#this is not a pairing I write about often

[geminiwritten]

soulmate ; bob reynolds

fandom: marvel

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you're engaged to bucky when you find out that not only are fated mates real, but you have one... and it's not your fiancé (soulmate au)

notes: okay, listen, this was never supposed to see the light of day... this was what i would write between other fics when i felt blocked or wanted to be dramatic and wax lyrical about loving lewis pullman... so basically, this is me not-so-subtly saying i would abandon everything i know and love for him... please be kind! this one feels weirdly personal because it's so emo??? but regardless, i hope you enjoy and would love, love, love to hear what you think! (p.s. happy birthday to me!)

warnings: swearing, angst, mention of slight age gap (with bucky), heartbreak (lots), crying, fainting, the void (almost), alcohol consumption, acotar reference (if you squint), so many metaphors, nudity, and horniness very slightly bordering on smut (yes, i still managed to make it horny) so 18+ ONLY MDNI!

word count: 14951

Mates. 

It’s not something you hear about often—and it happens even less. 

Centuries ago, it was something creatures hungered for. Something that drove them. Compelled them to find their one true mate and, well… mate. 

But that was long ago. Now, it’s rare. Fabled. Forgotten by most. Even fewer still are lucky enough to have one. 

There are other words for it now—soulmate, twin flame, kindred spirit, true love. Softened, romanticised. Colloquial terms thrown around like confetti at a wedding. Used to describe someone you choose to love. Not someone you’re bound to by something older than time. 

Because mates? Real mates? They aren’t chosen. They’re fated. Selected by some ancient magic. A gift from the gods—or whatever existed before gods. Two souls born within the same lifetime, tethered by something invisible and unbreakable. And if they meet? 

Well... no one really knows what happens then. 

You see, with a world this big, teetering on the edge of collapse, stuffed to the brim with people all trying to survive—who has time to go chasing destiny? Who’s got the energy to scour the globe in hopes of locking eyes with some cosmic stranger? 

Sure, the sex would probably be mind-blowing. But sex can be plenty good without a soul-deep connection plucking the strings of your orgasm. 

Which is exactly why no one really cares about mates anymore. Most people don’t even believe they exist. And those who do? They’re usually just lonely—reaching for hope, not magic. 

And you? Well, you’re more than happy in the arms of your sex god super soldier fiancé. 

Or at least… you were. 

- 

“Do we have to?” Bucky sighs, his face buried in the crook of your neck, stubble grazing your skin. 

You giggle and squirm beneath the weight of his body—his very naked body. 

“Come on,” you say, half-heartedly shoving at his chest. “We’re already going to be late. Besides, you can’t possibly be ready to go again.” 

He lifts his head, blue eyes glittering with mischief. “Sure about that, doll?” 

He shifts, and you feel it—thick and heavy, pressing insistently against your hipbone. 

Your eyes go wide, heat pooling between your thighs. “Aren’t you supposed to be like... over a hundred?” 

He chuckles, sliding down a little, clearly aiming for your breasts. 

“Technically, yes. Biologically, no.” 

You hum, enjoying the rasp of his beard as it brushes against your skin. “Still,” you tease, “even biologically, you’re almost an old man.” 

His head snaps up, eyes wide in mock offense. “Excuse me?” 

You giggle again, trying to wriggle free. As much as you’d love to stay tangled up with him all morning, you really don’t want to be late—again—and keep his teammates waiting. They’re not exactly the warm-and-fuzzy type, but not in a bad way. More like the sarcastic, sharp-eyed, chaos crew who’d never let you live it down if you showed up looking freshly ravished. And honestly? You’re not in the mood to be roasted before coffee. 

“For that little comment,” Bucky says, shifting to straddle you as the blankets fall away, “I’m cutting you off.” 

You try to look up at his face, but your attention is… elsewhere. More specifically, the part of him that obviously doesn’t agree with this whole cutting you off plan. It’s hard—painfully hard—and staring right at you, begging to be touched. 

You lick your lips, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Cutting me off?” 

He nods, sliding off the bed and taking his gorgeous body with him. “Mhm. You’re cut off. For at least twenty-four hours.” 

You scramble after him, following him into the ensuite like a woman on a mission. “Twenty-four hours?!” 

His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a grin, but he keeps it together. “Yep.” He turns to you, leveling you with a mock-stern look. “You called me old.” 

You jut your bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. “It was just a joke.” 

He leans in and kisses your pouty lips. “Well,” he murmurs, “maybe next time you’ll think twice.” 

Then he turns to the shower and cranks on the hot water, leaving you standing there like a sulking child who’s just been denied dessert. 

As the two of you shower and dress in companionable silence, a twinge of guilt starts to settle in your chest. Maybe you shouldn’t have made that crack about his age. 

He didn’t seem offended—but still. The age gap is real. It’s not something either of you acknowledges often, but maybe you should be a little more mindful. He is the older one. The one in the public eye. The one who constantly fields backlash from idiot reporters and politicians, all desperate to dig up something to use against him. 

And now that you’re engaged—engaged—right as he’s stepping into this whole New Avengers thing? The spotlight on him is brighter than ever. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to pick your playful jabs a little more carefully. Just for a while. 

“Hey,” you murmur, lacing your fingers through his as you step into the tower elevator. “Sorry about before.” 

He hits the button for the main floor, then glances at you with a puzzled little frown. “For what, doll?” 

You shrug. “Calling you old.” 

He chuckles—low, rough, and unfairly attractive. “Don’t be sorry. I’m a big boy. I can take a joke.” 

There’s a beat of quiet as the elevator hums around you. Then, he leans in, lips near your ear, breath warm on your skin. 

“I’ll just have to punish you for it later.” 

Anticipation sizzles beneath your skin, adrenaline zipping down your spine before settling between your legs—a place Bucky’s words have a habit of landing. 

Before you can fire back something smart—or filthy—the doors slide open, and you're greeted by the wide, sunlit expanse of the New Avengers common room. 

“Finally!” Yelena calls, her head popping up over the back of the couch. “You’re like… twenty minutes late.” 

“It’s not my fault,” you say quickly, slipping away from Bucky toward the kitchen. “All Barnes.” 

He shoots you a look, lips twitching, then turns back to his teammates, moving toward where most of them are crowded around the living room setup in the centre of the huge space. Everyone is here except their newest specially-abled member—Bob. 

You haven’t met him yet, and honestly, you’re not exactly eager. You know he’s got… issues, to say the least. And with all the other complications this group brings, you’re already close enough to being overwhelmed. How they came to be Earth’s Mightiest Heroes 2.0? You’ll never understand. 

You busy yourself in the kitchen, fixing coffee and some breakfast while Bucky and his team dive into their meeting. You don’t live at the tower—you and Bucky have a small apartment a few blocks away—but you’re more than comfortable here. At first, coming along to all the meetings and mission briefings felt like a drag, but eventually you got to know everyone, and now, it doesn’t bother you so much. 

An hour later, the meeting slips into something more casual. Bucky excuses himself to take a phone call, and Ava disappears—literally—so you take the opportunity to settle onto the couch, half-listening as John and Alexei bicker over what to watch on TV. 

John wins, and you’re stuck watching college sports. 

“I read your book,” Alexei announces, turning to you with a proud smile—his back now to John. 

You tilt your head, frowning. “My book?” 

“Yes, yes.” He slings an arm over the back of the lounge, turning fully toward you. “The one you told me to read.” 

You stare at him, confused, for a beat longer than you’d like—until realisation dawns, followed swiftly by mortification. 

“Oh my God, no,” you mutter, face burning. “No, Alexei, you didn’t—” 

“The one about the faeries,” he says proudly. “It is a little naughty, but it is good.” 

“You!” Yelena gasps from across the room. “You’re the one who told him to read those books!” 

You sink deeper into the plush couch, hands flying up in surrender. “No, I swear—I didn’t tell him to! He asked what I was reading, and I... I told him. That’s it. I never told him to read them!” 

John groans. “He hasn’t shut up about those porn books all week.” 

From the kitchen, Bucky turns sharply, halfway through his phone call. His eyes land on you—wide with amusement, brows lifted in mock surprise, the phone still pressed to his ear. 

“They’re not all naughty,” Alexei says with a small frown—and you’re not sure if he’s defending himself or you. “There is fighting and magic too. They are good books.” 

You can’t help but let a quiet giggle slip past your lips. “Which one are you up to?” 

His eyes sparkle with excitement. “I just finished the second book.” 

You sit up and lean toward him, ignoring the dirty looks from Yelena and John. “Oh my God, did you love it? The second one is my favourite.” 

Alexei nods eagerly. “I loved it. They are perfect together. Much better than the blond man.” 

“Much better,” you agree with another soft laugh. 

“I have question, though,” he says, his smile faltering into a curious frown. “How can they be mates if they are born hundreds of years apart?” 

Yelena scoffs. “The book has soulmates too?” 

You turn to her with a playful smile. “They’re mates, not soulmates. Like, fated mates. It’s not as lame as it sounds.” 

“It sounds very lame,” she deadpans. 

“It is not lame,” Alexei argues. “It is beautiful.” 

Yelena rolls her eyes and John lets out a disbelieving laugh, still focused on the TV. 

“You know,” you say slowly, leaning forward to catch John’s eye on the other side of Alexei, “some people actually believe in mates. Like real soulmates.” 

“Yeah—desperate people,” John quips. 

You roll your eyes. “No—I mean, yeah, but not just lonely people. Some still think fated mates are real. Rare, but real. Like some kind of ancient, sleeping magic. Most people won’t find theirs, because the world is too crowded now. But centuries ago, it used to matter. In some cultures, it still does.” 

Yelena snorts. “Still sounds lame.” 

You’re just about to respond when Ava phases in beside you, startling you. 

“It’s true,” she says plainly. “I’ve heard stories.” 

You ignore your spiked pulse and tilt your head. “You have?” 

She nods. “Yeah. You know, when I was stuck in a lab for most of my childhood. I read a lot. Learned a lot. There are a few different versions, but some cultures still believe in real mates.” 

Yelena frowns, but leans in—clearly intrigued. “This is ridiculous. There is no way every person has someone they are destined to be with. If that were true, we’d know more about it.” 

“Not everyone has one,” you say. “It’s actually pretty rare.” 

Ava raises a sceptical brow. “So, you believe in mates?” 

You shrug, your cheeks warming with a touch of embarrassment. “I don’t know.” 

“How do you know so much about it?” Yelena asks, a small smirk tugging at her lips. 

You press your lips together, buying a moment to decide whether or not to tell them your story. But really—why not? It’s not like you have anything to hide. Mate or not, you’re happy with Bucky. And you know you will be for the rest of your life. 

“Okay,” you begin, leaning forward, elbows resting on your knees. “A few years ago, I was at this gala—something for work—and this woman approached me…” 

- Five Years Ago - 

You tip the champagne flute to your lips, emptying it in one gulp. 

“Wow,” you mutter to yourself. “These fancy events are stingy with the refreshments.” 

An older couple nearby gives you a dirty look, but you ignore it and wander off in search of another waiter with another tray of tiny, unsatisfying champagne flutes. 

“Excuse me?” 

A woman steps into your path before you can reach the next tray. She’s older, with a lined face and silver-grey hair that falls almost to her hips. Her floral dress flows a little too gracefully for a ballroom with no breeze, and the many pieces of jewellery adorning her neck and arms clink softly as she moves. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says with a small, serene smile. “But I had to speak to you.” 

You tear your eyes away from the waiter retreating with your drink. 

“That’s okay,” you reply, turning to meet her gaze—only to falter when you notice her eyes. They’re not hazel or green or brown. They’re gold. Entirely gold. 

“Sorry, I—uh, I don’t think we’ve met?” 

You offer your hand, which she takes gently, though her eyes never leave your face. They scan your features like she’s searching for something—something buried. Something you’re not sure is even there. 

“No, we haven’t,” she says, stepping a little closer. It’s invasive, but her strange energy keeps you frozen in place. “I don’t normally do this. I usually keep my… visions to myself.” 

Oh, God. She’s a fucking loon. 

You let out a soft, awkward laugh. “Visions?” 

She nods. “I’m not crazy.” 

Sure, lady. 

“My family is gifted—well, some of us are,” she continues. “I prefer to keep to myself, but when I saw you, I had to say something.” 

You frown. “Say what?” 

“You have the mark.” 

“The… mark?” 

“Yes,” she says, and you realize she’s still holding your hand as she gently places her other over it. “In your fate lines.” 

Your eyes dart around the room. Why is no one noticing this weird little encounter? 

You glance back at her—into those strange gold eyes. “My what, now?” 

Her brows pull together slightly. “You don’t believe in fate?” 

“I believe in free will.” 

She smiles. “The two aren’t so different. Fate offers the door. Free will decides whether you open it.” 

“Okay...” you murmur. “So I’m marked?” 

“You have the mark,” she corrects. “The mark of a mate. Your other half. The dark to your light. You’ll know him when you feel the pull. It won’t be gentle—it never is, for ones like you.” 

Your brow creases. “Ones like me?” 

She studies you again—longer this time. Her smile is faint, but her eyes are deep, unblinking. She’s not looking at you. She’s looking through you. Still searching for something beneath your skin. 

“You’re not ordinary,” she says softly. “Neither is he—at least, he won’t be when you meet. That’s why it matters. You two were made for something bigger. Together, you’ll either shift the course of something… or break it entirely.” 

Okay. Definitely time to find that waiter. And take the whole damn tray. 

She leans closer, her voice a whisper now—but somehow heavier. “This isn’t about belief. It’s about design. You can walk away—fate gives the door, not the hand that turns the knob. But when the moment comes, it won’t feel like a choice. Not to you. Not to him. Because something in the marrow of your bones will know.” 

You swallow hard, the hairs on your neck standing straight. 

She glances around once, then leans in—like she’s sharing a secret. “There will come a time when everything depends on whether you hold onto each other. Or let go. And if you let go…” Her lips press together, almost regretful. “Well. I suppose the universe will just have to adjust. Somehow.” 

And then, like smoke in a breeze, she slips into the crowd—leaving your pulse racing and the taste of stardust on the back of your tongue. 

- Present - 

“Were you on drugs?” Yelena asks—not accusing, just curious. 

You shoot her an unimpressed glare. “No.” 

Of all the faces in the room, Alexei’s is the most excited—his eyes practically sparkling. 

“Did you go after the mysterious woman?” he asks, leaning in. 

You shake your head. “No. I went after the waiter and took his tray.” 

Yelena snorts. “So you were drunk.” 

“I wasn’t drunk,” you argue. “Yet, at least.” 

Ava tilts her head, eyes narrowed. “Did you believe her?” 

You shrug. “I don’t know. It sounds far-fetched, but… look at the last ten years. Super-people, aliens, sorcerers, magic. It’s not that hard to believe in the grand scheme of things.” 

Alexei leans closer, dropping his voice. “Do you believe Barnes is your mate?” 

No—but you’re not saying that out loud. 

“Sure,” you say, your voice just a little too high. “I mean, assuming I believe the woman—which I never said I did—” 

“You do,” Yelena cuts in. “I can see it in your eyes.” 

You shoot her a look. “Whether or not I believe her... I love Bucky. He’s my person. I don’t care if he’s my cosmically assigned soul partner or not. I want him. Only him. End of story.” 

Yelena breaks into a cheesy smile. “Aw, you are so cute. Sappy, and a little gross, but cute.” 

You roll your eyes as she pushes off the lounge and heads toward the kitchen, where Bucky is still muttering into the phone. John’s attention is glued to the TV—you’re not even sure he heard your story. And Ava phases out again, disappearing somewhere into the tower. 

After a moment, Alexei turns to you, voice lowered. “Are you scared?” 

You frown. “Scared of what?” 

“If you meet your mate.” 

You laugh—softly, uneasily—ignoring the sharp twist of anxiety in your chest. “I don’t even know if I believe in that. So why would I be scared?” 

“Because,” he says, glancing toward the kitchen, “you’ll either have to break his heart, or break your own by refusing fate.” 

His words hit harder than they should. For a moment, it’s like your lungs forget how to work—air punched right out of your chest, heart pounding hard and fast against your ribs. 

You’ve never thought about it like that—because you’ve never truly believed the strange woman’s prophecy. You met Bucky nearly a year later, and the thought never crossed your mind. 

Not until now. Not until you had to retell that bizarre encounter out loud. 

And sure, you could keep telling yourself you don’t believe in it. But there’s always that one question that lingers. 

What if? 

What if what she said was real? 

What if Bucky isn’t your mate? 

What if you find him? 

What if she was right—and you can’t stay away? 

What if the choice comes down to breaking Bucky’s heart… or your own? 

- 

“You okay?” Bucky asks, his fingers laced with yours as you walk down the corridor toward the elevator. 

You’d spent the last few hours watching TV with Alexei and John—mostly talking about books—while Bucky worked. You tried to push all the weird questions and swirling doubts out of your mind, but it wasn’t easy with Alexei’s constant interrogation. 

“Yeah,” you reply quietly. “Just tired.” 

He squeezes your hand. “You sure?” 

You glance up and meet his baby blues—so sincere it makes guilt creep up your spine. You can’t just tell him you’re scared he’s not your person... That would break his heart. And for what? Some cryptic message from a strange woman about a mark you’ve never even seen? Or believed in. 

“Shit,” Bucky mutters, his eyes snapping away from yours. 

You frown and follow his gaze, eyes widening when you see the end of the hallway swallowed in black. 

“Um,” you lean into him, “what the fuck?” 

“It’s Bob,” he says, slowly backing away. “He’s having a nightmare.” 

You glance up at your fiancé. “He’s still sleeping?” 

“Yeah, he has trouble actually sleeping,” Bucky replies. “That’s why he’s in his room all the time. He’s trying to sleep, and then whenever he does... it’s this shit. I thought I had nightmares, but this kid…” 

Your heart thuds heavy in your chest—but not fast. Not panicked. You should be panicked. But you feel calm. Strangely calm. Even as the darkness creeps across the floor and walls, inching toward you as you back away. 

“What happens if we touch it?” you ask, hesitating mid-step. 

Bucky tugs your hand, urging you to keep moving. “Nothing good.” 

Your head tilts as you watch the inky mass crawl, swallowing everything in its path. Your fingers twitch with the urge to reach out—but you know better. 

“Is it cold?” you ask, eyes still fixed on the darkness. 

Bucky frowns. “What?” 

“The darkness,” you say, glancing up at him. “Is it cold? It doesn’t seem cold.” 

He stares at you like you’ve just asked if it tastes like chicken. “It doesn’t really... feel like anything,” he says, eyes darting between you and the growing shadow. “Now, come on. We’ll take the stairs and warn the others.” 

You stop short, frowning. “You’re just going to leave him?” 

He looks at you like you’ve lost your damn mind. “Well, no. We’ll go in if we have to, but it’s usually better to wait it out. He’s getting better at managing it. It usually stops before it spreads too far. So, we try not to interfere unless we need to.” 

“He shouldn’t have to deal with it by himself,” you argue. 

“I know that,” Bucky says, tipping his head slightly as he studies you. “We all know that. And he knows we’re here for him. But we can’t sleep beside him every night—if we do, we get pulled in the second he starts dreaming. He knows we’ll help him if he needs it, but he’s trying to learn how to control it on his own.” 

You feel an ache to run in after him—a man you barely know—to dive into that abyss. But you know it’d be stupid. You’re not like Bucky or the others. Not enhanced. Not particularly special. You probably wouldn’t last a second inside whatever hellscape awaits you in that darkness. 

“Okay,” you mutter, squeezing Bucky’s hand. “Let’s go.” 

You backtrack through the tower to the common area and give the others a heads-up. Then, taking the route furthest from Bob’s room, the group filters out. Yelena and Ava decide to hang back and keep watch, while Alexei and John head off in search of lunch. 

You and Bucky say your goodbyes—for the second time today—before heading down the street toward your shared apartment. 

“What was all that, hm?” Bucky asks gently, his voice soft but his eyes sharp with concern. 

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t still want to go back. The darkness hadn’t scared you—it hadn’t even really deterred you. All you could think about was the man trapped inside it—scared and alone. Gifted with powers like a god, but still powerless against his own demons. 

“Nothing,” you say, keeping your tone light. “Just feeling a little extra empathetic today.” 

He studies you a beat longer, but you keep your eyes fixed ahead. After a minute or two, he sighs, letting go of your hand and wrapping his arm around your shoulders instead. He pulls you in close and presses a kiss to the top of your head, murmuring something too quiet for you to catch—but you’re pretty sure it’s an I love you. 

Once back at your apartment, you curl up on the couch together and start watching a movie—one you insist Bucky has to see, since he missed out on so many years of excellent pop culture. About an hour in, the pressure in your chest finally starts to lift—the weird heaviness that had been stopping you from telling Bucky what was really wrong. But instead of relief, guilt settles in, and you quickly turn to him. 

“Buck,” you say softly. 

His eyes are on his phone. “Bob’s fine now. Yelena said he woke up and wasn’t even rattled. Said the nightmare was bad, but he found it easier to stop.” 

“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s good. I’m glad.” 

He locks his phone and tosses it onto the couch beside him, giving you his full attention. “Sorry, what were you saying?” 

You nod slowly. “Yeah—um, about before. I’m sorry for not listening to you. For arguing. It was weird, and I was kind of lost in my own head.” 

He leans forward, takes both of your hands in his, and doesn’t speak—just laces your fingers together and watches how his hands swallow yours. 

You clear your throat, hesitating. “Do you remember when I told you about that strange woman who came up to me at The Vantage Summer Gala a few years ago?” 

His gaze lifts to yours, steady. “Of course. The lady who told you about your soulmate.” 

“Well,” you begin, “I was telling the others about it—Alexei brought up those books I supposedly told him to read, and... I don’t know, we ended up talking about soulmates, or whatever. And after I told them the story, Alexei started asking weird questions. Like if I believed her. If I think you’re my soulmate. And then... what if you’re not? And—and—” Your voice catches, throat thickening. “And w-what if—” 

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, scooting closer and wrapping his arms around you. “You’re not about to cry over something dumb Alexei said, are you?” 

You let out a watery laugh, your eyes welling as you press your cheek to his shoulder. 

“I knew something was eating at you, doll,” he whispers into your hair, breath warm against your skin. 

You sniffle, blinking fast. “It just feels so stupid.” 

“Nothing’s stupid if it hurts you,” he says firmly. “And you don’t ever have to keep things from me. I don’t care how small it feels—if it’s bothering you, I want to know.” 

“Okay,” you mumble into his shirt. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” he sighs, pulling back just enough to look at you, still holding you close. “Don’t ever be sorry for being upset.” 

You swipe the back of your hand beneath your nose. 

“Now listen, okay?” He takes your hands again, holding them tight. “This might not help, but I need to say it.” 

You frown but stay quiet, holding your breath like it might help hold back the tears. 

“I know you’re unsure about what that woman told you,” he starts, “and I don’t know if soulmates are real or if fate really gives a damn about people like us. But I know what I feel when I look at you, and when you look at me.” He pauses, just for a beat. “I love you. And not because the universe says I should. I love you because you’re kind, and sharp, and stubborn as hell. I love the way you get quiet when you’re overthinking, and the way you look at me like I’m someone worth staying for.” 

A few tears slip down your cheeks as he takes a shaky breath. 

“But if one day, you find out there is someone else—if that soulmate thing is real, and you meet him and your whole world shifts—then I won’t hold you back. Even if it kills me, I won’t be the reason you’re not happy.” 

The tears start falling faster. 

“Do I want that? Hell no. I want you. Here. With me. Always. But loving someone means putting them first, even when it hurts. So if it ever comes to that… I’ll let you go. But until then… I’m all in. Every part of me is yours. No marks. No fate. Just choice. And I choose you.” 

His voice wobbles as he finishes, his eyes shining with unshed tears. 

You swallow a sob and take a deep breath, willing your voice to work. 

“I love you too,” you whisper, a little pitiful after his brilliant speech. 

He grins—and you barely get a second to appreciate it before he’s on you. His lips crash into yours, his hands gripping your body as he presses you back on the couch. The movie is long forgotten as he kisses you like you're the only place he’s ever felt at home. 

You start fumbling with his shirt, trying to undress him, but barely make it far before his phone starts buzzing. 

He groans and pushes up, and you let him go—his line of work is literally life or death. 

“Everything okay?” you ask. 

He nods, tapping out a quick reply before locking his phone again. “Yeah. Just John asking about tomorrow night.” 

“The foundation ball thing?” 

“Yep,” he sighs. “Can’t wait.” 

You lean in until your lips are just inches from his. “Can I come?” 

He frowns. “I thought you didn’t want to?” 

“I didn’t,” you say. “But now I do. I think I need to be there.” 

His expression softens as he leans in to kiss you again, murmuring, “Of course you can come.” 

- 

You feel strange under the glowing lights of the lavishly decorated ballroom. You haven’t even stepped foot in a place like this since your encounter with the fate lady—which isn’t helping that nagging anxiety that hasn’t let up since yesterday. But you’re still here, dressed to the nines and sipping champagne, because you knew you had to be. You just felt it. In your bones. 

“Wow, you clean up nice,” Yelena says, her eyes sparkling as she approaches. 

You’re at a high table near the back of the room, conveniently close to the bar. 

“And excellent choice in location,” she adds with a wink. 

You laugh quietly. “Yeah, I’m not a fan of these kinds of functions unless there’s copious amounts of alcohol involved.” 

“I’m not a fan of much without copious amounts of alcohol,” she says dryly. “But I imagine you’ve got a little PTSD from this kind of thing. Especially after the voodoo lady read your palms.” 

Her tone is teasing, but her words still prick your chest like tiny needles full of panic. 

“Very funny,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll meet a crazy woman tonight who can tell you all about your future.” 

She scoffs. “No thank you. I am perfectly happy keeping that a mystery.” 

You snort softly into your glass and take a generous sip of champagne. 

“I’m pretty sure the only reason Alexei came tonight was in hopes of getting his fortune told,” she says, glancing across the room to where he’s talking to Bucky. “You know he hasn’t shut up about it for the past twenty-four hours? He even asked me to help him use a computer so he could research.” 

“Oh my God,” you giggle. “I’m so sorry.” 

Before either of you can say anything else, Alexei catches your eye and his face splits into a grin. He waves enthusiastically, then quickly excuses himself and begins weaving through the crowd. 

“Oh, great,” Yelena sighs. “He’s coming over here.” 

“You are here!” he exclaims, earning a few curious glances from nearby guests. “I am so excited to see you. We have much to talk about.” 

You can’t help the laugh that escapes your lips. “Hey, Alexei. Yelena was just telling me you’ve been doing some research.” 

“Lots of research,” he confirms, setting his beer down on the table. “I know everything about mates. Ask me anything.” 

Ignoring the sting of nerves rushing through your veins, you start to search for a safe question—something that won’t set your anxiety on fire. 

“How do you know if you’ve met them?” Yelena cuts in before you can speak. 

Alexei’s eyes light up. “Ah, good question. It is obvious. You cannot deny it once you meet them. It feels like gravity is gone, and they become your only tether to the earth. You don’t need oxygen. You don’t need water. You just need them.” He smiles proudly and nods at both of you. “Now ask me what happens when you touch them.” 

You frown, curiosity getting the better of you. “What’s the difference? Between simply meeting them and touching them?” 

“There is all the difference,” he says, frowning like you’ve just asked the dumbest question imaginable. “You see them, and yes, you know—but you still have choice. When you touch them, you cannot change mind. You can try, but it is too painful.” 

You tilt your head. “Like... it actually hurts? Or it’s just emotionally difficult?” 

“It physically hurts,” Yelena answers, and your gaze snaps to her. “You’ve acknowledged the connection, so you can’t go back to being without them. It feels like you’re being torn apart the further you try to get away.” 

You raise your brows, surprised by her sudden expertise. 

“What?” she snaps. “I was helping him use the computer, okay?” 

You press your lips together to stifle a laugh and turn back to Alexei. “Okay, so what happens if you don’t like your mate?” 

He scoffs, throwing his head back dramatically. “It is not possible. These two people are designed to be together, from birth. It is deeper than souls or magic. You cannot even describe it. There is no way two beings created for each other could possibly dislike one another.” 

“Okay...” you say softly, “but what if you deny it?” 

“Deny it?” he echoes. “You cannot—because you will not want to. The second you find them, you will ache for them in ways you cannot explain. No one else will ever fit. No one else will ever satisfy. You will crave them in your blood, in your breath. Denying it would be like trying to unmake the sky.” 

His words knock the breath out of you for the second time in twenty-four hours. You nearly stumble back at their weight—at the way they land straight in your chest. 

“This part is interesting too,” Alexei continues, ignoring the way your face has paled. “Before you meet them, you feel it.” 

John appears beside you, setting his drink down on the table and eyeing Alexei with a frown. “What do you mean, feel it?” 

“When you are close to meeting them, everything shifts,” he says. “Just a little. Sometimes it feels like anxiety. Sometimes it feels like peace. But always, it feels like something is happening—something inevitable. You start going places without knowing why, saying yes to things you would normally refuse. There is a pull in your gut, something telling you where to go. Like the universe is nudging you to where you are supposed to be.” 

The words hang in the air, humming like static before a storm—until Yelena’s voice slices through the tension. 

“Walker,” she snaps, frowning. “Where the hell is Bob?” 

John blinks, taken aback. “I don’t know. I thought Ava was with him.” 

You glance between the two blondes, blinking slowly. “Wait—Bob is here?” 

“Yes,” Yelena says, clearly irritated. “He asked to come. Said he needed to be here—I don’t know. I felt bad saying no, he never leaves the tower.” 

John exhales sharply. “I’ll go find him.” 

Yelena turns to Alexei. “Can you go track down Ava? Let us know if she’s with him.” 

“I’ll tell Bucky,” you say quickly, already moving as you slip away from the table and into the crowd. 

You move through the crowd with steady purpose, weaving between glittering gowns and polished tuxedos, eyes scanning for that familiar face. 

Bucky. You’re looking for Bucky. 

The ballroom thrums behind you—laughter, clinking glasses, the low swell of music—but it all begins to blur. Your heartbeat picks up, not with panic, but with something else. Something you can’t name. A shift beneath your skin. 

You slip through a side door, into a wide corridor draped in golden light. The hush is immediate, swallowing the noise of the party like a dream closing over waking thought. The silence buzzes in your ears, and the air feels... heavier. Thicker. Like the world had been holding its breath, and you just stepped into the exhale. 

You walk slowly, drawn forward without thought. Each step echoes, like it belongs to someone else. 

And then—you see him. 

At the far end of the hallway, half-turned as if he wasn’t sure whether to leave or stay, stands a man. Tall. Tousled brown curls. Shoulders hunched just slightly in a way that says he doesn’t quite know how to fit inside his own skin. His head lifts as if sensing you, like a string inside him just snapped taut. 

His eyes meet yours. 

It’s not a lightning bolt. It’s not an explosion. It’s worse—or better. It’s everything. The moment stretches, distorts. A pressure builds in your chest, like gravity has decided to anchor you only to him. 

You can’t breathe. 

The world doesn’t blur—it sharpens. Every detail. The rise of his chest as he inhales, the exact shade of his deep blue eyes, the way his fingers twitch like they know something his mind hasn’t caught up to yet. You feel it in your bones, in your blood, like a long-lost note finally striking true. 

Your mouth parts, but there’s nothing to say. 

He takes a step forward, unsure. Almost afraid. 

And you realise—you weren’t searching for Bucky. Not really. 

You were being led to him. 

“D-Do I know you?” His voice carries down the corridor—low, deep, wrapping around you like silk and smoke. 

“No,” you whisper, even as every part of you screams yes. 

He’s still a few feet away, and you’re not even sure he heard you—but his head tilts, just slightly, like he did. Then he takes a step. And another. 

Drawn forward like the tide answering the moon. 

His movements are slow, deliberate—like he’s caught in the pull of something he doesn’t understand, only knows he has to follow. Eyes locked to yours, wide and dark, shimmering with a quiet awe you can’t name. 

He doesn’t stop until he’s standing right in front of you—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Close enough to forget how to breathe. But you don’t need to breathe. Not now. Not when he’s here. 

He is your oxygen. Your gravity. 

He is everything you will ever need. 

Everything you want. 

He is everything. 

“Hey—there you are.” The voice crashes into you like a wave shattering glass. 

You jolt, snapping your head toward Bucky as he rounds the corner, a sheepish grin on his face, completely unaware of the world he’s just torn apart. 

“Bucky,” you mutter, as if reminding yourself of his name. 

Bucky frowns, curiosity sharpening his gaze as it flicks between you and the man beside you. “Bob?” 

You whip back to Bob, eyes widening at his outstretched hand—fingertips hovering just a breath from your arm. 

You flinch as if burned, stepping back before he can touch you—and his eyes snap up, darkening with something raw and wounded. The crack in your chest widens, because you feel it too. The sting of refusal. The ache of distance. The desperate, inexplicable need to feel his skin against yours—a need neither of you understands, but both feel deep in your bones. 

“What’s going on?” Bucky’s voice is tight as his eyes settle on you. 

You meet his gaze, a sharp pang of guilt slicing through your chest—because the face you love isn’t the one your heart seeks anymore. Your eyes? They’re drawn only to Bob. To memorise every line, to trace every curve. To know him more intimately than your own reflection, more deeply than the shadows behind your closed eyelids. 

“I was—I, uh—looking for you,” you say, forcing your gaze to stay with him. 

His posture stiffens, guarded—something you know all too well after years together. His brow furrows as his sharp eyes dart between you and Bob. He can sense it—whatever it is. The shift in gravity, the subtle movement beneath the earth. He knows there’s something more, but he doesn’t know what. Or maybe he doesn’t want to. 

He fixes his gaze on you. “Are you okay?” 

You nod slowly, then glance at Bob—you can’t help yourself—and it feels like surfacing from deep underwater, finally able to breathe. “Bob,” you whisper. 

Bucky clears his throat. “Right. Of course. You two haven’t met yet.” 

He wraps an arm around your waist and Bob’s eyes flare with heat—anger. He moves as if to shove Bucky away, but you find his gaze and silently plead for restraint. 

You swear his eyes darken a shade, but he holds back. Jaw clenched, shoulders rigid—tense—but no longer coiled to strike.  

“Bob,” Bucky says, eyes flickering between the two of you—clearly not missing the silent exchange or the way Bob’s body tensed. “This is my fiancé.” 

Time stops—or at least, it feels that way. Bob’s eyes don’t leave yours, that same wounded look returning—only now, it’s splintered into something far more devastating. Like he’d caught a glimpse of heaven—just for a moment—before being ripped from the sky and cast down. Down through the clouds, through the earth, all the way into fire. 

He was so close. So close to having everything. To having you. 

Now all that’s left is ash in his mouth, and a slow, burning fury aimed at the man standing beside you. A man he calls a friend. A teammate. 

“I need to go,” you whisper. “I—I feel sick.” 

Bucky’s arm tightens protectively around you. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

You shake your head, eyes stinging. “I need to leave. Can we go—” your voice breaks as you glance up at him, wide-eyed and pleading, “—please.” 

He doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll take you home, doll.” Then he turns to Bob. “Yelena’s looking for you. Come on.” 

Bucky guides you back through the same door you’d slipped through earlier, back into the chaos of the ballroom. The music, the chatter, the laughter—it all feels like it’s coming from underwater. The world keeps spinning, blissfully unaware that your axis has tilted. 

A few guests nod or greet Bucky as he passes, but he doesn’t stop. He can feel the way you’re swaying beside him, the way your weight leans harder against him with every step. He’s moving fast now. He knows something’s wrong. 

So do you. 

Your vision swims. The lights blur into streaks of gold and silver, voices folding into one another like crashing waves. 

Somewhere in the distance, you hear Yelena. Then Alexei. Then—Bob. 

Bob. 

You spot him behind Yelena, eyes wide and wounded, standing like a ghost at the edge of your unravelling world. 

He’s the only thing that makes sense in the chaos. 

The only thing that’s clear. 

And all you want to do is reach for him. 

But you can’t. 

Not here. Not now. 

Not ever. 

Because you love Bucky. 

Because you chose Bucky. 

“Bucky,” you murmur, barely audible, “Need t’ go…” 

His arm tightens again. “I’ve got you.” 

“Is she okay?” Yelena’s voice cuts through the noise. 

“I don’t know,” Bucky answers, urgency creeping into his tone. “I need to get her out of here—now.” 

You try to blink, but your eyes don’t open again. 

The music and chatter twist into a storm—deafening, chaotic, pounding against your skull. 

You try to move, to breathe, to see—but nothing works. 

Your eyelids are too heavy. 

Your lungs feel like they’re filling with water. 

Your chest is caving in under the weight of it. 

Everything is too heavy. Too loud. Too much. 

Then— 

The world cuts out. 

Everything stops. 

- 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Yelena’s voice is muffled, but still clear. 

“Keep it down,” Bucky hisses, his voice low—laced with urgency and… grief.  

“I came here to ask if you knew what happened to Bob last night, because he’s been acting weirder than usual,” Yelena snaps, no softer than before. “But I did not come here for bullshit—I get enough of that from Alexei.” 

Bucky exhales a long, tired breath. “Maybe we need to talk to Alexei.” 

“Why the hell would we do that?” Yelena demands. “Whatever he’s been on about these past few days isn’t real. He’s off with the fairies—literally. Do not tell me you actually believe in all that stupid soulmate crap.” 

There’s a pause. A thick, heavy silence as you try to peel your eyelids open. But you can’t. They’re too heavy. 

“You didn’t see what I saw, Yelena,” Bucky says, voice strained. “The way they looked at each other... it felt—I don’t know. Like something cracked open. They were just standing there, but it was like all the air got sucked out of the room. I could feel it—the whole world shifting.” 

“You sound like Alexei,” Yelena replies, deadpan. “So you’re either on drugs, hit your head, or you’re trying to be funny.” 

“Why would I joke about the woman I love being inextricably bound to another man?” 

Your eyes snap open. Heat licks up your spine and burns behind your eyes as your vision adjusts to the harsh morning sun. 

“Okay. So, drugs. Or you bumped your head,” Yelena says, voice carrying through your bedroom door. 

“Yelena,” Bucky pleads, voice cracking. “Please. I don’t know what happened, but I know something did. I need your help.” 

She sighs. “Okay, fine. But you asked for this.” There’s a pause before she adds, “I’ll call Alexei.” 

Your mouth is dry and your whole body aches with stiffness as you sit up, rubbing at your burning eyes. The sun through the window is too low and too bright for it to be your usual wake-up time—so you know you’ve overslept. 

You throw back the duvet and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, curling your toes into the plush carpet you and Bucky picked out together. You’d chosen it the second you stepped into the flooring store. The saleswoman warned you off it—something about loose threads and visible tread marks—but it was just so unbelievably soft, you couldn’t imagine choosing anything else. 

The day it was installed, you and Bucky spent the first fifteen minutes making carpet angels, laughing like idiots, and revelling in the feel of it beneath your skin. Then you spent the next hour defiling the brand-new flooring. There’s still a stain you never managed to get out—thankfully hidden beneath the bed. 

Your stomach twists with nausea, bile climbing your throat until you gag. You scramble to your feet and rush into the ensuite, gripping the basin for dear life as you cough up nothing but stomach acid. 

Tears well up, spilling hot and fast down your cheeks before your mind can even catch up. 

You feel wrecked. Totally and utterly ruined. Chewed up and spat out by the universe. 

You don’t understand anything. It’s like you’ve been dropped into the centre of the labyrinth without a torch. But there’s a rope inside your gut—tugging, steady and sure—pulling you in a direction that promises escape. Only, it’s not leading you toward where you should be going. Not to Bucky. 

No, the rope is dragging you toward someone else. Your mate. The man from last night. Bob. The only thing your body seems to crave. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, letting your heavy eyelids fall shut as you slowly straighten. 

You avoid your reflection in the mirror as you strip off and step into the shower. You can’t look at yourself right now. You’re not just confused—you’re scared. Something inside you has changed, irrevocably. And you know that the moment you admit it, you’ll lose the power to stop it. 

Once you’re showered and slightly less of a wreck, you wrap yourself in a comfortable pair of sweats and an old hoodie—one you haven’t worn in a while, since you usually prefer to steal Bucky’s. But not today. You tried to put on one of his sweaters, but the smell made you gag. And then you started crying again. Because yesterday, his scent was one of the most comforting things in the world to you. But not anymore. 

Now, all you can think about is Bob—where he is, what he’s doing. And you know he’s thinking about you too. You can feel it. 

After another few minutes of tears, you dry your cheeks and take a deep breath before stepping out of the bedroom and padding down the hall. When you reach the lounge room, the low chatter dies instantly, and three pairs of eyes turn to you—wide and full of concern. 

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, brows drawn tight. “How are you feeling?” 

“Great,” you mutter sarcastically, avoiding his gaze. 

“You do not look great,” Alexei says flatly. 

Yelena rolls her eyes. “Thank you, Alexei. She knows.” 

You curl up on the far end of the three-seater lounge, putting as much distance as possible between you and Yelena. Bucky is on the two-seater, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and Alexei is perched on one of the dining room chairs with his back to the TV. 

It’s on, but the volume is muted. 

“So,” your eyes flick toward Yelena, “what’s all this about?” 

She sighs, her gaze darting to Bucky before settling back on you. “I came over to ask Barnes if he knew what happened to Bob last night, because he was acting strange—stranger than usual. But instead, I get told a bunch of bullshit about this ridiculous soulmates thing that Alexei has been going on about. And now I’m being forced to entertain the idea that it might be real. So... explain.” 

You frown. “Explain what?” 

“Whatever happened with you and Bob last night,” she says, waving a hand like the answer should be obvious. 

You blink a few times, brows pulling tighter as you glance down. The room thickens with silence, tension rising in the air. The only sound is Alexei’s heavy breathing. 

“What do you mean... he was acting strange?” you ask softly. 

Yelena sighs again, tipping her head as if searching for the right words. “He was... weirdly calm. And not the kind of quiet, anxiety-ridden, dissociative ‘calm’ he usually is. He was actually peaceful. It was kind of alarming. So Ava stayed up all night to keep watch. We thought it might be the ‘calm before the storm’—you know, before one of his other personalities came out to play—but... nothing. He went to bed and slept. No noise, no darkness. Ava even phased into his room to check he was still there. And he was—sleeping peacefully.” She pauses. “He was... talking, though. Kept saying your name.” 

You swallow—hard. “My name?” 

She nods. 

“Okay,” you mutter. “That doesn’t really mean... anything.” You glance at Alexei, like he might save you. “Right?” 

“Doll,” Bucky says softly, voice tight, eyes still locked on the floor. “You were sayin’ his name all night too.” 

You choke on nothing. Your chest tightens, lungs aching, heart leaping into an erratic rhythm. 

“Alexei,” Yelena says sharply, turning toward her father. “Assuming this ridiculousness is real—how do we know for sure?” 

Alexei raises his brows, eyes fixed on you. “She knows. And so does Bob. There is no magical way of asking the universe. They just know.” 

Yelena’s head snaps back to you, her eyes wide, expectant. “So?” 

A few silent tears slip down your cheeks, and you blink quickly, trying to keep the whole dam from breaking. 

“Oh,” she murmurs, rearing back slightly. “I’m sorry.” 

You let out a weak, watery laugh. “Why are you sorry?” 

She shrugs. “For being harsh, I guess? I don’t know. I’m just... confused. It’s hard to believe any of this is real, but—” 

“Why else would it affect them so much?” Alexei cuts in, gesturing toward you. “Whether or not you believe it, you cannot deny something has happened. Look at her. You think this is what happens when she simply meets someone new? Of course not—that would be crazy.” 

“Couldn’t it be something else?” Yelena presses, brows knit. “Like, maybe Bob’s powers just—” 

“You said it yourself,” Bucky interrupts, “he’s been better lately—especially last night. You really think that’s a coincidence?” 

“Did not the crazy lady say it to you?” Alexei asks, eyes locking on you. “That you and your mate were something special?” 

You nod slowly, sniffing and wiping the wetness from your cheeks. A beat of silence stretches between the four of you as you try to compose yourself, pressing down the guilt and that strange new sensation pulling you toward your mate. 

“So... what do we do?” you ask, your voice hoarse as it slices through the quiet. “How do we stop it?” 

“Stop it?” Alexei echoes. “You do not stop it. It’s not possible.” 

Your bottom lip quivers. “But Bucky—” 

“This isn’t about me,” Bucky says, eyes dark as he finally looks up. “If Bob could control himself after just meeting her, then this could be—this could help him control his powers. He might be able to use them without the other two showing up.” 

You frown, narrowing your eyes. “What are you talking about?” 

He doesn’t answer you. Instead, he turns to Yelena. “She could help him. This could help the whole the team.” 

Frustration bubbles beneath your skin, spreading like wildfire through your veins and making your heart pound. “This isn’t about the team, Bucky,” you snap. “This is about you and me.” 

Nausea swirls low in your gut, your body physically rebelling at your own words—this attempt to reject your mate. Because you don’t want to. Not really. But you know you should. You chose Bucky. And you’re going to stick with that. 

Even if it kills you. 

“Barnes...” Yelena says softly. “I’m not sure if—” 

“This isn’t about me!” he exclaims, turning toward her sharply, his expression stormy. “Not anymore.” 

You watch him with wide, watery eyes. “Bucky. Please. I don’t—I don’t want this... I don’t—” Your voice catches, breath halting as you fight for the words. “I don’t want... him.” It burns to say it, but you know it’s what Bucky needs to hear. “I want you. I choose you.” 

His face softens, blue eyes turning almost cerulean—the way they do when he’s close to tears. 

You turn to Alexei. “Couldn’t I just... help Bob? Be there for him to help control his powers and—and still be with Bucky?” 

Alexei chuckles—low and soft, full of quiet contrition. “You could try. But it would be difficult... being so close to him, wanting him in a way you cannot explain, and holding yourself back. Not to mention the physical and emotional pain you would put him through.” 

“So,” Yelena pipes up, “this could make Bob worse?” 

Alexei shrugs. “Theoretically, yes.” 

“Can’t we just try it?” you ask, your voice cracking halfway through as more tears spill down your cheeks. 

Yelena scoots closer and gently places her hand on your knee. She’s not entirely sure what to do—your body language is still guarded—but you offer her a soft smile as her thumb begins to trace small, calming circles. 

“We can try it,” she says quietly. 

Bucky nods, watching you with a heavy expression and the faintest spark of hope behind his eyes. “It’s worth a shot.” 

Alexei leans forward, his eyes crinkled and mouth pulling into an awkward grimace. “Well... there is one more thing.” 

You all turn toward him, frowning. 

“Do you remember what I said last night? About... it being different when you touch?” 

You nod slowly. 

“If you want to try just being his friend, then you cannot touch him,” he says. “Not at all. And you will want to—badly. But you cannot.” 

Yelena lifts a brow. “Why?” 

There’s a pause—an awkward silence while Alexei searches for the right words. 

“You will not be able to... resist, as you say. When you first see him, it is all spiritual. Like fate. An invisible string pulling you together, but...” he hesitates, brow furrowed. “When you touch, it is more... physical.” 

You suck in a sharp breath. “Physical?” 

“Yes.” He nods. “Like... sexual. You will not be able to—” 

“No, no,” Yelena cuts in, eyes wide as they flick toward Bucky. “We do not need to unpack this. She just won’t touch him.” She looks at you pointedly. “Right?” 

You nod. “Exactly.” 

Never mind that your fingertips are already burning. That your whole body is buzzing, restless with the ache to be near Bob again. The idea of his skin against yours sparks like a live wire and makes every nerve ending flare to life. You feel lit up—like something dormant inside you has snapped awake. Like a part of you was missing, and now that you’ve found it—felt it—you can’t breathe without it. 

Yeah... this is going to be fine. 

- 

The day has been long. Maybe the longest you’ve ever lived through. 

You tried to read. You tried watching TV. You even went for a run—which turned into a walk, which turned into a slow lap around the block before you forced yourself back inside. Because all you really wanted to do was find Bob. Go to him. Be near him. 

It’s strange. Unlike anything you’ve ever felt. You know him—somehow. Like he already belongs to you, and you to him, even though you’ve only met once. Barely exchanged a handful of words. 

Your whole body aches for him in a way you don’t understand. You feel like you’re fading without him, like staying away too long might cause you to unravel entirely. The idea of never seeing him again makes your stomach churn. 

But you can’t let it show. You have to remember you chose Bucky. He’s your person—not this stranger with eyes that feel like home. You gave your word. You said yes. 

So you’re going to marry Bucky. 

Even if it’s not what you want anymore. 

Even if he’s not what you want anymore. 

“You sure you’re feeling better?” Bucky asks, stopping at the door to the bathroom. 

You’ve been standing in a towel, staring at your reflection for at least five minutes now, trying to will yourself into being stronger. To shake this feeling. To silence the strange, restless hum beneath your skin—like stardust catching fire. Like gravity itself has shifted, bending around you, pulling your soul toward Bob’s with a force so fierce it almost hurts. 

You clear your throat. “Much better, I promise.” 

He gives you a small smile—weak, but still there. 

There’s a beat of silence. A stretch of unfamiliar energy between you, tense and fraying at the edges. As if the universe itself is rejecting the bond you once believed was written in the stars. 

But the stars had nothing to do with you and Bucky. Not really. 

Now you know what it truly feels like when the stars choose. When they bind one soul to another. 

“I love you,” he says softly, his voice hoarse. “Regardless of everything. Whatever you choose—I love you. I always will.” 

Your eyes fill with tears—easily, instantly. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I wish I could—” 

“Don’t,” he cuts in, nearly choking on the word. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” 

“But—” 

“Doll, I’m serious.” He steps forward, hesitating before reaching out with his flesh hand. You take it, and he gently pulls you a step closer. 

“I know what I said before—about the team. That shouldn’t have been what I was worried about. But it was easier, you know? Easier to focus on something practical than to face the truth. Which is… I think I’m going to lose you.” 

You shake your head, tears already spilling. “No, you’re not—” 

“It’s okay,” he whispers, forcing a tight, sad smile. “Maybe it’s meant to happen. Like… literally written in the stars, right? And if being away from him is hurting you, I won’t be the one who makes you stay. That’s the last thing I want.” 

He looks away, jaw working, before he meets your eyes again. “So just… forgive me. If I shut down. If I don’t know how to deal with this. If I can’t always stick around when—if—you choose him.” His voice trembles. “Because it’s going to hurt, doll. More than I probably know how to handle. But I meant what I said—I’ll let you go.” 

He blinks fast, but a few tears escape anyway, carving slow trails across his cheeks. “If that’s what’s right—for you, for him, for fate or the universe or whatever this is—then I won’t fight it.” 

He pauses, breathing deep.  

“But you have to promise me something.” His voice steadies, just a little. “Don’t hurt yourself for me. Don’t hold back. Don’t settle. Don’t lie to yourself just because you made a promise before everything changed. Before you knew what this really was. Can you promise me that?” 

You swallow hard, your breath catching in short, shallow gasps as you try not to scream. All you can do is nod. 

“Good,” he whispers, his fingers brushing the ring on your left hand. 

Then he leans in, eyes fluttering shut as he presses a soft kiss to your damp cheek. 

A sob breaks free from your chest, more tears falling fast as he slowly turns and walks away—leaving you standing there, crying for what feels like the thousandth time today. 

Not because you don’t love him. 

But because you don’t want him. 

And you hate yourself for that. Hate that you’re doing this to him.  

But there’s nothing in you strong enough to stop it. So all you can do now is try not to hurt him more than you already have. Try to make it work. 

Which is exactly why you’re going to the tower tonight. 

To see Bob. To talk to Bob. 

Because this thing—whatever it is—it involves him too. 

And that’s something everyone else seems to have forgotten. 

After drying your eyes—and then your body—you change into a fresh pair of sweats and another old hoodie. You pull on a pair of sneakers, run a brush through your hair, and head out the door. You don’t care about looking good right now. You don’t even care about looking decent. You just want to see Bob. 

The walk to the tower is quiet. Bucky doesn’t try to hold your hand, and you don’t notice until you’re standing outside the looming building—when nerves start to creep in and you suddenly wish you had something to hold on to. 

You glance his way, mouth parting—to ask for his hand, for comfort—but then you feel it. 

That pull. 

It threads through you like a live current, drawing you forward, calling to you like a heartbeat echoing in someone else’s chest. Like the ache of a memory you’ve never lived. 

“You ready?” Bucky asks softly. 

But his voice barely reaches you. It sounds distant, like he’s speaking from another room—or underwater. Muffled beneath the steady thrum of your pulse. 

You nod, eyes fixed ahead as you step through the doors. Into the elevator. 

You wait—still, silent—breath caught in your chest. 

Then the doors open. 

The moment you step into the common room, the air changes. 

Alexei, Yelena, Ava, and John are gathered near the TV, the low hum of a movie playing as they speak in hushed tones—careful, like they’re trying not to break something fragile. But none of them are the first thing you see. 

It’s Bob. 

He’s sitting alone on the far couch, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced loosely as he stares at nothing in particular. Like he’s been waiting in stillness. Like he knew. 

His head lifts before you even take a full step into the room. 

The moment your eyes meet, the rest of the world exhales. Or maybe it holds its breath—you can’t tell. All you know is that everything inside you goes quiet. The noise, the ache, the confusion—it all stills beneath the gravity of him. The pull. 

You don’t move at first. Neither does he. It’s like your souls got there before your bodies could catch up. Like the space between you is still catching fire. 

And then, gently, you walk toward him. Just a few steps. He rises slowly, hands by his sides, eyes locked on yours with a look so open, so raw, it nearly undoes you. 

No one speaks. 

Not until Ava lets out a soft, wide-eyed breath from the couch. “Holy shit.” 

The others glance between you and Bob, exchanging looks, but no one interrupts. No jokes. No commentary. Just the quiet understanding of people who have just witnessed something that feels... bigger. 

You stop in front of him. Close, but not touching. His breath hitches. Yours does too. 

Still, neither of you says a word. 

You don’t need to. 

Because whatever this is—this ancient, aching thing that lives between your ribs and beneath your skin—it’s speaking loud enough for both of you. 

Yelena clears her throat, gaze lingering on Bucky. “Okay… yeah. I get it now.” 

You blink rapidly, like you’ve just slammed back into your body after falling out of it. Slowly, you step back, eyes flicking toward the rest of the team—but refusing to snap straight back to Bob. 

“This is crazy,” Alexei says, his grin so wide and his eyes so bright it looks like he might actually combust. 

John pulls a face, nose wrinkled, confusion and mild disgust written all over him. “I can, like… feel it too.” He looks at you, alarmed. “Why?” 

You shrug, breath caught in your throat, your voice nowhere to be found. 

There’s a beat of silence, thick and humming with the weight of unspoken words and the flood of questions swirling through everyone’s minds. 

Then John claps his hands together, loud and abrupt. “Okay, so… how do we figure out if she can control him?” 

That snaps the room back into motion. 

“I don’t think it works like that,” Ava mutters, folding her arms. 

“How the hell would you know?” John fires back. 

Alexei lifts a brow. “She is not here to control Bob.” 

“Oh. Okay. Did you read that in one of your magic manuals?” John scoffs. 

“Walker, please,” Yelena sighs. “Now is not the time to argue.” 

They start talking over one another, voices rising and overlapping like a wave about to crash. 

And then— 

“Wait.” 

The single word is soft. Barely audible. 

Bob. 

Everyone turns, and the room falls back into a heavy silence. 

He shifts slightly on his feet, shoulders drawn tight, eyes fixed on the floor for a beat before flickering up to you. His voice is uncertain, but steady enough. “I… I’m confused.” 

There’s a pause. 

“What do you mean?” Yelena asks gently. 

Bob swallows, glancing around the room before his gaze returns to you. 

“Well… whatever this is, I feel it. I know it. I know—” His voice falters as he looks at you again, softer now, “I know you. You’re… mine.” 

You don’t flinch. You don’t look away. 

He blinks, grounding himself. 

“But… I don’t understand what’s happening. Why it’s happening. Or… what you’re all talking about.” 

You open your mouth, but Bucky speaks first, stepping forward. 

“She’s not staying,” he says quietly, almost scared to say it out loud. “Not really. She’s… choosing me.” 

Bob’s brows pull together, dark blue eyes widening. 

“I mean… she’s here to help,” Yelena jumps in, a little too quickly. “Just to help. While we figure things out.” 

“Help,” Bob repeats, like he’s trying to fit the word into a sentence that doesn’t quite work. 

You finally speak, voice low. “I’m not leaving you. Not completely. But I also… I made a promise. And right now, I’m trying to keep it.” 

Bob’s eyes search yours—not angry. Not desperate. Just… aching with the effort of holding something too big for his hands. 

And somehow, that’s what hurts the most. 

Because those words taste like acid in your mouth. Burning your tongue like white-hot lies. 

You don’t want to keep your promise—not now. Not when he is standing there, looking at you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world. You don’t want to walk away to protect someone else, even if that someone else has your heart in his hands too. 

All you want is this. Him. The man in front of you. 

You want to hold him. To reach across the impossible space between you and wrap your fingers around his and never let go. To tell him that whatever force carved your souls from the same star had it right. That you don’t care about the plan or the past or the path you promised to walk. 

You just want to stay. 

You want to lace your soul into words and place them in his hands. 

To tell him that you’ll keep him safe. 

That you’ll be the light when his world goes dark. 

That you’ll be steady when everything else shakes apart. 

That he doesn’t have to be alone anymore. 

That you’re his. 

Because you are. You always were. Even before you knew. 

And walking away from that feels like trying to cut the sky in half and pretend the stars won’t notice. 

“I—I don’t understand,” Bob says, his voice firmer now, edged with something darker. Something dangerous. “She doesn’t want this.” 

You exhale sharply, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer. “Bob, please.” 

His eyes snap to you, wide and shining with everything he can’t bring himself to say. But you don’t need words. You don’t need promises. You just need him. 

“You don’t want this,” he repeats, softer now. Almost broken. 

You swallow hard. “I do. This is what I’m… choosing.” 

His brow pulls tight. “Why?” 

“I made a promise,” you say again, as if saying it enough times might make it true. “And I want to keep it.” 

You don’t. 

“But I’ll still be here when you need me. We can still… be together. Just… not completely.” 

Bob’s eyes shift to Bucky, dark blue bleeding into molten silver. “She’s choosing you?” 

The energy in the room changes again. 

The air goes still. No static hum. No crackle of power. Just… silence. 

Heavy and unnatural—like being buried underwater. A crushing pressure that squeezes your lungs until you forget how to breathe. 

Bob’s jaw tightens. You can see it—feel it—in the tension radiating off him. In the flicker of silver that sharpens, flares, then fades again in his eyes. 

“You’re lying,” he says quietly. 

Your breath catches. 

“I can feel you,” he continues, voice raw, trembling just beneath the surface. “That’s what this is, right? This connection? I feel you, and you feel me. So I know you don’t want this.” 

“Bob—” 

His hands clench into fists at his sides. “No. Don’t say it again. Don’t say it’s your choice. Don’t say it’s a promise. Because that’s not what you’re feeling.” His voice cracks, then drops into something lower. Rougher. “You want me. I know you do.” 

A faint pulse of cold slips through the room—sharp and unnatural, like a draft from somewhere that shouldn’t exist. It kisses your skin, raises every hair on your arms, and sinks deeper, like ice threading through bone. 

Ava shifts her weight uneasily. John glances toward Bucky, tense. 

“I don’t understand,” Bob says again, and this time his voice is breaking. “Why are you lying to me? Why are you choosing something that hurts you? That hurts us?” 

You open your mouth, but the words aren’t there. They’ve drowned somewhere in your throat, tangled in the ache behind your ribs. 

“I can feel your heart,” he whispers, silver light blooming behind his irises again. “And it’s breaking.” 

There’s a pause. A beat where no one dares to speak. No one breathes. 

Then Yelena steps forward, her voice steady. “Bob, please. You need to—” 

But he cuts her off, eyes flashing silver as his anger sharpens, gaze snapping to Bucky. “Why won’t you let her go?” 

Bucky swallows and takes a step back, his blue eyes wide and watery, flicking between you and Bob. “I—” 

“She’s not yours,” Bob says, his voice so deep it echoes through the room—through your mind. “You can’t keep her.” 

The room tenses. Silence coils thick around you, something ethereal seeping into the air like gasoline waiting for a spark. 

“Bob,” Yelena tries again, louder now, more urgent. “You need to calm down. Now.” 

You glance at the floor—at Bob’s feet. Shadows crawl across them, creeping upward, inch by inch, slowly consuming him. 

Panic flickers across his face. He knows he’s slipping. The power inside him swells—cold, fierce, pressing outward. 

His breath comes faster, fists trembling. “I’m… I’m sorry—” 

The air snaps, taut like a wire pulled too tight. His power spirals, wild and uncontained, slicing through the room in jagged bursts like shards of ice. 

The darkness creeps higher with every breath, swallowing him slow—leaving nothing in its wake but shadow, nothing but void.  

“This was supposed to help,” John snaps. “She was supposed to help him, not make it worse!” 

Alexei steps forward, eyes locked on you. “You need to go to him.” 

You shake your head, slow and small, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I—I can’t.” 

Ava backs away, her body flickering as she prepares to phase. 

“Bob, look at me,” Yelena says, steady but firm. “Breathe. You are not alone.” 

But his eyes stay on you. That look—raw heartbreak etched into every line of his face, love twisted with fear and confusion— 

It fractures something inside of you. 

“We need to get out of here,” Ava calls from a few feet away. 

John starts backing up, his eyes wide and locked on Bob—as if waiting for a sign to turn and run. 

“We cannot leave him,” Alexei says. “We go in, if we have to.” 

“Bob,” Yelena pleads. “You’ve got this. Please. You can control this.” 

Everything starts to blur. 

The shouting becomes a wall of noise, voices crashing over each other, words slurring until they’re nothing but static—a low, violent hum in your ears. The blood rushes louder. Your head throbs, a sickening, rhythmic pounding like your skull is splitting apart from the inside out. 

You want to scream. 

You want to tear at your skin just to feel something real, to make the pain physical—tangible—because at least that would make sense. You want to tell them all to shut up. To stop talking. To just let you breathe. 

You want to drop to your knees and scream into the void until it spits him back out. 

Bob. 

Bob, whose body is almost completely swallowed by shadow. 

Bob, whose eyes—silver and scared—are locked on yours, pleading. Begging. 

Bob, who holds your heart in his shaking hands. Who owns your soul, even now. Even as you’re walking away from him. 

The one thing you need… and the one thing you’re denying yourself. 

And for what? 

For the heart of someone else? For a promise that was never meant to cost this much? 

You would burn the whole damn world to save him. 

You’d tear the universe apart just to keep from breaking that heart. 

But this? This is breaking yours too. 

Bucky’s voice cuts through the chaos—barely louder than a whisper, but somehow it reaches you. Steady, but breaking. 

“It’s okay,” he says, eyes locked on yours even as his own brim with tears. “Go to him. I’ll be okay.” 

You shake your head, lips trembling, a silent protest caught in your throat. But deep down, you know he means it. You feel it—the weight of his acceptance, the way he's choosing love over possession. Choosing you, even if it breaks him. 

“I don’t want to let you go. God, I don’t. But I can’t be the reason he breaks.” 

Your chest aches so deeply it nearly folds you in half. But there’s something else there too—something small and warm and unspeakably grateful. You don’t deserve this kind of kindness. But he’s giving it anyway. 

“You still have a part of me. Always will.” His voice falters, but his eyes stay soft. “But he needs all of you right now. And I… I just want you to be safe.” 

A sound escapes your throat, half a sob, half his name. You take a shaky breath, tears sliding down your cheeks as you step toward him—not to stay, but to say thank you without words. 

His smile is soft. Cracked around the edges. Brave in the way only someone who’s breaking can be. 

“It’s okay. I promise.” 

You nod once. Swallow hard. Squeeze your eyes shut—steadying yourself. Then turn back toward him. 

Bob, who’s almost gone—his form nearly swallowed by the creeping dark, his features carved in flickers of silver and shadow. He stands there like a man on the edge of oblivion, barely tethered to this world. Just a silhouette of the boy you love, wrapped in light and ruin. 

His eyes find yours, and for a second, everything stills. 

Even now, almost lost to the void, he sees you. Only you. 

You take a step forward, your body trembling with the weight of it all—the fear, the guilt, the unbearable ache of loving something you might be too late to save. 

“Bob,” you whisper, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, like a lifeline. 

The darkness claws higher, curling up his neck like smoke. But his eyes—those bright, breaking eyes—shine through it all. The fear in them cuts through you like a blade. Not fear of what’s happening to him. 

Fear that you won’t come. 

That you’ll leave. 

That he’ll lose you, too. 

“It’s okay,” you say—to him or yourself, you’re not sure. 

You lift your hand and move forward, closing the space with slow and careful steps—like one wrong move could shatter the world. 

One step, then another—until you’re standing toe to toe with him. The shadow writhes beneath your feet, hungry and alive, but the moment you enter his space, it curls back. Like it knows you. Like it fears you. 

Or maybe it just recognises what he loves. 

The air is ice. He’s trembling. His face—barely visible now—flickers in and out of shadow like a dying flame. You reach for him, slow and sure, your fingers brushing the centre of his chest. 

Right over his heart. 

And the darkness parts. 

Just slightly—splitting like oil pulled from water, leaving a sliver of fabric beneath your touch. His heart stutters. Yours lurches. 

Then you press your palm flat. 

And a soft light blooms. 

Not blinding, not loud—just a soft, golden glow that seeps from beneath your hand like a memory. Gentle and warm. It spreads slow, steady. The shadow recoils, peeling back inch by inch, retreating from the light, from you. 

Everything stops. 

The void is gone. 

Your ears are filled with the sound of your own pulse as you stare into those dark blue eyes—like the ocean kissed the sky and gave birth to this colour just for him. 

He looks so fragile now. So tired. Wrecked not just by the strain of his powers, but by the weight of you. Of your touch. Your choice. 

You, choosing him. 

For a moment, you just stare at each other—memorising every line, every flicker of emotion—though you already know his face by heart. You’ve always known him. In dreams. In shadows. In the quiet corners of your mind. Drifting through memories and half-sleep, like your souls were stitched together before time ever started. 

Always there. Always waiting. 

“You okay?” you whisper, your voice faint, barely real. 

He nods. 

Then you collapse into him, arms winding around his waist, clinging like you’ll never let go. 

And you won’t. 

Not ever. 

There’s still guilt. A lingering ache for the hurt you’ve caused. A hollow echo of someone else’s heart breaking. 

But right now, all you feel is Bob. His arms around you, pulling you in like a lifeline. His face tucked into your neck, curls brushing your skin like a secret only he gets to know. 

All you want is Bob. 

All you need is Bob. 

You can’t believe you ever thought you could live without this. 

Without him. 

Trying to choose someone else would’ve destroyed you. You see that now. 

You feel it. 

At some point, you shift to the couch. The others are gone—when exactly, you’re not sure—but you’re grateful. You need space. Time. And Bob needs rest. 

Which he finally gets. For a few hours. 

You settle at one end, sinking into the soft cushions, with Bob’s head resting in your lap. His arms wrap around your thigh like a vice—steady strength even in sleep. You play with his curls, trace the line of his jaw, and rub gentle circles along his back as he drifts. 

You’re exhausted, but sleep eludes you. You don’t want to waste a single second with him. Never before have you wanted someone so fiercely. All you need is to feel him here—safe, alive, with you. 

So you stay awake. Occasionally you shift, easing pins and needles or aching muscles, but Bob barely stirs. He nuzzles into your lap, your lower belly, holding on as if you’re the only thing keeping him from unravelling. 

It should feel strange, wrong even. But nothing has ever felt more right. 

You know this man better than you know yourself—of that, you are certain—and no part of you hesitates or doubts. This is real. The most real thing you’ve ever known. 

You know it’ll be complicated. Awkward with the team, even more so with Bucky. You’ll have to hide it from the world for a while. But none of it matters—not one bit—when the boy in your lap breathes softly against your skin. His lashes dark on flushed cheeks, lips parted with a stray drop of drool on your thigh, and that aching, desperate pull in your chest growing stronger with every breath. 

He sleeps until the sun starts to set, and you stay with him. At one point, you turn on the TV and pick a random movie, but your eyes rarely leave Bob. You don’t need him to wake—you’re perfectly content just being near him—but when his lashes finally flutter open, your breath still catches. 

He stretches slowly, shifting against you like a cat basking in the sun all day. Then he rubs his eyes and sits up, blinking blearily, a soft smile curling at the edges of his lips. 

“You stayed,” he murmurs. 

You nod. 

Without him, your body feels cold, but you resist the urge to cling to him. He needs space to wake fully, to stretch his limbs and shake off the last vestiges of sleep. 

“Where are the others?” he asks. 

You shrug. “Not sure. They’ve been gone all day.” 

He nods slowly. “Did you—Did you leave at all?” 

“No,” you say softly. “Stayed right here.” 

He shifts closer, one hand finding yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world—as if his hands have known yours for years. 

His brow creases. “You must be starving.” 

You bite your bottom lip, weighing up your next response. Because yes, you’re hungry—but there’s something else you’re craving. Something more urgent, more raw than anything you’ve ever known. Something you need more than you want. Something Alexei warned you about, and you didn’t quite believe—until now. Now it claws at your chest, primal and fierce, relentless and aching. 

“There’s… something else,” you say slowly. “I don’t know if you—” 

“I do,” he cuts in. 

Your lips part, breath catching in quick, uneven gasps as you hold his gaze—captivated, utterly pinned by the raw hunger burning in his eyes. 

His brows lift ever so slightly, a subtle twitch—a silent question hanging in the air. You nod. 

Then he moves forward, hands cupping your jaw—careful but urgent, as if he can’t quite believe you’re real. 

The world fractures—time fractures—and everything narrows to a single, blazing point where your lips slam together with the force of a thousand storms. 

It’s raw. Fierce. Like the universe just exploded inside your chest. 

His mouth devours yours—claiming, desperate—fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. You burn and tremble, caught in a tidal wave of need and relief that steals your breath. 

The air hums with electricity, silence shattered by ragged gasps and the wild pounding of your hearts—syncing, breaking, snapping together like a sacred, unspoken vow breaking free. 

Every nerve screams alive, every touch sending sparks crashing like fireworks. It’s hot, heavy, frantic—a beautiful chaos that feels like coming home after being lost forever. 

You taste everything—fire, desperation, the sharp tang of longing—and drown in it, surrendering to the moment where nothing else exists but this. 

When you finally pull back, your foreheads collide, breaths mingling in ragged gasps. His eyes are dark, wild, shattered open, and in that look, you know this bond has broken through every barrier, every shadow, every doubt. 

You’re his. 

And he’s yours. 

“I need you,” he whispers, voice rough, cracking, as his hands slip beneath your shirt. 

“I know,” you breathe, arching into him, trembling. “I need you too.” 

- 

“Do we have to?” Bob sighs, face buried in the crook of your neck, his curls tickling your bare skin. 

You giggle, placing a kiss to his shoulder, perfectly content beneath the weight of his body—his completely naked body. 

“I mean,” you murmur, fingers trailing down the dip of his spine, “you’re already late. Is there really any point in going at all?” 

He lifts his head, deep blue eyes shining with adoration as he looks at you. “Exactly,” he says, soft lips twitching. “Besides, I can think of a thousand other things I’d rather do.” 

He shifts, and you feel it—hard and heavy, pressing insistently against your lower belly. 

Your lips curl into a smirk, heat blooming low and hot between your thighs. “And what exactly might these other things entail?” 

He chuckles, sliding down slightly, tracing his tongue between the valley of your breasts. 

“So many things,” he murmurs against your skin, “all of them involving me inside of you… in one way or another.” 

You hum, eyes fluttering shut as his mouth wraps around your nipple, drawing a breathy sigh from your lips. “That sounds…” you gasp when his teeth graze the sensitive bud, “very good.” 

He looks up again, lips parting from your skin as he gives you a soft, boyish smile. His eyes are bright—almost pale blue in the morning light spilling through the windows—and he looks so damn pretty. His curls are mussed, his cheeks are pink, and his skin is pressed flush against yours in the most delicious way. Even after weeks of having him—weeks of giving yourself to him in every possible way—you still can’t get enough. 

“Does that mean we’re staying?” he asks, hands gliding up your ribs toward your breasts. 

You giggle, flinching at the ticklish drag of his fingertips across your bare skin. There’s nothing you want more than to stay right here with him—forever. You don’t care if his teammates are waiting. You don’t even care if they blame you for holding him hostage. All you want is to stay tangled up with Bob until something human forces you to stop devouring each other—either sleep or hunger, the usual culprits. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, a dopey, lovesick smile curling your lips, “we’re staying… but on one condition.” 

His brow furrows, and he sits up a little further, his hard cock grinding against you in the most distracting way. 

“Bob,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut, hands flying to his shoulders to hold him still. 

He laughs softly, low and cheeky. “Yes?” 

“I need you to fuck me,” you say, cheeks flushing pink—despite the fact that he literally just did, not five minutes ago. “Again,” you add. “And again, until I can’t walk.” 

When your eyes open, you find his—dark and hungry, a stark contrast to the sweet, boyish softness from just seconds ago. 

“And then I want pancakes,” you say with a small smirk. 

His lips curve before he surges up and crushes his mouth to yours. Your chest aches. Your stomach swirls. Every coherent thought in your head vanishes. You’ve kissed Bob hundreds—maybe thousands—of times by now, and still, every kiss is earth-shattering. Every kiss steals your breath, stops your heart, and reminds you that this man was made for you. 

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips. 

You let out a breathless sigh as he trails kisses down your jaw, his mouth sucking a bruise into the soft skin of your neck. “I love you too.” 

- 

Mates are rare. They're not just lovers or partners—they’re soul-deep bonds that tilt the earth, shatter reality, and leave everything else dull by comparison. They’re not easy. They break hearts just as easily as they heal them. But when you find yours, there’s no doubt. No fear. No force on earth strong enough to pull you away. 

Because despite everything—despite the hurt, the heartache, and the chaos—you know with absolute certainty that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be. 

With Bob. 

END.

[buttercandy16]

UNTIL YOU'RE MINE

PAIRING: Teacher!Agatha Harkness x Student! Reader

SUMMARY: When your teacher becomes your nightmare.

WARNING(s): Dark Themes, Yandere, Kidnapping, Blood and Murder, Stockholm Syndrome

A/N: Been a while 😚🔪

You were sixteen the first time you saw her.

It was the start of the second semester, and you were assigned to a new English class—Advanced Literature. Room 207. A class meant for seniors and the academically gifted. You didn’t feel like either. You’d only gotten in because of your high reading scores and a transfer from your last school. A quiet, bookish girl who kept her head down, who blended in easily. You’d always preferred the silence of pages over people.

The bell rang as you stepped through the threshold. That’s when you saw her.

Ms. Harkness.

She stood at the front of the room, chalk in hand, already halfway through writing a quote on the board:

“We are all fools in love.” —Jane Austen

The first thing you noticed was how still she was—like a painting. She held herself with a kind of effortless elegance, tall and commanding in a dark plum blouse that hugged her figure, her black slacks sleek, polished boots clicking softly against the floor as she turned.

And then she looked at you.

A subtle flicker of her violet eyes over her shoulder, and the second her gaze met yours, your breath caught. There was something unreadable in her expression—something sharp and silent, like the moment just before lightning strikes.

Her stare wasn’t just a glance—it was assessing you, stripping you down to your bones and memorizing each one.

You froze in place.

She smiled.

“New student?” she asked. Her voice was smooth, honeyed, but there was something underneath it—a weight that felt too intense for a simple greeting.

You nodded. “Y-Yes.”

“Name?”

You told her, feeling like the sound of it no longer belonged to you.

“Lovely,” she murmured. “Why don’t you sit here?” She gestured to the front row, third seat from the left. Right in the center of her field of view.

It wasn’t a request.

You obeyed without question, feeling her eyes on your back the entire walk there. The other students were chatting, oblivious, but something inside you had already shifted. There was a tremble in your chest you couldn’t name.

You sat down, took out your notebook, and tried to focus. Tried to steady your breathing.

But Ms. Harkness didn’t look away.

The lesson that day was on Pride and Prejudice. You’d read it before. Knew all the characters. But the way she spoke about it made the book feel entirely new. Her voice was slow, deliberate, and she never once glanced at her notes. Every word she spoke felt chosen. Purposeful.

“Love,” she said, strolling between the desks with her hands clasped behind her back, “is often mistaken for admiration. Or obsession. Or control. But real love… it transforms you. It consumes you.”

She paused by your desk.

Her hand rested lightly on your shoulder. You froze again.

“Sometimes,” she continued, looking down at you with eyes like wine, “you don’t even realize you’re falling until it’s far too late.”

A few students chuckled. You didn’t. Your skin was burning under her touch, but her grip didn’t move. Not until you shifted uncomfortably in your chair.

Only then did she withdraw.

At the end of class, you were the last to leave. Your pencil case had spilled open, and you were scrambling to gather everything when her shadow loomed over your desk.

“You’re quite bright,” she said, crouching to help you collect your pens. “Your analysis earlier on Elizabeth Bennet’s pride… It was insightful. Very mature for someone your age.”

You gave her a quiet “thank you,” cheeks flushing. She was too close. You could smell her perfume—something floral, but dark, like night-blooming jasmine.

She handed you a pink gel pen you hadn’t noticed was missing.

“Don’t be afraid to speak more in class,” she said gently, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I want to hear what’s in that pretty little head of yours.”

You nodded, almost dizzy from the attention.

She smiled.

You left the classroom feeling… strange. Not quite flattered. Not quite afraid.

Just noticed in a way you’d never been before.

That night, as you sat on your bed journaling, your thoughts drifted back to her. The way she looked at you. The way her fingers had lingered too long. You tried to tell yourself it was nothing—that you were being silly.

But deep down, something about that first glance stuck with you.

What you didn’t know was that hours later, Ms. Harkness was still in her classroom—alone, the lights dimmed, your name written over and over again in the margins of her notebook like a chant.

She didn’t go home.

She stayed there long into the night, whispering your name under her breath with a smile so soft it could be mistaken for love… if not for the madness shimmering beneath it.

The days passed quietly at first.

Ms. Harkness kept her distance, at least in the way most teachers did. No inappropriate comments. No touchy-feely gestures like that first day. But her attention never strayed far from you. She called on you often—always asking the most difficult questions. She said it was because you were “capable,” “gifted.” But her gaze never felt like it belonged to a teacher admiring talent.

It felt like a secret. A claim.

Every time you looked up, she was watching you. Not always directly. Sometimes through the reflection of the window. Sometimes from behind a book, her violet eyes just barely visible. But it was constant.

And soon, subtle things began to change.

Your essays always received glowing praise, even when you knew they weren’t your best. She began to write notes in the margins—not just about the text, but about you.

“You have such a sensitive soul.”

“Your mind is beautiful. I hope others recognize that.”

“This reminds me of a line I once underlined when I was your age—‘She walked through life as if the stars were her only companions.’ That’s you.”

You showed one of the notes to a friend once, laughing it off. But even as you smiled, something inside you twisted.

Then came the gifts.

Small things at first. A new journal left on your desk. A ribbon tied around it in your favorite color. A paperback book—The Bell Jar—with a note tucked inside the front cover:

“For when the world feels heavy. You’re not alone.” — A.H.

You never told her your favorite color. Or that you suffered from the occasional panic attack. But somehow, she knew.

When you brought it up after class—trying to politely return the journal—she merely smiled and said, “A teacher’s job is to nurture their brightest. I see you, sweetheart.”

She said it like a blessing. Like a vow.

You started to dread English class.

But skipping wasn’t an option. She always noticed. And the one time you were late because you had a nosebleed in the hallway, she showed up at the nurse’s office ten minutes later, eyes blazing with concern.

“She’s mine,” she hissed at the nurse when she tried to escort you. You saw it. Heard it. A quiet, deadly whisper she thought no one else caught.

You pretended not to.

Later that day, you found a packet of tissues and a bottle of herbal tea left inside your locker. No note. But it didn’t need one. You knew it was from her.

You started double-checking that your bedroom blinds were drawn at night. You couldn't explain why. It was just a feeling.

And then came the dream.

You were walking through a library alone. Shelves stretched up into the darkness like pillars in a cathedral. Every book you touched had your name on the cover.

And then she appeared behind you.

Her hand slid down your back—slow, warm, possessive. Her voice against your neck.

"Do you know how many versions of you I’ve read? How many I’ve rewritten in my head?"

You woke up sweating. Shaking.

Something was wrong.

The final straw was the email.

It came late—well past midnight. You checked it while lying in bed, groggy and half-asleep. The subject line read:

“My Dear Girl.”

Your heart thudded before you even opened it.

I know it’s not appropriate to write this. But I can’t help myself anymore.

You’re in my mind constantly. Every word I speak in class is for you. Every book I assign is because I want you to feel seen. Heard. Loved.

When I look at you, I don’t see a student. I see a soulmate who hasn’t yet remembered me.

Please don’t be afraid.

This is destiny.

Yours, always.

Agatha

You stared at the screen for what felt like hours. You didn’t breathe. You didn’t move.

The next morning, you didn’t go to school.

Your parents noticed your silence. You brushed them off. Said you were tired. That it was just “school stress.” But your hands kept shaking.

When you finally worked up the courage to show them the email, they both went pale. Your father called the school. Your mother held you tightly as you cried, whispering, “It’s okay now. We’ll protect you.”

The school promised action.

And for once… they followed through.

Within a week, Agatha Harkness was fired.

The official story was “boundary violations.” No charges filed. No police involved. The school didn’t want a scandal. They swept it under the rug with the efficiency of a place terrified of lawsuits.

But the day she was dismissed, she stood in the hallway outside your class.

She was wearing the same plum blouse from the first day you met her.

And she was smiling.

You stayed inside, heart pounding as you watched from the window. She didn’t yell. Didn’t weep. She simply placed a small envelope on the floor outside your door, turned slowly, and walked out of the building.

You never opened the envelope.

Your father burned it in the fireplace that night.

But even as the flames consumed the paper, and your parents held you in their arms, something inside you whispered:

It’s not over.

_-_-_

You didn’t sleep much after she was fired.

Even with the locks changed, even with your father installing motion-activated floodlights outside the house and your mother insisting you carry pepper spray, you couldn’t shake the feeling that she was close. Watching.

You’d flinch at the sound of tires on gravel. You started checking behind you in hallways, in parking lots, in the mirror. Every shadow stretched too long. Every stranger in the corner of your eye became her.

You kept telling yourself it was over.

But you knew better.

And so did your parents.

Because two weeks after she was fired, you found a bouquet on the front porch. Black dahlias. Tied with the same ribbon she once wrapped around the journal she gave you.

No card. No name. But you knew.

Your mother screamed when she saw them. Your father threw them in the garbage with shaking hands. That night, he filed for a restraining order.

The hearing was short.

You didn’t have to attend in person—just a signed statement. Your parents sat before the judge and presented the emails, the gifts, the testimony. The envelope. The flowers. It wasn’t hard to prove inappropriate conduct.

Agatha didn’t fight it.

In fact, she didn’t show up at all.

But as you would soon learn, that wasn’t mercy.

It was calm before the storm.

The order was granted. Agatha Harkness was forbidden to come within 500 feet of you or your home. She was not allowed to contact you in any form.

But that didn’t stop her.

It began subtly again.

You started seeing your name carved into things.

A bench at your bus stop, freshly etched with careful script: Y/N + A.H.

Your Instagram account—private—somehow had a new follower with no posts, no icon. The account’s name? ForeverHarkness.

Blocked.

Then came the voicemails.

The first was just breathing. A soft, almost lullaby-like hum in the background. You deleted it, hands trembling.

The second was worse.

“You’re confused right now. I understand. But I forgive you. I forgive your parents too… even though they’re trying to poison you against me. They don’t see you the way I do. They never did. You’re mine, little one. And I’ll wait. As long as I have to.”

You never gave her your number.

Your mother found you sobbing in your closet that night, curled into yourself like a frightened animal.

The next morning, you transferred schools again.

But it wasn’t far enough.

Agatha sent letters. Somehow she found your new campus. She started leaving gifts in your locker—no longer with love notes, but with old poetry torn from books:

“I cannot live without my soul.” – Wuthering Heights

“She is all things holy and unholy, and I will drink her like sin.” – Scribbled over in red ink

At this point, police were called. But the letters stopped before they could catch her. No fingerprints. No footage.

She was careful.

Too careful.

Your parents considered moving out of state. You begged them to. You begged.

But your dad insisted, “We can’t let her drive us out of our lives.” He stood firm.

You wanted to believe him.

But deep down, you felt it coming.

The night it happened, it rained.

You remember that detail more than anything. The sky split open like it was mourning before you even knew why.

You were in your room, headphones in, buried beneath a blanket, trying to disappear into music that didn’t remind you of her. Your parents were downstairs. Your little brother was watching cartoons in the living room.

Then—

A bang.

Not thunder.

A scream.

Then another.

You ripped off your headphones and bolted upright just as the lights went out. The entire house plunged into darkness.

You called for your dad.

No answer.

Called for your mom.

Nothing.

Then—footsteps.

Not heavy like your father’s.

Heels. Sharp and slow.

You panicked and ran—not outside. There wasn’t time. You ran into your closet and pulled the door almost closed, holding your breath.

And through the crack, you saw her.

Agatha.

Drenched from the rain, hair clinging to her face in wild strands. She wore black leather gloves and carried something long and gleaming—a knife. Her face was calm. Serene.

Like she was finally home.

She stepped over your father’s body first.

His blood stained the carpet. His eyes were still open.

You didn’t scream.

You couldn’t.

Your entire body had gone cold.

Your mother’s sobs came from the kitchen. Pleading. You heard a single word: “Please.”

Then—silence.

Followed by the sound of slicing.

Wet. Slow.

You wanted to close your eyes, but you couldn’t. You were frozen in a nightmare where you had to keep watching.

Your brother never even screamed. He was the last. You watched Agatha cradle his head like a mother might soothe a sleeping child.

When she finished, she stood in the center of your living room, slick with blood, and smiled.

“I told you,” she whispered to the dark. “They were in the way.”

You bit into your sleeve to keep from making a sound. You tasted blood—your own—where your teeth broke skin.

Then, suddenly, she stopped.

She tilted her head… as if listening.

Her gaze turned toward your room.

Your closet.

And she started walking toward it.

You never remembered how you escaped.

Not really.

The trauma split your memory in half, like a photograph soaked in bleach—faces smeared, sounds muffled, colors all turned gray. But pieces of it stayed with you. Forever.

The smell of blood.

The sound of wet footsteps squelching across your bedroom carpet.

The closet door cracking open just a few inches…

And her face.

Agatha's eyes had been wild with something almost… joyful. Like she’d finally peeled back the last page of a long-awaited story. There you were. Huddled inside the closet like a trembling paragraph she’d always known was hiding between the lines.

But something stopped her.

Maybe the distant echo of sirens. Maybe the sight of your tear-streaked face, paralyzed and bloodied from biting your own sleeve. Maybe it was enough, for now, just to see you watch her.

She didn’t pull you out. Didn’t speak.

She knelt slowly.

Placed her gloved hand on the closet door, just above your head.

And whispered.

“You’ll understand someday. I did this for you.”

Then she stood, turned—and vanished into the house.

By the time the police arrived, she was already gone.

You were the only one left alive.

The only one who saw everything.

Your parents.

Your little brother.

Slaughtered.

And you—

The hidden, haunted witness.

The courtroom was cold.

Almost too clean. Too bright. As if no evil could possibly exist in such a sterile space.

But when they brought her in—hands cuffed, orange jumpsuit too neat on her body—you felt the oxygen drain from your lungs.

She looked beautiful.

Not bloodstained. Not mad.

Beautiful.

Her hair was neatly pinned back. Her makeup light, tasteful. She looked like a version of herself you hadn’t seen in a year. The composed teacher. The poised intellectual.

But when she saw you…

Her lips parted into a soft, delighted smile.

Like you were a long-lost lover walking down the aisle.

You couldn’t look away.

You wanted to, but your body didn’t obey you anymore.

She mouthed two words across the courtroom.

Deliberate. Slow.

“My darling.”

Your hands trembled. A court officer touched your shoulder gently and whispered, “You don’t have to look at her.” But it was too late. Her image was already burned behind your eyes like a flashbulb.

You testified.

Through a locked jaw and a throat full of knives, you told them what happened. You told them everything.

The emails. The stalking. The flowers.

The night you saw her kill your entire family.

The jury never even debated for long. The evidence was overwhelming. The restraining order violation. The blood on her gloves. The flowers matched to the same rare nursery where she bought the black dahlias. Everything lined up.

She was sentenced to life in prison with no chance of parole.

And yet…

That final moment—before the guards dragged her away—unraveled everything.

She leaned forward as the verdict was read, her hands trembling with something between ecstasy and rage.

And she stared right at you.

“This isn’t over,” she said aloud.

“You’re mine. One way or another, I’ll have you.”

Court officers restrained her. The judge slammed the gavel. Your therapist cried. The newspapers printed your face under headlines like “Teen Survives Family Massacre” and “Killer Teacher Obsessed with Student.”

But none of that mattered.

Because her words stayed with you.

They grew roots in your chest. Coiled around your spine.

You weren’t just a survivor.

You were a promise.

Years passed.

You tried to move on.

You changed your name. You changed schools. You changed cities.

You stopped writing. You stopped reading. You stopped anything that made you remember her, which meant almost everything. You drifted through therapy like a ghost. Some days, you felt human again. Other days, you weren’t so sure.

And then… finally…

You met someone.

A girl named Elara.

She was everything Agatha wasn’t—soft-spoken, gentle, uncertain in her own way. She kissed you like you were made of glass, and you kissed her like you were trying not to shatter.

She never asked about the past.

Only the future.

You smiled when she called you hers.

You believed her when she said you were safe now.

You even agreed to go on that vacation with her and your friends. A quiet cabin, upstate. No signal. No noise. Just trees, water, sky.

You almost felt alive again.

You never expected the nightmare to crawl back from the grave.

The cabin was supposed to be an escape.

Nestled beside a glimmering lake in the woods, hours from any major city, it had no reception, no internet, and no past. Your friends insisted it would be healing. A clean slate. A few days with people who made you laugh, drink, dance, and forget.

And for a time, it worked.

Elara held your hand without expecting you to explain why your grip trembled. She knew enough to understand your ghosts had teeth. The others—Mika, Jules, and Aaron—respected the space around your silence.

There were s’mores. Laughter. Music that filled the trees.

The stars looked like diamonds that had forgiven the night sky.

You let yourself believe it was over.

You let yourself breathe.

Until the first night.

The first sign was the carving.

Aaron found it etched into a tree near the dock while looking for firewood. Letters carefully gouged into bark.

Y/N + A.H.

Forever. Even Death Can't Stop Me.

At first, they laughed. Said it must’ve been someone messing around. A coincidence. A joke.

But you froze.

Because you’d seen that same phrasing before. In a letter. In her voice.

And the carving was fresh.

Elara noticed your stillness and led you inside. “It’s nothing,” she whispered. “It’s someone else. It has to be.”

But that night, you barely slept.

The woods felt too quiet. Too aware.

The second sign was the phone.

Your old phone—the one you’d discarded years ago—was sitting on the windowsill the next morning when you woke up.

Dead. Cracked screen.

The wallpaper still the same: a photo of your family. From before.

And taped across it was a single line:

"You changed your name, but not your soul. I still know where you live."

You dropped it. Screamed. The others came running.

Jules wanted to call the police, but there was no service. Mika searched the woods. Found nothing. No footprints. No sign of entry.

“We’re miles from anything,” Aaron argued. “No way someone just walked up here in the middle of the night.”

But you knew better.

This wasn’t someone.

This was her.

That night, Mika didn’t come back.

She said she was going to the car for extra blankets. She didn’t answer when you called. The guys searched until dawn—up and down the dirt road, into the tree line, calling her name.

At sunrise, they found her.

Or what was left of her.

Face down by the lake. Throat slit. A flower in her mouth—black dahlia.

Just like before.

The rest of the day was a blur.

Jules vomited. Aaron wept. Elara held you like you were breaking in slow motion.

You wanted to believe this was a nightmare. You wanted to believe it was anyone else.

But you knew it was her.

Even after prison. Even after life without parole.

She had escaped.

She had found you.

And she was taking everything back.

You wanted to leave. But the car keys were gone. So was the gas can. Someone had sabotaged the tires—sliced clean through. And with no service, no signal, the woods may as well have been the moon.

Jules didn’t want to split up. Neither did Elara. But Aaron insisted they had to try hiking to the nearest ranger station—six miles through dense forest.

They left.

Only one of them returned.

Jules burst through the front door just before dusk, screaming, soaked in blood.

Not hers.

He collapsed in the living room, babbling nonsense, face pale, mouth open wide in a soundless scream.

Aaron, he said, had been hung like a puppet between two trees, his stomach carved open. Above his corpse, written in his blood:

“Tell them to stop taking what’s mine.”

You didn’t sleep that night. No one did.

You locked the doors. Nailed boards across the windows. Sat in the dark with a kitchen knife in your trembling hands.

Elara didn’t speak much. Her eyes kept flicking toward the window, as if she could feel her out there. Watching. Waiting.

When she did speak, it was a whisper against your skin.

“We should have stayed home.”

The next to die was Jules.

It was quick.

A scream from the bathroom. Then silence.

You and Elara ran in.

And all you saw was blood.

Every wall sprayed red. His body hanging over the tub, mouth full of teeth that weren’t his.

Your knees gave out.

You couldn’t scream anymore. Your throat was raw.

Elara pulled you away. Clutched you tight.

“We have to run,” she said. “Now. Before she gets you.”

You tried.

Together, you ran through the woods barefoot, clothes soaked from the storm, rain blinding your vision. Every snapping twig felt like a gunshot. Every rustle a whisper in her voice.

You didn’t know how long you ran. Minutes. Hours. Time unraveled.

And then, without warning—

Elara’s hand was ripped from yours.

You turned.

And saw her.

Agatha.

Drenched in mud, eyes glowing with madness, arms outstretched as she dragged Elara back by her hair, knife glinting between her fingers.

Elara screamed your name once—just once.

And then there was only silence.

You collapsed.

There was no fight left in you.

No running.

And that’s when she found you.

Agatha stepped into the clearing like a storm finally making landfall. Calm. Controlled.

Her hair was matted with rain. Her shirt soaked red. But her smile…

That smile had never changed.

“I told you,” she whispered, kneeling before you.

“One way or another, I’d have you.”

You sobbed. Not because of fear. Not anymore.

Because there was no one left to save you.

And she knew that.

You stopped counting the days.

After the fiftieth mark on the bedpost, it felt pointless. Time had lost shape. There was only before her… and after.

She was still careful with you. Still patient. Still obsessed.

But the madness had softened its claws. She no longer chained you with violence or threats. She didn’t have to.

Because your world was her now.

Each day followed the same pattern.

A soft knock. Breakfast. Books. Talks. Walks around the tiny greenhouse she’d grown just for you.

She sang sometimes. Old songs, lullabies, things you recognized from your childhood—though you never told her that.

Because the way she looked at you when you smiled…

It was terrifying.

But also… safe.

The outside world began to feel like a dream. A cruel one. Where your family died. Where your friends screamed. Where love was sharp and always out of reach.

Here, at least, you were wanted.

Here, you were the center of someone’s universe.

Even if that someone was deranged.

Even if it meant your past had to rot quietly in your mind.

It started with letting her touch your hair.

She asked, always. Gently. As though even now, she wanted your trust more than your submission.

And after so long in silence, so long buried in the cold tomb of your own isolation… you whispered, “Okay.”

She wept when you let her braid it.

Kissed your forehead.

Called you her girl.

The locket stayed around your neck.

You stopped trying to tear it off. Stopped staring at it with disgust. It became another part of the world you now lived in—just like the clean sheets, the soft music, and the quiet meals where she held your hand across the table.

One night, you whispered, “I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

And she pulled you into her lap like a child.

Held you. Rocked you.

“Then don’t,” she said. “Let me do it for you. Let me be your anchor. Your only thing. You don’t have to remember pain anymore. Only me.”

And in that moment, something broke.

But something else… settled.

Months passed.

You laughed once.

A real laugh.

She was so stunned she nearly cried.

You read books out loud to her. You started sleeping beside her without needing her to ask. You dressed in the things she picked out for you. Let her call you sweetheart without flinching.

You never forgot what she did.

You never truly forgave.

But slowly, gently, the horror dulled. The grief hollowed into numbness. And her voice—always soft, always praising—became the one constant you could rely on.

One morning, she woke to find you standing over her.

Not in defiance.

Not in fear.

But with a question:

“Do you love me?”

Agatha sat up slowly. Studied you like you were something divine. Something she never deserved.

“More than my soul,” she said.

And when you crawled into her arms and whispered, “Then don’t let me go,”

she broke.

Cried into your skin.

Promised you would never be alone again.

Years passed.

The cabin became a home.

No one ever found you. She made sure of that.

And even if they had—you wouldn’t have left.

You didn’t know how to exist beyond her anymore.

The girl who once screamed in the dark was gone.

Replaced by someone who wore white for her.

Smiled for her.

Loved her the way she always wanted to be loved:

Completely.

Unquestioningly.

Forever.

In the end, she didn’t have to take you.

You gave yourself to her.

And that was all she ever needed.

_-_-_-_

Please don't forget to like, follow, reblog, and comment! 💜

[graves4girls]

messy erik campbell thoughts

wc // 510 warnings // none

a/n : ahhh ik this is rlly short but i just wanted to get some thoughts out bc i need this man so bad (ㅅ´ ˘ `) i def wanna write more erik though i just gotta think more on what exactly

he'll give you an odd look when you ask to color in his tattoos, but ultimately sighs with an exasperated ‘whatever’ and offers you an arm. you nag him whenever he twitches away from you, but “it really tickles! I can't help it!”

he definitely has a sketchbook (or a couple) filled with doodles of you. you're a bit startled at the sheer amount of portraits of yourself that cover nearly every page of the book, but at the same time you think it makes you fall even harder.

he can never sit still long enough to let his nail polish dry completely, somehow smudging it the second you look away. there's always a fingerprint or uneven spot by the time his manicure is finally finished.

he absolutely cannot keep his hands off of you, whether it be in the comfort of your own home, or out and about in the middle of the bustling city. an arm tossed around your shoulders, fingers gently grabbing at the dip of your waist, a hand sliding down your back to slip into your back pocket–it didn't matter. as long as he could feel you, he was content. he'll always find it funny, the way you swat and curse at him when he manages to smack a palm against your ass in public.

he WILL talk through any and every movie you watch–as the chances he's already seen it are 1:0. “that kill was actually done practically. they used a full-body cast of the actress to get that shot.” “this is actually a prequel to the first movie.” “did you know that scream was real? she missed his protective vest and actually stabbed him with the umbrella.” and pray he doesn't recognize an actor, because he will go down an internet rabbit hole to find the guy that played a shopkeeper in some indie horror movie from 2008. “i knew he was familiar!”

without fail, he will always turn down a pair of earplugs at a concert–he says it ruins the experience. may or may not have developed mild tinnitus now, but he won't admit it.

he definitely enjoys a bit of recreational substances once in a while, and if you thought he was touchy when he was sober–boy were you in for a treat when he was under the influence.

he'll bring you trinkets and gifts at the most arbitrary of times–much like crows do. a bracelet he found on the floor of some concert venue. a little plastic duck that somehow ended up on the register at the parlor. a rock that eerily resembled a penis. he'll often sneak it into your space without you even noticing, and he'll never admit just how happy it makes him when you inevitably find it and gleefully present it to him–as if he wasn't the one who put it there. “erik, where the hell did you find a dick-shaped rock?!”

has a secret playlist full of songs that remind him of you. plays it full blast when you're away and he misses you.

[fic-girlie]

Could you write Pedro x gf reader. Where they're trying to have a nice dinner date at home, no kids because they're at uncle/aunt's place, and when things starts to get spicy they get interrupted by friends calling/knocking on their door, siblings trying to facetime; kids forgot their toys or something

Almost alone

Pairing: dad!Pedro Pascal x actress!mom!reader Summary: A rare kid-free night turns chaotic when everyone decides to interrupt—just as things with Pedro start getting heated. Warnings: established relationship, fluff, date night, constant interruptions

It’s quiet. Deliciously, impossibly quiet — that kind of golden stillness that only exists in a house where children have been temporarily exiled. There’s no high-pitched shouting over a misplaced tablet. No rogue Lego pieces embedded in your heel. No Lucia banging a fork against her plastic plate to announce the arrival of imaginary royalty, or Mateo earnestly narrating the flight path of a toy T-Rex from the top of the banister. Just this soft hush and the subtle clink of cutlery, the low thrum of the playlist Pedro put on — something smoky and slow, a little old-school, the kind of music that makes you feel like time is stretching out ahead of you like a warm bath. You’re halfway into your second glass of wine, posture relaxed in a way it hasn’t been in weeks, and you realize you’d almost forgotten what your own house feels like when it belongs to the adults in it. For once, there are no little hands tugging at your sleeve, no wet kisses from juice-stained mouths. Just Pedro — and the look in his eyes as he watches you over his glass is pure heat.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest, that fitted brown shirt doing dangerous things to your concentration. The top two buttons are undone, exposing the dip of his collarbone, that patch of soft skin you love to kiss when he’s half-asleep and pliant beneath you. His curls are still damp from a shower, pushed back off his forehead in messy waves. He’s barefoot, because of course he is — always refusing to wear socks at home, always warm and grounding and right there in reach. You meet his gaze across the kitchen, the stretch of the dinner table between you almost laughably formal now, and he gives you that crooked, boyish grin that still somehow undoes you after all these years. “You know,” he says, voice low and teasing, “I’m starting to think we should send them away more often. I’d forgotten what your thighs look like under a dress without a child clinging to one of them.”

You laugh softly, tilting your head, feeling the slow swirl of heat beneath your skin. “And I’d forgotten how fast your brain goes straight to horny.”

“Excuse me,” Pedro replies, feigning offense as he walks toward you, his hand catching the back of your chair. “I am deeply romantic. I just also happen to want to take you apart on this table.”

There’s a thrill in your spine at the certainty in his voice, the dark glint in his eyes as he ducks his head closer. His lips brush the shell of your ear, and he says it even lower now, murmuring words meant only for you. “You look so fucking good, mi amor. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since you opened the door in that dress. You know what it does to me.” His hand slips over your shoulder then, skimming along your upper arm — slow, deliberate — fingers grazing the bare skin like he’s reacquainting himself with something sacred. “Been waiting all day to get you alone,” he adds, pressing a kiss to your neck, right where he knows you’re sensitive. “Now that we are…”

Your breath catches in your throat, heart fluttering in that familiar rhythm — part anticipation, part disbelief that even after all these years, after two kids and countless sleepless nights and chaotic mornings, he still touches you like this. Like you’re new to him. Like he’s still hungry. You turn slightly in your chair, your hand resting on his chest now, feeling the heat beneath cotton, the steady thump of his heart. “You planning to seduce me with your leftovers breath?” you tease, your voice softer now, your body already leaning into his.

Pedro laughs, low and warm. “I’ll brush my teeth,” he offers, already dipping to kiss you, and you let yourself melt into him. His lips are familiar, but never boring — slow and searching at first, the kind of kiss that builds until your fingers are in his curls and he’s cupping your face with both hands, kissing you like he’s been starving for it. His body slots between your legs as he deepens the kiss, and you think — finally, finally — until the doorbell rings.

The sound slices through the air like a cruel joke. You both freeze, lips still inches apart, and Pedro groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder with dramatic misery. “No,” he whispers. “No, no, no.”

You blink, disoriented, then snort a laugh against his shirt. “Maybe they forgot something?”

He steps back reluctantly and stalks toward the door. “If it’s someone selling magazines, I’m joining a cult.”

But instead, it’s Oscar and Elvira, beaming on the porch with a bottle of mezcal and what appears to be guacamole in a Tupperware. “Surprise date night pop-in!” Oscar chirps.

Pedro’s face is a slow descent into horror. “You have got to be kidding.”

“You said we should hang out this week,” Elvira explains innocently, already stepping inside. “So we figured… hey, what better night than Friday?”

“I also said our kids are gone for the first time in months,” Pedro mutters under his breath.

They don’t hear him. You do. And it makes you smile, even through the annoyance — because Pedro, always the good host, still lets them in and starts fussing with bowls while casting helpless glances your way. You help him plate up a portion of your carefully prepared dinner for your friends, and after fifteen minutes of polite conversation — and a few unsubtle yawns from you both — Oscar finally puts two and two together.

“Oh. Ohhh. You were about to bone, weren’t you.”

Elvira winces. “Oh my god. We’ll leave. Go! Resume! Don’t let us ruin it.”

Pedro practically shoves the to-go containers into their arms. “Thank you. We’ll be doing just that.”

When the door finally closes behind them, Pedro locks it, then turns and stalks toward you with laser focus. “Now,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “I’m going to take you upstairs, and—”

Your phone lights up on the table. FaceTime. Your sister. Lucia.

You groan. Pedro grabs the phone before you can.

“Nope. Nope nope nope—”

Too late. Her little face fills the screen. “Mommyyyyy! Mateo won’t give me Miss Unicornie and she’s mine!”

“Because she left her at my bed!” Mateo yells from the background.

Pedro sighs and runs a hand over his face. “Hi, sweetheart. We’ll bring her in the morning, okay? Just one night without her.”

Lucia pouts. “She’ll be lonely.”

“I’ll sleep with her, okay?” Mateo yells again, clearly unaware of the implications.

Pedro looks into the camera, all patience and parenting charm. “I promise she’ll be safe. Go to bed. We love you.”

They hang up, finally, and you drop your face into your hands. “We are never having sex again.”

Pedro pulls you up into his arms again, this time holding you against his chest with both arms wrapped tight, refusing to let you go. His voice is muffled against your hair, but you can hear the mock desperation in it. “Next time, we leave the house. No pasta. No phone. No unicorns.”

You tilt your head up to meet his eyes, breath caught in your chest again when you see the tenderness still there — mixed with heat, with frustration, with love so obvious it makes your throat ache. “What about now?” you whisper.

He leans in, presses his mouth to yours again. “Now,” he murmurs, already pulling you down the hall, “I lock every door in this goddamn house.”

And this time, no one stops him.

[hoon1sm]

KINKS THEY WOULD HAVE — ENHYPEN HYUNGLINE

WARNINGS : smut (MDNI), enha x f!reader, edging, teasing, degradation, choking, recording during sex, oral, spit, brat taming, edging, overstimulation, cockwarming, tying up, crying during sex, sex toys, orgasm control

just a quick and basic post to officially open my account ! i didnt wanna add too much so i just kept it to 2 per member. if you want me to go deeper into any of these/write a drabble based on them, then feel free to request ♡ (written and edited by me, sorry if there are mistakes)

HEESEUNG :

cockwarming — cliche? perhaps. but the vision of him having you on his lap, his cock safely buried in your cunt while he’s gaming is just too strong. tells you to stay still and be quiet, especially if he’s playing online. you wouldn’t want his friends to hear you now would you? lowkey enjoys it when you get a bit restless, your soft moans so pretty as you start moving a little to get some stimulation. “i’m almost done with this match baby, just stay still for a little bit longer, yeah?” he whispers in your ear, his breath sending goosebumps over your skin. absolutely loves how soft and pliant you get for him when he finally fucks you afterwards.

edging — walk with me here. i think he wouldn’t do it very often but something about your neediness when he does just makes it all the more special. “just one more,” he promises, as he once again pulls his fingers out at the last second, leaving you clenching around nothing as your orgasm ebbs away again. “please, seungie, just need you inside- need to cum- just, please.” you’re sobbing now, and the sight of you so absolutely at his mercy paired with the sweet nickname you only use when you’re desperate has him finally giving in. he slides his cock inside and you cum around him almost instantly, and he kisses you possessively as he fucks you through it.

JAY :

choking — we’ve all seen that one concept image for d:u. probably wouldn’t be super into it at first until you started begging him to just put his hand around your neck once, wanting to experience the feeling of being in his power completely. he’d be super careful, not applying pressure, just wrapping his hand around your throat and resting it there. it has you feeling floaty and grounded at the same time, so fully his. and for him, seeing you like this he suddenly understands why you wanted this so badly. it’s hot that you trust him so much to give him so much power over you, and the way you tighten around him while he fucks you is all he needs to know that you love this as much as he does.

spit — this is such a clear vision i have of him sloppily kissing you, tongue licking into your mouth as he’s standing pushed up against you, your back against a wall and one of his legs slotted in between yours which you are mindlessly grinding against. “can i try something?” he asks, an idea suddenly rushing into his mind after seeing the string of hot saliva connecting between the two of you as you break apart for air. you nod, you would let him do just about anything to you right now. his thumb comes up against your bottom lip as he forces your mouth to stay open before letting his spit drip onto your tongue. fuck. “now swallow,” he orders. and the sight of you swallowing down his spit, looking up at him with your pupils blown wide gets him so hard he feels lightheaded for a moment. after this incident he starts doing it a lot more, mainly enjoying the intimacy of it all.

JAKE :

overstimulation — he’s kind of an excited overachiever and i think that would translate into the bedroom by him overstimulating you to the point of tears. you can’t even remember how many times you’ve come already (five? six?) and he hasn’t even properly fucked you yet, instead opting to make you cum on his fingers and tongue alone. “so pretty like this,” he praises. his fingers slide back into your cunt again and you weakly moan. “you can take another, right baby? gonna be my good girl?” you honestly don’t know if you can cum again, but the way his thumb is working over your clit has the arousal building inside you once more. as your orgasm hits, you can see stars for a second and you do your best to keep focusing on his voice while he talks you through it. “doing so well for me, my good girl. that’s it, just let it go.”

recording — probably not something he’d be into right away. one night he’s fucking your mouth, and the sight of you sitting pretty on your knees for him and taking him so well just suddenly hits him. “wish i could take a picture of you like this baby.” it rushes out before he can really think about it. he discusses it with you afterwards, as he definitely noticed your excitement at the idea too. keeps the pictures and videos in a hidden folder on his phone, watches them while he’s away from you, wishing he could fuck you for real but loving how you look on the video with his cum all over you. would get more creative and artistic with it too, putting you in all sorts of pretty lingerie just so he can record himself ripping it off your body.

SUNGHOON :

strength — have you seen his arms? yeah. he would definitely enjoy the power he has over you. pinning you down by holding both of your wrists with one hand easily, leaving pretty bruises on your hips and thighs from how hard he’s gripping you, manhandling you into different positions. doesn’t hesitate to show off his strength in casual situations too, randomly picking you up to help you reach something on a high shelf or suddenly walking into the room shirtless right after a workout because he knows exactly how hot and wet seeing his muscles will get you.

brat taming — secretly likes it when you misbehave because he’ll have to dish out a punishment to remind you of who is in charge. teases the shit out of you, ties you up and holds a vibrator against your clit, pulling away at the right moment just to ruin your orgasm. once you start begging to really cum he would still hold off. “think you deserve it yet?” he asks, a biting tone to his voice. “please,” you beg again. “how about you explain to me clearly why i’m here punishing you and apologize for misbehaving first, hmmm?” to which you resolutely stay silent. he knows you’re intentionally pushing him to be harsher. still he wouldn’t hesitate to degrade and humiliate you, delivering mean slaps to your ass and cunt until you’re dripping and crying and finally apologizing (you both know you’ll do it again).

[imagine-it-was-us]

when am I gonna lose you? || Lando Norris

Inspiration: Local Natives "When am I gonna lose you?"

Author's note: Had a real block – purely because I wanted to write something about love. Not the meet-cute. Not the breakup. Just that heart-wrecking, honest kind of love where you’re so happy, you almost can’t believe it’s real. And trust me, it was a struggle to find a song in my playlist that captured just that. But I found it – so here’s a little glimpse into my mind (and my playlist).

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Warnings: some angst and one swear word.

Summary: A quiet evening on the coast turns into something deeper when two anxious hearts confront their shared fear. It's not a story about falling in love – it's about choosing it, keeping it, and learning to trust that it’s real.

Word count: 1.4k+

She felt it mid-movie – his hand suddenly tensing around her thigh, even though the scene on the screen wasn’t meant to stir anything dramatic. She turned to him, catching him stealing a glance her way before he quickly snapped his gaze back to the TV, a cheeky smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“What?” she prodded, half-laughing. It wasn’t often she caught him staring. Whenever she did, it always set off a cascade of anxious thoughts. Maybe there was an eyelash on her cheek. Maybe her mascara had smudged, and she looked like a raccoon. Maybe–

He gave a tiny shake of his head, eyes still trained on the screen. “Nevermind.”

“Nah, you’re not doing this to me,” she said, laughing as she reached for the remote and paused the film. These kinds of quiet, uninterrupted moments were rare. Even rarer was Lando choosing silence over commentary. He always had something to say – a thought, a theory, a stupid pun. So when he didn’t speak, it meant something. It meant everything.

With the screen frozen in mid-frame, he leaned back against the sofa and turned his head slightly toward her. And there it was again — the exact moment that had caught him off guard before. The sun was melting into the sea, casting golden slits of light through the blinds, painting lines across her face, her collarbone, her shoulder like some divine stencil.

He let out a quiet breath. “Don’t you ever get that feeling… when everything’s perfect, and you just know something’s going to come along and fuck it up?”

The words hit her like lightning out of a clear sky – sudden, sharp, strangely poetic. But she didn’t flinch. She just nodded slowly, like some part of her had always been waiting for this exact question.

“I do, sometimes,” she said softly. “But… why now?”

“I don’t know. I just love this moment.”

His hand found hers, fingers gently fidgeting with hers — not restless, not anxious, just… soothing. Like the motion might slow his thoughts down enough to catch them.

He was used to his mind running laps. Constantly. Overthinking things that didn’t need thinking about. Race results. Snide comments online. Whether thirteen spring rolls were the magic number to feel full or just too much. The cute golden retriever he saw at the paddock last weekend, the one he’d probably never see again. He’d gotten used to that kind of mental noise – the static that never turned off.

So when there was stillness, when there was peace – real, earned, golden-hour kind of peace – his brain didn’t quite know what to do. It reached for the nearest thing to worry about. And it always landed on her.

What if he lost this?  What if he lost her?

She was more like him than he ever expected. A year in, long-distance and late-night calls, airport reunions and sleepy goodbyes, and somehow they’d figured each other out pretty well. They both had restless minds – sharp, hungry, buzzing. They could spiral in sync. They could reassure each other just by existing. It made their bond easier in a way. But it also meant that peace felt like walking a tightrope, always half-waiting for the fall.

“But…?” she said, already sensing it. There was always a “but” with him.

He glanced sideways at her, cheeks slightly pink now in the fading light.

“But I was sitting there, just looking at you… thinking about how pretty you are. How lucky I am that you chose me – even with everything that comes with me. All the noise. And then I thought–”

His voice faltered for a second.

“–when am I gonna lose you?”

Her heart shuddered at the words he said. She hadn’t expected that kind of vulnerability from him tonight – not here, not now, with the ocean humming outside and the world finally leaving them alone. And yet, she knew exactly where it came from.

Because she had felt it too.

Their relationship, from the outside looking in, probably never should have worked. On paper, it was ridiculous. She was – for all intents and purposes – a nobody. Just a student who’d gotten separated from her university tour group while wandering through the endless corridors of MTC. He’d been on a break, taking a breather from a wall of sponsor commitments. She’d made some half-sarcastic remark about the building layout – something like “Hard to believe you’ve got all these engineers and no one thought of a better floor plan.”

He laughed. Not just a polite chuckle. A real, head-tilted-back, god-I-needed-that laugh.

He helped her find her coursemates. They walked maybe ten minutes, tops. But in those ten minutes, something clicked – fast, easy, effortless. By the time they reached the others, he was practically pleading for her number. Just in case, he said.

Now here they were, a year and a half later. Sitting in a cabin tucked between the trees and the sea, miles from anyone, basking in quiet. Days of decompressing behind them. Long talks about futures they both secretly hoped would intertwine. It was surreal.

She looked over at him. His hand was still playing with hers absentmindedly, his eyes on their fingers instead of her face – like he wasn’t sure he could handle eye contact after saying something that raw.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” she said gently.

He glanced up, cautious hope flickering across his features.

She exhaled. “But I get it. I do. Sometimes when you call me after a race and you’re so tired you don’t even sound like you – I get this ache. Like, what if this life of yours pulls you so far away I can’t reach you anymore?”

He opened his mouth to protest – to say no, never, that’s not how it’ll be – but stopped himself almost immediately. Because how could he argue against what he’d just admitted feeling himself? It would’ve been hypocritical. Even worse – unfair. Her fear was valid. 

Their worlds had collided in the most unlikely way, and he was still keeping her tucked away from the spotlight – not because he was ashamed, but because he wanted something that was just theirs, untouched by the noise.

“But we keep showing up for each other, yeah?” she went on, voice steadier now. “In the little ways – the answered calls, the random surprises I hide in your luggage. The voice notes when the time zones don’t match up. The flowers that you order every time an older bouquet starts to waste away. Every person we let into our shared world.”

He looked at her then, how her face softened when she talked about them, how she said “shared world” like it was sacred.

“There’s this thing about people like us,” she continued. “We expect good things to vanish. We prepare ourselves for it. But maybe… maybe this is one of the rare things that’s actually built to stay.”

For a moment, all he could do was sit with it – the weight and the lightness of her words, the quiet miracle of being known so well. Then, he squeezed her hand, gently but with purpose.

“You know what I think?” he murmured.

She tilted her head toward him, a question in her eyes.

“I think we don’t give ourselves enough credit,” he said. “This? What we’ve made – it’s not just luck. It's an effort. Intention. It’s staying up at 3 a.m. just to hear your voice, even if I’ve only got five words in me. It’s you reading the same boring post-race summary just to tell me I sounded confident. It’s both of us choosing this. Every day.”

Her lips parted slightly, the corners lifting, and he could see the words landing – not as a grand gesture, but as truth. And the most amazing thing for her was how in reality he was talking himself out of the spiral. 

“I’m not afraid of losing you because something out there takes you away,” he added. “I’m afraid of losing you by accident. Letting something slip. Not fighting hard enough.”

“But you are,” she whispered. “Fighting for it, I mean.”

She cuddled into him, light slowly slipping away.

“And if we keep doing just that, we will never lose each other. So let’s keep it that way. And whenever that curly little head of yours starts telling you these kinds of things, remember us here,” she murmured.

He couldn’t stop smiling, even as he gently kissed the top of her head.

“I will.”

Neither of them said anything else for a while. She unpaused the film, and they eased back into the cushions, limbs tangled, breaths in sync. The dialogue from the screen filled the silence between them, but something had shifted – something small, steady, and unshakeable.

They watched the rest of the movie just like that: closer, lighter, stronger. And this time, neither of them was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Something To Lose

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x f!reader

Summary: Bob and you share a rare moment of peace at the tower after a long week. Reader is unnamed superhero on the New Avengers Team.

Word Count: 2.1K

Tropes: Grumpy (reader) vs. Sunshine (Bob) (a little bit?), Black Cat (reader) and Golden Retriever (Bob) (a little bit?).

Warnings: Hints at reader having a dark past, Reader has somewhat created backstory that is hinted at, Self-deprecating thought (reader), Mentions of mental health, Mentions of medication, Mentions of violence, Walker is a bit of a jerk, Fluffy, Cuddling on the Couch, Bob being the ultimate weighted blanket. Bob might be a little OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! I'm just starting to write for Bob, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

A/N: Okay... I tried my best to fight the urge to write a Bob fic, but I'm not strong enough. Plus @jollyhunter is out here making incredible fan-art and inspiring me with things like this. If you couldn't tell Jolly, I'm blaming you for this and also saying thank you 🤣💗 But this is just a silly little thing in my head that I needed to write down.

Bob's nose nudges forward into the shadow of your jaw, exhaling softly as he slips deeper into a fitful sleep while he subconsciously tightens the arms he has wrapped around your waist where he lies sprawled on top of you. There's a subtle tickle of Bob's unruly mass of waves  against your chin as a few strands fall forward into his face, only to be replaced by the gentle stroke of your fingertips against his forehead, pushing them behind the curve of his ear.

The end of his mouth twitches into a smile, but he doesn't wake. He stays just as he is, a warm weighted blanket, swaddled in his favorite oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants, wrapped around your body like a happy Koala on a branch.

The sun had gone down hours ago, leaving the behind the bluish glow of the city below flickering up on the clouds that gathered above to block the starlight that usually twinkled out over NYC. But the living room of the tower was quiet, the windows thick enough to block the onslaught of the sounds of the city below.

A soft moment of reprieve. Something more elusive than the Pink Panther.

Your head is propped up on one of the couch cushions, a book clutched in your right hand while the other lays on the soft fabric of Bob's sweatshirt, rubbing back and forth in soothing circles, easing some of the tension he carried in his shoulders and chasing away the bad dreams that came in the night for the man you loved. His chest rises and falls evenly, each soft breath a warm tickle against your throat.

It was difficult for Bob to fall asleep when you weren't there despite the side effects of the numerous medications that he'd been prescribed. And when you'd walked in tonight from your week-long mission overseas with Yelena and Red Guardian, Bob had practically collapsed against you. More surprising was that he'd done it in front of Walker, who often teased Bob about him and you. Of course whenever he did it in front of you, you threatened Walker with bodily harm.

Personally, you were welcoming the silence after being trapped in an apartment on a mission overseas with Red Guardian and Yelena. Not that you had anything against them, but sometimes Alexei would ask you deeply personal questions that you weren't sure how to answer.

But despite the four months you’d been with Bob,  you still weren't used to this. There was a little voice inside that whispered you didn't deserve this, any of it. Not after everything you'd done.

Years of scrubbing blood from your hands, the same ones that were worn rough from the weight of a gun and remembered the heavy heft of a blade. Years of taking from the world and leaving a wave of red in your wake with nothing and no one to stop you, ignoring the screams and the voices that begged for mercy. Years of memories and faces that still haunted you in the still silence of the night, flickering over your closed eyelids like some kind of perverted home movie.

You thought it was amusing that Bob was the one who thought he was the monster in this relationship, who thought he wasn't worthy of the love you showed him whole-heartedly, when it was you who didn't deserve him. You who didn't deserve the cute sleepy smile Bob had whenever he woke up in your arms, you who didn't deserve the shy flush of his cheeks whenever he stuttered and locked his beautiful blue eyes with yours, and you who didn't deserve to be with someone so understanding of everything you were.

Sometimes it didn't feel real, just another illusion, another manipulation technique pumped into your system through a needle by the scientists that stitched you together from nothing, and the same ones that made sure you weren't this person. Someone who cared for someone else, someone who felt remorse, and someone who could love.

But when you were with Bob none of it mattered.

You weren't the monster Hydra created, the one that Sam and Bucky found buried in an underwater bunker in the middle of the Atlantic, the same one that was designed to kill the Winter Solider, and the one who was woven from Bucky's own genetic material to replace him when the time came.

You were just you.

Walker appears in the hallway on the edge of the room, his lips pulled up in a knowing smirk. Your eyes narrow, a silent threat passing through when your gaze locks with his, daring him to say something. The  same threat he knows you'll make good on, just as you had two weeks ago when he made an off-color joke about Bob's nervous stutter whenever Bob spoke to you, the one you thought was adorable, and you broke Walker's nose. The exact thing Walker said you couldn't do two seconds before you had.

Walker rolls his eyes, but takes a step back into the darkness of the hallway to vanish from view again, probably to find Ava. You hope that he doesn’t come back.

Your gaze drifts back to the book clutched in your right hand, but your mind wanders past the prose to the man laying on top of you. At first you'd kept your distance from everyone except Bucky, who was the only friend you had. You threw yourself into training with him and going to your mandated therapy with the same therapist that helped Bucky.

But in the end it was the sleepless nights that drew you closer to Bob.

The nights where you ended up in the kitchen at 3 am baking like a maniac, because for some reason after years and years of being an nearly unstoppable and indestructible assassin, baking was the only thing that seemed to calm you down.

Ironic that the same hands that brought so much destruction could create.

Bob kept showing up while you were in there, night after night, sitting quietly at the kitchen island, swinging his feet off the barstool, his oversized sleeves slipping past his hands, while he stuttered out little questions to ask what you were doing. He was almost adorably shy and you let him watch you go through the familiar motions of baking a pie or making a cake into the wee hours of the morning.

It was nice to have someone to talk to.

There was nothing more isolating than not being able to sleep. Existing in a reality where the rest of the world slumbered peacefully while you were haunted by the past. Making you feel hopelessly alone in the silence that welcomed so many others into the sweet abyss.

But there was something about Bob that brought the same peace as a well deserved nap. Something about him that was soothing in the best way and made you feel at ease for the first time in your whole life.

The day that he told you that he liked you four months ago, you didn't believe him, instead you'd left the tower and gone on a six hour walk through the rain trying to figure out if Bob was trying to manipulate you in some way, to try and use you for his own gain the way others had your whole life. All the while frustrated with yourself for believing that, for being unable to trust someone other than Bucky.

But you knew better. And as the cold rain trickled down your spine, slipping beneath the collar of your shirt, you realized that you felt the same way about him. You liked Bob.

He was different than everyone you’d ever met, different from you in every way. Someone so determined to be invisible, so determined to fade into the background, and someone who despite everything he knew about you refused to run away. His powers allowed him to do that, to see the pieces of you that you hid from the rest of the team, the ones you were ashamed of, the ones the Void had made you re-live a year ago.

So you ran back to the tower, soaked to the bone, only to find Bob in his bedroom, his eyes rimmed red with his tears, embarrassed and afraid by what he'd confessed to you.

And since then you'd been inseparable.

Bob murmurs something unintelligible, and nuzzles his face further into your neck, his skin warm enough to fight the chill of the air conditioning blasting from the vents above you. His chestnut colored waves tangling in an uncontrolled mass of curls, fluttering in the artificial wind that sweeps through the living room.

He always did run hot, but you didn’t mind. If anything you welcomed it after years of living in a cold damp cell.

You knew this was the first time that he'd slept in days, could hear it in his voice over the phone when you'd called him two days ago, when he told you quietly that he missed you and asked when you'd be back.

Sometimes you couldn't believe how vulnerable he was with you, didn't think that anyone could be, but at the same time it brought a sense of pride surging up in your chest that you could do this for Bob the same way he did this for you. To bring a sense of peace and contentment, to help him find the sleep that so often eluded him.

Your hand curves protectively around his back holding him closer to you, something inside daring Walker to return. You didn't care what Walker said about you, had heard worse spat in your face over the years, but like hell you were going to let him speak that way to Bob.

But he doesn't reappear and you feel your body start to relax again, settling further into the leather couch cushions. 

Bob begins to stir, his eyes blinking open, a shock of bright blue that locks with your gaze, brilliant and alive, despite being asleep for the last hour.

"Hey." Bob whispers, voice thick with sleep.

"Hi." You murmur while you bring your left hand up to push away some of the curls that fall forward into his face, shutting the book in your other hand. The way they fall through your fingers is familiar in the best way, just as the feeling of Bob’s body on top of yours.

The perfect weighted blanket you never knew you needed.

Bob flushes as your fingertips trace across his cheeks, with a shy smile you love, making your own pull at the end of your mouth.

"I-I missed you." Bob breathes as he leans into your touch. There's a flash of something vulnerable in his eyes while he looks at you, a shyness and hesitancy that you'd grown accustomed to. It only made you more guilty for making him think you didn't like him the night he confessed what he felt for you.

"I missed you too. Couldn't sleep." You continue to work your fingers through his hair, scratching softly at the back of his head the way you know he likes. “Never can seem to without you.”

"Me either."

"Are you ready to go to bed?"

The two of you had taken to sharing the oversized bed in Bob's room. You didn't have anything of significance in your room anyway, nothing important from another time that you wanted to remember. The closest thing you had to family was Bucky, and you only called him "dad" when you wanted to annoy him.

"Five more minutes, please." Bob mumbles, lowering his face back to your neck to snuggle into your body with a happy sigh that makes your insides feel so warm you think that they must have caught fire.

"Whatever you want sweetheart." You press a kiss to his forehead, feeling your own exhaustion begin to tug at the back of your mind, your thoughts going a little fuzzy as a wave of something happy begins to settle over you. Slipping through the cracks of the hardened walls that you built years ago to keep everyone out. The same feeling that came only in these soft moments with Bob, the same moments that seemed to erase the scars of the past, the ones like the thin white lines that criss-crossed and wove over your body. Each one a memory you'd like to forget.

Bob tightens his arms around your waist one more time adjusting his body between your hips to get more comfortable. "I love you." He mumbles into your throat and you can feel his soft smile against your skin.

He'd said it before. Blurted it out for the first time to you when you were making a peach pie a month ago, the words passing through his lips the second after you fed him a bite.

At first you thought that he'd slipped up, that he'd meant he loved "it," meaning the pie- but he hadn't. You could see it in his gaze, see it in the way his cheeks had flushed, the way his blue eyes had widened in fear, and the way his stutter returned when he tried to explain.

No one had ever said that to you before, but each time he did, it made you feel the same way. Made you feel like you were seeing a sunrise after a cold dark winter, like the sky opened up and all that was left was the golden light that filtered down through overhanging trees beside a quiet lake.

But with it came something else, a rising anxiety that prickled against your skin like lightning arching across a stormy sky. Because for the first time in your life you had something to lose and that scared you more than facing down an unstoppable force completely unarmed.

Bob's breaths turn more even as he drifts back to sleep, the soothing feeling of his chest rising and falling making your own breath begin to slow. And when you're sure you know that Bob is asleep, you whisper the one thing you still haven't quite been able to say to him.

"I love you too Bob."

You did, because before Bob, words like “home” and “love” meant nothing. But being here with the warmth of his body soaking into you and the soft beat of his heart thumping against yours, you understood.

You were going to hang on to this, to him, for as long as you could. Through wind and rain, fire and brimstone, pain and suffering, you weren’t going to lose Bob.

And you hoped that someone would have mercy on the souls who tried to take Bob from you, because you wouldn’t.

A/N: I told y'all, just something short and sweet. I'm not going to lie, I actually really like this reader a bit and I might write this pairing a little more if y'all really like it and let me know what you thought!💗

P.S: I also don't know who to tag in this, because I really need to reset my taglist, but I'm just going to tag people who I think said tag them in everything. And if you'd like to be tagged in all my stories, not just for specific characters, please let me know.

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! The comments really keep me going!

Taglist:

@angrydragon90 @jollyhunter

[yuunarii-arii]

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗼'𝘀 𝗦𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗙𝗼𝗼𝘁 𝗙𝗲𝘁𝗶𝘀𝗵

NSFW (coming soon)

Warning: none? Feet feet feet, mediocre writing Summary: Theo develops a slight obsession with your feet a/n: I don't think this is the correct format for a drabble, but meh. I'm trying to get used to writing a little bit less formally. Everything I write sounds like it's the start of a "Once upon a time" story. 😐 Feedback is very much appreciated!

Theodore Nott has always been an observant man, that certainly didn't change when he began his relationship with you; on the contrary, he had become much more aware of every little thing you do. Theo is the type of person who would take notice of how often you chew the tip of the same quill every time you feel nervous, he’s the type of man who commits to acts of service just so he can receive that angelic smile on your face. He would remember everything about you like it was second nature.

When you started dating, he was fully aware that you had a habit of decorating your feet with nail polish and ankle bracelets, ‘anklets’ as you corrected him several times. He didn’t pay it much mind, he thought it was cute, but that was the extent of it.

However, during one evening you had trouble connecting the hook of your newest anklet, so you asked a very studious Theo for help. Leaving the homework that you begged him to review, he asked for what you needed, and you responded with a shake of your foot and a bat of your eyelash, “I can’t put this anklet on, can you help me, Teddy?” You knew the effect that name had on him, he knew you did, but it sounds so nice on your lips. How could he ever say ‘no.’ Theo got down on one leg and placed your foot atop his knee, hooking the chain together, but while doing so, he was hyper aware of all the details on your foot; the colorful nail polish, the details of your feet, the smoothness of your skin, and your new anklet bracelet had made it look all the more attracting. He wanted nothing more than to kiss atop your foot, adoring your very being. In a sudden urge, he kissed the skin below your anklet, admiring how beautiful your body truly is. You breathed his name, your cheeks lit like flames; you stuttered wondering what had suddenly gotten into him. He replied as if it was obvious:

“I’m just being… attentive to your body.”

“Yeah, but my feet?!”

He maintained eye contact as he left a trail of kisses along your foot, “you took the time to make it look so pretty…” He continued as he grazed his lips on your ankle, ”it’s only right that I pay it attention as well.”

You couldn’t believe this man, all you knew was that he would be sending you to an early grave if this went on.

Ever since then he had taken any chance he could get to hold and touch your feet; he would offer to help you slide your socks and shoes on, he insisted on moisturizing your ankles with lotion, or when you went out, he would point at cute accessories or nail polish that’d look good on you. Even when you’re simply hanging out in the common room, he would pull your legs to rest on his lap— it was non-negotiable. And don’t get me started on the number of shoes he’s bought you, if he sees a pair that he thinks you’d like, he’ll buy it. No hesitation. When you try to stop him from spending so much on you, he’d look as if you just insulted his bloodline, “If not you, then who else?” And he is quite aware of how stubborn you can get with this, so he threatens to use his money on an unhealthy addiction to get you to fold, “You either let me spoil you, or I could spend it on cigarettes. Your call, Tesoro.”  Of course you gave in, but that didn’t solve your storage problems.

When his friends see how soft he’s gotten for you, they always take the chance to tease him here and there. “Seems like Nott’s gotten soft for his girlfriend. You’re gonna end up on your knees for her at this rate, mate!” Mattheo snickered.

But they didn’t have to know he would quite literally kiss at your feet and thank you for gracing him with your beauty. He wasn’t sure if his current obsession with your feet had something to do with the idea of being submissive for you, or because he enjoyed the way you prettied up a part of you that most don’t show off. Either way he was down bad, and he didn’t care.

©yuunari-arii 2025. All works posted under my name belong to me. Please do not copy, claim, republish, or translate my work anywhere else.

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Can you please write about a Jacaerys Velaryon x twin sister. He has all the 'Strong' features while she is a Targaryen through and through, physically and mentally. He is often humilated by the Greens whereas she is not, and this makes him kinda obsessed with her (and a little bit jealous too)?

Who By His Lady's Command

Pairing(s): Jacaerys Velaryon x Velaryon!Reader

Words: 2037

Warnings: sibling incest hinted at, targcest, sibling x sibling, one-sided/jealous!Aegon, jealous!Jacaerys, I don't really like the way I ended it but oh well 🫠

Elegant fingers card through silver hair. Prized silky tresses that labeled you as a true child of a Targaryen.

"You fell asleep again," Jace whispers softly, not wanting to abruptly wake you. Your head was comfortably nestled against his shoulder. He'd been holding the tome that your septa had instructed both of you to study.

Your eyelids flutter open. Deep indigo reflects back at him as you push off your brother's shoulder. "You should've let me sleep." Your usually pleated hair is a mess with stray strands becoming undone.

"And have our septa scold my ear off?" You huff at his reply.

When you hear him laugh, you start to giggle. "Let's take a break! Go for a fly!"

"We can't-"

"Oh Jace, please?" Throwing your arms tightly around his bicep, you beg. "Our dragons are finally large enough to ride! How can any read from dusty old books when they have dragons!"

He allows you to drag him up to his feet. Your small fingers laced with his callused ones.

He would do anything for you.

"Alright. We'd better make a run for the Dragonpit then." His only testament to having Targaryen blood in him was his bond with Vermax. It secured his place as your equal.

You squeal in excitement and race him out of the quiet godswood your mother Rhaenyra showed you when the two of you were little.

Jacaerys could never hate you, the only person he shared half a soul with. The gods were cruel, though, in having both of you share a womb yet make you look completely different. You with your pale hair and dark, violet eyes that bore into the soul. While Jace. . . Jace, Luce, and Joff have the wavy, rich coloration very similar to a certain Lord Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing.

Unfair that you were so beloved, and Jacaerys, your twin, was thought of as a bastard.

He sees the looks cast upon him by Alicent and her kin. Even other lords and ladies of the Keep showed their suspicious disdain toward him.

And you, smiling up at him with utter reverence. Pure love radiated from you whenever you and Jace were together. Many may love and adore you, but none of them held your attention like he did. That was enough to make Jace feel special, the most important person in the Seven Kingdoms.

You were someone Queen Alicent couldn't scrutinize, unlike the rest of your siblings. She couldn't call you a bastard born, nor could Aegon or Aemond.

Even atop of Vermax, Jace watches you. The wind tangling your wild, silver mane as you carelessly laugh. Your mount under you, Aegarax, lets out her own shrill scream of delight as the she-dragon pierces through clouds like an arrow through the heart.

Never was there a more beautiful sight than that which caused Jace's chest to ache with longing.

Aegarax's red and blue-scaled belly shimmers as she flies low to the water of Blackwater Bay, scaring a few seamen who were out on their docks. They laugh when they see it's you. The people of King's Landing cherished you most of all. You were seen as the playful epitome of a dragon-riding princess. They used to call Rhaenyra 'the Realm's Delight', but the title was now passed down to you.

Vermax and Jace take a sharp, upward ascension to avoid clipping a cargo ship's sails. He was still getting used to handling a dragon beneath him. You seemed to effortlessly take flight the moment Aegarax was big enough to ride. When you were angry, Jacaerys thought you took on the very visage of your dragon. Fire behind your eyes and a terrifying roar.

His haze of adoration for you is abruptly cut short when he realizes that a familiar golden dragon was diving for you and Aegarax. You appeared oblivious to the oncoming danger.

"Adere, Vermax! (Quick, Vermax!)" Jacaerys urges Vermax in your direction.

Barely making it back inside the Red Keep's walls, Sunfyre tauntingly pecks at the top of Aegarax.

Vermax is close enough that Jace could make out you tilting your head up to see your uncle, Aegon.

Aegarax snaps her jaws at Sunfyre in annoyance. She was as quick-tempered as you were.

To prevent any disasters, Jace watches Aegarax's sleek form make a safe landing at the mouth of the dragon pit, startling many of the handlers as they rush to move out of the way. All the while, Jace could hear Aegon's snide laughter.

You angrily throw your helmet off and slide down Aegarax's side.

Fury couldn't begin to describe the snapping jaws of a hellish dragon burst inside of you.

He could have killed you with an aerial attack like that. Thank the gods Aegarax didn't startle easily. She handled that taunt with true grace.

She's snorting and rumbling at the dragonkeepers. Smoke curls from the slits of her nostril, the spikes along her body on an offensive edge. "Gīda (Calm). Nothing good will happen with both of us spitting fire." You tell her.

You hear Jace call your name as he dismounts Vermax. "Are you okay?"

He can already taste your rage in the air.

"That dickhead-" Your eyes dart up to the sky, waiting for Sunfyre's descent with curled fists "I'll get him for that. One of these days when Aegarax is bigger, he's going to regret it."

Your older twin manages to get you into a carriage that was waiting for your return. He holds your hand on the ride back in an attempt to quash your heat.

Upon getting back to the castle, you and Jace go to Rhaenyra and tell her of what happened. You tattled on yourself for skipping out on your lessons as a consequence, but you knew what Aegon did would outweigh you playing hooky.

Rhaenyra, indignation high on her cheeks, mutters to herself, "He could have killed her..." before putting her attention back on her twins. She cups your cheek then does the same to Jacaerys. "I'll take care of this. In the meantime, the two of you catch up on the material you missed out on."

Jace gawks. "But-"

"Did you think I'd let the two of you slide on your studies? You're my heir, Jace, and you, my only daughter, will be Crown Princess once Jacaerys becomes king. There are duties you have to attend to as well. We need your mind sharp." She gently admonishes both of you. "Go apologize to your septa and repent."

After hours spent hunched over your tomes, you and Jace tiredly wobble out of the library, eyes weary and dry from reading small print on dusty parchment.

"Thank the gods Septa Sarsah took pity on us to release us for dinner." Jacaerys weakly smiles, though his steps grew lighter the farther you got from your studies.

To get to the tower where your branch of the family resides, you had to cross the main courtyard. The sun cast a deep orange glow in the sky as its rays were slowly extinguished. You loved this time of day.

Especially the way it glinted off of your twin’s dark hair.

You love him so much that it aches your heart as you stop in your steps and whisper, “I’m sorry I got you in trouble too. It was my idea to skip out on our lessons.” You seemed to get Jace in trouble often. Even if it was your idea, Jacaerys unfairly received much more of the blame. You knew it was mainly due to your differing hair color. Everyone was always ready to blame him because his coloring resembled that of Harwin Strong, the man everyone believed to be your mother's lover and the true father to her children.

He's confused, pausing mid-step to glance back at you before fully facing you with a frown. "It wasn't your fault."

Sadly smiling to yourself, you shake your head in disagreement. "Oh, Jace, always trying to protect me."

"I could have very well stayed in the godswood and obeyed our septa. I have my own will, and I decided to go with you." He insists. "Plus, as the older twin, I could have stopped you, too."

Snorting out a laugh, you close the distance between the two of you to admire his dark eyes. "You? Stop me?"

He grins down. "I can be very persuasive." Jacaerys towered over you. As children, you had been the taller one for the longest time. But when your brother hit that age where little boys become men, it hit hard.

A derisive scoff comes from a few feet down the corridor. "And how would you consider yourself persuasive, nephew? With your tongue or sword?"

All lightness fled from you as you moved around your brother to glare at Aegon. Jace's firm hand clamps down on your arm to prevent you from lunging at your uncle.

"You could've killed me with that stunt you pulled." You hiss, using your free hand to try and pry Jace's grip off of you. "You think that's funny?"

"I would never hurt you, sweet niece." Aegon's voice turns annoyingly sweet with a hint of mockery. His steps were slow and calculated. He was married to his sister Helaena, yet the way his eyes crawled up and down your body made you sick to your stomach.

For a time there was talk of marrying you off to Aegon as a sort of truce between Alicent and Rhaenyra. To ease the tension between the branches of your family. That was one thing you could thank Alicent for; she was the one who put up a fight against the union.

Aegon never stopped treating you like his potential bride. When he'd heard of the potential engagement, Aegon was actually quite excited. He'd had feelings for you since you budded into a young lady. Always wanting. . . more of you. Eyes that hungered to shred the clothing you wore and to rove over your bare skin. Never bothering to hide his obvious lust for you both deeply unsettled you and your twin.

"Go back to your wife, Aegon." You snarl.

That makes him laugh. "The audacity you have is charming. Yet you should know better than to order me around."

"Why wouldn't she? She could very well become queen when our mother dies." Jace feels you stir.

He regrets looking at you, for he found stars in your eyes as you stare up at him with reverence. He read the thought in your eyes: 'For me to be queen, you must be king'.

Aegon reads the threat clearly. "Not even your mother would allow such a horrendous match."

"Why wouldn't she? You married your own sister." Counters Jace, a snap in his voice.

Squaring his chest, an ugly scowl crosses Aegon's face. "You're twins, too close with your. . . Strong blood."

You would maim him for that.

Once again you find Jace restrain you. He leans down to whisper in your ear "Say the word and I will make him bleed for you."

Heart racing and face blooming with a blush, you nod. He'd get in even more trouble for making Alicent's eldest son bleed. Rheanyra would surely be disappointed in him and give him the lecture of the decade. Worst would be the affirmation of his bad blood. The Hightowers would permanently point the finger at him and deem him a disgrace to the Targaryen name.

He should hate you for making him love you so much.

Hate everything about you, from your typical Targaryen looks to the fact that you never got punished as bad as he did.

His pure love for you was stronger than any breed of hate.

And for you, he clenched his dominant hand into a harsh fist and lunged for Aegon.

You watch, titillated and dizzy at the brawl that broke out right in front of you.

You felt bad for the trouble he would get in for this. But there was a sick thrill you received when you saw your twin fight for you at your command.

He may be the eldest twin but you held the reins.

Jacaerys wouldn't have it any other way.

[raven-dor]

thinking of you - epilogue

in which bucky barnes visits your grave...

PAIRING: bucky barnes x fem!reader

WARNINGS: this is so much angst, like actually all angst, graveyard (idk), reminiscing, angst ending ig

WORD COUNT: 750

🎶 : thinking of you - katy perry

AN: ♥️ - i wanted to write a little epilogue to thinking of you, something also angsty but hopeful. Idk about the hopeful goal, but it's def angsty, so enjoy!!

“Which Bucky am I talking to?” 

The first thing Steve had said to him when he came to in that dingy warehouse. “I was going to marry your sister, and-” He laughed. “You used to wear newspapers in your shoes.” 

It’s like that one moment sparked all his memories of you to come flooding back. Every time he closed his eyes, he was haunted by you, your memory. 

Your death.

Steve had tried to hide it from him, tried to say it was for his own good, but he’d known. He’d always known deep down that something had happened to you, even when he couldn’t remember.

More often than not, that was what kept him awake at night. 

He visited your grave every week, a fresh bouquet of flowers clenched in his grip. Poppies, your favorite. 

It was tradition, at this point. Five years since the return of half the Earth’s population, and he had made an effort to visit every week, alone. 

He’d almost brought Sam once.

It had been raining all day, wiping away all the dirt and grime that had built up on your grave. He almost wanted to curse the weather, that was how he passed the time, cleaning your grave and talking as if you could hear him. Setting the bouquet gently on the ground, he smiled lightly. “Hey, Doll.”

No one else ever visited, much to his surprise. You were highly influential, he’d found in his research. A founder of S.H.I.E.L.D., mother, wife, and mayor of your small town for fifteen years. Your husband, whom Bucky did not research as intensely (he didn’t see the need), was also influential. Not only was he a member of Congress for 10 years (after your death), he was also a highly ranked S.H.I.E.L.D. official, and after his retirement, he founded a private investigation firm. 

Your children, two girls and one boy, were just as determined as you (and your husband.) They all pursued higher education, your eldest became an attorney, eventually serving on the Supreme Court. Your second eldest became a musician, traveling the world, and eventually settled in Nashville.

“Visit often?” Bucky tensed, pulling himself back to reality. He turned around, smiling at the old man. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“No need to call me sir.” The man stepped forward, setting down a matching bouquet next to Bucky’s. “From what I hear, you’re a good forty years older than me.” 

Bucky laughed, actually laughed for what felt like the first time in months. “Don’t look a day over 38.” 

The man laughed, sticking his hand out. “James Rogers-Anderson.” 

Bucky’s heart stopped. “You’re-” 

“Her son.” He nodded. “I am.” 

Bucky shook his hand eagerly, although that horrible feeling in his stomach did not go away. If anything, it had grown stronger. Your son had been the director of the FBI for ten years and had just recently retired. There was no doubt in Bucky’s mind that your son was not aware of how you had died.

“I’m so sorry.” It had slipped out before he could think.

James looked perfectly calm, content even. “Nothing to be sorry for. If anything, I’m sorry.” 

Bucky tilted his head, and James continued. “It couldn’t have been easy, being under mind control for so long.” 

“Still-” Bucky looked back at your grave, eyes watering. “If I could-” 

“It does no good to dwell on the past.” James’ eyes looked nostalgic, and just as teary as Bucky’s. “Trust me, it only hurts to think about ‘what if.’ What if I had stopped her from leaving the cabin that night?” James’s voice was small, almost like a boy’s. “Maybe she’d still be here.” 

“You’re right.” Bucky cleared his throat. “Only hurts. If you’ll excuse me-” 

“The girls would love to meet you,” James called out, causing Bucky to stop. “Lizzie and Char.” 

“Don’t think that’s wise.” He muttered. “I’m sorry to have met you.” 

“Why?” James scoffed. “None of us hold it against you, you know. Not even my father.” 

Bucky turned back toward the man, weary to trust his word. “I find that hard to believe.” 

“My father worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. almost as long as my mother did. You think he had no idea about the Winter Soldier program?” James placed a comforting hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She would have wanted you to know us.” 

Bucky had given in almost immediately, exchanging numbers with James before leaving the graveyard together. How could he say no, he told himself, when your son had your eyes?

taglist: @milesdrift

[theseventhdimension]

It’s me again! lol, i just have ideas for stories and then i try to write them and they all end up as brain farts…

so, i thought, maybe you’d be interested in a suggestion:)

how about s!7 Hotch (i think that’s when he’s training for the triathlon) x male reader (let’s just say Beth doesn’t exist) who also participated in the triathlon but is already waiting at the finish for Aaron, the team doesn’t know they’re dating or something til then, but they know reader because he’s working in a different section and often works with Garcia?

hope you have a wonderful time!

Finish Lines and Fries

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Male! Reader

Word Count: 1.7k+

DNI: Fem-aligned

Author's Note: Hi again! Ugh you have such good ideas, I'm so happy you came to me to write this; I'm always open to requests ;)

This took me way longer to write then I was expecting, I'm so sorry! Hope this is up to your standards 😉

Turns out, you learn a lot about yourself when you’re trying not to throw up at the finish line.

The sky over D.C. was a pale blue brushstroke, still waking from the dawn as bodies surged through the last leg of the triathlon. The smell of sweat and lakewater mingled in the air, muscles burned with lactic acid, and yet the finish line felt impossibly close.

You stood there, just past the cordon. Damp towel draped around your shoulders. Medal clinking lightly against your chest. Your chest still rose and fell from the sprint that had carried you over the line twenty minutes ago. But none of that mattered.

You were watching for him.

Aaron Hotchner wasn’t easy to miss. Not just because you knew every inch of him—how he carried himself with that quiet tenacity, the slight tilt of his head when his focus narrowed, the way his shoulders stayed squared even when his body ached. No. Even drenched in sweat, tri-suit clinging to him, face red from effort—he moved like purpose incarnate.

You spotted him rounding the corner, breath ragged, jaw set. Your heart gave a ridiculous little leap, you'd never done ballet before, but your feelings seemed to be doing just fine at it.

You didn’t cheer, though. Not yet. The BAU was nearby—scattered just past the finish, where the crowd was thickest. You’d seen Garcia earlier, decked out in a rainbow visor and coordinating pom-poms. When you passed by, chuckling at the other members clearly in the midst of a hangover and dying at the sounds of the loud crowd, you had waved at her, and she’d shrieked in recognition, but now you kept your head down.

They didn’t know. Not about you and him.

Hotch had wanted it that way. Said he didn’t want to “muddy the professional lines.” You hadn’t minded. Not really. You worked in Cyber Analysis, so your paths crossed often—mostly over encrypted data dumps and Garcia’s interdepartmental chaos. But in the field, you stayed out of each other’s way.

Except when you didn’t.

Hotch crossed the finish line with a gasping exhale, knees nearly buckling as a volunteer handed him a water bottle and a medal. He staggered for a second, then straightened up, scanning the crowd like a man on a mission.

Your mission, specifically. You stepped out of the cluster, expression softening as his eyes landed on you. And despite the red in his cheeks, despite the sweat dripping from his brow—Aaron Hotchner smiled.

A real one. Small, private, just for you.

Then he walked over. Not to the BAU. Not to the team. To you. You opened your arms.

He didn’t hesitate.

His voice was muffled against your damp shirt. “I wanted to beat you.”

“Jesus,” he breathed into your shoulder. “That last mile nearly killed me.”

You chuckled, wrapping your arms around his waist and dragging the towel from your shoulders to press against the back of his neck. “You’re the one who wanted to prove something.”

You pulled back, just enough to grin at him. “And yet... here I stand. Medal and all.”

Hotch snorted—You don't think he's ever done that before in his life—and leaned in again, just as your hand found the back of his neck and rubbed slow circles into the tense muscle there.

“Is this allowed?” you teased, eyeing the crowd beyond his shoulder. “You’re violating at least four Bureau protocols right now.”

He didn’t answer.

He just kissed you.

It was brief. Sun-warmed and gentle. The kind of kiss you’d shared dozens of times in kitchens, in parking lots, in the quiet aftermath of midnight phone calls. But doing it here, in broad daylight, with the world watching—it felt monumental. A moment passed. Then another.

Garcia stood ten feet away, eyes wide behind her heart-shaped sunglasses. Reid hovered beside her, blinking rapidly like he’d just been hit with unexpected data. Behind them, Prentiss and Morgan exchanged slow, stunned looks.

“...okay, okay, what is happening right now?”

You froze. Both of you turned.

JJ grinned like she’d known the whole time.

You opened your mouth to speak. To explain. To apologize, maybe.

But Hotch beat you to it.

“Boyfriend..?” Morgan echoed, eyebrows vanishing into his hairline.

“Everyone,” he said, calmly, like he was debriefing a suspect. “This is my boyfriend.”

You stared at him. What did he just say???

“As in…” Garcia flapped her hands. “Like—partner partner?”

Hotch’s hand found yours. Fingers laced together.

“Yes.”

You waited for the fallout.

It didn’t come.

Garcia gave a high-pitched squeal, immediately launching into a rapid string of “I knew it, I knew it, I knew something was going on—!”

Reid looked vaguely thoughtful. “Statistically speaking, interdepartmental relationships—”

“Not the time, kid,” Morgan said, clapping him on the back and turning to you. “You got guts, man. Didn’t think Hotch could keep a secret, let alone something this good.”

Hotch smirked. Actually smirked.

You watched them—your boyfriend and his team—and felt the tension in your shoulders bleed out like steam from a valve.

Maybe it hadn’t been necessary to hide. Maybe now, you wouldn’t have to. Hotch looked at you again, eyes a little softer now, the flush from the race fading from his face. “You going to walk me back to the car?”

“Only if you promise not to pass out on the way.”

He didn’t respond, and just squeezed your hand.

Just then, a small voice cut through the banter.

“Dad!” Jack wriggled out of Morgan’s arms and sprinted across the grass. His sneakers slapped the ground like little heartbeats. Hotch crouched just in time to catch him.

“You were so fast!” Jack beamed, gripping his dad’s face with both small hands. “Like, superhero fast!” Hotch laughed, breathless again for a different reason. “Thanks, buddy.”

Jack turned to look at you, blinking up with curiosity. “Hi..”

You crouched beside them and offered your hand. “Hey, Jack! I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Jack squinted, hesitantly placing his tiny hand in your larger, and definitely sweatier one. “Are you Dad’s friend?”

You glanced at Hotch, who was watching the exchange like someone memorizing the lines of a favorite page.

“I’m more than that,” you said gently. “I’m someone who really cares about your dad. And he cares about me too.”

Jack was quiet for a second. Then—"Cool." He reached up, touched the medal around your neck, and whispered like it was a conspiracy, “Did you beat him?”

You grinned. “Don’t tell.” Jack giggled and nodded like a co-conspirator. Hotch pulled you both into a side-hug, the sun warm on his back, his heart full in his chest.

“Breakfast?” Garcia asked. “Please tell me we’re getting pancakes.”

“Family affair,” Morgan said, already texting directions.

Hotch looked at you. Then at Jack. “I think,” he murmured, “I’m finally letting myself live.” You squeezed his hand. “Then let’s live,” you whispered. “Starting now.”

The post-race high had mellowed into a soft fatigue by late afternoon, the day settling around you like warm bathwater. The three of you had peeled off from the rest of the team after breakfast, waving off Garcia’s attempts to rope everyone into mimosas and a movie marathon. Jack had already begun yawning into Hotch’s side, and the thought of dragging him anywhere other than home felt like a cruelty.

But when his little voice piped up from the backseat—“Can we get fries before we go home?”—you couldn’t bring yourself to say no.

So now you’re behind the wheel, the sun slanting in golden shafts through the windshield, and Hotch is in the passenger seat with his hand resting near the gearshift, fingers twitching in the lull between songs on the radio. Jack sits curled up in the back, his shoes kicked off, his head leaning against the window.

Hotch looks over at you, his voice quieter than the music. “He’s had a big day.”

“You both have,” you reply. Your knuckles brush against his where they rest between you. “You okay?”

He nods slowly. Then: “..I think I forgot what it’s like to be proud of myself.”

You glance at him, heart hitching. His expression is bare—softened by the hush of the car, by the security of this private little bubble you’re all floating in.

“But seeing him watch me run today,” Hotch continues, eyes still on the road ahead, “seeing you waiting for me… I remembered.”

You reach for his hand properly now. Grip it.

He holds back, not tightly—like he’s still getting used to the feeling of being held at all.

The fast-food place is nearly empty when you pull in—some sleepy little burger joint you always forget exists until you're already pulling into the lot. Jack perks up at the smell of fries and orange soda, coming alive like a flower in sunlight.

You sit at a booth with a cracked vinyl seat and a tabletop that sticks faintly under your elbows. Hotch orders something light, mostly for show. You make sure Jack gets extra nuggets. And somewhere between Jack building a tower out of ketchup packets and Hotch tossing you a knowing smile, it feels a little like peace.

Jack nudges your elbow when you’re finishing your burger. “Hey.”

You turn toward him, eyebrows raised. “Yeah, bud?”

His legs swing under the table as he stares up at you, face solemn in a way only kids can pull off. “Are you gonna be around more now?”

The question hits with the gentleness of a pebble in water—but it ripples out through your chest all the same. You feel Hotch go still beside you.

“I’d like to be,” you say, keeping your voice low. “If that’s okay with you..?”

Jack doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It is.”

You smile. “Cool.”

He smiles back, teeth stained faintly orange from his drink. Then he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls something out—a folded napkin. It’s crinkled, clearly drawn on with borrowed crayons. He pushes it across the table like it’s top-secret.

You unfold it carefully.

It’s a drawing. Three stick figures—Hotch with a medal, Jack holding fries, and you with what must be a superhero cape. There’s a heart in the corner.

You glance at Hotch.

He’s already looking at you. And this time, he doesn’t hide the way his throat works around whatever emotion’s threatening to rise.

You fold the napkin again and slide it into your coat pocket. “This one’s a keeper.”

[onlybeeewrites]

A Change of Plans (2/)

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!reader 

Requested: yes!

Word count: 2k

Warning: Mentions/illusions to SA, mentions of blood, gore, mentions of past games.

A Change of Plans: Previous

A/N: OMG I’m alive??? So many people requested a part two and I finally got around to writing. Between how busy life is plus writers block I promise I’m not ignoring the requests in my inbox <3 i appreciate all of your patience and I really hope you enjoy, this was a lot of fun!

      · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You never for one moment had thought that you’d be back here. Not like this at least. Of course you had been a mentor for years. You had did your best to keep the kids alive, to try to at least bring one home each year. But like many of the other districts, not many did.

You remembered their names. Their faces haunting your dreams every night when dreams of your own arena decided to give you a break. 

The dreams started off kind at first. But then as usual, they turned awful. Dark. Bloodied. Murderous. The smell was thr worst part. It all felt so real, that you could still smell the flesh and blood even after waking up. 

All of it reminding you of the failure to save them. Most of them at least. Celia was one of the ones you were able to save. Now a mother, she had her life ahead of her. At least as much of a life a victor could possibly have. 

But that’s why you always kept to yourself. Always. For the most part at least. You always kept your head down. Did as Snow asked of you. Continued to put out clothing lines the Capital thrived off of. Played the happy shy girl until you grew up and the Capital had new toys to play with.

Like Chasmire. 

Like Finnick.

You had been spared. Too shaken too meek. Not desired enough by the Capital to be sold off to. Though you supposed that was a blessing in disguise. A blessing that you didn’t get called on. Used by greedy hands and dropped back off on the train to go home.

But that didn’t protect you completely. Even now, after so many years after your own victory. You still returned to the Capital often. For parties, fashion shows, interviews, collaborations, meetings, work ups. It was exhausting. 

It was always exhausting.

But it Haymitch soothed it. 

It was rough at first. For a few years at least. Both young and scrambling to learn how to live with the content losses. The loose mentoring as the both of you were kids yourselves. Dealing with the aftermath of your own traumas—though dealing in very different ways.

It had taken years for you and Haymitch to become friends. Even longer to be lovers. With knowing how the Capital worked, you both knew Snow would do anything to use each other against one another for something.

So you both kept it close and quiet. 

Your own little peace. A little get away from the bright lights, and the constant cameras. It was something that was purely your own that no one could take.

But somehow, even without knowing? Snow had exactly done just that by putting you in the Games and not Haymitch.

You had known what was being planned by the rebels. Especially being from District 8, you had seen it yourself how fast that fire is spreading. And once the Quarter Quell had been announced? You knew the poor girl, Katniss, who you had been able to see and meet and call, was being thrown back into the games. And sweet Peeta refusing to let her do it alone.

Snow was trying to kill her. That much was clear to you as well. But what was also clear was how important the two kids from the District 12 were. You knew there was something sort of plan being brewed. You just needed to wait to hear what it was. But a gut feeling told you that that plan, didn’t include you as a priority. 

Not that you mind. You didn’t really if it meant getting the kids out and stopping these Games once and for all. It was Haymitch that you were worried about. And you hoped to whatever power was out there 

    · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The metallic scent of polish and artificial roses hung in the air, sharp and suffocating in the way only the Capitol could be. You stood backstage, shoulders pulled back despite the weight of the dress stitched to your body like armor.

District 8’s stylists had worked you into something stark and hauntingly beautiful — a dress made entirely of thread. Fine lines of black, silver, and deep plum wound tightly around your frame, as though you’d been sewn together by the very fabric of your district. 

The skirt trailed behind you in curling stitches, unraveling and reforming with every step, a visual metaphor for resilience. Your bodice was structured like a corset —though it was amusing considering both your and Woof’s outfit were your own design your stylist borrowed. 

Your hair was swept up into a loose bun, tendrils left to fall and frame your face in soft waves. Silver pins shaped like needles sparkled subtly in the Capitol lighting. Your makeup was more subdued — matte lips the color of dried blood in your opinion, and makeup around the eyes lined with a metallic powder. 

You smoothed your skirt with a quiet exhale, not from nerves, but from weariness. The Capitol made everything feel louder, heavier. But you’d been through this before. You knew how to hold yourself without becoming something else.

A familiar voice broke the hum of prep around you.

“Well, well. Look at you.”

You turned, lips tugging into a smile as Finnick sauntered over in his absurd sea-green netting and too-confident smirk. Though you knew it was all pretend—expect for that fond look in his eye that he saved for his true friends.

“I thought they were supposed to make me the pretty one tonight,” he teased, giving you a slow once-over.

You blinked at him, unimpressed. “You look like the garnish on a seafood platter.”

He laughed — loud, bright — and leaned in to bump your shoulder with his. “Good. Then they’ll never see me coming.”

You gave a soft hum, smiling now as he settled beside you. Finnick never stayed still, always pacing or fidgeting. But next to you, he stilled — if only for a few breaths.

“You nervous?” he asked, tone lighter now, but still careful.

You shook your head. “Not for me.”

He nodded, glancing down the hall where all the other tributes laid: older and younger, and the newest additions at the very end of the line. “Yeah,” he said, quieter. “Me neither.”

You reached up, gently adjusting one of the messy strands of hair that fell across his forehead. “Don’t show off too much tonight,” you murmured.

“I make no promises,” he grinned. “But I’ll try — for you.”

You shook your head fondly your heart aching knowing that he, like many here, are hating the fact they they all had to be there agin. Then the horns blared, signaling the parade to begin. 

Taking Woof’s hand, you stepped up into the chariot, and waited to get this over with.

 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

After the parade was finished you told Woof you’ll catch up with him later on, your heels clicked softly against the floors. You didn’t glance around — not yet. Your eyes found Haymitch immediately, though you pretended they didn’t. They always found him.

Your heart pounded as it had the first time you saw him. And ever time after.

He stood with Katniss and Peeta near the elevators, arms crossed, his usual grim scowl in place. Though he seemed to be talking with him, almost amused.

You kept your pace measured as you walked toward them. Your heart kicked at the sight of him, at the way his eyes swept over you quickly — worried, relieved, proud — before he looked away like it hurt to look too long.

“Smooth ride?” he asked, voice dry.

You nodded. “Crowd still loves a tragedy. All their favorites are in the ring,”

“You’d know,” he said. But there was a faint curl to his lip. Almost a smile. “Though not all their favorites. I’m not in,” he said.

That had earned him an unamused eyebrow raise, “Well unfortunately for you, Abernathy, you haven’t been a capital favorite in a long time. Especially now wi the these two,” 

Katniss’s eyes lit up when she saw you properly, as if the weight on her shoulders lifted for a second. Though it was quickly replaced with that familiar stoic gleam in her eye. The reality that you too, were back in the games.

“Y/N!” she breathed.

You gave her a nod, eyes warm. “Nice to see you again, Katniss. You looked good. Cinna did a great job,”

She laughed under her breath. “You looked terrifying.”

Peeta smiled too, softer. “We are glad to see you. It’ll be good to know someone here,”

You met his eyes reaching and giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Peeta was too good. Too sweet. And especially with his leg gone? These games for him especially would be almost impossible. “I wish I could say the same,” 

The elevator opened then chimed open and you all stepped in. You stood beside Haymitch. You were careful not to brush against him even as your fingers ached to reach for his.

Silence stretched. Capitol gold and steel blurred past the glass walls.

Then the elevator chimed — twelfth floor.

The doors slid open.

You waited until the kids stepped out and headed to their rooms to change before they ate.

“Y/N,” Haymitch started, the moment the two of you were alone. Well, as alone as you could be in those apartments. 

“I’ll find you later. But you know I can’t stay long,” your voice was quiet, but quick as your gaze met your love’s. His eyes, the same tired grey ones Katniss wore. And his messy scruffy dark hair that Effie tried to tame.

How cruel the world was. With how much it look from your Haymitch. And how cruel it was that it just continued to take from him. His friends. His family. You. 

“Nothing changes,”

“Plans change.”

“Do they?” Your eyes, usually so soft, timid were fierce like they had been so long ago. Before the burn out of the games. Before the toll of the losses started to take that light from you one year at a time. 

There was something in your voice that made him turn. His eyes were sharper now, clearer than anyone ever gave him credit for.

“You talk like you’re not part of this.”

You gave him a long look. “I’m not the one that matters in this right now, Hay.”

He flinched. Barely. But you saw it.

“Don’t start,” he muttered.

You stayed quiet for a moment, watching a hovercraft drift past in the distance. Its lights cast brief shadows across your face.

“I know the rules,” you said finally, your voice low, but steady. “I know how this game is played. Who the sponsors will favor. Who else is watching.”

He stared out at the city, jaw clenched. “Don’t make decisions for me.”

“I’m not,” you said gently. “I’m reminding you to make the right ones.”

“You are the right one.” The words escaped before he could stop them. Rough. Unfiltered. Careless.

You glanced around the room. Knowing that all over there are most likely cameras and bugged wires placed and hidden all over. Your eyes fell back to him, and raised your brow slightly, a silent careful.

He let out a breath and shifted, eyes on the horizon now. “There’s a plan,” he said, voice more careful. “A way to keep certain… valuable pieces on the board. To ensure the games win,”

“I know,” you said. “I know the pieces. I don’t need to know all your strategies to know the goal is to win,”

He turned to you, eyes searching. “You’re not just a piece.”

You gave him a small smile. A sad smile that broke his heart. “But I know where I sit on the board.”

Silence stretched again. Not cold — just full of things neither of you could say.

Then, softly:

“They’re good kids,” you murmured, hands tightening on the railing. “Kind. Brave. The kind of good that’s hard to find now. But they’re also incredibly important,”

He nodded once.

“You make sure they win and get out of there,” you said. “You do whatever you have to do.”

“I’d rather not have to choose,” he replied, quiet.

“You won’t have to,” you said, finally looking at him again. “I already did.”

[m3lin03]

Shape of the unknown pt.1

other parts: 1 2 3

Hi!! First, I want to say that (disclaimer) I’ve never written before, more so a fanfic. Also english is not my first language, so I may have some mistakes. Second, this is a work that doesn’t really respect everything that is canon (some things yes, others not so much) .

Sylus x reader (not MC), MC is also present though

Warnings: kinda angst, kinda fluff, suggestive, a little bit of stalking ig??

(written on artemas - how could you love someone like me, if you want the whole vibe I had writing this :) )

Tarus was the place for many kinds of people: thieves, traitors, murderers, so on and so forth. That doesn’t mean that everyone was a criminal, most people were just poor, therefore vulnerable.

You knew very well what it meant being vulnerable, used for transactions as if your life or death meant nothing more than a few coins. First years of your life were spent being a slave until one day a woman appeared before you. She was the epitome of beauty and calm. Her eyes scanned through the lines of slaves until they fixed on you. It might have been fate, might have been pure luck, but she took you under her care. This way Tarus became your home.

The woman was the Oracle of Tarus, teaching everything she knew: astrology, science, art and healing arts. However, the one thing that was not taught to you, a natural talent that brought her to become your protector and teacher: the gift of understanding what there was not to see and knowing what was to come.

The Temple of the Oracle was the only place where Tarus people would trust to be safe and taken care for. Sometimes you would see some that had a skin too clean, without the blemishes caused by the burning sun, lack of food and numerous fights. Their poor clothes looked too intentional. Those were aristocrats that hoped to get answers for their dilemmas, own diseases or to try and buy an oracle for themselves. They were usually welcome as the money from them played an important part in helping those who needed it.

Then the time came, yours became the title of Oracle.

Sylus didn’t care in the beginning about the new novice, even though he saw her many times. He had a strong bond with the precedent Oracle. When it was the time he promised to keep protecting the Temple and help the new priestess, if needed. He offered most of the funding, believe it or not.

With time, he got maybe even closer to you than anyone else before. Even though the veil you wore as a custom that marked you as a woman of the Temple, didn’t completely hide your face behind it, it’s soft opacity didn’t allow them to be clear – which sometimes, in the beginning at least, stirred something in him as he couldn’t read your reactions, nor feelings.

Sylus would request quite often for you to spend the evenings at his cave. Time would go flying as you two would chat on different subjects. Your presence was much appreciated by him, giving him an almost sense of peace.

Eventually, the visits didn’t happen so often. Your duty calls, as he did not. No-one needed to tell you why, as dreams came months before to whisper of the future and as objective and cold as you tried to be, your veins felt like they burned of anger?... sadness? broken heart? Maybe all of them? Needless to say, it’s no surprise when one afternoon your presence is requested to his cave. But you know it’s not him, but her.

The dark mauve veils that your dress was made of flowed like liquid around you. A headband made of woven metal kept in place the veil of your head, making you feel heavier than you already felt. Breathing was a hassle. Once you entered the cave, long silver locks welcome your eyes. A pair of blood red eyes welcome yours, but they were not his, your heart’s restless desire. The Sorceress’s lips form a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. As beautiful as she was, you could swear she could at any time start hissing like a viper.

“You called for me” rolls of your tongue in a calm tone.

“I did. I have a question”, her voice is beautiful too, has something upbeat to it.

It is easily noticed that Sylus is not here. For sure she is in no way a stranger to your closeness to the dragon, which means that you can easily be called a foe. It's quite plausible that she would want to talk to you alone.

“It is said that your words ring only truth - “

“My words are the truth for a moment and a place, as future obeys no rules. Ask me a question and I might give you the best I can in the moment” the words fall from your mouth, trying to control your tone, not knowing if you succeed or not.

“Then tell me what you see in my future” she proceeds, getting close to you. So close that you feel her breath on your face.

You do not really know what game she plays at. As you close your eyes for moments, images start flowing from your dreams, others new appear, morphing into timelines and possibilities and most of them leave you choking on air. Your head starts spinning and a sheer layer of sweat appears on your skin.

“War is in your mind, leaving your hands dirty in blood that you can’t wipe off. Eons may come and go and blood will still be pouring, as it’s spoils your heart and the gem that you so much want will be forsaken in the thick, red liquid”, escapes out of your mouth almost unwillingly.

Her eyes fall to the floor for a second then she doesn’t even care to tell anything more, a sign it was time to return. As the thoughts of her stare, your mind seeks an answer for why must she do this. Why try and find out the future if she knows already what will happen? Why talk to you? Does the Sorceress want to be sure you won’t interfere?

Little did you know, another pair of ruby eyes follow you coming out of the cave. He heard your words. Sylus notices how your steps are hurried, breathing heavy, hands trembling. Something coils around his heart almost painful. The voice in which you delivered your prophecy, was not something he was used to. He thought how he wanted to see your face clear, look deep in your eyes and find out answers for his unasked questions. Sylus’s mind wanders to you in so many ways. At first he wanted to keep you close as it was no lie that the ability you possessed was much more cultivated than anyone’s. The ability to shape the unkown in different timelines, from the least to most possible and see time like a living and breathing creature was nothing short of breathtaking. Just as you.

In the end, in the middle of the night, something pulls him to the Temple. What he didn’t expect was finding you bathing in plants with such alluring smell that his eyes closed for a few moments. However, he opens them as curiosity peaks in his chest. Your eyes shine so beautiful, even more than the jewels in his cave. Your hair is sleek on your head and back from being wet. Your skin looks so soft and delicate. Sylus can’t move. In his head, he knows it’s not right, he should leave, at least wait for you to be done… but hidden behind one of the drapes that decorate your room, the urge to watch is more powerful.

His mind becomes preoccupied by thoughts of touching the skin, hair, looking at your eyes up close.

As you are too caught up in some inner monologue, a dragon awaits a miracle to move away or closer.

-Reupload-

[michellesneptune]

❀ Some Venus observations ❀

❀ I have a personal theory that the degree of your Venus could be quite proportional to how evolved you are in the matters of love, especially in the ‘domaine’ of that Venus. E. g. with a Gemini Venus at 6° your childlike curiosity and restlessness would show up way more vividly than, say, at 29° where it would lead more steadily, with grace learnt alongside the passing decans. It’s like the earlier degrees need more experience to fulfill and find themselves until deciding to settle for the companionship of only one lover, permanently.

❀ Venus square Mars are incredibly annoying and addictive simultaneously lol. They get into many relationships, fast. The women demand of their partners to worship them, although still remaining the masculine force in the pair. They’re ruled by sudden impulses and outbreaks, possibly destructive. So hot though. The star, wherever they go.

❀ Pisces placements give themselves fully to the one they love. They’re very loyal emotionally and their heart will bleed for you, always, however I’ve noticed them to not be equally concerned with the physical dimension of the relationship. These detached Neptunians have a taste for episodes of disappearing and then returning unexpectedly like a tidal. It’s easy to lose yourself in their waters. They’re magnetic and shiny, but by devoting to such individuals, you must agree upon said frequent aloofness. I’ve also noticed them (in some instances) to be able to make peace with their partner having relations to other people, the lack of loyalty could be compensated by deep love. Infidelity does not negate devotion. Anaïs Nin having multiple lovers, boyfriends, girlfriends, even husbands! While still declaring the truest love for Henry.

❀ Fixed Venuses a contrario, are more so rooted in the physical realm. Scorpio Venus for example, equally yearns to experience the deepest desires but it has to be manifested externally. They need factual, absolute ownership (Taurus placements, too). It’s a struggle to let go of anything familiar (=already owned) because the emotional repercussions will be huge. That’s why they find themselves being tied to certain situations only by fear. They’re obligated to the senses. The creditor is the heart and the pledge is their sanity.

❀ I wish interceptions were talked about more! My Venus and Mars are both debilitated and in each others’ dignity, making an opposite aspect 🥸🥸🥸🥸🥸 I like to think of them as working in each other’s favour. Venus is a shitty screenplay but Mars is its’ most talented and thoughtful director, and vice versa. I think that it smooths the edges of this harsh combination and gives my chart some flavour 😋 Mars-ruled Venus and Venus-ruled mars, both in fixed signs, aren’t for the weak though. I love food, I love beautiful things and I love sensuality, yet I yearn for depth and rawness. I am feminine and girly, but I WILL crawl under your skin.

❀ Taurus Venus people, despite the domicile, often face challenges in love which lead them to heart-break, and only then discovering their worth. The process is slow and getting screwed by the first love is painful for months and months. However Venus, the lord of beauty, worth and luxury, wishes to help. You keep your standards high and you know you deserve it!

You guys I’ve forgotten how much I love writing about astrology!

Love u❤️

Till next time

Michelle~~

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Cliché title the way to a man's heart is through his stomach

related to this ask game, "send me a made-up fic title and i'll tell you what i would write to go with it"

I appreciate that this is, I'm assuming, trying to be more wholesome when the rest of this has been absolute filth. The problem is... my mind is always in the gutter and I have a fluffy and kinda smutty thought for the fic that I'd write to go with this title--

Because the immediate thought I had was about retired Steve and Bucky. The pair of them, retired, slowly getting into food via cooking. Suddenly, they have the time to prepare meals that aren't just as much protein as fast as possible.

And there's something about Bucky and Steve in canon that makes me think Steve has a complicated relationship with food. He was so skinny pre-serum, he must've had allergies or intolerances and probably also had a small appetite, his body was used to being sick and unable to handle too much. I think Bucky would be more neutral with food, even, possibly positive. Bucky did manual labor at the docks before getting the serum, he's probably used to eating whatever the hell he wants and working it off without second thought.

So, for those reasons, I think it's Bucky that gets into cooking. He experiments with it more and more, and Steve evolves into his taste tester.

Bucky will sometimes call Steve into the kitchen from his studio, or he'll transport some food-for-tasting all the way across the house to Steve in his studio, either way, Steve gets morsels of food throughout the day more often than he ever used to. Plus, at mealtime, he ends up with more on his plate than before. He wants to try at least a bite of everything Bucky made (more often than not, more of a single bite). He eats leftovers without noticing, nibbling with the fridge door open in the middle of the night. And...

Steve's abs blur, losing definition. At the same time, his ass and thighs start to get a little softer, juicier, if Bucky dares to say--he does. His pecs, too, end up with more heft to them.

Suddenly, oh lord, Steve is--dare Bucky say it--chubby. 😮‍💨😮‍💨

It makes Bucky feel all sorts of things. Soft and romantic, look at his lover! All easy around the edges, domesticated finally. Heavy and hot, look at his lover. All thick and juicy. Curves for fucking days. Bucky just wants to fucking sink his teeth into him.

He's gonna bite him, lock his jaw around him, and shake like a dog with a toy. His Steve, healing, low and slow; his Steve taking it easy, thoughtless enough to graze throughout the day, licking his fingers after he snacks; his Steve getting big and soft.

So, hey, if Bucky ends up bending Steve over the kitchen counter to eat his ass, that's not his fault. If Steve gets a blow job in thanks for doing the dishes before he's even finished them? It's. not. Bucky's. fault. If Steve ends up with hickeys all over everywhere from lazy circles around his puffy, bitten and sucked nipples to his softer hips that are too grabbable to be fair to his cushioned, shapely thighs that are still pink with beard-burn before they're even bitten? So what? He's, just, delectable. It's not Bucky's fault that the way to Steve's heart is through his stomach and the way to Bucky's dick is, funnily enough, also through Steve's stomach.

Steve might be retired, so he's not Captain America anymore but he's still a Captain by rank and he is, according to Bucky Captain Cake.

[osapuppy]

BrothersBestfriend Eren! x FemReader!

Content: pantie sniffing and stealing, fingering angry sex, recording/photo taken, Mean n pervy, after care -ish, reader calls Eren rennie >o< !!

BBF (brothers best friend) ♡

BBF!EREN who’s: such a big meanie to you! Always teasing you, making fun of how you dress, telling you how bad you are at Mario cart, being all flirty to make you all flustered and shy.

BBF!EREN who: lifts up your skirt to see what kind of pretty pair of panties you decided to wear that day- AND to see that salty expression on your face,

BBF!EREN who: does all these mean stuff to you behind closed doors. Making sure your big brother doesn’t get suspicious. Especially when he grinds up behind you when you’re just trying to get water!

BBF!EREN who: goes to the bathroom just after you left from your shower to fish out the pair of panties you left in the hamper— putting them in his pocket for later.

BBF!EREN who: thinks you’re so so so pretty with your reading glasses on, he adores the way they slide down your nose as you suck his cock. He hates when you refuse to let him cum down your throat- but that only means he gets to cum on your face! And see his cum drip from your glasses to your cheek !!

BBF!EREN who: fingers you under the table at your family’s party, his fingers rubbing your puffy folds and sliding slowly in and out- hushing you to be more quiet already gaining the attention of your brothers growing suspicion

BBF!EREN who’s: addicted to your tight cunt, it’s truly like a drug to him- he can’t get enough of how your pretty pussy wraps around his cock. even if you start to whine and cry about how big he is, he only try’s to shush you and praise you for being so good for him.

BBF!EREN who: pulls you away from the pool party just to grope and kiss you all over, just cause you looked a little tooo pretty in your bikini.

“r-rennie stop! Someone’s could catch us!” “Nobody’s gonna catch us baby, not if you keep whining like that at least” he said as he puts his hand over your mouth and makes his way to untie your bikini straps. . .

BBF!EREN who: got soo mad when he over hears you talking to some random guy at party. The whole night he was just watching as this guys eyes you down and makes cringey small talk.

BBF!EREN who: bully’s his cock into you the whole night, calling you all sorts of cruel names- leaving harsh red marks all over your body, making you count how many times he spanked you. You don’t even remember how many times you even came, or how many times to came inside you!

"How often do you spread your legs for every dickhead who looks your way?" he snarls against your ear, slamming your hips into the wall with each thrust. His words are cruel and mean "How would your big brother feel knowing his little sister's a fucking whore?" He grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him. "Such a pretty crier, you look pathetic under me dolly " His thrusts become more brutal.

BBF!EREN who: isn’t don’t with fucking your body til he’s stuffed you to the brim, he doesn’t stop to take a break- not for him or you. He keeps going til your belly if filled with his children.

BBF!EREN who: records you in every single angle and every single position you can possibly fathom. He has galleries beyond galleries of your stuffed pussy and photos of your fucked out face.

BBF!EREN who: walks to the bathroom to grab a damp towel and whispers sweet praises as he cleans you up. He grabs you a fresh pair of panties and brings you a new set of clean clothes. He stays there with you til your both ready to come back to the party

BBF!EREN who: loves you deeply and wants to keep you to himself, Eren doesn’t care about your brother anymore- he only wants you, and he WILL have you whether you like it or not :-)

Eren brainrot hitting hard- I WILL be writing more Eren you guys trust 🙏