#I have it saved but it's just a brief moment!

[rafeskai]

Opposite — Rafe Cameron

Part Two

She looks nothing like me So why do you look so happy?

Summary: After seeing her ex-boyfriend Rafe Cameron happily flirting with his new girlfriend Sofia at a party, the reader confronts the painful reality that Sofia is everything she’s not—quiet, effortless, and seemingly perfect for him.

Pairings: ExBF!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: None

A/N: Y'all really wanted part two, I had to deliver :)

First Part Here

It had been six months since that night at the Kook party, six months since you’d finally walked away from Rafe Cameron. It hadn’t been easy, but you’d found something you didn’t think you’d feel again: peace. Or at least, something close to it.

Your new boyfriend, Noah, had been a big part of that. He was different from Rafe in every way—kind, steady, and, most importantly, honest. He never made you feel like you weren’t enough, never looked at you like he was waiting for someone better to come along.

So when he invited you to dinner at a cozy waterfront restaurant, you thought it would be another perfect evening. The two of you sat at a table on the deck, the ocean breeze sweeping through your hair as the sun dipped below the horizon. You were mid-laugh at one of Noah’s terrible jokes when your eyes caught movement across the patio.

And then you saw him.

Rafe.

He was sitting at a nearby table with Sofia. Her laughter rang out, soft and melodic, as she reached across the table to touch his hand. Rafe leaned back in his chair, his signature smirk plastered across his face.

Your stomach twisted painfully. You hadn’t seen him since that night, and now, here he was, looking as infuriatingly perfect as ever. His gaze shifted, almost like he could sense you staring, and for a brief, agonizing moment, your eyes locked.

He froze, his smirk faltering as recognition flickered across his face.

“Hey, you okay?” Noah’s voice pulled you back to the present.

You tore your eyes away, forcing a smile as you turned to him. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But you weren’t. Not when you could feel Rafe’s gaze lingering, not when you could still hear Sofia’s laugh cutting through the air like a knife.

The rest of dinner was a blur. Noah kept the conversation light, unaware of the storm raging inside you, but you couldn’t focus. When the check came, you excused yourself to the bathroom, desperate for a moment to breathe.

You had barely made it to the hallway when a familiar voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Y/N.”

You turned slowly, your heart pounding. Rafe was standing there, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, his expression unreadable.

“What do you want, Rafe?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

He hesitated, his blue eyes scanning your face like he was searching for something. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Yeah, well, neither did I,” you said, folding your arms across your chest.

Rafe took a step closer, and you instinctively took one back. He frowned at the distance. “You look... good.”

“Save it,” you snapped. “I’m not interested in whatever game you’re playing.”

“I’m not playing a game,” he said quickly, his voice low but urgent. “I just... I needed to say something.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms tighter. “What could you possibly have to say to me, Rafe? We’ve already been down this road.”

“I screwed up,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I screwed up,” he repeated, louder this time. “I pushed you away because I was too much of a coward to deal with my own crap. I thought... I thought being with someone easy would fix things. But it didn’t. It doesn’t.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, the raw honesty in his voice throwing you off balance.

“Rafe...” you began, but he cut you off.

“I see you with him,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “And I can’t stand it. I hate that he gets to make you laugh like that, that he gets to hold you, to love you. It should’ve been me.”

You shook your head, the tears stinging your eyes. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come here and say these things after everything.”

“I know,” he said quickly, stepping closer again. “I know I don’t deserve you, but I... I miss you, Y/N. Every day.”

The sound of footsteps behind you made you turn. Noah was standing at the end of the hallway, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“Everything okay here?” he asked, his gaze flicking between you and Rafe.

You wiped at your eyes, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

You brushed past Rafe without another word, grabbing Noah’s hand as you walked back to the table. But as you left the restaurant, you couldn’t shake the feeling of Rafe’s eyes on you, the weight of his words sinking deep into your chest.

Even as Noah laced his fingers with yours, offering the kind of steady warmth you knew you deserved, part of you couldn’t help but look back.

————————————

 The drive home with Noah was quiet, the silence in the car thicker than usual. You stared out the window, the streetlights flashing by in a blur, but your mind was stuck in that hallway, with Rafe’s words looping endlessly in your head.

“I miss you. Every day.”

Noah must have noticed your distraction. He reached over, placing a comforting hand on your thigh. “You’ve been quiet since we left. You sure you’re okay?”

You hesitated, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “I’m fine,” you said softly, though the words felt hollow.

When Noah dropped you off, he kissed your forehead and promised to call you in the morning. As his car pulled away, you stood on your porch, staring at the empty street. The quiet of the night pressed in, but your thoughts were anything but calm.

Rafe’s voice haunted you. His confession had cracked something open inside you, something you’d buried deep to protect yourself.

It wasn’t fair. You were happy now. Weren’t you?

But deep down, you knew the truth. You hadn’t been happy—not completely—since Rafe.

With a shaky breath, you unlocked your door and stepped inside. You barely made it to the couch before your phone buzzed. For a moment, you thought it might be Noah, checking in again. But when you looked at the screen, your heart dropped.

Rafe: I know I shouldn’t have said anything. I just needed you to know.

You stared at the message, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. You knew responding would only complicate things, but your heart had other plans.

You: Rafe, I can’t do this right now.

His reply came almost instantly.

Rafe: Please. Just give me five minutes. If you don’t want to talk after that, I’ll leave you alone.

You closed your eyes, your mind a whirlwind of emotions. Against your better judgment, you typed out a response.

You: Fine. Five minutes.

————————————

Rafe was on your doorstep less than fifteen minutes later. He looked hesitant, his usual confidence replaced with something you rarely saw in him: vulnerability.

“You really don’t waste time, do you?” you said, your arms crossed as you leaned against the doorframe.

He gave a weak smile. “Didn’t want to give you a chance to change your mind.”

You stepped aside, letting him in. The air in the room was heavy as you sat down on the couch, leaving a noticeable gap between you.

“Talk,” you said, your tone guarded.

Rafe leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the floor. For a moment, you thought he might not say anything at all. But then, he took a deep breath.

“I’ve been an idiot,” he began, his voice low. “I thought I could move on, that being with Sofia would make me forget you. But it didn’t. Nothing does. I’ve been trying to figure out what to say to you for months, but every time I tried, I just... froze.”

You stayed silent, your arms tightening around yourself.

“I know I hurt you,” he continued, his voice cracking slightly. “And I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But I’m asking for one anyway.”

You looked at him, your heart aching at the raw emotion in his eyes. “Why now, Rafe? Why wait until I finally moved on?”

“Because I’m a coward,” he admitted, his gaze meeting yours. “I was scared of how much I needed you. But seeing you tonight, with him... it made me realize I can’t keep pretending. I love you, Y/N. I never stopped.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and overwhelming. You felt tears prick at your eyes, but you fought them back. “You don’t get to do this,” you whispered. “You don’t get to break me and then come back like this.”

“I know,” he said, his voice breaking. “But I’ll do whatever it takes to fix it. I’ll wait as long as you need. Just tell me there’s a chance.”

The tears finally spilled over, and you turned away, wiping at your face. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to let you go? To try and move on?”

“I do,” he said softly. “And I hate myself for putting you through that. But I swear, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you’ll let me.”

You looked back at him, your chest tightening as you saw the sincerity in his eyes. You wanted to stay strong, to protect yourself from the pain he’d caused. But the truth was, you still loved him.

You always had.

With a shaky breath, you closed the gap between you, your hands trembling as you reached for his. “If you hurt me again, Rafe... I won’t survive it.”

His hands enveloped yours, warm and steady. “I won’t. I promise, I won’t.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn’t. When his lips finally met yours, it felt like coming home. The kiss was soft and full of unspoken promises, his hands cradling your face like you were something fragile, something precious.

When you finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “I love you,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes, letting the words wash over you. For the first time in months, the ache in your chest began to ease.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice barely audible.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe in a future where love didn’t have to hurt.

© 2024 rafeskai | All rights reserved. This fanfiction is a work of fiction inspired by characters from Outer Banks, and no part of it may be reproduced or distributed without permission.

[imnotditzy]

What if a Greek Chorus acted like Captain Marvel was the lead of their play?

What if a Greek Chorus chose Captain Marvel as the focus of their narration? This could be due to a magic mess up and now they’re stuck talking about The Champion for a while, but I’d like to think that they’re just extremely bored ghosts of prestigious Chorus members who have nothing better to do. Like all of a sudden they’re just haunting Billy and narrating whatever he’e doing in such a dramatized way.

Context for the post/Brief history lesson:

(Shortened version: A Greek Chorus is a group of people who act almost like narrators, speaking about the main elements or the takeaways throughout a play. They spoke in unison to carry their voices better. They had multiple ways to communicate the takeaways, this post focuses on speech and body movement.)

(Example)

*A media example are the muses from Disney’s Hercules. (Except the members of the Greek Choir don’t sing.)

—-

History lesson, done! Now onto the post.

—

Billy: sits down on his old mattress

Chorus: The young boy strew himself along as he perched upon his withered bed. The pesky jabs of fatigue and exhaustion’s claws bore at the young one as his body ceased to relent its constant shivers. 😔

(A few of the ghosts have their hands on their foreheads like they’re about to faint, the rest are shivering like they’re a moment away from hypothermia.) Billy: I’m not even that tired, and my bed is fine???

Chorus (puts hands on their unbeating hearts): To appreciate sanity at mind, the poor youngling deluded himself. Choosing to experience the world in a more gentle perception than what has been given to him. Billy: Oh knock it off!

—

(Captain Marvel/Billy saves a cat out of a tree.)

Billy: …Did I lose them?

(The Chorus pokes theirs heads out from behind the tree)

Billy (clutching his pearls): Gah!

Chorus: In a swift moment of honorable heart, The Champion draws the feeble cat, and all of its quivering self, out of the tall and winding Maple. The daint kitten’s form consumed by the engulfing man, forgoes its fear as it slows stills in warmth.

Billy: That was so NOT cool!

(Random citizens watching Captain Marvel get spooked at absolutely nothing and hearing the echo of a group of ominous voices): Hm. Seems like the Captain’s schizophrenia has gotten worse. It’s materializing now.

—

Imagine during this catastrophe there’s a meeting at the Watchtower. Billy begging his pantheon to do something and their just like…

Atlas: Sorry Billy, there’s nothing more we can do.

Zeus: Shut up Atlas, you know no more than a grapefruit. But also there’s nothing more we can do, Billy.

Heracles: Do not fret however, this is very typical for beloved heroes!

Achilles: Yes, besides the ghost ordeal and the obvious-continuous stalking, this is very common.

Billy (growing more distressed): Not very comforting…

[writing-for-life]

@embervoices , I had to put this in a reblog because it got too long for the comments (brevity is not my forte 🤣):

Yes yes yes! I’ve got several metas that riff on exactly the points you mention, also Desire not being the straightforward villain so many think they are; you’ll find them all in my meta-library:

(please don’t feel you need to read them though)

Or rather: If we look at the Endless conceptually instead of seeing them solely as, well, “not human but still people”, we get to a deeper meaning that will otherwise stay inaccessible. It starts with *when* Desire and Despair first enter the scene in the main run (right after The Sound of her Wings, when Dream… well, hears the sound of her wings 😩). The “big sister sets his head straight” is a valid surface reading of #8, but it’s also just that—a surface reading.

You can’t love and be close to Death if you don’t feel drawn to death.

Death can’t advise you without also being her function. She *is* death. The literal thing. And I’ll never tire of saying it, because every time he listens to her in the whole run, he gets closer to her in the real sense.

And another unpopular opinion: When NG coined the pithy phrase that one must change or die, and that Morpheus made his choice, he didn’t mean he just chose death (even if a felt 80% of people seem to read it like that, but that might just be what I see on my feed—other people’s mileage might vary). They were never to be read as mutually exclusive—it was always both. Because metaphorically, something needs to die to change—a viewpoint, a habit, a set of beliefs. And yet, it doesn’t entirely disappear. That’s exactly what happens—omnia mutantur, nihil interit. And Dream is the Prince of Stories—of course he relates to everything via a narrative *he* spins (he can deny it all he wants).

And yes, you can absolutely desire death—it’s so poignant that we meet Desire and Despair for the first time in #10, and also that they show as the twins on this occasion.

And then there is Brief Lives, when Desire (which is *also* a life force, and that’s important contextually in several arcs) actively pulls out of the scheming in more than one way: Dream even says, verbatim, he has no desire to “do this”, when he usually avoids even the word like the plague (and if he hadn’t done it, the ending might have been different, but that would have also been totally past the point). But the influence of his other siblings, or rather how he relates to them, is far more devastating in that moment. And while they all try as siblings, they are also their function. And in their function, they are NOT helping—again, it’s so obvious if we just look at when and how they show up for him:

Delirium made him go on the trip to find Destruction, Death told him off and made him change his mind when he had already abandoned the plan, Destiny advised him but also didn’t because he is what *must* happen either way, and Despair only showed up for him after Orpheus’ death.

Funnily enough, Desire, despite all their scheming, was always the only one who saved his ass (maybe not always for the most unselfish reasons, but they did it anyway). Not just once. Several times over. Overture is all I’ll say (during the actual events of Overture, but also in the flashback to Alianora’s story).

It’s all incredibly clever and heartbreaking at once…

”But He Loved, He Should Have Been Forgiven”

About Free Will, Responsibility and Agency: Lucifer and Dream as Foils

Did I finally jump on the Lucidream/Dreamingstar bandwagon? No, don’t panic (or be eternally disappointed 🤣), because that quote is actually from “Murder Mysteries”, a short story that also exists in comic form (drawn by P. Craig Russell). And while it isn’t officially part of the Sandman Universe (or even DC), I always saw it as somewhat of a blueprint of how NG (re)imagined Lucifer’s Fall. There is enough in Lucifer’s characterisation in the Sandman that makes it quite plausible as a sort of backstory, especially since it was written when the Sandman was still in full swing. But more about that later…

I’ve long wanted to write a meta about Lucifer and Dream as narrative foils, and since I’ve finally started clearing out my drafts, this was a good one to do right now because we are currently discussing “A Hope in Hell” in our community (join us!). Although I have to admit that this one is rather about what transpires when Lucifer decides to abandon their realm in Season of Mists...

When Lucifer learns of Dream's impending return to Hell to finally release Nada, it solidifies their own resolve to leave (I use they/them pronouns because of the show although comics!Lucifer is male presenting apart from the plumbing and also referred to as he/him). By the time Dream arrives, Hell is nearly deserted, with Lucifer basically expelling its last inhabitants. Lucifer tells Dream they rebelled long ago, and that they are not willing to “pay for that one action” anymore. And the most profound truth they share with Dream is the nature of ultimate freedom—the freedom to leave. This is also brought up many issues later, when Lucifer says to Delirium, "I told him, you know. I told him years ago… I told him that I owed him much for having given me the impetus to go. I told him there was always freedom, even the ultimate freedom. The freedom to leave. You don't have to stay anywhere forever.”

And that’s just… ouch. Not just because it so clearly shows that Morpheus also could have left had he just chosen to (then again, he wouldn’t be Morpheus if he had, and even more “then again”: he did in certain ways), but also because we generally see Lucifer as an antagonistic force. But here, they express something akin to gratefulness. And maybe even a hint of regret that Morpheus didn’t also choose the same way. They feel almost sorry for him (my guess is they actually do, and I can never forget their face at The Wake). But what do you do if even freedom feels like a cage?

All of this ties in neatly with the crucial truth about Hell Lucifer reveals: People are there because they choose to be (and that Hell doesn’t need to be a physical place: We can make our own—any place, even in our own minds).

...this is where you wanted to be.

Lucifer explains to Dream:

"Why do they blame me for all their little failings? They use my name as if I spend my entire day sitting on their shoulders, forcing them to commit acts they would otherwise find repulsive. 'The Devil made me do it.' I have never made one of them do anything. Never. They live their own tiny lives. I do not live their lives for them.”

He continues, “and then they die, and they come here (having transgressed against what they believed to be right), and expect us to fulfil their desire for pain and retribution. I don't make them come here. They talk of me going around and buying souls, like a fishwife come market day, never stopping to ask themselves why. I need no souls. And how can anyone own a soul? No.

They belong to themselves… they just hate to face up to it.”

Which brings me to one of the most important messages (one of many) of the Sandman: People must take responsibility (and in this particular case not only for their lives but also for their afterlives, which is also a recurring theme). Each person's soul is their own, and no one can take that away. Paradoxically (or maybe not), as Lucifer abandons their own responsibilities, they urge people to take responsibility for themselves: You can drop said responsibilities, with all that entails, as long as you also take responsibility for the fallout.

So what about the wider question of free will then?

Let’s look at Lucifer's rebellion and fall for that, because both raise a lot of questions. Dream tells Lucifer that he remembers them as passionate, and Lucifer responds, “I cared about so many things. I suppose that was why everything began to go wrong. You know… I still wonder how much of it He planned. How much of it He knew in advance. I thought I was rebelling. I thought I was defying His rule. No… I was merely fulfilling another tiny segment of His great and powerful plan.”

And this brings me right to NG’s short story “Murder Mysteries”, which isn’t really officially part of the Sandman Universe, but also… it totally is 🤣. In it, pre-fall Lucifer witnesses the destruction of an angel who killed another angel they loved. Raguel (the angel formerly tasked with said destruction who now walks on earth, coincidentally mentioned in the panel above as one who might also have rebelled) narrates, “‘That was not right. That was not just.’ Perhaps Saraquael was the first to love, but Lucifer was the first to shed tears."

Later, it is revealed that God orchestrated this situation to push Lucifer towards rebellion. God needed an adversary to run Hell and says, “Lucifer must brood on the unfairness of Saraquael's destruction. And that—amongst other things—will precipitate him into certain actions. Poor sweet Lucifer. His way will be the hardest of all my children; for there is a part he must play in the drama that is to come, and it is a grand role.”

Lucifer was basically set up by God, and this somewhat revisionist interpretation of their rebellion and fall opens up larger questions about free will, agency and destiny.

Because although Lucifer's actions were influenced by God, they still carried them out and are therefore fully responsible for them. And by choosing to abandon Hell, Lucifer was taking responsibility for their own life. They faced a choice: remain in Hell as a shadow of their former self, or move on and make peace.

This fragile peace is illustrated at the end of "A Season of Mists," when Lucifer and an old man are conversing on a beach. The old man, despite having lost everyone he loved, remarks that any God who can create such beautiful sunsets couldn't be all bad. After the man leaves, Lucifer admits (basically to God), “He's got a point. The sunsets are bloody marvelous, you old bastard. Satisfied?”

And in a way, even Lucifer comes to terms with their past once they take responsibility for it.

In a way, this mirrors Dream’s arc to a tee. One could certainly argue that he was set on his path by forces outwith his control: Whatever had to happen in cosmic terms was always bigger than Dream. The Fates also held a grudge against him and Orpheus, for more than one reason. Orpheus did make the Furies cry, and they never forgave him for that. Crucially though, he was also responsible for his own actions and carried them out. Only that Dream’s choice was ultimately a different one—or was it truly? Because what is the exact definition of “walking away”? He certainly did not abandon his realm like Lucifer because he ensured it was taken care of. There is no devil-may-care (no pun intended) attitude, because even when choosing death, Morpheus does care about his realm and the dreamers. Deeply.

It is the sole reason why the ending we get is the ending we get, and why we have Daniel as Dream in the end. And while Lucifer takes responsibility for their own life, Morpheus takes responsibility for his own death. But both Lucifer and Morpheus faced a choice: remain on their paths as shadows of their former selves, or move on and make peace. And both chose the latter.

And one takeaway for us, as the readers, might be that if we find ourselves in an intolerable situation, we can always walk away, even if the price may be high. This brings us back to the theme of freedom:

The price of freedom is taking responsibility for our lives, even if we haven't been fully in control of them. The freedom to walk away might not be the ultimate freedom, as Lucifer suggests, but it is significant.

Free will in the Sandman is a topic of debate, and I tangentially wrote about it before:

Destiny carries a book that contains everything that will happen to us, all there was, is and will be. Most of all though, it contains what must happen. One could say that in this universe, there is a strong element of predestination involved. However, complaining about a lack of free will and just pointing towards Destiny’s book also misses the point:

In the end, our lives are always our own (which is mentioned several times, directly or in a roundabout way: in Façade, in Song of Orpheus, in Brief Lives, in The Kindly Ones, in The Wake).

Your life and your death are your own

Some of us might have more to overcome than others, but the sooner we accept our unique challenges (which is not the same as being passive), the more we will focus on what we can change—or what we can meet with forgiveness and (self-)compassion.

Destiny and freedom as opposite sides of the coin matter far less than what we do with them…

[sturnswrites]

terms and conditions - pt.2

matt sturniolo x fem!reader

⤳ you move in with the triplets after losing your apartment prompting a "roommate agreement". after having a tricky relationship with matt, some of the rules begin to blur.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first few days of moving in were... an adjustment. Sharing a house with three brothers was like stepping into a live sitcom, complete with chaotic energy, random outbursts, and an alarming amount of inside jokes I didn’t understand yet.

“Y/N! You left your shoes by the door again!” Nick shouted from the living room.

You poked my head out from your room. “And?”

“And I almost broke my neck tripping over them! You trying to kill me?”

Chris’s laughter echoed from the kitchen. “Yeah, Y/N, if you want to take Nick out, at least make it look like an accident.”

You rolled your eyes and grumbled something about dramatics, heading downstairs to retrieve the offending sneakers. Nick was sprawled on the couch, singing some ridiculous pop song at the top of his lungs.

“Is it always like this?” you asked, pointing toward him.

Matt, who was quietly scrolling on his phone in the armchair, glanced up. “Worse, sometimes.” His voice was flat, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Chris leaned over from the kitchen. “This is actually him on a calm day.”

- 

One evening, after a particularly long day, you trudged into the kitchen in search of a snack. The house was quiet for once, which was rare.

“Hey, Matt, do we have any—” you stopped mid-sentence, your brain stuttering to a halt.

Matt stood by the counter, shirtless, a glass of water in hand. The dim light from above highlighted the definition of his shoulders and the lean muscles of his torso. His hair was messy, looking like he had just woken up from a nap, and there was a quiet confidence about him that made the room feel smaller.

He turned, brow furrowed. “What?”

“Nothing. I—uh, I was just—” you gestured vaguely at the pantry, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the kitchen felt.

“Looking for something?” he asked, his tone casual, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes as if he knew exactly why you were flustered.

“Yeah. A snack. But it’s fine. I’ll... I’ll just grab it later.” you turned to leave, but your sock caught on the edge of the rug, and you stumbled.

Matt’s hand shot out, steadying you with a firm grip on your arm.

The brief contact sent a jolt through you, and when you looked up, his face was closer than you expected. His light eyes held yours for a beat too long, and your breath hitched.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low.

The air between you two shifted, heavy with something unspoken.

Before either of you could say a word, Chris’s voice rang out from the living room. “Matt! Are you still hogging the kitchen?”

Matt let go of your arm, clearing his throat. “Get some sleep, Y/N.”

“Yeah. Sure,” you mumbled, practically running out of the room.

Later that night, long after the others had gone to bed, you found yourself lying in your room, staring at the ceiling. The house was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards as someone shifted in their sleep.

You weren’t tired. Not really.

Your mind kept drifting back to earlier in the kitchen—the way Matt had looked at you, his brow furrowed in that way that made him seem more serious than he actually was. Or how the light had cast a faint glow over his skin, every muscle in his torso so defined it could’ve been sculpted.

You groaned, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. Get a grip, Y/N.

It wasn’t just how he looked, though. It was the way he had steadied you, his grip firm yet gentle, like he wasn’t quite sure whether to let go. And then there was the tone of his voice, low and calm, like he had some kind of unintentional pull over the air around him.

You turned onto your side, burying your face in the pillow. It was nothing. Just an awkward moment between roommates.

Except... it wasn’t nothing, was it?

You’d known Matt for a while now, long enough to recognize that he didn’t let people in easily. He kept most of the world at arm’s length, guarded and cool. But in that moment, when his hand lingered on your arm, it felt different. Like he was letting you in, just for a second.

It was ridiculous to overthink it. You’d agreed—sworn—to keep things platonic. And yet, you couldn’t help but wonder if he had felt it too, that unspoken charge in the air between you two.

You let out a frustrated sigh and rolled onto your back again. “You’re being ridiculous,” you whispered to yourself.

Still, sleep didn’t come easily. And when it finally did, it was filled with flashes of dark eyes, quiet smirks, and the ghost of a touch that lingered far too long.

-

The next day, while you were out shopping with Alyssa, Matt and Chris were hanging out in the living room, Nick upstairs editing.

“So...” Chris started, his tone dripping with amusement.

Matt didn’t look up from his phone. “What?”

“Y/N,” Chris said, dragging out the name.

Matt’s head snapped up. “What about her?”

Chris grinned, leaning back on the couch. “Oh, nothing. Just... there’s some tension there, don’t you think?”

“There’s no tension,” Matt said flatly, but his shoulders were stiff.

“Right,” Chris said, nodding exaggeratedly. “Totally normal for you to go all stoic every time she’s around.”

“Chris,” Matt warned.

“Relax, dude. I’m just saying,” Chris continued, his grin widening. “You’re usually Mr. Cool and Collected, but with her? It’s like you don’t know where to put your hands.”

Matt glared at him. “Drop it.”

“Fine, fine,” Chris said, holding up his hands in surrender. But the glint in his eyes said he wasn’t done stirring the pot.

-

The first time all four of you ended up in the living room late at night, it wasn’t planned. You had gone down to the kitchen for a glass of water, only to find Nick already sprawled across the couch with his laptop balanced on his knees. He was wearing headphones and mouthing the words to a song you couldn’t hear, completely lost in whatever he was editing.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Nick startled slightly, yanking off his headphones. “Oh, hey! Nah, just finishing this edit. It’s way quieter at night, you know?”

“Yeah, I get that,” you replied, smiling as you grabbed your glass.

You hadn’t planned on staying, but before you knew it, Chris came up from downstairs, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito. He plopped onto the couch next to Nick, his hair a mess.

“What’s this, an impromptu sibling meeting without me?” he joked, yawning loudly.

“More like an insomniacs’ club,” you said, sitting on the floor next to the coffee table.

Minutes later, Matt emerged from his room, looking far more composed than the rest of you despite the late hour. His eyes scanned the room briefly before he wordlessly sat in the armchair, his quiet presence rounding out the group.

It started simple—Nick rambling about the video he was editing, asking for input that none of you were awake enough to give. Chris chimed in with random anecdotes from his day, weaving exaggerated stories that had us all cracking up, despite how absurd they were.

And then there was Matt, who sat quietly for most of it, his smirks and soft chuckles a steady undercurrent to the lively conversation. He only jumped in when he had something particularly clever or sarcastic to say, and when he did, it always left Nick groaning, Chris clutching his stomach with laughter, and you shaking your head, trying not to laugh but failing miserably.

At one point, the conversation shifted to childhood memories, and the brothers began trading stories about growing up together.

“Matt used to eat dirt when he was, like, five,” Chris said, grinning devilishly.

“I did not eat dirt,” Matt shot back, rolling his eyes but unable to hide his faint smile.

“You absolutely did,” Nick chimed in. “You said it was ‘flavorful.’”

You burst out laughing, and Matt groaned, leaning back in the chair. “This is why I don’t talk during these things.”

“Oh, come on, you love us,” Chris teased, throwing a pillow at Matt, who caught it effortlessly.

The mood was light, easy, and for the first time since moving in, you felt like you were really starting to fit into their dynamic.

At one point, Nick started playing music from his laptop, singing along dramatically to every word. Chris joined in, his voice completely off-key, and soon enough, we were all belting out the chorus to some early 2000s pop song, the kind of music that only sounds good when you’re singing it at the top of your lungs with friends.

Matt, to your surprise, even sang a little, though it was more of a quiet hum under his breath. It was rare to see him this relaxed, and it caught you off guard how much you liked it.

By the time the night wound down, you all were all half-asleep. Chris had completely passed out on the couch, Nick was still typing something on his laptop but moving slower than before, and Matt remained in the armchair, his gaze flicking between you as if making sure you were all okay before calling it a night.

You caught his eye for a brief moment, and he gave you the faintest smile, one that felt softer, more genuine than the others he’d given throughout the night.

“Goodnight,” you murmured, standing and stretching.

“Goodnight,” he replied, his voice low and steady.

As you climbed the stairs to your room, you felt a strange sense of belonging settle over you. This house, chaotic and unpredictable as it was, was starting to feel like home.

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[m4rv3l-girl]

I've Recently stumbled across your page and I am already in love with your writing! The way you capture the story and the characters amazes me! I've never done this before but I have a request if you have time to make it come alive✨️

Reader is Tony starks daughter and is dating bucky, her dad didn't agree and right before reader had a solo Misson, she argued with Tony about bucky and they left on bad terms, bucky said goodbye and waved off reader on thier Mission. It was only supposed to be a 3 day mission and then home again but reader goes missing, kidnapped by hydra or something and they keep her captive and torture her for information on thier winter solider and Tony and bucky work together despite thier differences to find you. After bucky did some digging he found an old hydra base and seen there was some recent activity and figured that was thier best shot, once they got to you, you was unresponsive and bucky carried you back to the quinjet, and Tony broke down apologising and praying for you to come back. You spend a few days in medbay with bucky and Tony by your side and when you awaken, Tony tells you he approves of bucky and couldn't be happier that you're with him because he loves and cares about you as much as he does🥹

Crossfire

Warnings: Angst. Violence. Kidnapping. Torture. Injury. Blood.

Y/N paced across the polished floors of the Avengers Compound, her mind a whirlwind of frustration and nerves.

The mission briefing echoed faintly in her memory—a quick in-and-out reconnaissance, a simple data retrieval from an abandoned HYDRA facility. Three days, tops. But the tension in the air between her and her father made it feel like she was walking into a battlezone before even stepping foot on the Quinjet.

"You’re distracted," Tony Stark said sharply, leaning against the counter with arms crossed. His tone carried the weight of the argument they had been having for the last twenty minutes. "And you know what happens when you're distracted out there? You make mistakes. Mistakes that could get you killed."

Y/N halted mid-stride, her shoulders squaring as she turned to face him. "I'm not distracted, Dad. I'm focused. You just don’t like the fact that I’m with Bucky."

Tony threw his hands up, his voice rising. "You’re damn right I don’t like it! The guy has a kill list longer than the history of Stark Industries. I’m supposed to be okay with my daughter dating a former HYDRA assassin?"

"Former," Y/N snapped, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "He’s not that person anymore, and you know it. You’ve worked with him, fought alongside him. He’s saved lives—your life."

Tony’s expression tightened, his jaw clenching. "That doesn’t erase what he’s done, Y/N. You’re too close to see the danger—"

"Danger?" she cut him off, incredulous. "You’re one to talk about danger, Dad. I grew up watching you suit up and put your life on the line every other day. And guess what? You weren’t perfect either. Bucky has done everything to make amends, and I love him. Why can’t you just accept that?"

The declaration hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Tony’s face softened for the briefest moment, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. But he quickly buried it under a defensive mask. "I’m not trying to stop you from living your life, Y/N. I’m trying to protect you."

"Protect me from what? From being happy?" Her voice cracked, a mix of anger and despair laced in her words. "I thought you’d understand by now that I don’t need you to protect me. I need you to trust me."

Tony opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the sound of footsteps entering the room. Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, his blue eyes flickering between Y/N and Tony, tension etched into every line of his face.

"Everything okay?" Bucky asked, his voice measured but tinged with concern.

Y/N sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Peachy."

Tony shot Bucky a withering glare. "Great. Just in time for the part where I get ignored because you’re here."

Bucky didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he stepped closer to Y/N, his hand brushing hers. "You ready to go, Doll?"

Y/N nodded, her anger with her father momentarily eclipsed by the comfort Bucky’s presence brought her. She grabbed her duffel bag and slung it over her shoulder.

"You’re still not listening to me," Tony said, his voice strained as she moved toward the door.

Y/N paused, glancing back at him. "I heard you, Dad. But I’m still going."

The words hung heavy in the air, a finality that neither of them wanted but neither could avoid. Tony’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze dropping as though he’d already lost.

Bucky followed her out into the hangar, his metal arm brushing against her shoulder. "You good?" he asked quietly once they were out of earshot.

Y/N exhaled slowly, shaking her head. "Not really, but I will be. He’ll come around eventually. He has to."

Bucky frowned, his brows knitting together. "I’m sorry. I know this is hard."

Y/N stopped walking and turned to face him. "It’s not your fault, Bucky. He’ll see what I see in you someday." Her voice softened, her hand reaching up to rest against his chest. "And when he does, he’ll realize you’re one of the best things that’s ever happened to me."

Bucky’s lips twitched into a small, grateful smile, but his eyes still held a trace of sadness. "I’ll wait as long as it takes, Doll."

The Quinjet engines roared to life behind them, signaling her departure. Bucky walked her the rest of the way in silence, his hand never leaving hers. At the base of the ramp, he stopped, his grip tightening just slightly.

"Come back to me," he murmured, his voice low and earnest.

"I always do," she replied, forcing a brave smile.

Bucky hesitated, then leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead, lingering just long enough to make her heart ache. He stepped back as the ramp began to close, his eyes locked on hers until the Quinjet doors sealed shut.

Y/N took a deep breath, steeling herself as the jet lifted off. The mission awaited, and she had no idea it would be the hardest battle she’d ever face.

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The Quinjet’s descent was smooth, its engines humming softly as it hovered over the outskirts of the abandoned HYDRA facility. Y/N sat strapped into her seat, her mind focused on the mission at hand. It was just a data retrieval—no direct confrontation expected, no heavy lifting. Simple. Yet she couldn’t shake the lingering weight of her argument with Tony, his voice still echoing in her head.

"You make mistakes when you’re distracted."

Shaking off the thought, Y/N tightened the straps of her tactical vest and tapped the comms in her ear. "Quinjet’s holding steady. I’m heading in now," she said, her voice calm and collected.

"Copy that," Natasha’s voice came through the comms. "We’ll be on standby if anything goes sideways. Keep your comm open."

"Always do," Y/N replied, grabbing her pack and stepping off the ramp.

The facility was quiet, overgrown with weeds and moss, the metallic structure dulled by time and abandonment. The surrounding trees swayed slightly in the wind, their shadows stretching ominously over the building’s rusted exterior. It looked like any other defunct HYDRA site—empty, unassuming, and forgotten. But Y/N knew better. HYDRA rarely left things without a reason.

She approached the entrance, her boots crunching softly against the gravel. Her fingers brushed over the keypad by the door. It was broken, wires spilling out like spilled guts. It took only a few moments of tinkering before the door groaned open, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond.

"First door’s open," Y/N reported, stepping inside.

"Good. Be careful," Natasha replied.

The air inside was stale and cold, carrying the metallic tang of disuse. Y/N moved cautiously, her steps light but deliberate. The map of the facility played out in her mind as she advanced toward the central server room. It wasn’t far—just down a few turns and one floor below.

The first few corridors were uneventful, lined with old HYDRA propaganda and broken equipment. She paused briefly to inspect her surroundings, ensuring she wasn’t leaving tracks or triggering any dormant security systems.

"How’s it looking?" Natasha asked over comms.

"Quiet," Y/N replied. "Almost too quiet. I’m at the main staircase now, heading down to the server room."

Descending the steps, Y/N felt a chill creep up her spine. It wasn’t fear—not yet—but the kind of awareness that came from knowing she wasn’t truly alone. She tightened her grip on her weapon, her other hand brushing over her utility belt.

The server room door came into view, heavy and fortified with an old HYDRA insignia etched into its surface. It was locked, of course, but Y/N was prepared. Pulling a small device from her belt, she attached it to the door’s lock. The device beeped softly, hacking into the outdated system.

"Almost in," she murmured, more to herself than to anyone on the comms.

The lock clicked open with a satisfying hiss. Y/N pushed the door ajar and slipped inside, her eyes scanning the room quickly. Rows of servers stood like silent sentinels, their lights flickering faintly. Dust hung in the air, illuminated by the faint glow of the machinery.

"Made it to the server room. Starting the data download now," she reported, setting her pack down.

"Copy. Keep your eyes peeled," Natasha warned.

"Don’t worry, I’ve got this," Y/N replied, inserting a small drive into one of the servers.

The drive blinked to life, and data began to flow onto its storage. Y/N kept her weapon close, her gaze flickering between the server and the door. Every sound seemed amplified in the stillness—the hum of the servers, the soft beep of the download, the distant groan of the building’s aging infrastructure.

"Download at 30%," she said after a few minutes.

The process was uneventful, just as she’d hoped. At 70%, she allowed herself a small smile. This was exactly what she needed—a straightforward mission, no complications, no distractions. It would give her time to clear her head, to figure out how to talk to Tony when she got back.

The drive beeped again, signaling completion. Y/N pulled it free, tucking it securely into her belt pouch.

"Data’s secure. Heading back to the Quinjet," she said, rising to her feet.

"Good work," Natasha said. "Keep an eye out—something feels off about this one."

Y/N didn’t argue. She felt it too, that unsettling itch at the back of her mind. Her senses sharpened as she made her way back to the staircase, her steps even quieter now. The corridors seemed darker than before, the shadows longer and more sinister.

She was halfway up the stairs when she heard it—the faintest shuffle of movement behind her. Y/N froze, her heart skipping a beat. Slowly, she turned, her weapon raised.

The staircase was empty, but the air felt heavier.

"Nat, I think I’ve got company," Y/N whispered into the comms.

"Do you see anything?" Natasha asked, her tone instantly alert.

"Not yet," Y/N replied, backing up the stairs.

She was almost at the top when a sharp noise echoed through the corridor—a clang of metal against metal. Y/N whirled around just as a shadow moved in the corner of her vision. Before she could react, a figure lunged at her from the side, slamming her against the wall.

Her weapon clattered to the ground as she struggled against the assailant, a HYDRA agent clad in tactical gear. She managed to drive her knee into his gut, sending him stumbling back, but more figures emerged from the shadows.

"Ambush!" Y/N shouted into the comms, adrenaline surging through her veins.

"Y/N, get out of there!" Natasha’s voice was sharp, but the words barely registered.

The agents swarmed her, their movements precise and coordinated. Y/N fought fiercely, her training kicking in as she blocked blows and struck back. She landed a punch that sent one agent reeling, then ducked under another’s swing, sweeping his legs out from under him.

But there were too many of them.

A sharp pain exploded at the base of her skull as one of the agents struck her from behind. Y/N’s vision blurred, her knees buckling. She tried to fight through it, but the world tilted violently, and darkness crept in at the edges of her sight.

"Y/N!" Natasha’s voice was frantic in her ear.

The last thing Y/N saw before the world went black was the HYDRA insignia on one of the agent’s uniforms.

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Consciousness crept back slowly.

Accompanied by the steady throb of her head and the unmistakable ache of her muscles pulled too tight.

Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing dim, flickering light. The air was stiff, carrying the sharp scent of metal and disinfectant. She tried to move, but her body was restrained. Her wrists burned where they chafed against something unyielding. As her senses sharpened, she realized she was tied to a chair, her arms pinned behind her and her legs strapped down tightly.

The room was sterile and barren, its walls an industrial gray with faint streaks of rust. A single lightbulb swung overhead, casting shifting shadows around the space. There was no window, no visible way out except for a heavy metal door directly in front of her.

Y/N tugged at her bindings experimentally, her breath hitching when the cuffs dug deeper into her skin. They were reinforced, leaving little room for maneuvering.

Her comms were gone, her weapons stripped away. She was completely alone.

Before she could test her restraints further, the door groaned open. Y/N’s eyes snapped up, her expression hardening as a HYDRA agent strolled in. He was tall and wiry, with sharp features and a smug grin that made her stomach turn. His uniform was pristine, adorned with the HYDRA insignia on the shoulder.

“Well, look who’s awake,” the man drawled, his voice smooth and dripping with false cheer. He carried a clipboard in one hand, tapping it lightly against his palm as he approached.

Y/N didn’t respond, keeping her face blank despite the fear roiling in her chest.

The man circled her slowly, his boots clicking against the floor. “Y/N Stark,” he mused, as if testing her name on his tongue. “Tony Stark’s pride and joy. And yet here you are, all alone, with no daddy or boyfriend to save you.”

She clenched her jaw but said nothing.

The agent chuckled. “Silent treatment, huh? That’s fine. I have all the time in the world.” He stopped in front of her, crouching so they were eye level. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know. About Stark. About Barnes. About SHIELD.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a defiant smirk. “Go to hell.”

The agent’s smile didn’t waver. He straightened, setting his clipboard on a nearby table. “I was hoping you’d say that. It makes things more fun for me.”

He picked up a small device from the table—a thin rod with a glowing blue tip. Y/N recognized it instantly: a neural stimulator, HYDRA’s favorite tool for “persuasion.” It sent jolts of electricity directly into the nervous system, causing excruciating pain without leaving a mark.

Y/N forced herself to meet his gaze, refusing to show fear.

The agent tilted his head, studying her. “You know, I’ve always admired your kind. So loyal. So resilient. But everyone has a breaking point.”

He activated the device, the blue light intensifying. “Let’s find yours.”

Before she could brace herself, he pressed the rod against her side.

White-hot pain exploded through her body, stealing her breath. Her muscles seized involuntarily, and a strangled gasp escaped her lips. The pain was blinding, radiating from the point of contact and spreading like wildfire.

When he pulled the device away, Y/N slumped forward, her breathing ragged.

“Still with me?” the agent taunted, tapping the rod against his palm.

Y/N forced herself upright, glaring at him through the haze of pain. “Is that all you’ve got?” she rasped, her voice hoarse but defiant.

His smile faltered for a moment before he regained his composure. “Tough girl,” he said, almost admiringly. “But this is only the beginning.”

The next jolt was worse, targeting her thigh. The electricity tore through her muscles, leaving them trembling and weak. She bit down hard on her lip to stifle a scream, tasting blood.

“Tell me about the Winter Soldier,” the agent demanded, his tone sharp now. “Where is he? What does he know about HYDRA’s operations?”

Y/N spat blood onto the floor, her eyes blazing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He sneered, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head back. “Don’t play dumb with me, Stark. We know you’ve been cozying up to him. You think you can keep secrets from us?”

Her head throbbed where he pulled, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “You’re wasting your time,” she said through gritted teeth.

His grip tightened before he released her abruptly, sending her head lolling forward. “Fine,” he said coldly. “We’ll do this the hard way.”

The next hour was a blur of pain. The agent alternated between the neural stimulator and his fists, delivering calculated strikes to her ribs and abdomen. He peppered her with questions, each one more demanding than the last.

“Where is Barnes?” “What are Stark’s latest projects?” “What does SHIELD know about HYDRA’s current operations?”

Each time, Y/N’s answer was the same: silence or defiance.

Her body screamed in protest, every nerve on fire. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, and her vision swam, but she held onto one thought with iron resolve: Don’t break.

By the time the agent stepped back, she was barely upright. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her head hanging limply.

“You’re stronger than I expected,” he admitted, wiping his brow. “But strength only lasts so long.”

Y/N lifted her head weakly, a faint smile playing on her cracked lips. “You’ll… have to try harder than that.”

His expression darkened, and he raised the neural stimulator again. But before he could use it, the door creaked open, and another agent entered.

“Enough,” the newcomer said firmly, glancing at Y/N with a mix of disdain and curiosity. “We need her alive.”

The first agent hesitated, his grip tightening on the device. “She hasn’t given us anything.”

“Then we’ll keep trying,” the newcomer replied. “But for now, she needs to recover. Dead subjects are useless to us.”

Reluctantly, the first agent set the device down. He leaned in close to Y/N, his breath hot against her ear. “You’re lucky,” he hissed. “But don’t think this is over.”

He stepped back, and the two agents exchanged a few hushed words before leaving the room. The door slammed shut, plunging Y/N back into oppressive silence.

She slumped in her chair, every inch of her body throbbing with pain. Her breathing was shallow, her head heavy. But deep inside, a flicker of hope remained.

Bucky will come for me, she thought. He always does.

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The morning after Y/N left for her mission dawned uneventfully in New York. Bucky Barnes sat in the Avengers Tower common room, staring at the cold coffee in his hand. He wasn’t much of a morning person, but sleeping last night had been nearly impossible. He’d spent most of the night going over his last conversation with Y/N.

Her kiss had lingered, both on his lips and in his memory, but her nervous energy had also left a knot in his chest. He’d tried to reassure her that she’d be fine, but deep down, Bucky hated every second she spent on solo missions. She was capable—he knew that better than anyone—but the fear of losing her gnawed at him constantly.

Still, he’d let her go. She’d hugged him tight and told him to trust her, and he’d kissed her temple, swallowing his protests. Now all he could do was wait.

Tony Stark walked into the room, his usual swagger missing. He had his tablet in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other. His face was drawn, and though he wouldn’t admit it, the argument with Y/N before she left had taken its toll.

"Barnes," Tony greeted curtly, settling into a chair across the room.

“Stark,” Bucky replied, just as curt. The tension between them was palpable, but both men had agreed to coexist for Y/N’s sake.

Tony’s gaze flickered to Bucky’s untouched coffee. “What, no appetite for caffeine today? Don’t tell me you’re losing your edge.”

Bucky didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Just not in the mood.”

Tony let out a low hum, tapping at his tablet. He wasn’t one to dwell on feelings, but the weight of their last argument sat heavy on his chest. He couldn’t shake the image of Y/N’s frustrated face, her voice cracking as she defended Bucky.

"She’ll be fine," Tony muttered, more to himself than Bucky.

Bucky’s gaze snapped to him. “You better hope so,” he said quietly. “Otherwise, you’re going to regret every word you said to her.”

Before Tony could fire back, FRIDAY’s voice interrupted.

“Mr. Stark, Sergeant Barnes, I’m detecting an irregularity with Miss Stark’s mission. Her comms have gone offline.”

Both men froze, the tension in the room morphing into something heavier.

“What do you mean ‘offline’?” Tony demanded, sitting upright.

“Miss Stark’s communicator went dark approximately seven minutes ago,” FRIDAY responded. “I’ve attempted to reestablish contact, but there’s no response.”

Bucky was already on his feet, his expression hardening. “Seven minutes? And you’re just telling us now?”

“I alerted you as soon as the anomaly was detected,” FRIDAY replied evenly.

Tony swiped at his tablet, pulling up the mission parameters and Y/N’s last known location. A map of Eastern Europe materialized on the screen, marked with a blinking red dot.

“She was in contact before this,” Tony said, his voice tight. “She reported everything was going according to plan. What the hell happened?”

Bucky stepped closer, peering over Tony’s shoulder. “Can you pinpoint her last known coordinates?”

“Already done,” FRIDAY replied. The map zoomed in on a dense forested area. “Her last transmission came from these coordinates. There’s no sign of further movement.”

“She could’ve lost the signal,” Tony reasoned, though his tone was far from confident.

“Or someone took her out,” Bucky said bluntly, his jaw clenched.

Tony shot him a glare. “Real helpful, Barnes.”

“It’s a possibility,” Bucky snapped. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this. If her comms went dark, something’s wrong.”

For a moment, neither man spoke. Then Tony turned to FRIDAY. “Initiate satellite surveillance of that area. I want eyes on the ground, now.”

“I’ve already started the process,” FRIDAY confirmed. “However, the forest cover in the region is dense, and visual clarity may be limited.”

Bucky’s fists clenched at his sides. He hated feeling powerless. The soldier in him wanted to grab a weapon and go, but without more intel, he’d be running blind.

“What about her tracker?” Bucky asked suddenly.

Tony frowned. “She wasn’t wearing a full tracker. Just the one embedded in her comms unit.”

“Of course she wasn’t,” Bucky muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

“Don’t start with me, Barnes,” Tony snapped. “She insisted on traveling light, and I didn’t exactly have time to argue after our—” He cut himself off, biting back the word argument.

Bucky turned on him, his blue eyes blazing. “You didn’t argue because you were too busy picking a fight with her about me. And now she’s out there, missing, and we’re wasting time because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.”

Tony slammed his tablet down on the table, standing to face Bucky. “Don’t you dare put this on me,” he hissed. “She’s an agent. She knew the risks.”

“She’s your daughter,” Bucky growled. “And you should’ve supported her instead of pushing her away.”

The room fell silent, both men breathing heavily as the weight of their words settled between them.

“Gentlemen,” FRIDAY interjected, “I suggest you put your differences aside. I’ve detected signs of unusual activity near Miss Stark’s last known location.”

Tony and Bucky immediately turned to the screen, their argument forgotten.

“What kind of activity?” Tony asked.

“Thermal imaging shows multiple heat signatures converging on the area shortly after Miss Stark’s comms went offline,” FRIDAY reported. “It’s possible she encountered hostiles.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “HYDRA?”

“There’s no confirmation yet,” FRIDAY replied.

Tony grabbed his tablet, his hands moving rapidly as he analyzed the data. “We’re wasting time sitting here. Get the quinjet ready,” he barked.

Bucky didn’t need to be told twice. He was already heading for the armory.

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The quinjet hummed as it cut through the sky, slicing through clouds with precision. Tony sat in the pilot’s seat, his knuckles white as he gripped the controls. Bucky sat beside him, silently scanning the mission data on a tablet.

Neither man spoke. The weight of their shared fear hung heavy in the air, but neither dared voice it.

“How far out are we?” Bucky asked finally, breaking the silence.

“Thirty minutes,” Tony replied, his voice clipped.

Bucky nodded, his gaze fixed on the screen. The thermal imaging showed nothing new, just the same cluster of heat signatures near Y/N’s last location.

“She’s strong,” Tony said suddenly, his tone almost defensive. “She’ll hold out.”

Bucky glanced at him. For a moment, he considered saying something comforting, but the words felt foreign on his tongue. Instead, he nodded. “Yeah. She will.”

But deep down, both men knew the truth: time was running out.

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When the quinjet landed, Bucky and Tony moved quickly, stepping into the dense forest with weapons drawn. FRIDAY’s guidance led them to Y/N’s last known coordinates, the eerie silence of the woods amplifying their unease.

The site was undisturbed, save for a few scuff marks in the dirt that hinted at a struggle. Bucky crouched, his fingers brushing against the ground.

“Tracks,” he muttered. “Boot prints. At least six people.”

Tony scanned the area with a handheld device, his jaw tightening. “They took her,” he said grimly. “We need to move.”

Bucky rose to his feet, his expression dark. “Let’s go.”

Together, they followed the trail deeper into the forest, their determination unwavering. Neither man said it aloud, but the same thought echoed in their minds: We’re coming for you, Y/N. Hold on.

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The sharp sting of fluorescent lights buzzed above Y/N’s head, piercing through the darkness she had come to find solace in.

Every time her mind threatened to pull her away, back to a place of quiet oblivion, another jolt of pain grounded her to the suffocating reality of the room.

It had been a full day, though it felt like weeks. Time had blurred, lost in the cycle of pain, silence, and interrogation. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a drink of water. Her throat was dry, her lips cracked, and each shallow breath she took sent spikes of agony through her ribs. She was sure one, maybe two, were broken.

But she was alive.

That fact alone gave her the smallest sliver of defiance to hold onto, even as her body screamed at her to give up.

The metal chair she was tied to groaned softly as she shifted, her wrists raw from where the restraints dug into her skin. Her head hung low, strands of her hair matted with sweat and blood clinging to her face. She blinked slowly, trying to focus her vision, but the pounding ache in her skull made even that a monumental effort.

The door creaked open, the sound sending a shiver down her spine. She clenched her fists, summoning what little strength she had left to steel herself.

“Still breathing, I see,” a voice sneered.

The Hydra agent stepped into the room, his boots echoing ominously against the concrete floor. He was tall, with a thin, wiry frame that belied the strength he wielded. His cold, calculating eyes scanned her, searching for cracks in the armor she wore so stubbornly.

Y/N didn’t answer. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, refusing to give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment.

“You’ve held up,” he said, circling her like a vulture.

“I always do.” She spat.

“You think you’re strong,” he whispered, his voice venomous. “But everyone breaks eventually. You will tell me what I want to know.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her throat burning. “Go to hell,” she rasped, her voice barely audible.

The agent smirked. “Ah, defiance. Admirable. But futile.”

He rose to his feet, pacing slowly. “Tell me about the Winter Soldier,” he demanded. “His weaknesses. His routines. Anything useful.”

Y/N lifted her head just enough to meet his gaze. Her lip curled into a faint smirk, though the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through her. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

The agent’s expression darkened. Without warning, he lashed out, his fist connecting with her cheek. Her head snapped to the side, stars exploding behind her eyelids.

“Wrong answer,” he said coldly.

Y/N tasted blood, metallic and bitter, pooling in her mouth. She spat it out, the crimson splatter landing on the floor between them.

“You’re going to regret that,” he said, his voice low and menacing.

The hours that followed were a blur of agony. The Hydra agent wasn’t particularly creative in his methods, but he was thorough. He punched, kicked, and struck her with calculated precision, targeting places that would hurt the most while leaving her alive enough to endure more.

Y/N bit down hard on her lip to stifle her cries, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream. She focused on one thing: staying silent. Every moment she resisted was a victory, a small act of rebellion against the monster before her.

Her mind drifted to Bucky. She clung to the memory of his voice, the warmth of his touch, the way his arms felt around her. She imagined him whispering reassurances, telling her to hold on, that he was coming for her.

“I’ll find you, Doll,” she could almost hear him say, his voice steady and sure. “Just hold on a little longer.”

It wasn’t real, but it was enough to keep her going.

Eventually, the Hydra agent grew frustrated. His fists were bloodied from the beating, and Y/N’s defiance had begun to grate on him.

“Why do you fight so hard for him?” he demanded, his voice filled with venom. “Do you think he’d do the same for you? He’s a monster. A killer. Do you really think you’re anything more than a distraction to him?”

Y/N’s head lolled forward, her vision swimming. She was too exhausted to lift her head, but she managed to rasp, “You don’t know him.”

The agent growled in frustration, slamming his fist into the wall. He turned to the guard stationed by the door. “Bring the electric setup,” he barked.

Y/N’s heart sank. She had endured physical pain, but the thought of being electrocuted sent a spike of fear through her. She closed her eyes, trying to summon the last dregs of her strength.

The minutes stretched into an eternity before the guard returned, wheeling in a cart with a sinister-looking device. The Hydra agent grinned wickedly as he connected the electrodes, his eyes gleaming with malice.

“This,” he said, holding up the wires, “is going to be much worse.”

Y/N’s breaths came in shallow pants. She refused to show fear, but the trembling in her body betrayed her.

The first shock hit her like a lightning bolt, her muscles seizing violently as pain tore through her. She bit down on her tongue, the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth again.

“Talk!” the agent demanded, turning the dial higher.

Y/N shook her head weakly, tears streaming down her face. “Never,” she gasped.

The shocks came again and again, each one more excruciating than the last. Her vision blurred, her mind teetering on the edge of consciousness. She wanted to give up, to let the darkness take her, but the thought of Bucky and her father kept her hanging on.

“They’ll find me,” she whispered through cracked lips. “You won’t win.”

The agent sneered. “We’ll see about that.”

She didn’t know how much longer she could last, but she wasn’t ready to give up yet.

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The hum of the Quinjet’s engines was deafening in the silence between Tony and Bucky. It wasn’t the soothing kind of quiet, the type that offered peace. This was the kind of silence that screamed louder than words, thick with desperation, fear, and the unspoken truth neither man wanted to voice.

Time was slipping through their fingers.

Bucky sat rigid in his seat, his metal hand clenched so tightly around the edge of the table that the material groaned in protest. His flesh hand rested on his thigh, fingers twitching with barely restrained agitation. His sharp blue eyes were fixed on the holographic map in front of them, narrowing on the blinking red dot that marked the last location Y/N had been before her comms went dark.

"Why haven’t we heard anything yet?" Bucky growled, his voice low and edged with a dangerous kind of fury.

Tony stood at the console across from him, his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack. His fingers flew across the controls, pulling up every Hydra base within a 200-mile radius, cross-referencing them with known activity. It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

"Don’t think for a second I’m not doing everything in my power," Tony snapped, though his tone lacked its usual bite. He was too worried, too consumed by the gnawing guilt threatening to consume him whole.

The argument they’d had—the words he’d thrown at her—played on an endless loop in his mind.

"You think I’m going to stand by and let him ruin you?" "You’re better off without him, Y/N." "I can’t protect you if you don’t listen to me!"

He had been wrong. He knew that now. Bucky wasn’t the enemy, not when the real danger was out there, holding his daughter captive.

"Her last ping was here," Tony said, jabbing a finger at the map. "A base Hydra abandoned years ago. But…"

"But it’s not abandoned anymore," Bucky finished, his voice cold and flat.

Tony nodded, swallowing hard. "Satellite scans picked up heat signatures. They’re faint, but they’re there. It’s our best lead."

Bucky pushed up from his chair, pacing like a caged animal. His hands flexed at his sides, the familiar rage simmering just beneath his skin. "If they hurt her—"

"They did," Tony interrupted, his voice cracking slightly. "You don’t take someone like her and leave them unharmed. We both know that."

The weight of the statement hit them both, a brutal reminder of the clock ticking down on Y/N’s life.

As the Quinjet drew closer to the coordinates, the tension in the cabin became suffocating. Tony adjusted his suit piece by piece, the arc reactor glowing faintly as he prepared for battle. Bucky was already geared up, his combat knife strapped to his thigh and his rifle slung over his shoulder.

They didn’t talk much. There wasn’t anything left to say.

The Quinjet’s navigation system beeped, and FRIDAY’s voice cut through the silence. "We’ll arrive at the designated coordinates in five minutes."

Bucky inhaled deeply, steadying himself. His mind raced with thoughts of Y/N—her laugh, her stubbornness, the way she always looked at him like he was more than his past. She had to be alive. She had to be.

"FRIDAY, scan for life signs as soon as we’re in range," Tony ordered, his voice firm but hollow.

"Already running scans, sir," the AI replied.

The Quinjet began its descent, the Hydra base looming in the distance like a jagged scar on the earth. The surrounding area was eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that made the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck stand up.

"This feels wrong," he muttered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the horizon.

Tony didn’t answer. He was already moving, the ramp lowering as the Quinjet touched down. Bucky followed without hesitation, his every sense on high alert.

The base was dilapidated, overgrown with weeds and rusted with age, but it was clearly operational. Lights flickered faintly in the windows, and the faint hum of machinery echoed from somewhere deep inside.

They moved quickly and quietly through the corridors, clearing rooms with precision. Every second that passed without finding her felt like a lifetime.

"Anything, FRIDAY?" Tony asked, his voice a strained whisper.

"One faint life sign detected below ground," the AI replied.

Bucky’s heart stopped. "Is it her?"

"Unknown, Sergeant Barnes. The readings are weak, likely due to interference."

Tony exchanged a look with Bucky, and for the first time, they were united in their fear. "Then we don’t have time to waste," Tony said.

The descent into the lower levels of the base was harrowing. The deeper they went, the darker and more oppressive the air became. Bucky’s grip on his rifle tightened, his knuckles white as he fought to keep his emotions in check.

When they reached the door to the room FRIDAY had identified, Tony hesitated. His hand hovered over the panel, his eyes darting to Bucky.

"You ready?" he asked.

Bucky didn’t answer. He simply nodded, his jaw set in determination.

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The room was cold, a damp chill seeping into Y/N's bones as if the very walls around her were trying to finish what her captors had started. Her head lolled to the side, resting against the edge of the chair. Each breath rattled in her chest, shallow and labored. She blinked sluggishly, the dim light overhead casting uneven shadows that seemed to mock her.

The Hydra agent who had come in earlier was gone now, his absence offering no relief. His tools of torment lay discarded on the table nearby: a scorched prod, frayed wires that still sparked faintly, and a bloodied rag he had carelessly tossed aside.

Her body bore the marks of his persistence, evidence of her refusal to give in. The electrical burns on her arms still throbbed, skin raw and blistered, and blood trickled down her temple from a cut that hadn’t stopped bleeding since he had struck her last.

She had screamed. She had cried. But she had not spoken.

"You’ll tell me what I want to know eventually," the agent had sneered earlier, his gloved hand tracing the edge of the prod. "Everyone breaks, little Stark. Even you."

Y/N had glared at him through swollen eyes, lips trembling but silent. Her defiance had earned her another jolt of electricity, the current tearing through her body with merciless efficiency.

She hadn't screamed that time.

Now, alone again, she wasn’t sure if her silence had been bravery or stupidity. It didn’t matter anymore. She was dying. She could feel it in the way her body was shutting down, each pulse of her heartbeat weaker than the last.

The faintest flicker of hope she’d clung to for the last day—Has it been a day?—was now extinguished. She had believed, foolishly, that someone would find her. That Bucky would find her. But the hours stretched on, the silence within the base mocking her.

No one was coming.

Her head tipped back, and a soft, bitter laugh escaped her cracked lips, though it hurt to even make the sound. The effort sent a sharp pain through her ribs, where she suspected at least one was broken.

"Guess this is it," she whispered, her voice hoarse and barely audible. Her throat felt like sandpaper, each word scraping against it painfully.

Her thoughts turned to Bucky, unbidden but inevitable. She pictured his face—those piercing blue eyes, the slight scrunch of his brow when he was worried. The way he always called her Doll with such affection it made her heart ache.

He had always been her safe place, her anchor. But now, she was adrift, sinking beneath the weight of her despair.

And Tony… her dad.

Tears pricked her eyes, blurring her vision. She thought of the last conversation they'd had, the fight that had sent her storming off. The words they’d exchanged burned as much as the wounds covering her body.

"You think you’re untouchable because you’re my daughter? Because you’re dating Barnes?" "You don’t trust me to handle myself, and that’s the problem."

She had been so angry, so sure of herself. But now, sitting here on the edge of death, she couldn’t even remember what she had said to him as her final words before the mission.

Would Tony regret them? Would he care?

A fresh wave of despair rolled over her, heavy and suffocating. She let her eyes slip closed, her body slumping further against the restraints.

She was so tired.

Time lost meaning in the haze of pain and exhaustion. Seconds blurred into minutes, minutes into hours. The only constants were the ache in her body and the pounding in her head, faint and unrelenting.

At some point, the Hydra agent had returned. His boots clicked against the floor as he approached, his silhouette looming over her. He said something, but the words were garbled, unintelligible.

He hit her again—she didn’t know where, only that it hurt. And then he left, muttering something about "usefulness" as he disappeared through the door.

She was alone again.

Y/N’s breaths came in shallow gasps, her lungs burning with every inhale. She tried to lift her head, but it felt too heavy, her strength long since drained.

She tilted her gaze upward, staring at the cracked ceiling. The faintest flicker of a thought crossed her mind—a desperate plea she hadn’t dared to voice before.

"If anyone’s out there… please."

The silence answered her.

It wasn’t until later—how much later, she couldn’t say—that she heard it.

At first, it was so faint she thought she was imagining it. A soft hum, low and soothing, cutting through the oppressive quiet of the room.

Her brows furrowed, confusion flickering across her bruised face. Was it her mind playing tricks on her? A final mercy before the end?

But then it grew louder, more distinct.

A voice.

Her heart stuttered in her chest, the faint rhythm skipping erratically. She strained to focus, to make sense of the sound.

"Doll…?…Y/N?..."

Her eyes fluttered open, wide despite the agony that coursed through her. That voice. She would recognize it anywhere.

"Bucky," she croaked, the name barely escaping her lips.

Her body trembled as she tried to move, to shift against the restraints holding her down. The pain was excruciating, but she didn’t care.

They were here.

She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she did. Bucky had found her.

The faint hum of his voice was joined by another sound—a distant, rhythmic pounding. Footsteps.

Her breath hitched as tears spilled down her cheeks, cutting through the grime that covered her skin. "Bucky," she tried again, louder this time, though it came out as more of a rasp.

The footsteps grew closer, the sound echoing through the hallways like a beacon. She forced her head up, her neck protesting the movement, and fixed her gaze on the door.

Please…

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The door slid open with a groan, revealing a scene that made both men’s hearts drop.

Y/N was slumped in a chair in the center of the room, her head hanging low, her body battered and bruised. Her hands were tied behind her back, her wrists raw and bloody. The floor beneath her was stained crimson, a grim testament to what she had endured.

"Y/N!" Bucky’s voice broke as he rushed to her side, dropping his rifle and cupping her face gently in his hands.

Her skin was pale, her breaths shallow. She didn’t respond, her head lolling slightly as Bucky tried to rouse her.

"Come on, Doll," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Stay with me."

Tony stood frozen for a moment, his mind struggling to process the sight of his daughter in such a state. But then he was moving, fumbling with the restraints to free her.

"She’s alive," he said, his voice shaking. "Barely, but she’s alive."

Bucky didn’t let go of her, his thumb brushing softly over her cheek. "We’ve got you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "We’ve got you, Doll. You’re safe now."

Tony swallowed hard, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "We need to get her out of here. Now."

Bucky nodded, scooping her up as gently as he could. She didn’t stir, her body limp in his arms.

"Hang on, Y/N," Tony whispered, his voice breaking. "Please, just hang on."

As they carried her back to the Quinjet, the weight of their failure pressed down on them both. They had found her, but the fight was far from over.

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The soft whir of the Quinjet engines filled the cabin as it raced back to the compound.

Bucky sat with Y/N cradled in his arms, his hand trembling as it brushed gently against her cheek. Her face was battered, her skin pale beneath the bruises and streaks of dried blood.

“You’re okay Doll, hang in there…” he whispered, his voice cracking as he spoke. “You’re almost there. Just hang on a little longer.”

Y/N’s head leaned against his chest, her breaths shallow but steady. She tried to respond, to offer him the comfort she knew he desperately needed, but her voice was a faint rasp.

Across the cabin, Tony sat hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands tangled in his hair. He stared at Y/N with an expression that Bucky had never seen on him before—raw, unfiltered anguish.

“She’s going to make it,” Tony muttered, as if saying it aloud would will it into existence. “She has to.”

Bucky didn’t reply, his focus entirely on Y/N. He could feel her heartbeat, faint but persistent, as if she were clinging to him with the last of her strength.

“Just a little longer,” he murmured again, pressing a kiss to her temple.

The Quinjet touched down at the compound, and a team of medics was already waiting. Bruce Banner, dressed in scrubs, stepped forward, his expression grim but focused.

“Let’s move her,” Bruce said firmly, directing the medics to carefully transfer Y/N onto a stretcher. Bucky reluctantly let her go, his hands lingering as if afraid she might disappear the moment he wasn’t holding her.

“I’m going with her,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Bruce nodded, sparing him a brief glance. “Fine, but let us do our job, Bucky.”

Tony followed behind them, his silence unnerving. He hadn’t spoken since they landed, his usual bravado replaced by a heavy, suffocating guilt.

In the medical bay, the atmosphere was tense as Bruce and his team worked on Y/N. Machines beeped steadily, monitoring her fragile vitals. Bucky stood at the edge of the room, his fists clenched as he watched them clean her wounds, set her broken rib, and stitch the gash on her temple.

Tony stood beside him, his gaze fixed on Y/N’s pale face. He finally broke the silence, his voice barely audible.

“This is my fault,” he said, his hands shaking. “If I hadn’t—if we hadn’t fought before she left…”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away from Y/N. “This isn’t about the fight,” he said quietly. “It’s about them. Hydra. Don’t lose focus now.”

Tony didn’t reply, but the guilt in his eyes remained.

After what felt like an eternity, Bruce stepped back, pulling off his gloves. “She’s stable for now,” he said, addressing both men. “The next 24 hours will be critical. She needs rest and observation, but she’s a fighter. If anyone can pull through this, it’s Y/N.”

Bucky nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

Hours later, the medical bay was quiet. Tony sat slumped in a chair by Y/N’s bedside, his head in his hands. Bucky was on the other side, his metal hand resting gently over hers.

“She always gets herself into trouble,” Tony muttered, breaking the silence. His voice was thick with emotion. “Just like her mom.”

Bucky glanced up at him, surprised by the vulnerability in Tony’s tone.

“She used to drive me crazy, you know,” Tony continued, his eyes glistening. “So damn stubborn. I see so much of her in Y/N.” He exhaled a shaky breath. “I was wrong about you, Barnes.”

Bucky blinked, caught off guard by the admission.

“You love her,” Tony said, his voice firm despite the tremor in it. “I see that now. And she… she loves you, too. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for her. Someone who’d protect her when I couldn’t.”

Bucky’s grip on Y/N’s hand tightened. “I’ll always protect her,” he said softly. “I swear.”

Tony nodded, his jaw tightening as he fought back tears.

It wasn’t until early the next morning that Y/N stirred. Her fingers twitched first, a faint movement that made Bucky’s breath catch.

“Doll?” he whispered, leaning closer.

Her eyelids fluttered, and she let out a soft groan. Slowly, her eyes opened, unfocused and glassy but undeniably alive.

“Bucky?” she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m right here, Doll.”

Tony was at her other side in an instant, his expression a mix of relief and overwhelming guilt. “Hey, kiddo,” he said softly. “You gave us a hell of a scare.”

Y/N’s gaze shifted to him, her brows furrowing slightly. “Dad?”

Tony nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah, it’s me. I…” He hesitated, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. For everything. For the fight, for not trusting you… for not being there when you needed me. I…You picked a good one, Sweetie, I’m sorry, He’s..—”

“Stop,” she whispered, her lips curving into a faint smile despite the pain it caused. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Tony exhaled a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging as he reached for her hand.

Bucky leaned in closer, his thumb brushing against her knuckles. “You scared the hell out of me, Doll,” he said, his voice low and filled with emotion. “I thought I lost you.”

Her tired eyes met his, and she managed a small, teasing smile. “You’re stuck with me, Barnes.”

His lips twitched upward, a weak chuckle escaping him. “I’m so glad you came back to me,” he murmured, his voice trembling.

Y/N’s smile softened, her gaze steady despite her exhaustion.

“I always do.”

——————————————————————————————————

Thank you for taking the time to leave a request. Hope you enjoyed it, Hun! 🫶

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[portalhan]

⠀ꔫ˚　༝　◌ ⌒⌒ three strikes !

↳ jeongin swears on his life that he's seen something odd between you and felix... exactly three times, in fact, but he needs more concrete proof...

PAIRING: felix lee x gn!reader

FORMAT: one shot

GENRE: college au, friends to lovers, fluff, jeongin third wheeling...

WARNINGS: brief mentions of food and being sick (just the flu bug nothing huge)

WORD COUNT: 2.8k

FAE'S NOTES: this is just a little bit half-assed... idk if i have much faith in this and i believe i can do better than this but i'm gonna post it anyway for you guys! please let me know if you have any feedback, my writing muscles have basically atrophied and i need to find my rhythm again TT

jeongin doesn't usually second-guess his closest friends like this, but something has changed. he knows you and felix well enough to know at least that.

you have always been hard to read. you're an independent, reliable sort of person, not outwardly emotional nor needlessly arrogant either—you tend to show your love for your friends through small, quiet gestures. felix, on the other hand, is someone who wears his heart on his sleeve—almost to a fault. always baking extra brownies to gift people, always going the extra mile, always looking on the bright side, even in the darkest of situations. he is as fragile as he is affectionate.

yes, affectionate. that's the word he's been looking for to describe the changes in your friendship with felix. you've been more affectionate. jeongin has always chalked it up to felix's own proclivities rubbing off on you given the sheer amount of time you spend together, but now... he's not so sure it's that simple. there have been three strikes jeongin has kept score of so far.

STRIKE #1

jeongin remembers it was a tuesday, because that's the only day of the week where all three of you shared classes. you would always sit in a row near the back of the class. he has made it a point to memorise both yours and felix's timetables this semester—as do the both of you with him—so he knows you don't usually have prior arrangements before coming to campus. you've always had a tradition of meeting in the lobby before walking to class together as a result.

so, when his phone pings with a message from you saying 'sorry innie, we're gonna be a bit late! pls go to class first, just save us seats', he is immediately struck with confusion. what did you mean, "we"? felix, uncharacteristically, hasn't said a word and it's already 5 minutes shy from when class starts. he always arrives at least 10 minutes before. how strange, jeongin thinks to himself as he trudges up the stairs to class, incredibly unfamiliar with the circumstance of having to do so on his own for the first time. he just brushes the nagging suspicion off, telling himself it was probably because of some public transport situation that's delayed you both—not something entirely uncommon.

it's about 15 minutes into the class before he sees you. the second he spots felix and you stumbling through the doors, profusely apologising to the professor for your tardiness, though, is when the same sensation of suspicion comes back. as you and felix shuffle to make their way to the seats jeongin saved for you, he can't help but notice your attire. you're wearing an oversized black shirt with some graphic of an anime printed on. jeongin's eyes squint as he stares at it, assuming it must have been a new purchase of yours. but he swears he's seen it before.

when you and felix take your seats and the professors picks up where she left off, felix turns to jeongin and apologises for being late. "we're really sorry jeongin, we owe you one," he quips, before he fishes his laptop out of his bag. the younger boy just shrugs it off as no big deal. plus, he had something else on his mind to worry about than harp on the two of you being late to class.

the dots quickly connect a few moments later in jeongin's head. felix has a shirt just like the one you're wearing. he swears he's seen him wearing it before, just last week when the three of you had gone out for dinner. it's been a shirt of his for years now, so worn down by so many uses that it has bleach stains on the sleeves, despite how much care felix puts into his clothing.

jeongin leans back in his chair and slowly, subtly pushes it back. he steals a glance at your side profile, thankfully without either you or felix noticing. there they were: bleach stains on the sleeves. upon further inspection, the shirt you were wearing looks way too worn out to be a new shirt—he concludes it must be felix's. but why would you wear felix's dank shirt to begin with? it would be weird to ask if that's his shirt you were wearing, so he decides to keep his silence for now.

STRIKE #2

this time, it was jeongin's turn to be late. the three of you had planned a picnic to celebrate the end of the gruelling semester—an idea felix suggested. he wanted it to be a potluck, so the each of you planned to bring something of your own making along.

jeongin wanted to go all out with his: he wanted to bake cupcakes, something felix had recently taught him how to. he wanted to show you his latest endeavours, baked fresh, but he didn't expect it to go sideways so last minute. he ended up showing up almost half an hour late, hair sticking to his forehead from all the sweat and cupcake frosting smeared all over the tupperware he placed them in out of haste.

when he finally spots the two of you amid the grass field at the park, he notices something... odd. he stops in his tracks to catch his breath and squints his eyes to get a better look. if he didn't know any better, he'd have thought you two were... holding hands? the sun was glaring directly in his face, obscuring his vision, so jeongin couldn't be 100% sure. but what he does know is that your figures were so close to each other they were practically shoulder-to-shoulder. this isn't exactly beyond felix, who is notorious for his habits of physical affection. but it is most certainly out of character for you, as someone who prefers to keep most people at an arm's length.

jeongin shrugs it off. he guesses felix nor he would be considered "most people". perhaps it was a trick of the light. he also doesn't have good enough reason to find it entirely strange—perhaps felix had gotten through to you in that regard. he had bigger things to worry about: your dinner getting cold.

STRIKE #3

the legitimacy of the third time is still up for debate, jeongin surmises. this time it wasn't your behaviour around each other, instead more so about how felix in particular reacted.

this happened over summer break. he remembers the sun being more unrelenting than ever—40 degrees celsius to be exact, he saw on the news—so you three had just decided to hang out in your bedroom, where the air conditioning is the coolest and crispiest (according to you). jeongin vividly recalls you lying on your stomach atop your bed, while the two boys were sprawled on the floor. that is, the carpet that laid over the spot where they would usually sprawl on the floor.

it was one of those 'parallel play' days, as you liked to call them. not necessarily doing things together, but doing separate things in the presence of each other, you said one time. felix was busy on his switch playing some pokemon game, you were scrolling on your phone and jeongin was just seconds away from drifting off to sleep on felix's lap.

it's been silent for, what, almost two hours now? but you end up breaking it first. "woah," you suddenly exclaimed, brows furrowing as you read something on your screen. "do you guys remember seungmin? from calculus?"

jeongin does not move an inch aside from nodding his head, and felix just lets out a little "yeah?" though his eyes were never once peeled from the console screen.

"i think he just asked me out," you tell them, bewildered.

this, of course, elicits reactions of surprise from jeongin and felix. the former lifts himself and sits up to ask details, while the other just turns the switch off—did he even save his progress on the game?—and sits there in silence as he silently watches you and jeongin discuss your classmate's... proposition. jeongin makes a playful jab at how you could have given him the wrong idea by flirting with him, which you immediately shut down. "i've never done anything suggestive to him, i swear!" you exclaimed in full defense.

seungmin has only ever made conversation with you once or twice in class, jeongin recalls. you also never really put in the effort to get to know your other classmates if jeongin and felix were in the same classes. jeongin makes a passing comment about how seungmin could pass as your type (if you squint hard enough), but it falls on deaf ears when you and felix meet each other's gazes.

"you're gonna tell him no, right?" felix suddenly chimes in after moments of prolonged silence, raspy voice cracking just a little. jeongin snaps his head to turn and look at his friend, head tilted and brow lifted. you give felix a look jeongin cannot quite describe, and chuckle with a soft smile as you nod. "of course i'm gonna say no," you assure him. he lets out a very heavy sigh of relief, but none of this goes unnoticed by jeongin.

this is very weird, jeongin remembers thinking. you have always been receptive to potential love interests, even if they weren't necessarily people you'd normally be into. so why are you so sure now that you'd reject seungmin without even giving him a chance?

on that note, what's it to felix who asks you out? why does he have a say? plus, he could've sworn he detected some semblance of... jealousy in his question. but he supposes that could be normal considering all three of you are so used to spending time with each other. jeongin does admit to himself that he'd feel lonely if you were to be whisked away by some stranger out of nowhere. it wouldn't be the same.

jeongin has theories, maybe even concepts of a theory, but no concrete enough proof for confrontation—so far. it looks like he has to wait till he does before he can address the massive elephant in the room.

FINAL STRIKE

it finally happens when he decides to stop by your apartment with take-out. you had told your friends about falling sick the night before—alas, you have caught the flu bug. they were just textbook symptoms like a low-grade fever, sore throat and a runny nose, nothing to worry about in particular, you told them. but jeongin just so happens to pass by your neighbourhood on his usual route home from work, so he decides to drop in with some chicken soup for you as a small surprise. you had already been texting the group chat the entire day about how exhausted you were to make yourself a half-decent dinner, so jeongin thought this would be a nice way to take care of his friend.

he knocks on your door multiple times to no response. maybe you're sleeping? he looks around the potted plants sitting outside your door and lifts the snake plant up, grabbing the rusted spare key tucked away from prying eyes just underneath. he quickly and quietly unlocks the front door and lets himself in. i'll just go in, check on y/n and put this soup on the table, he tells himself as he enters. maybe text you to let you know he got you dinner.

that is, until a warm aroma of what he believes to be fresh bolognese wafts to where he is at the front door. he hears the distant clanging of pots and pans coming from the kitchen, and—strangest of all—he hears... conversation? he can definitely hear you talking and even giggling, but he can't quite make out who the other person was. he's about 99% sure there was someone else in here, but could it be just a phone call? he sneaks down the hallway to the kitchen, the noises getting clearer as he inches closer. when he sticks his head out from a blind corner to peek into the kitchen, he sees it: felix plating a fresh bowl of spaghetti while you're sitting on the dining table engaged in idle chatter. a lump catches in his throat—what is felix doing here? and most importantly, why didn't he know of this? he felt momentarily betrayed.

jeongin just stands there in silence, unsure of how to confront you, while you and felix continue chatting. it's only when felix sets down two plates of pasta and goes in to plant a peck on your cheek does jeongin yelp in shock, which frightens all three of you.

felix squints his eyes, which widen in utter disbelief when he recognises the familiar facade lurking by the corridor. "jeong...in?" he asks, voice trembling a little from disbelief. when he says jeongin's name, you shoot him a similar look, but this one is more panicked and afraid. jeongin awkwardly steps out within view, but he puts a hand up to cover his mouth to prevent himself from screaming. he raises the other arm to point an accusatory finger at the both of you. you swear you just heard felix gulp next to you.

"i..." jeongin sputters. "i knew it! i knew something was going on between you two idiots!"

the verbalisation of his revelation is what completely opens the floodgates, causing the entire place to erupt in complete and utter chaos. jeongin paces back and forth with the chicken soup still dangling from his fingers as he rants about how he's caught you doing "weird stuff" a couple of times but couldn't have known, about how he's been feeling a little left out recently, how you have been looking at felix funny sometimes. meanwhile, felix just begins to talk over him with near-equal (if not more) amounts of sheer panic and distress, reaching out to him to get him to calm down while explaining that this wasn't how they had intended for him to find out.

you, crippled by the shock from jeongin's unexpected appearance, just sit there, unable to do much of anything what with your flu, just silently watching felix and jeongin form a panic attack circle jerk in your own house.

"enough!" jeongin raises his voice, which immediately shuts felix up. jeong has never raised his voice. you shoot felix a nervous look.

"i thought we were best friends," jeongin utters, the slightest hint of melancholy lacing his voice. he looks offended. you've never seen him look this offended, not even when he was accused of academic misconduct that one time. "i'm happy for you, ecstatic even! i swear i am, but really? why would you keep this for me for so long?"

you decide you should talk to him—felix is very clearly out of his depth when it comes to handling intense situations like this and he's only making jeongin feel worse with all the jabbering. you stand up from your seat on the table and walk over to him, taking your hands in his.

"i'm sorry, jeongin. we... we weren't entirely sure of how we were gonna do this," you tell him, almost in a whisper.

felix scratches the back of his neck, avoiding any and all eye contact with either of you. "we wanted to keep it quiet," he admits. "at first, at least."

you nod in agreement, and turn back to look at jeongin. "you were going to be the first person we would break the news to. not even our own parents, i swear," you divulge, while you spot felix in the corner of your eye making a silent crossed hearts gesture to double down on his sincerity. jeongin's once-tense features start to ease up a bit, but not entirely. "you are our best friend. we never want you to feel like this. we're sorry," you assure him, before pulling him into a bear hug. you feel felix join from behind you to make it a group hug.

"i don't care what you guys have going on, but don't keep any more secrets from me. got it?" your friend huffs after you all pull back, feigning some sort of authority. felix chuckles at how ridiculous he sounds—being the youngest of the three, the tone just sounds alien when it comes from him. "we would never," felix tells him, reaching out to give jeongin a firm pat on the back. "i think y/n might like you more than me anyway, they're always going, 'we should call jeongin! we should send him a photo! we should—"

your palm slaps against the lower half of your boyfriend's face in protest. "we might be dating but you're on thin ice," you glare at him, before he raises both hands to surrender.

jeongin jovially chimes in to break the tension: "can i just say, i've always felt like you'd get along. aren't you glad i introduced you to each other? you wouldn't be a thing if it weren't for me, ya know." felix and you just huff in response—he can have this.

[u6is]

"and i will still see it until i die, you're the loss of my life"

part 3

—kylian mbappé x reader: fluff / angst

You sighed heavily, your eyes scanning the mountain of paperwork piled on your desk. Your hotel was a hive of activity, but you felt utterly alone in your little corner. The neon lights above cast a harsh glow over your face, highlighting the dark circles under your eyes. You had been working late again, trying to bury yourself in work to escape the constant barrage of Ben's calls.

"I’ll wait for you. Can we still talk about this?"

Your phone buzzes constantly with calls and messages from him.

Ben returned to Germany, settling back into the house you both share. Meanwhile, you're stuck in Madrid for another month, buried under the demands of your job.

But Ben wasn't making it easy. Each ring of your phone was a painful reminder of the life you had shared together, of the promises that had been broken and the future that was now a fading dream. You picked it up again, his name lighting up the screen, and for a brief moment, you contemplated answering. Yet, you knew what he would say. The same pleading, the same apologies, the same desperate attempts to convince you that you could still make it to the altar.

The room was suffocating, the lingering heat of a Madrid summer night pressing against the thick walls of the historic building. You pushed the scattered papers aside and stepped onto the small balcony, where the street below was still alive with the hum of late-night revelers and distant music. The city’s nocturnal symphony was a welcome distraction, muffling the silence that had settled so heavily in your heart. You leaned over the cool wrought-iron railing, the warm night breeze brushing against your skin, and wondered why you had ever believed a wedding was the right path for you.

When Kylian saw you that night, you were all he could think about. After years spent trying to bury the memories of you, it felt like he was right back where he started.

He was consumed with the urge to reach out, searching desperately for a way to connect. But when every attempt failed, all he could do was stare at his phone, his fingers hesitating over the screen. Yet, no matter how much he wanted to, he just couldn’t bring himself to make the call.

On the football pitch, his mind wanders during practice, replaying moments of your shared past. The coach’s whistle pierces through his thoughts, a sharp reminder of his responsibilities. With a sigh, he refocuses, pushing his body to its limits, sweat soaking his shirt as he sprints across the field. Yet, no matter how fast he runs or how intense the training gets, the image of your smile remains, etched in the corner of his vision.

One call, just one, could it really stir anything?

He thought quietly to himself.

When the coach finally calls for a break, Kylian retreats to the locker room, his heart pounding from more than just exertion.

The locker room is alive with the sounds of water bottles being opened and the murmur of teammates sharing their frustrations and jokes. The scent of sweat and freshly cut grass lingers in the air, a reminder of the hours of practice that have kept his thoughts at bay.

He pulls out his phone, the digital screen a stark contrast to the dusty football boots and worn-out pads surrounding him. The weight of his decision presses down on him as he stares at your name saved in his contacts. His thumb hovers over the button, the urge to hear your voice warring with the fear of disrupting your life.

Your morning slips away in a blur of clients and endless consultations. For a brief moment, you pause, taking a deep breath to clear your mind.

As the meeting came to an end, your client expressed his thanks, mentioning he'd reach out again soon. On your way back to the hotel, you glanced at your phone and found a series of missed calls and messages from Ben, along with one call from an unknown number.

After several rings, you didn’t answer. The silence hit Kylian hard, and he couldn’t help but feel like a fool. Of course, you wouldn’t pick up. You’d probably erased his number by now, not wanting anything to do with him.

He made his way back to training, still stung by the rejection, trying to push you out of his mind. But the pain fueled his determination. He trained relentlessly, pushing himself harder than ever as if he had nothing left to lose.

After the training, Kylian steps into the cool evening, the crisp air feels refreshing on his damp skin. He starts his car, the engine purring to life as he sits for a moment, lost in his own thoughts. The headlights cast a warm glow onto the quiet street outside the training complex, and he can't help but feel a sense of melancholy wash over him. He puts the car in gear and starts the journey home, his eyes scanning the sidewalks out of habit more than hope.

As he turns a corner, he sees a flash of something that makes his heart skip a beat. A familiar silhouette, the unmistakable tilt of your head as you laugh at something said across the dinner table. His foot slams on the brake, bringing the car to a jolting stop. You're there, in the glow of a restaurant's outdoor lights, a soft smile playing on your lips as you lift a fork to your mouth. Time seems to slow as he watches you, the world around him fading into a blur.

Kylian sits frozen, the engine idling, his thoughts racing.

Is it really you?

He tells himself it's just his imagination playing tricks, but the longer he looks, the more convinced he becomes.

You're dressed in a way that reminds him of a date you had years ago—elegant yet casual, your hair falling in loose waves around your face. The sight of you is like a sucker punch to the gut, a rush of memories and emotions he wasn't ready to face.

Taking a deep breath, he steadies himself before deciding to approach. He reaches for his jacket in the backseat, not wanting to draw attention from the people nearby. Parking the car, he walks toward the restaurant, each step feeling heavier than the last. The sounds of conversation and the clinking of silverware spill out onto the street, blending with the distant hum of city traffic.

As he draws closer, you glance up, and your eyes meet. For a split second, everything around them seems to fade, leaving just the two of them in the quiet.

You look surprised, but not in a negative way. A flicker of recognition crosses your face, and your smile softens as you tilt your head, a silent question in your eyes. Kylian’s heart races, the years of distance between you both suddenly feeling like nothing. Though he's dressed casually in his jacket and hoodie, people still recognize him. After all, he is Kylian Mbappé, the world’s best football player.

The murmur of the restaurant's patrons grows louder as they recognize him. His jacket, emblazoned with the logo of his football team, has caught their attention. The whispers start, a low buzz that quickly escalates into a crescendo of excitement. He's not just any guest; he's the star player, the one who's made headlines and stolen the hearts of fans across the city. He tries to shrink into the shadows, to become invisible, but it's too late. The spotlight has found him.

You, however, remain unfazed by the sudden attention. You stand up from your chair, graceful as always, and gesture towards a more secluded spot in the corner. Kylian's feet move on autopilot, carrying him away from the curious stares and pointing fingers.

In the corner, away from the crowd, his gaze never strays from yours. The intimacy between you both is unmistakable, standing in sharp contrast to the bustling public space around you.

"Kylian, what are you doing here?" you finally ask, your voice a soft melody that resonates through the cacophony of the restaurant.

He clears his throat, his eyes darting around the room before settling on yours again.

"I could ask you the same thing," he says with a nervous laugh.

"It's just... I saw you from the street, and I had to make sure it was really you." His hand reaches out, almost touching your arm before retreating, as if he's unsure of his own actions.

"No, actually, I saw you first at the bar," he said, his eyes locking with yours, a quiet longing in his gaze. "I just chose not to approach." He held your stare, as if words alone couldn’t express the weight of what lingered between you, his gaze soft yet filled with unspoken years.

You study him, your gaze softening.

"It's been a long time," you reply, the warmth in your voice tempering the coolness of the evening air. The silence that follows is filled with the clinking of glasses and distant laughter, a stark contrast to the tumult in his mind.

Kylian nods, his throat constricting with the weight of words left unsaid.

"I tried calling," he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper, raw and vulnerable. "But you didn’t answer, so..."

So it was him, the mysterious number from this morning.

You had ignored it, thinking it was just Ben trying to get under your skin with another unfamiliar number.

"I didn’t recognize the number," you explain softly, your voice laced with a quiet apology. "I’ve been caught up with work... you know how it gets."

Kylian nods again, his gaze steady yet searching, as though trying to unravel the emotions hidden deep within you. "Yeah," he whispers, his hand brushing the back of his neck, nerves clear in his every movement.

"I understand. I just... I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had to see you." His words hang in the air, heavy with longing, making the space between you both feel somehow smaller, more charged.

You swallow hard, your eyes flickering over his face, memorizing every line and curve as if it's the first time you've seen him in years.

"It's good to see you, Ky," you murmur, the formality of your words betrayed by the gentle smile playing on your lips.

He takes a step closer, closing the distance between you. "Is it?" he asks, hope threaded through his voice. "I mean, really good?"

You nod, the corners of your eyes crinkling slightly. "Yeah," you say, your voice stronger this time. "It's really good."

Kylian's shoulders relax, the tension draining from his body. "Can we talk?"

You understood that distraction was your only refuge, a way to silence the heartache that consumed you.

Your fiancé—now ex-fiancé—had betrayed you for someone he barely knew, a fleeting encounter in a bar. Kylian, once your world, now seemed like a lifeline. You needed this. You needed him.

You glance back at the restaurant, your dinner growing cold on the plate. A moment of hesitation lingers, but the yearning in his gaze is impossible to resist. With a slight nod, you surrender to the unspoken plea in his eyes.

The two of you walk down the sidewalk, the cobblestones cool and slightly damp underfoot. The streetlamps cast a warm, flickering light, casting shadows that dance along the ancient brick walls of the buildings. Kylian's hand brushes yours, and you feel a spark, a ghost of the electricity that used to sizzle between you.

You find yourself in a small, secluded park, surrounded by the whispers of the night. The rustle of leaves and the occasional laugh from a group passing by the street create a serene backdrop for your conversation. You sit on a bench, the metal cold and slightly damp from the evening dew, and face each other.

"So, what have you been up to?" Kylian asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of the love that once burned between you.

You take a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. "Work, mostly. I got promoted, and it's been... intense. How about you?"

Kylian's gaze drifts to the ground, his thumb tracing a pattern on the bench's armrest. "Football," he says simply. "It's been my life, as you know."

You nod, a hint of sadness in your eyes. "I've seen the headlines," you reply. "You've become quite the legend around here."

He shrugs, a bit embarrassed by the praise.

Kylian found himself reflecting,

All this time, an unseen thread had been weaving us together.

A single golden strand had always connected him to you.

The conversation flows easily, despite the years that have passed. You speak of friends you’ve kept in touch with, the places you’ve traveled, and the quiet moments that have made up the fabric of your life since he’s been gone. Kylian listens intently, nodding along, his eyes never leaving yours. He tells you about the games he’s played, the goals he’s scored, and the teammates that have become like family.

As the night stretches on, the atmosphere grows heavier with an unspoken tension. But you push it aside, deciding to end the evening before the familiar scent of Kylian's cologne overwhelms you once more.

"It's getting late," you finally murmur, reluctance coating your voice like dew on the leaves above you. Kylian nods, his eyes never leaving yours, as if he's afraid that if he looks away, you might vanish like a mirage.

He stands up, brushing off the dampness that's seeped into his pants from the bench. "Yeah, we should get going." His voice is thick with something unsaid, a hint of sadness that you both feel acute as the chill in the air.

You follow suit, the cool metal of the bench leaving a pattern on the back of your legs. "It was good seeing you, Ky."

He nods, his eyes searching yours. "It was more than good," he says earnestly. "I've missed you."

The confession hangs in the air, stark and raw. You bite your lower lip, unsure of how to respond. "I've missed you too," you finally admit. The words are out before you can stop them, and they feel like a declaration of war against the walls you've built around your heart.

Kylian's eyes light up, a spark of hope igniting in their depths. He takes a step closer, his hand reaching for yours. "Can I see you again?" he asks, his voice a soft plea.

You hesitate, feeling the warmth of his touch, the comfort of his presence. The world around you seems to fade away, leaving only the two of you standing in the quiet embrace of the night.

"I'll think about it, Ky," you murmur, your voice a soft whisper that's barely audible over the distant sounds of the city. The words feel like a promise and a barricade all at once, a bridge built over the chasm that has grown between you.

—

I'll think about it, Ky.

But then, a single call from him the next morning, here you are, standing by his side, hands brushing against the array of bread. He asked you for suggestions on the best snack the city has to offer, and somehow, here you both are, wrapped in the comfort of your favourite pastry shop.

As you walk beside him on the sidewalk toward his car, a smile tugs at your lips, watching him juggle bags of pastries in both hands. He says it's for the staff at training, but you can't help but think it’s a little gesture wrapped in sweetness. Before he heads off, Kylian turns to you with that familiar spark in his eyes and asks,

"When are you finished with work? I was thinking… maybe dinner at my place?"

You pause, feeling the gravity of the moment. The last time you were in his home was when your world was simpler, wrapped in the warmth of love and hope. Now, you're not sure what to expect. "What time works for you?" you reply, feeling cautiously optimistic.

"How about 7?" he suggests, the hope in his voice palpable. "I'll cook, I promise it won’t just be pastries," he jokes, flashing that grin—the one that used to melt you every time. You smile, nodding, knowing that’s the kind of smile he loves to see.

Everything was just as you remembered about Kylian. Nothing had changed. The glamorous house. The same him.

As you stepped inside, he greeted you at the door. "You live here alone?" you asked, taking in the surroundings.

"Non, je vis avec mon père." (No, I live with my dad.)

"But, he's in Paris handling some work matters," he replied, surprised that his voice didn’t waver. You were here, in his home, in Madrid. He still couldn't believe it.

You follow the scent of garlic and herbs into the kitchen, he's now busy at the stove, a look of intense concentration on his face. He glances over his shoulder, catching you watching him, and a flush spreads across his cheeks. "It's not much, but it's all I know how to make," he says with a self-deprecating smile.

You lean against the counter, watching him move around the kitchen with surprising ease, his muscles flexing under the fabric of his t-shirt as he stirs the pot.

The meal is simple but delicious—pasta with a homemade tomato sauce that tastes of summer days spent together, and a side salad that's somehow both light and filling. You sit at the dinner table, and find yourself lost in the easy rhythm of your conversation, the same banter that once filled the quiet moments of your youth.

As you share the wine, the space between you fills with unspoken emotions. His eyes stay on you as you recount a story about Ben, the way he betrayed you for someone he barely knew, a fleeting moment in a bar. It all makes sense now, why you were at that bar the night Kylian first saw you.

You were supposed to marry another, a thought that quietly shatters his heart.

But he can't shake the thought—how could anyone ever treat you like you weren't enough? What an absolute fool.

But then it hits him: he chose his career over you. The memory still haunts him, the way he said he couldn’t risk it all for you. What a fool he was, no better than that guy, Ben.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, the words barely audible. His sudden apology catches you completely off guard.

He exhales deeply, his eyes fixed on the table. "You deserve better than someone like us," he says, his voice heavy with emotion. "Not Ben, and definitely, not me." The words spill out like a confession, a release of the guilt he's carried for so many years.

"Do you remember when I told you I couldn't see a future with you?" you asked, a small, sad laugh escaping your lips.

"I walked away, thinking that was the answer..." You looked at him, your eyes gentle, as though the words you’d kept locked away for so long were finally finding their way out.

"After you, I needed something to hold onto, something that felt real. And Ben... he gave me that illusion. He made me forget, even if just for a while, the truth of who he was." A soft smile flickered across your face.

"I never realized how desperate I must have looked, walking away from you, carrying a heart full of love meant for you. I was scared that my love, overflowing for you, had no place to go."

Your breath hitched as the weight of it all settled in.

The kitchen was suddenly too quiet, the clink of silverware against plates the only sound echoing through the space. Kylian took a sip of his wine, the taste suddenly bitter in his mouth. He knew he had to say something, to explain, to apologize, but the words were trapped behind the wall of regret he had built.

Of course, Kylian remembered. How could he not?

The words, "I don't even know who you are anymore," still echoed in his mind, cutting deeper than he let on.

That night, he was too lost—lost in the haze of substances that dulled his pain but fractured his clarity. He didn’t even recognize himself anymore, let alone expect you to.

But the worst part? He was so consumed by the fear of losing you that he couldn’t see what he was doing to you. His desperation bled into his words, into his actions, into the broken version of himself he kept trying to piece together. He didn’t realize that while he was trying to hold on, he was pushing you away. He didn’t see how much he frightened you—not just with his words, but with the person he had become.

You reached across the table, your hand covering his. "Ky," you said softly, "it's not your fault. We were young and scared."

Kylian's gaze snapped to yours, the pain in his eyes making your heart ache. Without a word, he stood up, coming around the table to you. He pulled you into a tight embrace, his warmth enveloping you like a blanket. For a moment, the world outside his arms ceased to exist, and all that remained was the steady beat of his heart against yours.

You leaned into him, letting his familiar scent wash over you. His hand rubbed soothing circles on your back, the same way he used to when you were upset. It was as though time had folded in on itself, bringing you back to a simpler time when his touch could banish all your fears.

"Je suis désolé", (I'm sorry) he whispered again, his voice muffled against your hair.

"Please," his voice broke through the silence, soft yet desperate, as he gently cupped your face in his hands. His eyes, so full of longing, seemed to plead with you, not just with words, but with every part of him. There was a vulnerability there, raw and unguarded as if he were begging for a chance to undo the hurt.

"Have we broken too much to ever fix it?" he whispered, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause, suspended in the quiet plea of his heart.

"I’m not here in Madrid to fix things," you said softly, the weight of your words hanging between you.

"I’m here for work, and I’ll only be here for a month, Kylian."

The truth felt heavy, but it was necessary, honest, and simple, as it should have been all along.

"Telling you this is enough."

You met his gaze, steady and sincere, your heart laid bare.

He pleaded with a quiet urgency, his words trembling as they left his lips.

For the remaining days of your time in Madrid, he wanted nothing more than to be with you.

He wasn’t asking for forever, just a little more time, a chance to feel your love once more. He insisted, as if he could convince you that these fleeting moments were worth everything.

Once your work here was finished, he said, it would be over.

He would move on, slip back into the rhythm of his life, never to bother you again.

But until then, he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you slip away, not when the very idea of life without you seemed unbearable.

All he wanted, in those last few days, was to be with you, to make up for the lost time, to make your presence the one thing he could hold onto before it all ended.

—

Just until I leave.

The days that followed were a blur of stolen moments.

Quiet dinners in his house, long car rides through the moonlit streets of Madrid, and whispered confessions that felt like secrets shared by the wind. Kylian was a different man than the one you remembered—more mature, more vulnerable, but with the same fiery passion that had once set your heart ablaze.

The city lights twinkling in the distance, and you realise how much you had missed this version of him. The way his eyes lit up with excitement as he talked about his latest match, the gentle way his fingers brushed against yours when he pointed out a new landmark, the sound of his laughter echoing through the night air.

You felt alive again, like the person you were before the weight of the world had settled on your shoulders. With Kylian, you could be free, even if it was just for a little while.

Just until I leave.

The weeks passed by in a blur of happiness and heartache. Each day felt like a gift, but with the looming shadow of your departure date, it was bittersweet. Kylian never pushed for more, never talked about the future—he just lived in the present, cherishing every second with you.

One night, the laughter echoed through Kylian's bedroom as you both lay on his bed, surrounded by the scent of his cologne and the faint smell of rain that had come in through the open balcony door. The air between you charged with the electricity of shared humor and the gentle reminder of what once was.

Kylian rolled over to his side, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he delivered another punchline. The way his body moved, the playful smile that danced on his lips—it was all so achingly familiar. You found yourself smiling, the sound of your laughter mixing with his, creating a symphony of joy that seemed to fill the room.

That smile hit him like a rush, his heartbeat quickening with every curve of your lips. He thought to himself,

If you keep smiling like that, love, I might need a second to breathe.

Yet, he couldn’t stop smiling back, captivated by the warmth of yours.

The jokes were simple, the kind that you had shared a million times before, but in this moment, they felt like the most profound words ever spoken.

As the laughter died down, Kylian reached over to play with a loose strand of your hair. His touch was feather-light, a silent question in the air. You didn’t pull away, instead allowing his fingertips to graze your cheek, sending shivers down your spine. It was as if every sensation was heightened in his presence, every moment magnified a hundredfold.

“I can’t promise I’ll be okay without you,” Kylian said, his voice thick with emotion. Your heart gave a painful tug, the words hitting you like a punch to the gut. You felt a lump form in your throat, the weight of his confession heavy in the air.

Before you could respond, his hand reached up to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb gently brushing away a tear that had escaped unnoticed.

He kissed you. It was a kiss that held the weight of years of longing, regret, and unspoken words. A kiss that seemed to span the chasm of time that had grown between you, bridging the gap with a fierce, all-consuming heat. His lips were soft, yet demanding, moving over yours with a passion that left you breathless.

As his kiss lingered, the mattress shifted beneath you as he positioned himself, the gentle weight of his body pressing you into the bed. You could feel the heat of his skin, the rapid pulse at his throat, and the soft sigh that escaped his lips as he found the perfect spot to rest his head against yours. His hands, now familiar with your contours, moved with a gentle confidence that was both comforting and exhilarating.

His touch lingered, tender and longing, as if trying to stitch the wounds neither of you dared to name. Your bodies moved together, a silent plea for connection until exhaustion finally claimed him.

The world outside the bedroom walls faded away, leaving only the two of you tangled in a dance of love and comfort.

As you lie beside him, his breathing steady and his face serene in sleep, you can’t help but stare.

In the quietest moments, when the world pauses, and your breath stills, you feel it:

A weight that lingers not in flesh, but in the heart’s deepest chambers, Kylian.

Ben offered you a gift wrapped in sincerity, a sanctuary built on steady hands and whispers, but now you understand. It was something real.

Not perfect, not consuming, but real.

And for a while, you held onto it, a lifeboat in the storm of your undoing.

But Kylian?

He was the storm, the sun, and the shadow all at once. His presence was a symphony of fleeting grace.

His absence? A silence that never stopped ringing.

The loss of him is etched in your bones, a memory that floods your soul when least expected. He wasn’t just a lover; he was the dream that woke you, the scar you’ll carry until the end of your days.

And as you close your eyes, decades from now, your breath frail, your body surrendering to the stars,

It won’t be Ben’s steady hand you’ll see.

It won’t be the promise of what was safe or whole.

It will be Kylian— The loss of your life.

The one you couldn’t hold, but couldn’t let go.

The remaining days in Madrid were a whirlwind of emotions—each moment with Kylian feeling like a precious jewel that you didn’t want to let slip through your fingers. Yet, the clock ticked on, reminding you of the inevitable. You tried to ignore it, to lose yourself in the comfort of his embrace and the sweetness of his kisses, but the reality remained, steadfast and unyielding.

—

The final day of your stay in Madrid arrived, and with it, the weight of goodbye loomed like an unspoken specter.

Just before leaving, Kylian placed something in your pocket. You felt the soft pressure of it—a faded, worn piece of paper, its edges frayed like an old keepsake. The warmth of your pocket seemed to merge with its delicate surface, as if it carried a small piece of him inside.

You glanced up, confusion flickering in your eyes, but he met you with a bittersweet smile.

"A reminder," he murmured, his voice low, "for when you're on the plane."

As the plane soared into the sky, the hum of the engines became a dull background to the ache in your chest. You settled into your seat, your hand instinctively reaching into your pocket.

There, nestled between the fabric, was a portrait of you—a moment he captured long ago in the Maldives, where the sun kissed your skin, and his voice, trembling with sincerity, first whispered "I love you."

You turned the picture, your heart catching in your chest. In his graceful handwriting, the words he left behind carried a melancholy truth,

"Tu portes mon cœur." (You carry my heart)

A quiet sob caught in your throat. In that single phrase, the weight of a love you could no longer hold wrapped around your chest.

He had given you his heart, and now you were left to carry it alone.

And now, you find yourself lost once more, cradling all the love you still hold for Kylian. It overflows, boundless and aching, yet you have no place to lay it down, no arms to catch its weight. You wonder, in the silence of your heart, where this love belongs now—it has nowhere left to go.

fleabag reference!

note: i apologize if it felt rushed. I’ve been focused on my upcoming exams, and I just wanted to finish this. i decided to remove the smut because it wasn’t necessary for the story... i feel like i didn’t give them the ending they truly deserved, but i promise i'll do better with the next fic 🫶🏼🫀

[eowynstwin]

I'm almost done. I have this and maybe one or two other things to talk about. After that, I'm going to respond to the rest of the messages I received (some weren't questions, they were just offering support, so i'm saving them for last). After that, I'm going to wrap this subject up and put it away, and get on to having fun again.

I've talked about what happened back then; here's what's happening now.

When I came back, I immediately got an anonymous message criticizing me for...I honestly don't understand what. It feels like an entry into a conversation I was never a part of.

(I found out later that a lot of Myka’s sock puppets complained often about how the fandom “sexualizes” military characters that she personally finds to be far too complex for garden-variety smut. I’m guessing this is her attempt to validate that feeling by making it about race. It’s very weird and poorly done. So, it’s on brand for her.)

In the following months, I've occasionally gotten anonymous messages along that line. Any time I shared any sort of hot take, there would be someone in my inbox clapping back.

I have no doubt it's Myka. I'm very sure she's paying close attention to this blog, saving anything she thinks she can use against me later. She's already demonstrated the lengths to which she's willing to go for revenge and attention.

I usually block and delete. However, the day I went on hiatus—and indicated that my mental health was not well—I received this message.

She was waiting. I know it in my bones. I’ve had a couple of public breakdowns on this blog since I came back, and I have absolutely no doubt that she was waiting, and watching, and figuring out the exact right thing to say to me the next time she saw an opportunity.

I know this, because this one met its mark. I was in the middle of one of the worst episodes I’ve had in a while. The moment I read this message, I agreed with her.

So congratulations, Myka, you finally got back at me. All your waiting paid off. For one brief moment, we agreed with each other.

Small problem for you, though. I’m still fucking here. And because of everything you did, you can never, ever show your face in this community again.

[scorpionstar2021]

I may be the only one, but the dysfunctional family dynamics of Sengoku, Rosinante, Drake, and Law live in my head rent free.

All four of them are undeniably tied to one single night on Minion Island, and that one event changed all their lives.

I want more of them and their interactions, but if Oda doesn’t provide, I’ll make it up myself. (See below)

Sengoku - Rosinante: this dynamic is pretty fleshed out; it’s clear Rosinante respected Sengoku (while sticking to his morals) and it’s clear Sengoku loved Rosinante like a son; we even get a moment of Sengoku grieving Rosinante, plus his decision to let Law escape in Dressrosa was purely out of respect to Rosinante

Rosinante - Law: this is the most fleshed-out dynamic, very clearly father/son; Law gets a whole revenge arc, and Rosinante gets a tear-jerking send off; their entire dynamic is right there on the page/screen

Rosinante - Drake: if they met, it was for a very brief time while Rosinante was beating up Diez Barrels; however, this dynamic is all about the shadow Rosinante left that Drake must live in, trying to be the best Marine not only because of his father but because of the example Rosinante set and Sengoku expects; Drake (perhaps intentionally or even just subconsciously) even follows Rosinante into a life of Marine spy work and into dangerous situations; it’s a dynamic of ghosts and silent shadows and how living among them influenced Drake and his relationships with those who knew Rosinante in full life

Sengoku - Drake: there’s literally nothing about them except the fact that Sengoku adopted Drake, that’s it; this lack of interaction could indicate a strained relationship; Sengoku most likely only took Drake in because he assumed he was the boy Rosinante had been trying to save (and the revelation that that wasn’t true must have been earth-shattering); Sengoku seems content to let Drake do his own thing and is largely uninvolved (he has no contact with Drake or SWORD, though he was directly overseeing Rosinante’s mission); it seems Drake was an impulse adoption and then a forgotten, second son who, despite mirroring the first son, doesn’t measure up to the first in Sengoku’s mind

Law - Sengoku: Sengoku believes that anyone relating to pirates or piracy should face justice (look at what he did Ace just because of his parentage), but he did let Law go, only because of Rosinante; Law seems unconcerned or just ambivalent to the fact his adoptive grandfather used to be the fleet admiral; they’re interacted once and parted in peace, so they would probably get along but prefer not to associate with one another

Law - Drake: the second Law used his Devil Fruit, Drake would have known who he was; maybe they’ve talked about it, maybe they’ve just sort of tangentially acknowledged the connection and nothing more (they are familiar with each other when they’re introduced in the main story, but it’s not clear how well they know each other); they probably had some run-ins in the North Blue when Law was getting started as a pirate, back when Drake was a public Marine; they probably also had some run-ins when Drake ‘defected’ (although Law seems to clock this is a false defection pretty fast); they’re not exactly antagonistic toward one another, but they don’t seem particularly interested in getting along or working together (which might change if they actually talked about Minion Island); regardless, Drake did let Law escape in Wano, so there is some drive between them to not just let the other suffer

[ariascoven]

𝜗𝜚 ── JEALOUS GIRL

PAIRING : agatha harkness x reader

CONTENT / WARNINGS : fem reader. established relationship. petnames (hun, pet, love, kitten & angel). possessiveness and jealousy. use of y/n (once). mention of exhibitionism. smut. marking & biting. mommy kink. pussy slapping. choking. fingering (reader receiving). oral (agatha receiving).

WORD COUNT : 3.6k

A/N : it's 2am and i might suffer tomorrow because of that but at least i managed to finish this and get my motivation back

MY MASTERLIST | REQUESTED

Knuckles turned white with the force Agatha was gripping her own thighs, painted red nails digging and scratching her skin even through the thick fabric of the pants she wore. Icy blue eyes were locked on you, looking so innocent while having a conversation with your new neighbor, a big smile decorating your pretty face. Her jaw clenched at the way you threw your head back at one of her jokes, the sound of your laughter loud and clear even from the distance she was at. Maybe she wouldn't be so jealous if she hadn't noticed the way the other woman shamelessly found an excuse to touch you every two damned minutes.

The way she grabbed your hand, brushed a strand of hair behind your ear or touched your waist for just a brief moment, but enough to make Agatha’s blood boil with immeasurable anger. The witch knew you weren't aware of the neighbor’s oblivious flirting and advances — Goodness, you couldn't take a hint to save your own life. If there was anyone who could talk about how clueless you were, it was Agatha. Only the witch knows how long it took you to realize she was flirting with you. But even so, she couldn't help the possessiveness burning inside of her, the need to mark you as hers making her skin crawl. She got up from her seat in a flash, marching towards the two of you. A smile appeared on your face when you felt a pair of familiar arms wrapping around your waist from behind, head turning to look.

However, that bright smile was quickly replaced by a confused frown when you saw the way Agatha’s eyes seemed to pierce right through the other woman’s body, like sharp daggers ready to cut and stab at any given chance. You rested a hand on top of hers that laid on your stomach and her expression softened immediately at the touch — she was probably just in a bad mood, you figured. You couldn't help but melt when she pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek, so smitten by the woman you called yours that the way the blonde woman’s face fell went unnoticed by you. But Agatha noticed it, and her lips curled up into a cruel smirk as she stared at her smugly.

“Hi, baby. This is our new neighbor!” You said in your usual bubbly demeanor before looking at the blonde in front of you, completely clueless. “This is my wife, Agatha.” You watched with a smile as your lover reached her hand out for a handshake.

“Nice to meet you.” You didn’t like the way poison seemed to drip dangerously from Agatha’s lips as she spoke, her tone slightly mocking. Your eyebrows furrowed just the tiniest bit as you tried to think of a reason for her to be acting like that. Agatha’s possessive nature wasn't unknown to you, and you loved her regardless — and couldn't deny that her jealousy turned on you every single time without fail. But that? That was new. Whenever Agatha got jealous, she never directed a single word towards the other person, preferring to just glare at them with a cold, stern expression on her face that sent shivers down their spine. But never that way, smug and taunting.

In no time, you were back in your shared house after saying goodbye to the woman, who dragged her feet towards the entrance of her own house. “What the hell was that?” You crossed your arms over your chest as you spoke in a demanding and annoyed tone, watching as Agatha took her shoes off calmly. You got no response from the older woman, and just as you were about to repeat the question, she whipped around and pushed you against the wall with an intensity that made your head spin. You stared at her dumbfounded, eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. “Agatha—”

“You're mine.” It's all she said while her hands gripped your arms and pushed them against the wall behind you. The look she had in her eyes was indubitably one of lust and desire, one that you knew too well. One that made you throb for her. “You know she was flirting with you, right?”

You became even more confused at her words. Was she talking about the neighbor? “Of course not, Agatha! She was just being friendly, that's all—” She cut you off, slender fingers tightening their grip and eliciting a shaky breath from you.

“Friendly?” She raised her eyebrows and let out an incredulous scoff. “Friendly! For fuck’s sake, Y/N! She was flirting with you! Undressing you with her eyes, if I dare say!” Her jaw clenched at the memory of the woman biting her bottom lip as her eyes wandered down to your cleavage.

There was a pause as your eyes widened further, realization washing over you. Then your body relaxed under Agatha’s rough grip, your formerly parted lips curling into a frown as you felt terribly stupid all of a sudden. “Was she, really? I didn't realize… ah, I was being so friendly to her, too. Do you think I gave her the wrong idea?”

Agatha smiled slightly at the whiny tone in your voice as you understood the situation, nodding. “But she knows you're mine, now, hun. Did you see the way her face fell when I kissed your cheek?” You shook your head and she chuckled, hands dropping from your arms. She stared at you with a loving gaze, hand reaching to caress your cheek. But the lust in her eyes was undeniable, and that could only mean one thing. She leaned in, lips brushing against your ear. “Wish we could give her a show, baby.” Those words were enough to get you clenching around nothing, flashes of all the times she fucked you mercilessly just to to remind you who you belonged to beginning to float through your mind. “Wish I could fuck you in front of her just to make her remember you're mine. Always been mine and will always be.” She pulled back, tilting her head and giving you a mocking pout. “Right, pet?”

You nodded mindlessly, cheeks flushed at how embarrassingly quickly you got turned on, the wet patch on your underwear making you shift uncomfortably. Not expecting that the slightest bit of friction against your clit from the movement would be enough to make you mewl pathetically. The sound made Agatha’s eyebrows rise in surprise, a wicked grin falling upon her lips. “Oh, I see how it is. Maybe we should inform Ms. Neighbor that she could never make you all wet for her so quick, right, love?” Her hand traveled down to the waistband of your skirt and started playing with it. The heat between your legs grew more and more intense within every second that passed, and your patience grew thinner.

With shaky, impatient hands, you reached down to hike your skirt up around your hips, exposing the dampness on your underwear and the slick dripping down your thighs in a silent, desperate request, chewing on your own bottom lip with an intensity that almost drew out blood. The way you literally dripped for Agatha never failed to amaze her, eyes locked on the heavenly sight appreciatively. She was over three centuries old, but she never found someone who made her feel so desired the way that you did.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips as she stared down at the obvious evidence of your arousal. Before you even had time to register what was happening, she was already rubbing circles on your clit over the damp fabric, cold lips attached to your neck — sucking, nipping, biting, devouring, doing anything she could to mark you as hers, as you were. She always told you she liked you better with your neck all bruised from her love bites, and there was no denying that you felt the same. Few things beat the delicious feeling of staring at the mirror and seeing the mess your wife had made the night before, covering your neck in a beautiful mess of purple and red. Sometimes, the teeth marks wouldn't fade for days, but you never bothered to cover up or try to hide it; instead, you showed them off proudly, wandering around Westview with your wife’s possessive masterpiece in full display for anyone to see, the pride you felt for being the one she chose making something flutter inside you.

You let out soft moans at her touches, fingers clutching Agatha’s shoulders like your life depended on it. “Mommy, please.” You whined, half lidded eyes giving her a pleading look, the best puppy eyes you managed in your dazed state. You needed more, you needed her. The delicious sounds you made and the way you looked at her drove Agatha to insanity, and she was sure she could get high from the sight. Slender fingers moved your panties aside to rub your clit without any barriers between the two of you. Your head fell back against the hard, cold wall pathetically as you let out a low moan, eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck—” You mumbled, already feeling the way your knees threatened to buckle under the weight of your body. Agatha’s tongue traced your neck up to your jaw, then she started peppering it with featherlight kisses that sent shivers down your spine.

Your hips rolled against her hand as you desperately seeked for friction, the ache between your legs worsening within every second under the torture — that woman could be a devil when she wanted to. “Mommy, please. I need you.” You begged her, nails digging into the soft flesh of her arms in an attempt to steady yourself, legs trembling like jelly.

She pulled back to analyze the flushed face she adored so much, she would never get tired of that sight. “I really am the luckiest witch in the world.” She said huskily, bruising your hips with the force of her grip. The pitiful whine that left your lips caused a low chuckle to escape hers as she shook her head in feigned disappointment. “My little kitten is eager today, hm? You need mommy to fuck your needy pussy, is that it?” You felt pathetic, dripping even more at the sound of her words — the way she said it and the fact it was her saying it, it drove you wild with desire. Eyes rolled to the back of your head when she circled your entrance oh, so lightly, teasing you in a way that infuriated and turned you on at the same time. Your hips bucked against her hand, begging to be filled. “Who do you belong to?"

“You, momm—” A sharp slap to your cunt forced you to stop talking as it stole the breath from your lungs, a pained, desperate yelp leaving your lips instead. Wide eyed, you felt her slender fingers wrapping around your throat and squeezing lightly, the delicious pressure causing you to see stars.

“Not mommy. Say my name, pet.” She almost growled, and you hated to admit how hot she sounded like that. “Who do you belong to, hun?” She questioned again, more firmly this time.

“Agatha Harkness.” Her name fell from your lips like a whispered prayer, your head tipping back to give her full access to your neck, allowing her to choke you as much as she wanted to. She hummed in approval, nipping at your pulse point and making you tremble. “Please, fuck me.” She couldn't tease you anymore, not with the way you begged for her so beautifully, her fingers twitching to feel you from the inside. Two of her digits easily slipped inside of your soaking cunt, your back arching at the feeling of being filled by her. You let out a guttural moan when she began scissoring her fingers inside of you.

“Gotta get you open wide for me, angel. You're so fucking tight for mommy.” She groaned at the feeling of your inner walls gripping her fingers tightly and making it difficult to move. “And so, so wet. You love it when mommy is possessive, don't you, my sweet girl?” She cooed, voice laced with feigned innocence and a hint of amusement. She watched as you nodded mindlessly with a devilish grin, knowing she had you exactly where and how she wanted you — wrapped around her fingers (literally) and melting into a puddle.

Your eyes rolled back as Agatha kept scissoring her fingers inside your sensitive pussy, her name dripping from your lips like honey in the form of shameless moans that drove the witch wild. She stole your breath away with a possessive kiss, and her free hand moved to grope one of your breasts under the fabric of your shirt. She squeezed the soft, plump flesh over your bra, her tongue tracing your bottom lip before asking, demanding for entrance. Your lips parted for her without hesitation, a groan escaping you as her tongue explored the mouth she was so addicted to. You were dizzy, sure you were going to fall onto the ground any time with the way your legs were weakened and trembling.

Long, slender fingers pumped in and out of you at a quick pace, the wet noises of your needy cunt filling the otherwise quiet room. She leaned down and nuzzled your neck once more, kissing and soothing the marks she gave you just a few moments before. Her thumb began rubbing your clit slowly once more, and the desperate whine that left your lips when she slowed down her fingers inside you only served to fuel her primal hunger even more. Agatha let out a soft moan of her own, feeling her own wetness between her thighs, drenching her underwear.

Your hips rocked to meet the slow pace your wife set, although you knew it wasn’t enough to make you cum — it didn't matter, nothing mattered except for the fact you simply needed her. Agatha chuckled hotly against your ear at the strangled gasp you let out when a third finger slipped inside you, nibbling on your earlobe before burying her face in your neck again. The pace quickened again, her fingers slipping in and out of your cunt forcefully, your body shaking with each hard thrust. You gasped each time her fingers hit that sensitive spot that made you dizzy with pleasure, eyes tightly shut and eyebrows furrowed.

“Look at me, pet.” Agatha’s velvet voice sounded rougher than usual as she demanded, the way she twisted your hardened nipple between her fingers bordering on painful. Obediently, you obeyed, moaning pathetically at the way you could barely see the blue in her eyes, completely overshadowed by her blown wide pupils. “Cum.”

You were on the edge, so dangerously close to falling. Shaky hands found the back of Agatha’s neck and pulled her in for a rough kiss full of desire and want, full of pure need. Hearing the gasps and whines you let out against her, Agatha became even more turned on, if that was even possible. Her underwear was uncomfortably sticky, glued to her dripping pussy — it was becoming too much, the last bit of her patience slipping away.

A fourth digit inside you was exactly the small push you needed to explode, lips breaking away from Agatha’s as your head fell against the wall with a loud moan that turned into a scream. She held you up against the wall with her own trembling body, watching with dazed eyes as you shook and cried. When your head came forward to nuzzle her shoulder, her hand stilled inside you, now completely drenched with your juices. Being the devilish woman she was, Agatha couldn't resist giving your swollen clit a quick rub, a breathless giggle falling from her lips at the way you whined and weakly slapped her hand away.

The hand previously on your breast traveled down to your hip, keeping you steady while the other was slowly removed from inside you. You tried to regain your breath, half lidded eyes watching the way Agatha’s lips wrapped around her own fingers, a soft hum falling from them at the taste of you. She held you close, hands gently caressing your hip and arm, waiting for you to fully come back to your senses. With your breath still slightly labored, you nodded at her, signaling that you had recovered.

Barely registering what happened, you winced in both surprise and pain when your knees roughly hit the ground, a veiny hand on your shoulder pushing you down forcefully and quickly moving to grip your hair just as hard, eliciting a pained yet lustful whimper from you. Agatha pulled your head back by your hair, demanding for you to look at her.

“Eat me.” You moaned at the words, quickly scrambling with the zipper of her pants while her fingers remained tangled in your hair with a firm grip. Your mouth watered as soon as you pulled the pants down to her ankles — her underwear was drenched, pride washing over you at the fact you made the Agatha Harkness herself so terribly wet. Hands moved to hold her soft thighs and you leaned forward to plant gentle kisses on the soaked fabric, a groan falling from her lips as she threw her head back, eyes closing. “No teasing.”

You could never tease her, especially not with the way she made you see stars every single time she touched you. You wanted to make her feel as good as she always made you feel. In a hurry, you peeled the lacy panties off her, a moan escaping you at the sight of her perfect cunt. You worshipped her. Every little inch of your woman was breathtaking, like a painting that belonged in a museum — prettier than any and every painting that was ever created. With your lips immediately wrapping around her clit and sucking hungrily, you gathered some of her wetness on your fingertips.

Her hips bucked against your face, the sound of the contented sigh she let out only serving to make you crave her even more. Addicted to the taste of her, you flicked your tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves before licking up the slit slowly, eyes never faltering from her face, relishing in the pure bliss written all over it and those parted lips. You could die like that — on your knees for the woman you so thoroughly adored, making her melt under your touch and tongue. Your heart raced with excitement, anticipating the feeling of her cum filling your mouth. The simple thought was enough encouragement for you to move faster.

“Fuck, angel…” Her whispered words were followed by another one of her loud moans, tugging at your hair and forcing you even closer, spreading wider and allowing you more access to where she needed you the most. You resisted the urge to grind against the floor, focusing solely on her pleasure rather than your own. You earned another tug, harder than the last one, when your teeth gently scraped against her clit. The vibrations from the moan that fell from your lips caused a moan of her own, hungry eyes finally snapping open to look at you

“I love you like this.” She purred, breathless with her ragged breathing, a hand now soothingly caressing your hair instead of pulling at it and hurting your scalp. “So hungry for mommy, aren’t you, love?” You nodded against her, tongue never stopping its movements as you devoured her like it was your last meal, eyes wide with nothing but pure lust. The moan that fell from her lips was sinful, eyes rolling back when your tongue slipped inside her. You went as fast as you could possibly go, not nearly as fast as Agatha did when eating you out, but just enough to get her on the edge.

You started drawing little circles on her clit with your thumb and by the way the noises coming out of her mouth grew even louder and became high pitched with each thrust of your tongue, you knew that she would explode soon enough. It wasn't difficult to double your efforts with the series of desperate moans that fell from her lips spurring you on. With a desperate noise of your own and fully drunk on her pussy, you closed your eyes, the free hand gripping her thigh squeezing the flesh.

A chain of whiny and high pitched ‘fuck’s warned you about her incoming orgasm, as well as her nails digging onto your scalp and tugging at your hair. With a shameless scream of your name, she came undone, body undulating desperately against you as she rode her high. You lapped at her juices with hunger, humming in approval at the best thing you had ever tasted in your entire life. Breathless, you reluctantly pulled away from her cunt and brushed your hair off your face, covered in her.

Agatha groaned at the sight and the exhilarating feeling of her climax, steading herself up by holding onto your shoulders, not trusting her weakened and trembling legs with the task of supporting her weight. She tugged at her bottom lip and grinned mischievously as she looked down at you, her breath still shaky. One thing she adored about you is that you never wiped away the remaining cum off your face, and she knew just how much you enjoyed being covered in it.

“Who do you belong to?” With a raised brow and blue eyes glimmering with playfulness and adoration, she questioned again, the hoarseness of her voice sending delicious shivers down your spine and arousing you even more.

“You, my love.” At the pet name you used, her expression softened and she weakly tugged at your shirt in a silent request for you to get up. When you did, she wrapped her arms around your neck and rubbed your noses together, her eyes squinting adorably a stark contrast between the dominant and demanding woman she was just a few moments before. “And I suppose I need to cancel the shopping trip I planned with our new neighbor?"

At your words, her eyes narrowed, both playful and serious at the same time as she responded.

“Yes, yes you do.”

all dividers used are by @-cafekitsune

header by me, images found on pinterest

[sainz100]

Max at the 2024 Token2049 event on Wednesday ahead of the Singapore GP

[strawberrycamel]

ninjago seabound hurts. so much. what the fuck

[landgraabbed]

sometimes you gotta take in the lil details

[invinciblerodent]

..... he's saying "sneep", right? I'm not hearing it wrong, he's definitely saying "sneep"???????

[claire-starsword]

truly there's a xkcd for everything

i thought my laptop was on its last leg because it was running at six billion degrees and using 100% disk space at all times and then i turned off shadows and some other windows effects and it was immediately cured. i just did the same to my roommate's computer and its performance issues were also immediately cured. okay. i guess.

so i guess if you have creaky freezy windows 10/11 try searching "advanced system settings", go to performance settings, and uncheck "show shadows under windows" and anything else you don't want. hope that helps someone else.

[kwonhochi]

raises my tiny paw. hi.

did some traveling i even went outside and touched grass 🥹🫶