet spiral: us in a quiet candlelit restaurant, sitting side by side instead of across the table, my head tipped against his shoulder, his hand resting gently on my thigh, both of us smiling like there’s no one else in the world.

By the time we’re back in the hotel that night, our phones are buzzing nonstop.

Pedro scrolls through a few headlines and hands me his phone, half-laughing, half-terrified.

“Pedro Pascal, 50, and Co-Star Y/N, 25, Spark Romance Rumors With Intimate Italian Getaway”

“Too Close to Call It Platonic: Inside the Blossoming Off-Screen Relationship Fans Saw Coming”

“From On-Screen Chemistry to Real-Life Romance? Internet Reacts to Viral Yacht Kiss”

I let out a shaky breath. “Well. Subtle isn’t our strong suit, is it?”

He laughs, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me into his chest. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“No,” I say softly. “We weren’t. But they’re going to have opinions.”

Pedro is quiet for a moment, then presses a kiss to my forehead. “Let them. As long as we’re clear, and respectful, and... honest.”

We are. So we act fast.

The joint statement goes out the next morning:

“After the completion of our recent project together, we found ourselves growing close in a way neither of us anticipated. With mutual respect, open communication, and the support of those closest to us, we are exploring this relationship with full awareness of the scrutiny that may come with it. We want to be transparent in saying that our dynamic developed after the film wrapped and was not present during production. The age difference has been part of many conversations between us privately, and we’ve approached this connection with care, mutual consent, and a shared understanding of the power dynamics involved. Thank you for allowing us the space to navigate this thoughtfully and respectfully.”

It’s careful. It's honest. It’s us.

Still, the world explodes.

Some are skeptical. Some are cruel. But the overwhelming majority especially fans support it. The same people who tracked every blink in press interviews now stitch together fan edits of our vacation photos, pairing them with dreamy music and captions like “this wasn’t acting, it was real all along.”

There are comment threads filled with speculation:

“You can tell how much care Pedro has for her. Look at the way he moves with her protective, not possessive.”

“Y/N always looks so comfortable around him. Like she knows he’s a safe place.”

And others more direct:

“I don’t care about the age gap, I care about how happy they look. Let them live.”

We do our best to stay grounded. For every sweet photo that gets posted, there are five blurry ones taken through restaurant windows or behind shrubs. I learn to ignore the flash of phones in the corners of cafés. Pedro tightens his hold on my hand when the paparazzi try to corner us leaving a small museum.

There’s one day hot, bright, filled with salt air and sun where we walk through a market in Ravello and split an ice cream cone because mine melted too fast. A fan catches it on video and uploads it with the caption: “They’re so in love it’s ridiculous.”

I want to argue. I want to say “we’re just figuring it out.” That we haven’t put a label on it, that we still talk more than we kiss, that some nights I stay up wondering if we’re really allowed to feel this way.

But then I look at Pedro.

The way he always lets me answer first in interviews, never interrupting. The way he sits just a little closer in photos, but never too close. The way he constantly checks in with soft glances and quiet, whispered questions: Are you okay? Are you overwhelmed? Do you want to go home?

And I know.

I’m allowed to feel this way. We both are.

The car door opens.

And for a split second, I hesitate. Not because I’m nervous about the flashing lights or the ocean of voices waiting to shout my name but because this time, I’m not walking this carpet alone.

I step out anyway, smoothing my hand over the satin of my dress as the warm Los Angeles evening hits my skin. The moment I reach back, his fingers find mine. No searching. No fumbling.

Just instinct.

Pedro’s hand is warm and steady as he steps out beside me, his other hand gently brushing the inside of my wrist in a quiet, grounding gesture. I glance at him, just for a moment. He’s smiling already soft, familiar, like this is just any other day between us. Not the moment the entire world has been waiting for.

Click. Flash. Clickclickclick.

The sound is deafening. But I keep my shoulders back and my chin high, hand wrapped in his.

We walk together down the carpet. Not arm-in-arm. Not anything too deliberate. Just two people... tethered.

And when the reporters catch on really catch on it becomes a blur. Questions shouted. Cameras flashing faster. One voice yells, “Is this official now?” and Pedro just lets out that low, breathy laugh of his. The one that says I’m not telling you everything, but I’m definitely not denying it either.

I feel his hand give mine a squeeze. I don’t look at him. If I do, I’ll melt into this feeling too much. And I need to stay composed professional. It’s what we agreed on. Even if we’re both failing miserably at hiding how giddy this feels.

We’re ushered toward one of the bigger outlets. I recognise the host. We’ve talked to her before back when all of this was just about the movie.

Now? She’s grinning like she’s sitting on a goldmine.

“Y/N, Pedro so good to see you together tonight!” she beams, and I can’t help it I smile too. Because despite the nerves and the constant beat of my heart trying to break through my ribs… I am happy.

“Lovely to see you again,” I say, my voice steady even though my hand is still clutching Pedro’s like a lifeline.

She dives right in. Of course she does. The Italy photos, the yacht kiss, the “mysterious gelato date.” I nearly roll my eyes but Pedro’s already laughing beside me, and it makes me laugh too.

He leans over, mutters, “Told you the yacht would haunt us,” and I elbow him gently.

Then the interviewer shifts. Her smile softens. Her tone goes from playful to genuinely curious.

“In all seriousness… you’ve both released such a thoughtful statement about your relationship. But people want to know what’s it really been like navigating something so personal, so publicly?”

Pedro lets me speak first. He always does.

I take a breath.

“It’s been… a process. But one we’ve been really intentional about,” I say slowly, making sure I mean every word. “We care about each other deeply, and we knew that if we were going to share any of this with the world, it had to be on our terms. Carefully. Gently. With respect.”

I feel Pedro’s hand brush the small of my back, and it steadies me.

“There were so many conversations,” I continue. “About power, about timing, about agency. Pedro’s been incredibly aware of his position throughout all of this. He’s never once made me feel pressured. He’s always made sure I felt safe and heard.”

She turns to him then, and he smiles at me before answering.

“She said everything I wanted to say,” he replies. “But I’ll just add that… being older, I was conscious from the start that I didn’t want to create any imbalance. I didn’t want to cross a line or risk anything we’ve built, professionally or personally. I just… wanted to honour her. And this.”

God. The way he says that.

Honour me.

I think it’s that moment that hits the crowd. Because the interviewer visibly softens. The air around us shifts. And suddenly, it’s not a story anymore. Not a scandal or a headline or a photo op.

It’s love.

Raw and warm and kind.

When the interview ends, we walk the rest of the carpet like it’s nothing. Like we haven’t just publicly opened a door we’ve been peeking through for months.

But I know what’s waiting online already. The screen grabs. The tweets. The shipping hashtags.

And for once, I don’t care. Because when we’re finally alone in the car again Pedro lacing his fingers through mine with a breathless little, “Well, that went alright” I don’t feel scared.

I feel seen. And protected. And quietly, fully adored.

The moment the hotel room door clicks shut behind us, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since the car ride over.

Pedro doesn’t say anything at first. He just slips off his jacket and tosses it gently over the back of the armchair, his fingers already moving to unbutton his shirt, just the top few buttons. Casual. Comfortable.

Safe.

I kick off my heels with a quiet groan and lean against the wall for a second, still in my dress, makeup still flawless under the dim golden light of the suite. It’s quiet here. No flashing lights, no crowd. Just muted city sounds through the window and the soft hum of air conditioning.

“Do you want to take it off?” Pedro asks gently, nodding toward my dress.

I smirk. “Smooth.”

He laughs and holds up both hands. “I meant the dress, because you’ve been yanking at the zipper all night.”

I sigh dramatically and spin around. “Then help me, smooth talker.”

His fingers are warm and steady as he finds the zipper and drags it down, slow and careful. It’s nothing we haven’t done before, on set or off but tonight, it feels different. Not charged. Just… soft. Unspoken.

When I step out of the dress, I leave it draped over the back of the couch and tug one of his oversized T-shirts from the open suitcase on the chair. He watches me pull it over my head with the tiniest smile.

“Was that mine?”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” I mutter, sinking onto the bed.

Pedro walks over, tugging the throw blanket from the foot of the bed, and wraps it around us both as he sinks down beside me. His arm slips easily around my shoulders, and I tuck into his side like muscle memory.

Everything feels quieter here. Like the world left us alone, just for tonight.

“You were amazing,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to my hair.

“You said that already.”

“I’ll say it again tomorrow too.”

I turn to face him slightly, my cheek pressed to his chest. “Do you think it was okay? What we said? How it came across?”

He hums thoughtfully, fingers tracing lazy shapes on my arm. “I think it was honest. And that’s the best we can do.”

I nod, letting the silence settle again.

For a few minutes, we just lie there. The weight of the evening slowly peeling away from our shoulders. The heels. The suits. The expectation.

“You know what I keep thinking about?” I whisper eventually.

Pedro tilts his head, brushing his lips against my forehead. “Tell me.”

“That first day we met. The chemistry test. When I walked in and you were so calm. And I was shaking so hard I couldn’t hold my water bottle.”

He smiles into my hair. “You hid it well.”

I pull back just enough to see his face, the tired lines near his eyes, the softness there now that he doesn’t have to perform. “And now here we are. Sharing a hotel bed, still kind of pretending it’s all professional.”

He chuckles. “I think we’re way past professional.”

His hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, and he looks at me like I’m the only person on the planet.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmurs. “About falling. About being here, being real.”

My chest tightens. In a good way. In a how-is-this-my-life kind of way.

“I know,” I whisper. “I believe you.”

We kiss then. Soft and slow. No cameras. No stage directions. Just his lips and mine and the quiet hum of something real threading between us.

And when we fall asleep tangled up in each other, wrapped in the blanket and the safety of everything we’ve built, I let myself believe this might just be the beginning of something that finally, beautifully, isn’t pretending at all.

[sourle]

Forsaken x reader

Note: This has only been read over once so please don't mind the mistake spelling/pronouns

P.s : divider is by me

WARNIGS: Blood, vague gore, violent behavior, etc. read at your own risks!

PROLOGUE

The light dripping sound filled the empty mansion. The body in your hold, pinned against the wall, bleeding from the claw wounds. You can’t remember who you’ve killed, sadly you’ve already bitten off the half top of his head so you couldn’t put your finger on who. Even with the military Vest. Oh well, you would be careless. All the survivors are the same, just trying to survive you and your.. friends.

You can’t really call them that with how they treat you.

“Tch..”

You threw the body to the side, watching as it slid on the ground. Smearing their Delicious blood across the floor. Now you’ve got one of them, five survivors left.

You’ve got plenty of time to find them, each ticking second is just a countdown to their demise that you can’t wait to bring. Oh how lovely it would be to taste their flesh once more.

There’s a glow outline at the corner of your eyes, and with a grin you dash towards the highlight. Reader to claim yet another victim to feed yourselves.

The humming of a generator got closer as you sneak around, not wanting to be spotted yet. But your prey seems to hurriedly get up and run. With a frustrated huff, you pursued. Not wanting to lose this catch. It’s odd how they can spot you even as your steps are light as a feather. They know first hand if you’re close or not, just not your location. At least that’s an advantage.

Your stamina is slowly running out as well as the prey’s. You saw how they start to slow down and you take your chance, pouncing and pinning them down. Keeping them in place, under you, and tearing their skins and flesh with your claw. Making a big mess of the scene.

The red pooled underneath them, painting the grass. Matching it with their work attire. The sweet scent. A low growl escaped your throat whilst getting up, sniffing the air to find a new victim. You licked your fang in delight as another outlined show itself. It wasn’t far from your location, making it easier to pinpoint where. You waste no time, approaching the survivor, taking them by surprise with a slash of your claw from behind.

“Found you!”

You watch as the survivor grimaces and runs. You found this.. amusing. You love the mouse and cat chase they give!

You spare a glance on what they’re working on, a sentry. You presumed. Sad you broke it, it looks cool too. Not wanting to lose them, you pursued in the chase. Able to catch up to them. The fear on their face is an amusement. No doubt you’re gonna miss it after taking a bite.

“Boo.. even a kid is better at tag than you are.”

The melodic crunching sound satisfied you. Watching as their body limply hit the ground with a ‘thud’. You spat out the pieces of the construction worker hat in disgust before girnning. That’s two!.. Three left.

The ticking sound on the bar on your wrist reminds you of the time you have left, One and a half minute. Doesn’t matter, you can still find them and catch them. Seeing the all too familiar outline you didn’t hesitate on approaching it.

You found one and another. Even after the meal, you know you have another one left. The time luckily expanded from twenty seconds to a minute and fourteen seconds. One left till victory, just.. one more.

Seeing the highlight was far across the map, you grumble. Slowly closing the distance and once the one minute exact mark hits, you make your move. Chasing the last survivor.

Their burger hat was recognizable, 007n7. Who else would wear such a ridiculous hat?

Their hat.. It’s making it more endearing. Though you can’t deny, it is kind of adorable

You’ve been chasing him.. for straight FORTY SECONDS. You’ve fallen for his clones, MULTIPLE TIMES. How bad am I?

You’ve hit him a couple times, yes. Yet even that isn’t enough to bring him down. You tried to leap and pin him down but they teleported away LAST SECOND.

Once the timer hit zero, you froze. You can’t believe you lose to someone as useless as 007n7. Seeing the all familiar brick walls of the dungeon that’s keeping you and your friends locked up brings frustration in your blood.

“How did that PEWNY robloxian SURVIVE ME!?”

A glitchy chuckles comes from behind, a familiar noise from the one and only-

“Hey.. Noli..” You grumble out, turning to face the half faced man. The dim light from the torch only illuminates half of his face, seeing how it’s slowly decayed from the codes gives you a perturbed feeling.

“S-S-SupRISED M-M-Me!.. Y-YoU’ve- LOST!” His voice glitched and changed in pitch. It's often disturbed you the first few weeks you come in this entertaining loophole of a place.

“Gee… Who would’ve guessed!” Noli looks displeased with your sarcasm, lightly hitting your head.

“Don’t S-SarcAs ME!”

You rolled your eyes, already tired by his presence. You felt the hand once more on your head, lightly patting your head on the spot it previously hit.

“I’m leaving..” You whispered, turning away to walk into the hallway on the far back at the right bottom of the throne.

“[Name]! [Name]! Are we gonna play again?”

c00lkid, the youngest amongst the killers. Grabbed your hand, lightly tugging it. How did I almost stumbled.. This kid is hella strong-

“Hey Kiddo... I’m sorry, I don’t think I can.” This time you really stumbled once c00lkid pulls harder.

“Pleaseee?” He pleaded, trying to pull you out towards the garden. You hate denying the kid but you’re extremely tired from last round.

“.. After your round next, yeah?”

“Ok!”

Watching the kid walk speed away, you let out an amused hum while shaking your head. You wonder why a kid like him was forced into this.. Loophole of a place. You wouldn’t say he doesn’t deserve it.. more so you’re concerned for the kid.

The sound of echoing footsteps from the distance gave you a chilling feeling, shivering your skins. A heavy weight hits you as you begin slowly walking back towards your assigned room in the forsakened castle. It was no mistake, the fog full of hatred feelings belongs to none other than 1x1x1x1.

“I expected more from someone trapped here as long as me.” You hum in response to their words, sending them a soft glance. His approaching steps echoed in the hallways, getting more loud as you both walked next to each other.

“I.. Wasn’t expecting him to guess my patterns..” You muttered to the embodiment of hatred next to you, walking slowly side by side through the halls. “I do wonder if they figured out a way to fight us back.. but it seems only the useless one is able to figure a way to avoid our attacks.”

1x1 let’s out an amused hum, glancing at you before forward. “At least someone other than me keeping tabs on the survivors.” You nod, not knowing what else to say. The rest of the walk was filled with awkward silence.. or was it just you being nervous around this.. entity who’s full of nothing but hatred. Why does she gotta stay near, her room is across the castle!

Once you’ve arrived at your room, 1x1 didn’t say anything other than patting your shoulder and leaving. What an odd individual.

Entering your room, you rolled your shoulders. Tired from the back to back match. I guess The Spectre is feeling like bullying me today.

You wonder if c00lkid will be next, he’ll definitely be worn out from hunting the survivors. That’ll give you time to rest at least.

Having nothing else to do for the day you decide to just take a small nap, maybe 5-10 minutes. Laying down on your bed, you close your eyes.

The loud ticking sound awoke you from your slumber, you felt dizzy. Your nap felt short. It’s just pure darkness, nothing else. You opened your eyes, expecting the usual mossy ceiling.

But above you was a wooden ceiling. Odd.. Has the spectre decided to give you a new room?

You slide your feets off the bed to the side, feeling your legs felt lighter than usual. Glancing down you noticed how the corrupted part of your legs are.. normal?

You rubbed your eye with your hands not expecting the soft feelings and it made you flinch. Your eyes widen, the rocky corruption, is it really gone?

Your body feels odd and weird, like it de-morphed itself. Your hands and feets feel lighter, glancing down to see why. The corruption that had covered them is gone. Like it never existed- yet the horns and tail still stays.

There’s no traces of it. Like it never existed. You quickly got up tumbling with your vision darken as your blood rushed up your head from standing up too quickly.

The room.. felt unusually, it’s not yours. The walls are made of wood instead of the usual rocks.. cement?

Your body felt odd and weird, like it de-morphed itself. Your hands and feets feel lighter, glancing down to see why. The corruption that had covered them is gone. Like it never existed- yet the horns and tail still stays.

You stumbled a bit, looking around the unfamiliar place. It looks like any normal room when there’s a new killer.

The room has a small wooden cabinet next to the bed with an oil lamp on top. A window was on the far back right near the bed, giving a view of the ocean. It was almost like a near replica of your original room without your personal stuff and trinkets you’ve collected.

Letting an exasperated sigh, you felt a bit frustrated at the unfamiliar room. Though you guess The Spectre changed the castle to be the cabin, again. You decide to go and finally play with c00lkid plus explore more but as you walked towards the door, you heard some noises from the other side. Odd.. You did not smell any scent indicating anyone was near.

Ever since being in this room you can’t even smell your own scent.

Placing a hand on the handle and twisting it, you did not expect to be face to face with not one, BUT TWO survivors. You don’t not know the names but you do recognize them as the one who would always build and the other would always slashed you with their sword.

They both freeze, pausing their conversation as they finally take notice of you. The one with an orange hat narrowed their eyes, sending you a glare. While the other one just glanced to the side. Who the fu-

[confessedlyfannish]

DP x DC Prompt #4

When they all convene at the cave, Alfred is silently wrapping Dick's knuckles. Damian hovers beside him. Tim and Barbara are hunched over the batcomputer, not even sparing Bruce a glance as he strides over.

"Report," Batman grunts. No one reacts.

"Report!"

"Hood pushed his panic button at 2:34 AM," Barbara says shortly, straightening.

The button had been a joke, mostly because Jason would never use it and everyone knew it.

"I patched into his comm at 2:35. This is what I heard initially." At her nod, Tim presses play. What occurs next is a garble. There is the sound of high winds, as if Hood is rushing through the air, even though the comms are designed to filter out any ambiance otherwise the Bats would never hear each other. Interspersed is a mixture of static punctuated by high, inhuman screeches of metal and something else unknown.

"This goes on," Barbara says after thirty long seconds, switching it off. "Red Hood failed to respond to any attempts at contact. I dispatched Nightwing to Hood's location at 2:36 AM. He was approximately two miles away." She pulls up a GPS map of their respective locations, their beacons blinking.

"At 2:41 AM, Red Hood's comm goes off, as does his GPS," Barbara says, swallowing softly as the red beacon indicating Jason disappears. "Nightwing arrives at 2:42 AM."

Dick doesn't say anything, head hanging low as he grips the metal table he sits on. Damian glances between the two of them, expression flat but fists clenched.

"Nightwing, report."

"..."

"Scene was empty, B," Tim speaks up. "No trace of Hood, no sign of a struggle. No cameras in the alley. We've been checking the ones nearby but so far there's no sign of anyone but Hood heading in that direction...and no one, Hood included, caught in the cams heading out, not within that time frame."

"So he's still in the area," Batman concludes. "The local buildings?"

"All the entrances have cameras, which showed no evidence of Hood nor any evidence of being tampered with," Barbara says. "Nightwing, Red Robin and Robin canvased within a half mile radius to check for any signs of disturbances in any of the windows or rooftops but found no evidence to support Hood being taken. A scan confirmed several serial offenders, but when interviewed and searched there was no sign of Hood. Several in the area reported an unusual quiet for Crime Alley."

Batman forces the next question out. "Did you check the dumpsters?"

"Yes," Nightwing grits out. "Empty."

Barbara clears her throat. "I have attempted to reconnect to Jason's GPS and comm as well as restart both remotely but there's no signal at all. The thing is, when there's a disruption like that it usually leaves some sort of sign" she pulls up the audio waves, pointing at the end where the spikes conform into a straight line that makes everyone deeply uncomfortable. Upon playing, the noise from before plays before going abruptly silent. "But there is no large spike, this is clean. It just ends. His GPS is much the same. It's not off, it's just gone."

"I know you don't like to hypothesize this early on, B, but we think this involves a meta," Tim says, rewinding the audio. "We've been running the audio from Jason's comm through different filters, playing with the levels and isolating what we can and, well, take a listen--"

The screeching drops to a sort of muffle and in the background, distantly, they can hear bits of Jason's voice.

"No, I'm not---"

"--don't need--"

"get AWAY from--"

a particularly desperate yell that makes Tim flinch, "I am NOT--!"

and almost a whimper that makes Batman's blood run cold, "please..."

And then, unfairly clear even through the faint garble, Jason says "I don't have a choice, do I."

And a minute later, quietly: "Ok."

The audio cuts off.

The defeat in Jason's last words is palpable, and fundamentally wrong. Jason has never sounded defeated a day in his life, and no one knows how to process Red Hood all but giving his hands over for the cuffs. Nightwing pushes himself off the table.

"I'm going back out there," he growls. No one tries to stop him as he stalks out the cave, not even Alfred.

"I will accompany Nightwing, make sure he does not punch any more walls." Damian says, nodding tightly.

"B?" Barbara asks.

"Keep working on it. See if you can identify what could be making those noises if Hood was standing still in an alley," Batman says, walking towards the zeta tube. "I'm going to make a few calls."

[eaturheartout2021]

Keeping It Under The Table

Summary: During a mission briefing Ghost does something a little out of character but you don’t seem to mind.

Cw: dubcon, public orgasm, unrealistic military scenarios

Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley x female!reader

Word count: 1.2k

The briefing room was in total blackout save for the bright screen at the head of the room showing an intricate map and multiple mug shots. The large rounded table sat a few blacked out silhouettes you failed to make out as you hurried in to find an empty seat.

The soft click of the door shutting behind you made the captain turn his head at the noise clearing his throat. You stilled holding the chair back in your hand.

“So glad ya decided ta join us. You’ve just volunteered ta take all the briefin notes.” He said with his signature smile. You stifled a groan while Soap and Gaz, just ahead of you, let out mimicked snickers.

“Right you lot, Laswell got us some intel about a data file that Makarov has been tryin’ ta get his grubby mits on for months. What’s on that file? That’s what I want ta find out.” His gruff voice rang through the small space clear and sharp, with full attention. Except one.

You glanced up from your haste scribbling to find Ghost leaned back in his chair, not looking at his captain, but at you. The lieutenant who hardly spoke a word to anyone but his team was staring at you. Possibly mentally scolding you for being late to such an important meeting. It made heat rise to your cheeks in embarrassment.

You quickly looked away to try and keep up with the quick pace of information being thrown around. A few hours go by, a plan is set, a team put together consisting of Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and you; an intelligence expert and the know how around computer systems. Any one else could call you a “hacker”. A date and time is placed along with a RV point where Nik will be waiting with an evac.

You’re writing as fast as you possibly can, trying to get as much as the information as possible when a slight nudge hits your boot. At first you think it’s an accident and pay it no mind, but it happens again, this time the other foot stays. You glance up and Ghost is looking at you once again.

You can’t read the emotions in his eyes, the plain black surgical mask covers the bottom half of his face concealing any other giveaways he might be able to make. You slowly raise an eyebrow as if to say:

‘Did you mean to do that?’

He slowly closed his eyes and the corners crinkled up as if he were giving a sly smile under his mask.

‘What if I did?’ He seemed to say.

His foot slowly pushed the two of yours apart, spreading your legs ever so slightly. Your heart was about to fly out of your chest. The lieutenant who never spoke, who was the lone wolf out of the pack, was flirting with you? 

More than flirting. The toe of his boot ran up the side on your spread legs, egging them to open more. All the while, above the table, he sat perfectly still. Arms crossed over his chest, looking absolutely bored. You however were flushed past your shirt collar, breath starting to become labored.

You had to adjust yourself you try and calm your racing heart. This was coming from nowhere. Sure you had always had feelings for the mysterious man sat across from you but you dropped it once he never returned the same thing. Respectfully. That is until now, where his boot was climbing dangerously close to your clothed cunt.

Instinctively, you spread your legs wider to give him better access which made him get a tiny glint in his eye. His boot hovered slightly over your cunt and you looked at him, silently asking what he was doing.

You definitely saw the devilish smirk paint itself across his face when he pressed slowly but firmly into you. You ground your hips softly up to meet him but stopped to not catch attention. Ghost didn’t seem to like that and pressed harder. You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood when he start to rock his boot over your clit through your pants.

Briefing notes be damned. Price could write you up and make you clean bathrooms for a month and it would be worth it. You dropped your head into your hand but tried to make it look as natural as possible. Not as if you were riding your superiors boot underneath the table in a room full of your colleagues. Which turned you on more than it should have.

You looked back up at Ghost and his chest was rising and falling quickly. Eyes never leaving you as your hips slowly ground down in tiny circles. He didn’t move his foot but let you set the pace, eyes darting to Price every so often. Always so vigilant.

You tried to keep taking the notes but he turned you into a pile of mess in mere seconds. Brain turned to mush and unable to form a single coherent thought other than Ghost Ghost Ghost.

The unbridled need in your stomach was on fire and you looked at him with eyes that almost brimmed with tears. Pleading with him to help you. He understood immediately.

His foot began rocking in little waves in time with your small circled thrusts and it took a Herculean effort not to cry out. Your legs were shaking, your breath hitching, stomach clinching. His foot pressed into you firmly meeting with your thrusts sending you spiraling over the edge.

You held your breath, eyes rolling into the back of your head, fingers gripping onto your pen with such force it could’ve shattered it. Ghost coaxed you through your high softly and when you opened your eyes, his met yours and the hunger that stared back was overwhelming. He moved his foot away just as Price finished.

“We leave at 0400. Flight deck A. You four solid on what needs to be done?” Price glanced over at you, head still in your hands.

“Solid Cap’m.” Ghost’s heavy timbre rang in your ears.

Price hummed in acceptance and soon dismissed the group not before stopping you from making a speedy and quick exit.

“I want those notes on my desk by this afternoon.” You held the notepad to your chest and smiled softly.

“Yes sir. They’ll be typed up and in your folder no later than 1800 this evening.” He nodded and finally dismissed you.

As you made your way through the hallway to your barrack, a muscular arm caught yours and turned your back and pinned you to the closest wall. Ghost stood towering over you, arms caging you in on both sides. The silent shadow slunk his way to you and you never heard a thing. A small smile found its way to your lips.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that to you.” His dark eyes peered down at you with such heated lust you thought you’d burn alive.

“I can’t wait to see how these next few weeks play out then.” You run your hand down the front of his shirt and slowly graze over the buckle of his belt. Ducking under his arm you continued to walk the way you were heading.

Behind you, you could hear a deep groan followed by heavy footsteps trailing after you.

I’m so excited to finally be writing semi-regular again after almost 2 years… oops 😬. My requests are open so if you have any please shoot me an idea and I’ll happily try my best to make it happen!

Ps: I’m genuinely so obsessed with this man that if he broke me in half I’d probably thank him and ask for more… just 😩🤌🏻 military men. That is all.

[samerpal]

Gaza: The City of the Flour Zombies

My brother and I went out after midnight, like the rest of the starving souls in Gaza. Our first stop was at the General Security intersection, trying to figure out where the flour trucks might pass. Then we moved north, toward Al-Helou Station and Badri & Hania Company, only to find hungry people sleeping in the streets — unconscious, or so it seemed. We had to step over them, stumble among them. There was no light but that of the full moon, which occasionally vanished behind drifting clouds.

We found a somewhat safe spot near Al-Andalus Tower and sat down briefly. Then we decided to move closer to a metal shack known as “Ma’rouf’s Bricks,” across from a bombed-out building with a canopy. We stayed there for a while, talking quietly about how far we’ve fallen and the state we’re living in. We hadn’t even noticed there was someone sleeping right beside us until he stirred, mumbled a few words, and drifted back into sleep.

With no signal and barely a working phone call, someone on the other end said, “Move to the Al-Tawam intersection.” We knew this place well — or so we thought. When we reached it, we didn’t recognize it anymore. We looked east and were stunned to see lights on the border — something once impossible to see.

A sudden explosion in the eastern area, behind a thick smoke cloud, shook us. We tried to see the people around us, but their faces were covered. They were sleeping on the ground, on the ruins of demolished buildings. People were lying everywhere.

We sat on a small hill, trying to map out the path: would the aid trucks come from the west or the north? Would we even be able to get anything? Should we split or stay together? After some discussion, we made a pact — to stick together. If one of us could get something, he would go directly home. We picked a few backup meeting spots, but in the end, we agreed: head home after securing something.

Around 2 AM, we saw people suddenly moving west toward the sea, hoping the aid would enter from there. We didn’t move — nothing seemed certain yet. But five minutes later, thousands started rushing back from the west shouting, “They’ve arrived! They’ve arrived!” We realized the trucks had come from the north instead.

The once-sleeping masses rose in chaos — sprinting like zombies, possessed, desperate. It felt like a scene from an end-of-times movie. But it wasn’t a movie. We were in it.

We moved quickly — half-running, half-stumbling over the rubble, iron rods, and sharp stones left by the bombardment. You couldn’t even walk safely, let alone run. At the far end of the street, lights appeared. People raced toward them. Then, we heard someone yell, “Tank! A tank is coming!” Panic spread — those who thought it was aid now feared it was death.

We froze in place, not knowing what to believe. Then we saw two trucks from the World Food Programme… and behind them, more trucks! They were real — the aid had arrived. We sprinted faster than ever before. My brother and I got separated in the chaos. My heart whispered a prayer: “God, please protect him. Let him get his share.”

The trucks advanced toward us. People surged like a flood. And there, for a brief moment, I was lucky. I managed to grab a sack of flour, threw it on my shoulder, and ran as far as I could from the moving trucks — they didn’t stop for anyone. It wasn’t courage that drove me. It wasn’t recklessness. It was hunger, fear, humiliation, and a desperate unknown that pushed me forward.

Thousands were still arriving, begging, “Is there anything left for us?” But the trucks were emptied in seconds. People searched for scraps. I held onto the flour like it was my own child, refusing to let anything happen to it, dodging looters and thieves, desperate to get to a safe place.

By the grace of God, I made it back to my tent. We had agreed: if one of us gets something, go home — don’t wait.

Another night ended, another nightmare survived. We keep waking up, hoping this nightmare will end… but we don’t know how.

From Gaza — the city of the flour zombies

@dirhwangdaseul @b0nkcreat @tamamita @chokulit @3000s @apas-95 @pitbolshevik @ot3 @punkitt-is-here @vampiricvenus @turtletoria @paper-mario-wiki @valtsv @omegaversereloaded @i-am-a-fish-stinks @catsgifsarefun @spongebobssquarepants @postanagramgenerator @feluka @nyancrimew @90-ghost @beserkerjewel @neechees @memingursa @certifiedsexed @afro-elf @11thsense @sawasawako @spacebeyonce @skipppppy @beetledrink @fools-and-perverts @dailyquests @evillesbianvillain @wolfertinger666 @taffybuns @ankle-beez @sabertoothwalrus @meshugenist @isuggestforcefem @hotvampireadjacent @marxism-transgenderism @90-ghost @a-shade-of-blue @nublicious @zagreus @el-shabazzgifted @tamamita @rhubarbspring @heritageposts @dirhwangdaseul @neechees @butchniqabi @socalgal @finalgirlabigailhobbs @newporters @pikslasrce @vampiricvenus @danlous @loumandivorce @jackiedaytona @deepspaceboytoy @autisticmudkip @nashvillethotchicken @femmefitz @pitbolshevik @innerchildabortionclinic @omegaversereloaded @hotvampireadjacent @boobieteriat @mens-rights-activia @ot3

[solxamber]

hello here for the valentine event!!

Jade, Romantic, Suffering by Jorge Rivera-Herrans

first epic song of the event let's gooo

"Jump in the water" || Jade Leech

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: Suffering by Jorge Rivera-Herrans

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 940

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Siren!Jade x Sailor!Reader

You are lost at sea.

The wind has betrayed you, the stars offer no guidance, and the waves push you further from home. It’s been days—weeks?—adrift on endless waters, and all you know is that if you don’t find land soon, the ocean will claim you for itself.

Then, you see them.

Ships. Empty ships.

Abandoned vessels dot the horizon, their sails limp, their decks silent. A graveyard of those who have sailed these waters before you, of those who heard it and did not resist.

Sirens.

You do not hesitate.

With swift, practiced hands, you rip strips of cloth from your shirt and stuff them into your ears. The world dulls instantly. The ocean is quieter, your own heartbeat louder. You grip the wheel and steel yourself as you push forward.

And just as you expected—

He is waiting.

A siren, perched upon jagged rocks, half-shrouded in mist. He is beautiful—unearthly and elegant, with scales that shimmer like pearls. His long, webbed fingers trace idly over the stone as he watches you, his expression calm, patient.

His lips move. You can’t hear him, but you already know the words.

"Come to me."

You shake your head, firm.

The siren tilts his head, undeterred. He speaks again.

You pretend to consider it, then say, “I can’t swim.”

The siren blinks. His lips curl, amused. “I will teach you.”

You shake your head again. “I’m scared of the water.”

His laughter is silent, but you can see it in the way his shoulders shake.

Then, he leans forward, fingers grazing the surface of the waves. “Then I will hold you.”

Your lips twitch, just a little. Persistent. You’ll give him that.

Then, just to see his reaction, you grin and say, “I don’t want my feet wet. Why don’t you come up here instead?”

It’s meant to be a joke. A final attempt to frustrate him, to force him to give up on you.

But to your utter shock—

The siren reaches out to you.

His webbed hand extends, open and waiting, his mismatched eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t.

And yet—

Before you can think, your fingers are wrapping around his, and you’re pulling him aboard.

He lands on the deck, water cascading off his tail, hands braced against the wood. He blinks up at you, utterly unreadable, before slowly shifting, his body morphing—legs, now, instead of a tail, seawater dripping from his skin, but still otherworldly, still not quite human.

You take a step back, breath heavy.

“You’re a siren.” It isn’t a question.

The siren smiles, slow and knowing. “And yet,” he hums, tilting his head, “you still pulled me in.”

You have no answer for that.

Maybe you did fall for his song, after all.

Jade—he says his name is Jade—does not devour you.

In fact, he does something even stranger.

He helps you.

He moves like he’s been aboard a ship before, like he knows the ocean better than any human sailor ever could. He studies the maps, adjusts the sails, tells you which direction to follow.

“Why?” you ask him, cautious.

Jade only smiles, pressing a finger to his lips.

You should be more wary. You should be scared.

But you aren’t.

Not when you catch him watching you, gaze unreadable. Not when he tilts his head, just slightly, as if trying to understand you.

Not when, after long days at sea together, you finally see land on the horizon.

Your homeland.

You exhale, relief flooding through you. “We made it,” you breathe, turning to him. “Jade—”

But when you look at him, he is not celebrating.

He is watching you.

Like he’s waiting for something. Like he’s already preparing to disappear beneath the waves before the ship reaches the shore.

The thought makes your stomach twist.

Before you can stop yourself, you reach for him. “Come with me.”

Jade stills.

His lips part, caught off guard, the first time you’ve truly seen him surprised.

Then, slowly—slowly—he leans in.

His breath is cool against your skin, the scent of saltwater clinging to him. His eyes sharp, flicker to your lips, then back to your gaze.

His voice is softer this time, curious.

“…What makes you think I won’t drown you now?”

You meet his gaze, steady and sure. "You won't," you say, voice unwavering.

Jade’s expression flickers—something fragile, something hesitant, something almost human beneath the inhuman beauty of his mismatched eyes. He has spent his life luring sailors into the depths, pulling them under, watching them sink.

But you—you pulled him up instead.

His fingers brush against yours, tentative at first, before they lace together, webbed skin cool against your warmth. He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the dampness of his borrowed clothes, the scent of the ocean clinging to him.

Then, finally—finally—he closes the distance.

His lips meet yours, soft and searching, like the tide pulling against the shore. His hand cups the back of your neck, tilting you to him, holding you as if afraid you’ll slip away like seawater through his fingers. But you don’t. You stay, leaning into him, letting yourself fall into the moment.

For the first time in his life, Jade Leech is not the one luring someone in

For the first time, he is the one being caught.

When he pulls away, his lips are curved in something softer than his usual smirk. "Well," he murmurs, tilting his head, "perhaps I will join you on land, just for a little while."

You laugh, tugging him in for another kiss, already knowing—he’s never going to leave.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ Left Out

Team Free Will x Winchester's sister!reader

Castiel x platonic!reader

Summary: Sam and Dean have been ignoring you but Castiel still tries to include you.

Warnings: None

Age: 14-16

The bunker felt colder than usual. Not in temperature - no, the heat still hummed through the old pipes and radiators - but in the way people spoke, or didn’t.

You sat in the war room, fingers wrapped around a lukewarm mug of coffee, watching the glow of the map table flicker faintly. Sam and Dean were down the hall, voices low, laughter occasional, but they hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to you in days.

Not since the last hunt went sideways. Not since the salt rounds ran out and Dean had to pull you out of that abandoned house half-conscious. Not since Sam blamed you for missing the sigil that would’ve ended things faster.

You didn’t fight back. You understood. At least, you thought you did.

Still, it hurt.

"You're not invisible."

You turned your head quickly, startled by the voice - low, gravelly, calm. Castiel stood at the edge of the room, trench coat rumpled as always, blue eyes studying you carefully.

“They’re just… processing,” he added. “But that doesn’t make it right to leave you alone.”

You tried to smile. “I’m used to it.”

Cas tilted his head. “That doesn’t mean you should be.”

He crossed the room, pulling out the chair beside you. It creaked under him as he sat, hands folded in his lap like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I brought something,” he said, suddenly awkward. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, battered paperback book.

“‘The Ballad of Reading Gaol,’” you read from the cover.

“It’s one of my favorites. I thought… maybe we could read it together.”

You blinked. “You want to read poetry with me?”

He nodded. “Oscar Wilde understood being misunderstood.”

You laughed - an honest, soft sound you hadn’t heard from yourself in a while.

Sam and Dean passed by the door once. Neither of them looked in. But Castiel didn’t notice - or if he did, he didn’t care.

He read the first stanza aloud. His voice was rough around the edges, not smooth like a trained narrator, but full of heart.

And for the first time in days, the silence wasn’t so lonely.

You leaned back in your chair, letting Castiel’s steady voice fill the empty space around you. The bunker’s hum and the distant clatter of Dean digging through the fridge faded into the background.

Cas paused after a few pages, his thumb keeping the book open. He looked at you carefully. “You’re still upset.”

It wasn’t really a question, but you nodded anyway, blinking down at your coffee. It was cold now. Bitter.

“I don't know what to do,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “They don’t trust me. Maybe they never did.”

Castiel frowned, a deep line forming between his brows. “You made a mistake. So have they. More times than they would admit.”

You managed a bitter laugh. “Yeah, but they always forgive each other. I’m just… the outsider.”

Castiel closed the book gently. He shifted in his seat so he was facing you more fully. “You are not expendable. You are not forgotten.” He hesitated, like he was weighing his next words carefully. “You are family, whether they acknowledge it right now or not.”

You didn’t realize your hands were trembling until he reached out and covered one with his own. His touch was warm, grounding.

“Maybe…” you said, voice cracking, “maybe it’s time to stop waiting for them to come around.”

Cas’s gaze softened. “Or maybe it’s time to remind them what they’re about to lose.”

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you pushed your chair back and stood. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you crossed the bunker hallway. You spotted Sam and Dean in the library, heads bent over a lore book.

They barely glanced up.

You cleared your throat. Loudly.

Dean finally looked up. His face was unreadable, guarded in a way that only made the ache in your chest worse.

Sam set his pen down, careful, deliberate. “Hey,” he said, like nothing was wrong. Like he hadn’t been freezing you out.

You folded your arms. “You’re mad. Fine. I get it. But if you’ve decided I’m not part of this anymore, just say it to my face.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. Sam opened his mouth, but for once, he didn’t have a ready answer.

“I nearly died trying to help you,” you continued, voice rising. “I made a mistake. But so have you—both of you. Hell, Dean, you’ve died more times than I can count, and we never left you behind.”

Dean’s expression cracked, just a little. His shoulders slumped.

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, guilt flashing across his face. “(Y/N)… we never meant to…”

“Didn’t you?” you shot back. “Because it sure felt like it.”

There was a long, aching pause.

Then Dean stood up slowly. “You’re right,” he said, voice rough. “You’re right. We screwed up.”

Sam gave a small, miserable nod. “We were scared. And we took it out on you. That’s not family. That’s not how this works.”

You stared at them for a long moment, every instinct screaming to turn around and leave them standing there.

But then Castiel was there behind you, a quiet, steady presence. Not pushing you either way - just… there.

You took a breath. “I’m not going to fight for a place you don’t want me in,” you said. “But I’m not going to disappear, either.”

Dean looked at you, real regret in his eyes. “We want you here. We’ve just been... idiots.”

Sam offered a small, almost sheepish smile. “Can you forgive us?”

You felt the crack in your heart start to mend, just a little. Not fully - but enough.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just walked forward and dropped heavily into a chair at the table. You looked up at them, daring them to do better.

Dean smirked faintly. “So... pizza and bad horror movies later?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Only if Cas gets to pick the movie.”

Cas, still behind you, looked startled. “I have many selections.”

Sam groaned playfully. “We’re doomed.”

You finally smiled for real. “Good. You deserve it.”

And for the first time in days, the bunker didn’t feel so cold anymore.

[lushleona]

military!mattheo’s favorite things about reader orrr what it’s like before he goes away WINK WINK

military!mattheo’s favorite things about you

warnings: nsfw 18+, fem!reader, fluff, sexual content

there isn’t a single thing military!mattheo doesn’t love about you. not one. he’s tried to think of something before—some little habit that might get under his skin, some quirk that should annoy him—but he always comes up empty. especially when he’s been away for so long, when all he has are memories of you, replaying like a goddamn prayer in his head. it only makes him love everything more. every little thing.

because you’re perfect to him, made for him, and no matter how hardened he’s become, no matter how much blood stains his hands, you’re the one thing that’s still soft, still untouched by the ugliness of the world. here are some of his favorite things, just to name a few:

the way you always make sure he’s taken care of when he comes home.

when he steps through the door, dusty and tired, he’s greeted with a warm meal—something homey, something familiar. a plate of his favorite food, even if it’s just something simple, with a glass of whiskey on the side. and there’s always a hot bath waiting for him, the water perfectly steamy, the bubbles just right.

but it’s the little things you slip under his pillow that get him—your letter. handwritten. always waiting for him, like you’ve been waiting all along.

how you fold his uniform when he’s home.

you’re careful, gentle, like it’s something delicate and not something that’s seen blood. you smooth your hands over the fabric, over the creases and patches, your fingers lingering at the frayed edges like you can will them whole again. he watches you do it, watches the way your brows knit in concentration, and he thinks—if anything in this world is holy, it’s you.

the way you hold his dog tags between your fingers.

as though they haven’t stuck through war. like they don’t weigh heavy with all the things he’s done. you twist the chain around your knuckles absentmindedly, press the cool metal against your lips when you think he isn’t looking. but he sees. he always sees.

the way your fingers trace the veins in his forearms.

following the lines like a map, like you’re learning him by touch alone. you press down where his pulse is strongest, smiling a little when he shivers.

“still alive,” you murmur, half-teasing, and he grabs your hand and kisses your fingertips like a prayer.

how you kiss his scars.

not just the old, faded ones, but the fresh, angry ones too. the ugly ones. the ones that still ache when he moves a certain way. you never ask where they came from, never make him speak about things he’d rather forget. you just kiss them, soft and slow, like your lips alone can rewrite history.

the way you never let him leave without a kiss.

even if he’s already got his boots on, even if his bags are packed and waiting by the door, you pull him down and kiss him like you can anchor him here, like you can press your love into his skin so deep it’ll never leave him. he doesn’t know if you realize how much it wrecks him. how he carries the taste of you like a ghost, like a promise, like a reason to come back.

the little crease between your brows when you’re focused.

he sees it when you’re curled up with a book, when you’re doing something mindless but deep in thought—folding laundry, stirring tea, brushing your hair. sometimes, he watches you in the mirror, that soft little furrow between your eyes, and it makes something ache inside him.

so he kisses it, every time. presses his lips there and murmurs, “don’t think too much, baby.” like you don’t have to. like he’ll do all the thinking for you.

how you hum when you cook.

not a full song, just little bits and pieces, half-formed melodies that drift through the kitchen as you move. sometimes, it’s a tune he recognizes, sometimes it’s just soft nonsense, but it stays with him. when he’s away, crouched in some cold, godforsaken place, he swears he hears it. swears it keeps him warm.

how you run your fingers through his hair when you’re half-asleep.

slow, lazy, dragging your nails against his scalp in a way that makes his eyelids go heavy. he pretends not to need it, pretends he’s too tough for it, but you know better. and when he finally does fall asleep, his head in your lap, you kiss his temple and whisper, “i’ve got you.”

how you always know when he needs to be in control.

he doesn’t have to ask for it—you sense it, feel it before he does. the way you let him flip you onto your stomach, let him take you from behind like he’s claiming you, letting him hold you in place with one hand on your back while the other digs into your hips. you don’t complain when he gets rough, don’t beg him to slow down—you love it when he takes what he wants, when he uses you like his own personal playground.

you just let him fold you in half, pressing your knees to your chest as he drives into you. the breathless little whines you make, the way you blink up at him, glassy-eyed and dazed. he knows you could squirm, fight, tell him no, be gentle—but you don’t. you let him toss you around, pin you down, grip your waist hard enough to bruise. you want it, and fuck, if that doesn’t drive him crazy.

“missed you so much,” he pants against your throat, and you nod, gasping, “missed you too, missed you so bad.” it does something to him. makes him want to keep you like this forever, pretty and pliant and his.

how you taste when he finally presses his lips to your cunt after a long deployment.

like honey and desperation, soft and sweet but with a hint of something darker. he can’t help but moan into you when you pull him closer, when you tug at his hair, pushing him deeper. you beg him to take his time, but he’s fucking starving, needs to devour every inch of you until you’re trembling and crying out his name.

the way you sound when he’s got you beneath him.

when he’s stretching you open, murmuring, “easy, baby, let me in.” the little whimper that catches in your throat when he bottoms out. the way your fingers clutch at his wrists, your nails digging into his skin, like you’re barely holding on. he loves that. he loves ruining you.

the way your nails leave marks on his back.

long angry red lines and deep crescent shapes from where your fingers dug into his skin, desperate for something to hold onto. he never tells you, but he loves it. loves the way it stings when he runs his hand over the scratches later, feeling the indentations like little imprints of you. it’s like you’ve marked him, branded him, and it gets him hard every time he so much as notices them in the mirror.

the way you bite him when you cum.

sometimes, it’s nothing too hard, nothing painful—just a little scrape of teeth against his shoulder, his neck, his jaw. sometimes, it’s straight up animalistic, going deep enough to leave marks. you bury your face in his throat, gasping against his skin as you tremble in his arms. and it makes him fucking feral. makes him rut into you harder, chasing after that feeling, after the little please that falls from your lips when it’s too much but you still want more.

the simple feeling of you beneath him.

wet and warm, your legs wrapped around his waist as he fucks you slow, each movement deep and deliberate. he never wants to rush these moments—wants to savor how you squeeze around him, how you moan when he presses deeper, closer, until you’re clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

how you always cry a little when you’re cumming.

not sobbing, not loud, just quiet little tears slipping down your cheeks as you tremble beneath him. he brushes them away with his thumbs, licks them up, shushing you, kissing you, whispering how good you are, how sweet. he tells you he loves you then, like it’s a confession, like it’s something fragile and sacred. and you always say it back. always.

how fucked-out and pretty you look when he's done with you.

glossy eyes, swollen lips, breath coming in short little gasps. you always reach for him after, even when you're boneless, even when you can barely move. you curl into his chest, soft and sleepy, and he holds you like you're the only thing in the world worth holding.

m.list

[justarandomweeb]

Yandere LL x Earth Liaison Reader

No beta read we die like fucking men and I swear I'm a dummy in English (not a first language) OH YEAH the characters might be a bit ooc since I haven't finished mtmte

Edit: um chat... this shit was not supposed to be posted um- whoops I guess??? I can't take this shit out um, I thought Tumblr ate this drabble, turns out I accidentaly posted it???

'FUCK FUCK FUCK!' a lone human curse in their head as they crouch walk inside the vents, navigating the never ending maze, watching your steps and sound. You knew those bots have good hearing, but they're not your priority to be worrying. It was Skids and those with him inside the vents, you can hear the heavy bodies thuding and thumping. He knew the ship like the back of his hand, you would say. You could have used your inbuilt digital map over the paper map you crudly and hastily drew, but you knew it would be a matter of time before Perceptor or who over is smart enough hacks into your watch and pings your location.

You wished you would've seen the signs, no...

You wished you had never dreamed of meeting aliens as a child, riding a rocket ship, and fly through space. You wished you never pushed so hard for that silly dream that soon became a nightmare.

Yet, you were blind to it. Ignoring the signs, thinking, 'Oh, it must be a cultural thing' or 'They probably are curious about humans and our culture, most of them haven't met one.' The ones who didn't liked organics in general became more softer, yet possessive as the rest of others. The prisoners coaxed you to free them from their cells, just so they'd 'express' their love. The enemies bribing you to join them, promising you unbroken loyalty and adoration.

Those innocent questions became... intimate and invasive.

Megatron, he didn't want to be near you. You didn't know if it's out of guilt or a still prejudice against the organics. You knew his history, the war, and the devastating impacts he caused. You were willing to give him a chance. You talked to him. At first, it was one-sided, and then he replied back, with small answers, acknowledgments, and comebacks. You'd tease him when you saw a small smirk. He'd deny. You joined his poetry sessions, exchanging poetry to one another, critiquing and praising each other. You'd read him classic human literature, and he'd read you cybertronian literature in those moments it was just you and him. When did it all go wrong...

Ultra Magnus he intimidated you, a big guy with those stern eyes and broad shoulders. Of course, a big man like him would be the goody to shoes, abid to the law like its his only identity. You thought you could never relate to him outside of work, that he and you will never understand one another. You'd talk when the air was empty. You'd tell him about the dumb decisions you've made when you were a kid, stealing gums and candies, sneaking in an abandoned building with friends, attending street racing, laughing at your own idiocy and stupid antics, but you reminisce the bond you had with your friends. Ultra Magnus would criticize your actions, listing all of the laws and rules you've broken. But this time, he just listened, didn't list down your crimes, keeping quiet. You don't know what he was thinking other than the possible charges you'd have if you'd have gotten caught. When did it go wrong...

When you first met Rodimus, he reminded you of a frat boy who was given leadership in a silver plate. Not taking anything seriously, meteor surfing, delaying his reports, not even paying attention half of the time on the meetings. You'd chase him down, trying to get his attention. You've felt like a mother trying to discipline an unruly child, but this child is giant fucking robot leading an expedition in outerspace. That what you'd have thought of him, till you saw his struggles. The guilt of the deaths of crewmates, what he could have done if he did things differently. You'd shoulder his burdens, cradling his helm. You'd look at him eye to eye, telling him not to blame himself that he did what he could. You'd help him out with reports. You'd hold his giant servos that it helped him be grounded on the meetings. You'd laugh at his jokes, bite back with scarastic comebacks. You final smiled at him, when those days where he feels down, you'd let him in your lap again. When did it go wrong...

You've been invited to the movie sessions with the Minicons, sharing your favorite movies and series with them. You'd hang out with Rung, help him build his miniature spacescrafts, sitting quietly with him during the sessions of his patients and letting them hold you. It felt therapeutic for them. You'd help out on medbay reaching through the cracks of patients to close the delicate wires, medics freeting over you after a successful operation. You'd gossip with them and talk about the stupid antics those bots done to be sent to medbay, trying to knock sense on those daredevils.

Your time at Lost Light was up. You wished you've stayed longer, but you definitely missed home. Your family and friends are waiting for your return. You were walking through the corridors to the meeting room to talk about your retirement when you heard yelling from the cracks of the doors.

"Can't we destroy their space bridge? Brainstorm and Perceptor can make it seem it malfunctioned. Even blow it up completely for safe measures. Besides, it's the only space bridge that connects to Earth directly."

"Rodimus please, we can't do this to them."

"Please, Mags, I know you'd don't want them gone too! I can see the way you looked at them Mags, you love them too like I do. We all do here. The crew would help out Mags, I talked to everybody on the comms, so please do it for us."

You can't believe what you're hearing, why won't they let you go home. You turn around to see three mechs, your eyes water over the betrayal. You ran before they can catch you, diving into the vents for refuge. You can hear them telling everybody you ran away, you're scared. You didn't ask for this. You're regretting everything. Maybe you should have stayed at home, be a boring office worker over being chased by crazy giant bots who refuse to let you go home.

You wonder... When Did It Go Wrong.