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carnalcrows · 2 days ago

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DAYS IN THE SUN

summary: You were never supposed to be anything more than the strange one. The wrong one. The boy in too-short sleeves and too-sharp stares, tucked away in a village that never wanted to understand you. But when your father goes missing, you don’t hesitate. And when you find him imprisoned by a monster— a beast with too many arms, too many eyes, and a curse so old it hums in the walls— you make a deal. You stay. And slowly, something unexpected begins to bloom between all the thorns.

pairing: the beast ! ryomen sukuna x belle ! male reader

content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + penetrative), bottom trans male reader, transphobia (implied, not explicit), emotional hurt/comfort, mild violence, trueform sukuna, canon-typical blood, sharp-toothed tenderness, trauma, enchanted furniture, redemption arc, flower language, they kiss a lot.

word count: 7.4k

best viewed in dark mode

The village always woke before the sun.

You could hear it through the window of your father’s little workshop— boots on dirt, chickens fussing, someone slamming a cart too hard around the bend. You lay still beneath the quilt, blinking up at the ceiling beams and waiting for the ache in your chest to settle into something manageable. It wasn’t pain, exactly. Not grief. More like a weight. A quiet hum of not-right-ness, of not-fitting-here-ness, stretching out from under your ribs and seeping into the corners of the room.

Downstairs, the smell of oil paints drifted up from your father’s studio. He would already be hunched over his latest canvas, humming absently, paint on his sleeves. He never asked questions about why you dressed the way you did or why you flinched when someone called you “girl.” He didn’t ask. But he saw you.

It helped.

A little.

⋆｡°✩

You dressed quickly— shirt, vest, trousers— clothes that always earned stares from the butcher’s wife and side-eyes from the baker’s daughter. They weren’t what you were supposed to wear, they said. Not feminine. Not proper. But they made it easier to breathe. That was enough.

With a worn book tucked under your arm and Megumi at your heels— scruffy, growling, loyal as ever— you stepped into the morning light.

The village square had already come alive. Market stalls groaned with apples and spices, men shouted greetings across the fountain, and the children had started their daily ritual of chasing chickens between carts. It should’ve felt like home.

It never did.

They all knew you— or thought they did. The painter’s ‘daughter’. A little strange. Bookish. Lonely. A poor excuse for a wife, someone had whispered once. Not fit for marriage. You carried those words in your spine, learned how to make yourself smaller in crowds, how to walk fast and smile politely, how to pretend you didn’t hear the things they said.

⋆｡°✩

“[Y/N]!”

The voice cut through the hum of the village like a blade. You stopped short.

Naoya Zenin swaggered across the square like it belonged to him— tall, smug, jacket unbuttoned just enough to show off. He had a musket strapped across his back, though no one could remember the last time he used it for anything other than posing. A few women tittered from behind the flower stall. Naoya winked at them, then turned his full attention on you.

“I was just telling my friends,” he said loudly, “you’d make the perfect wife. Sharp enough to be interesting, quiet enough to be trainable.”

The air in your lungs turned to glass.

You didn’t answer. You never did. It never stopped him.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” he offered, already reaching for your elbow. “We should talk about our future.”

Megumi growled low in his throat, teeth flashing.

You stepped back. “No.”

Naoya blinked, mock-offended. “Still playing hard to get, huh?”

“I’m not playing anything,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I’m not interested.”

The words sat there, raw and final.

Naoya’s smile twisted. “Not interested,” he repeated, like the words were foreign. Then softer, closer: “What’s the matter with you, huh? Don’t you want to be taken care of?”

You didn’t answer.

There wasn’t a point.

You turned and walked away, boots crunching hard over the packed dirt. Behind you, Naoya whistled low— long and slow and mocking.

The only thing that stopped you from running was the book clenched tight against your chest.

⋆｡°✩

You spent the rest of the morning in your usual spot— a quiet bench beneath the oak tree behind the chapel, where no one ever looked twice at you. You opened the book. You tried to read. But the words swam. All you could think of was his hand on your arm. The assumption in his voice. The way no one ever corrected him.

No one ever looked at you and saw you.

Not yet.

Your father was already halfway through packing by the time you got home.

His old travel satchel sat open on the floor, its seams stretched from years of patched repairs. Brushes wrapped in linen were tucked beside ink pots and carefully sealed sketches. A bundle of warm bread from the baker's daughter— a rare kindness— rested on the table near a folded scarf.

“You’re leaving early,” you said softly, slipping into the studio.

He looked up from where he was fastening a buckle. His face— lined, sun-browned, familiar— softened when he saw you. “Storm’s coming. Thought I’d get ahead of it.”

You nodded, moving to help. “You’ll sell more this time,” you said. “People’ll see how good it is.”

He chuckled, gruff and quiet. “If they’re not too busy ogling Zenin’s new coat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you. It vanished just as quickly. He caught the shift in your face. Of course he did.

“Is he bothering you again?” You hesitated.

You didn’t like worrying him. You knew how hard he worked, how much he already carried. But the truth sat heavy in your chest.

“He thinks I’ll say yes if he asks enough times,” you said finally. Your father’s jaw tightened. “Let him try again. Next time I’ll—”

“It’s not worth it,” you interrupted gently. “He doesn’t see me. Not really.” He was quiet for a moment. Then: “One day someone will. Someone who sees you. All of you.”

You looked at him, and something unspoken passed between you. Not full understanding, but something close.

He reached out and smoothed your hair, the way he used to when you were younger. “Anything you want me to bring back?”

You thought about it. The markets were always full of junk— glittery trinkets, loud music, bad paintings pretending to be art. You never asked for much. But something tugged at you now.

“A rose,” you said.

He blinked. “A rose?”

“Yeah. Just… something alive.” He studied you for a second, then smiled. “Alright. A rose.”

You handed him his coat. Watched him fasten the last clasp. Watched him sling the bag over his shoulder like he always did before leaving. It should have been routine.

But something felt different. A heaviness you couldn’t name.

⋆｡°✩

The storm hit sooner than anyone expected.

By dusk, the sky turned slate gray and the wind howled like it wanted to rip the roofs off the village. You stood at the window long after the last candle burned out, watching the trees bend and sway. Your fingers twitched against the windowsill.

You thought of your father alone in the woods. You thought of wolves. Of ice.

You thought of the rose.

⋆｡°✩

The storm swallowed the path whole.

Your father’s horse had bolted hours ago, spooked by the thunder, and now he was stumbling through underbrush with frozen fingers and a soaked satchel, eyes straining for light. Branches clawed at his face. He could barely breathe through the fog and rain. But worse than the weather was the howling— not wind, not wolves, but something deeper. Something wrong.

Then he saw it.

Iron gates. Twisted and ancient, half-buried in ivy. Beyond them: a castle carved into the side of the mountain, black stone rising like a broken crown against the lightning. The torches at its doors flickered as if they had been waiting for him.

He didn’t question it. He was too cold to be afraid. Too tired to wonder.

The gates creaked open when he touched them.

⋆｡°✩

The castle halls were quiet. Not dead, but not alive either— as though the whole place were caught in a breath it hadn’t released in centuries. Paintings lined the walls, their subjects watching him with eyes that followed. Tapestries sagged, velvet faded. But the fire in the hearths was lit.

He moved slowly, half in a daze, whispering thanks to no one as he followed the warmth. A teacup clinked somewhere. He didn’t see who left the bread on the table, but he ate it. He didn’t question the clean towel. Or the blanket.

Only when he passed into the garden— hedges sculpted into monstrous shapes, thorns winding around marble statues— did he remember the rose.

There it was. Alone in the snow. Blooming bright red on a frost-bitten bush.

His fingers brushed it gently. He hesitated.

Then, with trembling hands, he plucked it.

The ground rumbled beneath his feet.

⋆｡°✩

A roar tore through the castle— deep and ancient and full of fury. He dropped the rose.

Something moved in the shadows.

It didn’t step so much as ripple— out of the dark came a form too big to be human, cloaked in heavy silk, horns gleaming wet under the moonlight. The man— if it was still a man— towered over him, four arms unfurling from beneath his robes, twin pairs of glowing eyes boring down. His skin was marked in black lines, sacred and savage, and his teeth glinted like knives when he bared them.

“Thief,” he growled.

Your father stumbled back, hand raised in defense, voice cracking as he tried to speak— to apologize, to plead. But the Beast was already moving, too fast for his size, fury radiating from him like heat.

He raised one clawed hand and the gates slammed shut.

“Your life is forfeit,” the Beast snarled, voice like splitting stone. “Or someone must take your place.”

And then he vanished, leaving only silence behind.

The castle looked worse in daylight.

Dark towers twisted against the gray sky like claws, their windows shuttered with old iron. You’d barely slept the night before— you’d begged anyone who would listen, searched every road, followed every clue— and now your horse was tied at the gate, still panting from the run. Your father’s satchel had been found tangled in the woods. The rose still sat in the saddlebag. It hadn’t wilted.

That was how you knew he was inside.

You shoved the gates open and stepped through.

Inside, the silence pressed close. The castle was too still, too warm. Fire crackled in the hearths without kindling. Curtains stirred without wind. Shadows stretched long across the stone. You moved carefully, hand on the book at your belt like it could protect you.

Then something moved.

You didn’t see him at first. Only a flicker of black silk. Then— a step, too loud. A shape too large. And out of the dark came a monster.

Four arms. Eyes like blood and gold. Skin covered in inked scripture and scars. He loomed, horned and massive, mouth curled in something far too cruel to be a smile.

You froze.

“So,” he said, voice like gravel and heat, “you came.”

You swallowed. “My father. You took him.”

“I spared him,” the Beast growled. “He stole from me. A life for a rose.”

“He didn’t know—”

“I don’t care what he knew.”

Your hands clenched into fists.

He stared at you, two pairs of eyes narrowing. “Are you here to beg, then? Scream? Cry?”

“No,” you said. “I’m here to take his place.”

The silence cracked like ice.

He looked at you long and hard. His gaze flicked over your clothes, your stance— your fear, buried deep under defiance. Something in his jaw ticked.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because he’s all I have.” You stood straighter. “And I don’t run from my choices.”

He stepped forward. You held your ground.

“I don’t want your tears,” he said slowly. “You’ll stay. One moon’s cycle. If you try to escape, he dies.”

You nodded once.

Then— impossibly— the corners of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. A test. “We’ll see how long you last, little thief.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

⋆｡°✩

The door didn’t lock behind you, but it might as well have.

The room you were led to was massive— too grand for a prison cell, but too cold to be called a home. Tall windows let in gray light. A fire snapped quietly in the hearth. The bed was too large, draped in dark velvet, untouched and unfamiliar. Someone had left food on the table— covered, still warm.

You didn’t touch it.

Instead, you sat on the edge of the mattress, hands in your lap, and waited.

The castle didn’t creak like old houses do. It… shifted. Whispered. You could feel it in the stone beneath your boots, in the air moving through the curtains like breath.

“Do you think he’s going to cry?” a voice whispered.

You jumped.

“Don’t be rude, he’s new,” another voice sighed.

You turned fast enough to make yourself dizzy— but no one was there. Just a candelabra resting on the table, its three wax arms flickering calmly.

Until one of them waved at you.

“Hey, sunshine,” the candle said brightly. “Welcome to the worst Airbnb of your life.”

You screamed.

⋆｡°✩

Ten minutes later, you were sitting at the hearth with a talking candle, a very agitated clock, a feathery swan-shaped brush that kept hissing at your shoes, and a teapot who somehow radiated more maternal energy than your actual mother ever had. The little teacup at her side bounced excitedly with every word.

“I—this isn’t real,” you muttered.

Gojo, the candle, winked at you. “Define real.”

“You’re all—cursed?”

“Correct!” Geto, the clock said miserably. “Trapped. Forgotten. Left to rot with that thing upstairs.”

“Watch it,” said Shoko, her bristles flaring slightly. “He’s always listening.”

Kaori Itadori the teapot poured you a cup of something warm and spiced, her voice gentle. “You’re safe now, dear. No one here means you harm.”

Yuuji bounced beside her. “What’s your name? Do you like books? Do you know how to sword fight?!”

You blinked. “…You’re a teacup.”

“Exactly!” he beamed.

There was a long pause.

You drank the tea.

It helped.

⋆｡°✩

Later, after the introductions had settled into something like peace, Gojo flickered closer and said in a conspiratorial tone, “So. Between us, what do you think of our dear master?”

You frowned. “He’s… a monster.”

Geto groaned. “Don’t antagonize him, Gojo.”

“Four arms,” you muttered. “And those eyes. He looked at me like—”

“Like he wanted to rip your soul apart and wear it as a scarf?” Shoko offered.

“Yes!”

There was a silence.

Then Gojo laughed, bright and unapologetic. “Don’t worry. That’s just his flirty face.”

“Flirty—?”

“You’ll see,” Kaori murmured, sipping from her own spout.

⋆｡°✩

You learned quickly that the castle had moods.

The halls rearranged themselves when they thought you weren’t looking. Windows that should’ve faced the gardens now overlooked cliffs. Stairs melted into ramps. Once, you turned down a corridor you swore led to the kitchens, only to find yourself in a balcony big enough to house half the kingdom.

You liked that one.

Sometimes, when no one else was around, you went back. Sat beneath the stained-glass skylight. Let the dust settle on your shoulders. Read until the words stopped swimming.

But you weren’t alone.

You never really were.

You felt him watching— not always, not obviously, but enough. A breath against the back of your neck. A shadow in the corners of your eye. Sometimes a faint growl echoing through the stone, like the walls were angry. You told yourself it was nothing.

But when you reached for the wrong door— the one at the end of the north hall, carved with unfamiliar script and choked in ivy— Gojo appeared out of nowhere.

“Don’t,” he said, suddenly very serious.

You frowned. “What’s in there?”

“Not for you,” Geto snapped, rolling up behind him. “Not for anyone.”

“You mean the Beast’s room.”

They both flinched.

“That’s not his name,” Kaori murmured from the end of the hall.

“But it’s what he is, right?”

Shoko sighed, fluttering down from a windowsill. “He wasn’t always.”

That made you pause.

You looked at the door again. Heavy. Silent. Waiting.

“He’ll kill you if you go in there,” Geto said flatly.

“He won’t,” Gojo said. “But you’ll break something.”

You didn’t go in.

Not that day.

But the seed had been planted.

And deep in the shadows above— just behind the balcony’s curve, Sukuna exhaled through his teeth.

“Curious little thing,” he muttered.

His claws curled around the railing.

“He’ll run screaming before the rose falls.”

But he kept watching anyway.

⋆｡°✩

You hadn’t meant to get lost.

The castle was different at night— colder, darker, the torches dimmed down to blue flame. You had gone looking for the library again, craving something quiet, but the halls kept shifting under your feet. The stone whispered under your boots, windows fogging over as if the castle itself had turned its face away.

Then came the thunder.

The wind howled through a broken pane and sent a gust down the corridor, cutting through your shirt like a blade. You hugged your arms to your chest and turned back— or tried to. Nothing looked familiar anymore. The paintings had changed. Doors sealed themselves. Your breath curled visibly in the air.

And then the torchlight vanished.

You stood in the dark, heart pounding, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. You weren’t afraid of shadows. You weren’t. But this was different— this was the kind of dark that watched.

You tried to move, but the cold sank deeper. Your legs felt heavy. The walls closed in.

And that’s when you heard it.

Boots. Heavy. Slow. Too many to belong to one man.

You turned, just in time to see the shape step into the hallway— tall, massive, horned, eyes glowing through the gloom.

He looked like death.

“S-Stay back,” you said, voice cracking.

Sukuna didn’t answer.

He moved forward, slow, shoulders wide enough to block out the torchlight behind him. Four arms moved with eerie synchronicity. His mouth curled in something unreadable.

You stumbled backward, spine hitting the stone wall.

“I told them not to let you wander,” he muttered.

“You—you were watching me?”

“I always watch what’s mine.”

That made you bristle, even through the fear. “I’m not yours.”

He cocked his head. “Aren’t you?”

You glared at him. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”

He snorted. “You’d be screaming if I meant to.”

You opened your mouth to snap back— but a shiver cut through you, violent and sharp. Your knees buckled before you could stop them.

In two strides, he was there.

One massive hand— too warm, too careful— caught your arm before you could hit the ground. Another tugged his cloak off in one motion and wrapped it around your shoulders. It smelled like ash and smoke and something older.

You blinked, stunned.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t leer or gloat. Just held you steady.

“Humans break too easily,” he said quietly.

“I’m not—” you started, but your voice cracked again.

He looked down at you then— really looked, and for a moment, all the sharpness dropped from his face.

You weren’t sure who broke eye contact first.

⋆｡°✩

He brought you back in silence.

The cloak stayed around your shoulders. His hand never left your back. When you reached the door to your room, he paused. Said nothing. Waited.

You turned back toward him, heartbeat still thudding in your ears.

“…Why are you like this?” you asked.

He looked tired. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

A pause.

Then, softly— more a breath than a word. “Not tonight.”

⋆｡°✩

You didn’t expect him to knock.

The next morning, the castle was quiet again— no storm, no footsteps, no flickering shadows. You’d barely slept. Too many thoughts. Too much confusion. But when the knock came— low, firm, deliberate— you startled anyway.

You opened the door. He was standing there.

No cloak. No scowl. Just Sukuna, framed in sunlight, arms folded, like this was something he’d talked himself into and now regretted instantly.

“…Come with me,” he said.

You stared. “Why?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked.

You should’ve said no. You should’ve slammed the door and gone back to bed. But your feet moved without asking. You followed him.

The halls were quieter than usual. Even the castle seemed to be holding its breath. You passed by Kaori spinning in slow circles. Shoko raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Gojo and Geto were suspiciously nowhere in sight.

Finally, he stopped before a door you hadn’t seen before. Tall. Iron-bound. Carved with symbols that looked ancient.

He opened it with one hand.

The scent of old parchment and cedar drifted out.

You stepped inside— and froze.

It was a library.

Not just any library. A cathedral of books. Stacks that went up past the rafters. Staircases winding through shelves. A glass dome overhead flooding the space with morning light. It wasn’t just beautiful— it was impossible.

You turned slowly, staring.

“I thought you might be… bored,” he said.

You looked at him.

He wasn’t watching you. He was watching the ceiling. Like if he looked at you directly, something might crack.

“…You did this for me?”

“It was already here.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Silence.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it:

“You’re the first one who’s stayed.”

Something tightened in your chest.

You stepped further into the room, running your hand along the spines. Some were cracked with age. Others looked untouched. Languages you couldn’t read. Stories waiting to be discovered.

You turned back to him. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, as if trying to brush it off. “Don’t make it a habit.” But you smiled anyway.

And the moment stretched. You spent the rest of the morning there.

He didn’t leave. Didn’t say much. Just sat in the corner, arms crossed, pretending to nap while you read through half a novel out loud. Every now and then, when you glanced up, you found him watching— like he wasn’t sure how to stop.

You didn’t ask him to.

The castle started changing around you.

It was subtle. You didn’t notice it at first— a hallway that stopped shifting, a door that stayed unlocked. The room warmed. Curtains were drawn back. Kaori started humming again. Even Geto’s constant fretting softened into something bordering on hopeful.

But more than that, he changed.

Sukuna didn’t loom as much anymore. He didn’t snarl every time you asked a question. He still watched you— always— but it was different now. Less like a hunter. More like someone studying sunlight through stained glass, trying to understand how something so soft could still burn.

Some afternoons, he sat across from you in the library while you read aloud— never interrupting, just listening. His hands stayed folded. His eyes didn’t blink. But when you paused, he always knew how to fill the silence.

Other days, he took you through the gardens. Let you see where the snow hadn’t touched. Showed you flowers that shouldn’t have survived this high in the mountains. You learned his favourite place was a crumbled balcony overlooking the cliff’s edge. You stood there once beside him, the wind in your face, and he said nothing for a long time before finally muttering, “The world used to be so loud.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You didn’t need to.

And when you laughed— really laughed— at something stupid Gojo said one evening over dinner, you caught Sukuna staring again. His expression was unreadable, but his hands flexed on the armrest like he wanted to reach out and didn’t know how.

⋆｡°✩

The ballroom happened by accident.

You’d found it while wandering— golden columns, frozen chandeliers, dust hanging like mist in the air. The moment you stepped inside, something in the walls shifted. Candles sparked to life. Music hummed faintly from nowhere. The floor gleamed beneath your boots.

He found you there later.

Didn’t speak. Just stood in the archway for a moment, watching. You turned.

“I didn’t mean to trespass,” you said. He shook his head slowly. “You didn’t.”

He stepped inside. The room felt suddenly smaller.

You met him halfway. The silence stretched.

The— tentatively, almost shy— he reached out and offered one clawed hand.

Your breath caught. You took it.

He led you in a slow, clumsy circle— one hand awkward on your waist, the other curled around yours far too gently for a man with talons. He didn’t know how to dance. You didn’t care. The music rose around you. Your pulse kept time with the rhythm. He didn’t look away, not even once.

And when your fingers brushed— when you felt the rough edge of his palm curl a little tighter around yours— something clicked in your chest so sharp it nearly made you stumble.

You didn’t know what it meant. But you didn’t let go.

It started with curiosity.

You hadn’t meant to go into the West Wing. You’d promised— really, you had— but promises meant less when the person you made them to refused to explain why. You’d grown used to the castle shifting around you, bending its rules in silence. So when the corridor appeared— unmistakable and unchanged— something inside you said, now.

The door wasn’t locked.

The air inside was colder than the rest of the castle. Not freezing, but still. Still like a room preserved in grief. The furniture was draped in thick fabric, dust curling in the beams of sunlight through the tall, cracked windows. A mirror stood against one wall— ancient, silver-edged, humming with a kind of magic that made your stomach turn. But it wasn’t what drew you forward.

It was a rose.

Suspended in a glass dome, nestled on a carved pedestal, petals impossibly bright against the gloom. It glowed faintly, pulsing with something warm and alive. A few petals had already fallen, curled along the base like fallen stars.

You stepped closer. You didn’t touch it. You didn’t need to. Just being near it made your chest ache.

You heard the growl before you saw him.

The roar shattered the stillness.

He was there— sudden and huge, fury pouring off him like fire, four arms tense, claws bared. He stormed into the room like it had betrayed him.

“What did I say?”

You stepped back, hands up. “I didn’t touch it—”

“You don’t belong here!”

“I just—!”

“You don’t belong anywhere in this castle!”

The words hit harder than they should have.

You stared at him— not at the monster, not at the claws, but at his face. At the panic buried beneath the rage.

“I didn’t mean to,” you said, softer.

“That’s what they always say,” he hissed. “Curious little things. Poking around. Making promises they don’t keep.”

You swallowed. “Who hurt you?”

He went still. It only lasted a second. But it was enough.

Then his eyes narrowed again, and his voice dropped to a snarl. “Leave.”

“What?”

“Get out.” You took a step back.

He didn’t shout again. He didn’t have to.

You turned and ran.

The forest was colder than it had been days before. You hadn’t meant to go far— only out, away, anywhere but that room— but the storm clouds overhead built fast. Within minutes, the path vanished beneath your boots, snow curling around your ankles, trees blurring into shadow.

Then came the howls.

Wolves. Closer than you expected.

Your legs burned. Your lungs ached. You tripped once— twice— the second time hard enough to scrape your palms. When the first set of glowing eyes appeared through the trees, you knew you weren’t making it back.

You raised your fists anyway.

They lunged.

And then he was there.

⋆｡°✩

Sukuna hit the wolves like a thunderclap— claws flashing, eyes burning, more fury than form. You couldn’t follow it all. Just movement. Just sound. Just teeth and blood and screaming.

Then silence.

He stood over you, chest heaving, snow melting where it hit his skin.

One arm was bleeding. Deep. Ugly.

You pushed yourself upright. “You’re—”

“Stupid,” he growled. “Running into the woods. You could’ve—”

“I know,” you said.

He winced. Dropped to one knee.

Without thinking, you stepped forward and caught him— your hands too small, your body too light, but he let you steady him anyway.

“Let me help.”

He didn’t argue.

⋆｡°✩

The fire in your room was still lit. You dragged a chair close, pushed him into it, and rolled up his sleeve— careful, gentle, still shaking. He didn’t flinch. Just watched you.

The gash across his bicep oozed, still fresh. You pressed a warm cloth against it and felt him tense.

“Why’d you follow me?”

“You ran.”

“You didn’t have to come after me.”

“You shouldn’t have left.”

The silence stretched.

You kept cleaning the wound. Carefully. Quietly.

“I thought you hated me,” you said.

He looked away.

“I thought you hated yourself.”

That got his attention.

“You’re wrong,” he said. Then, quieter: “I don’t hate you.”

You froze.

He exhaled, slow. “You’re the first person to look at me like I’m not something broken.”

You tied off the bandage. Sat back on your heels.

“I don’t think you’re broken,” you said. “Just scared.”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t look away.

⋆｡°✩

The fire burned low. The storm had passed. And for the first time since you’d arrived, the castle was completely still.

Sukuna sat in the chair by the hearth, his injured arm resting on his knee, cloak draped over one shoulder like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. You sat across from him, the heat of your body still soaked into the cushions behind you. The bandages you’d tied were clean. The room smelled like ash, like rain-soaked fabric, like breath held too long.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“So should you.”

Neither of you moved.

The silence between you wasn’t cold. It wasn’t angry. It hummed with something else now— a weight, a possibility. His eyes weren’t glowing anymore, but they watched you like he was memorizing. Like he was letting go.

You stood.

He didn’t stop you when you crossed the room. Didn’t flinch when you reached for the cloak around his shoulders, or when your fingers brushed the edge of his wrist. He let you touch him.

“I don’t want to leave,” you whispered.

“I told you, you’re free.”

You looked up.

“I don’t mean the castle.”

For a moment, his expression flickered— something raw behind the bone and ink. Then he reached up— slowly, carefully— and pressed one hand against your chest. The warmth of his palm bled through your shirt.

“You shouldn’t want me,” he said.

“Too late.”

⋆｡°✩

When you kissed him, it wasn’t soft.

It was slow. Careful in the way only something dangerous could be— like you were both afraid the moment might shatter. His mouth was warmer than you expected, rough but patient. His claws ghosted over your ribs but never dug in. When you parted, breathless, you watched his eyes flutter open— and for once, they weren’t guarded. Just full.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t.

⋆｡°✩

The bed creaked beneath your weight. You let him guide you down with hands that had once shattered stone, now shaking as they touched your skin like it was something sacred. His lips followed— jaw, throat, collarbone— trailing reverent, slow heat. Your shirt peeled away. His claws never scratched. Not once.

When he saw you— all of you— he stilled.

You waited.

He leaned down, pressed his lips against the dip between your ribs, and whispered, “You’re beautiful.”

The ache that bloomed in your chest was too much to hold.

⋆｡°✩

He kissed every inch of you, like he was trying to rewrite the memory of how you’d been seen before. His hands mapped your hips, your stomach, your thighs, never greedy, only steady— like if he rushed it, you’d vanish. You clung to his shoulders, the ridges of his arms, the heat of his body as he moved against you, slow and sure.

It didn’t matter that you shook. He held you. Listened to the way your breath hitched, the way your body arched into his, the way you whispered his name like it was a secret he’d been waiting his whole life to hear.

When he finally entered you— gentle, careful, with your breath caught in his mouth— the stretch burned, but you welcomed it. He didn’t move until you pulled him closer.

Every motion after that felt like a promise. His pace was slow, hips rolling deep, deeper, every thrust grounded in reverence. His name slipped from your lips again, and he cursed low against your skin. One of his hands found yours and squeezed— not possessive, but grounding.

You felt him unravel above you. Felt the way his rhythm faltered as your legs locked around his waist. When you came, it was with his name on your tongue and his mouth at your throat.

He followed with a growl that shook through both of you.

⋆｡°✩

After, he cleaned you gently— like it meant something— and pulled you against him beneath the sheets. The weight of his arm across your waist was solid and warm. His other hands traced your spine like he didn’t want to forget the shape of you.

You lay there for a long time, chest to chest, breath to breath.

“I’ve never had this,” he murmured.

You looked up at him.

“You do now,” you said.

And he closed his eyes.

⋆｡°✩

The next morning, you found him in the garden.

The sky was pale with early light, frost clinging to the edges of the stone, and Sukuna stood alone near the edge of the rosebushes— still dressed from the night before, cloak loose around his shoulders, eyes fixed on something you couldn’t see.

You hadn’t spoken since. Not with words. But your body still ached with memory. You could still feel the weight of his hand on your waist, the rasp of his voice against your throat.

When he turned, you knew he’d already felt the shift.

“The mirror,” he said simply. “Ask it to show you.”

You hesitated.

Then you stepped forward, reached into the space between you, and the mirror bloomed to life in your hands.

Glass shimmered.

Your father’s face appeared in the surface— pale, shaking, trapped in a cage. Behind him, jeering voices. A man’s laughter that turned your stomach.

Naoya.

The world inside the mirror shifted, and you saw the asylum gates.

Your heart dropped.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

Sukuna’s voice was quiet. “Go to him.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“You can.”

“I’ll come back.”

His eyes flicked away. “Don’t make promises you don’t mean.”

“I mean it.”

He didn’t argue.

He reached into the folds of his cloak and pressed the mirror into your hands. His thumb brushed your wrist, just once, before pulling away.

You held his gaze.

“You’re more than this,” you said.

His voice was barely a breath. “And you’re the only one who ever saw it.”

Neither of you said goodbye.

But as you turned and stepped through the gate, you felt something in your chest twist tight— like a thread had been tied between you, and you’d left it trembling in the cold.

The carriage was already waiting when you arrived.

They’d moved fast— too fast. Naoya had spun his lies like thread through every ear that would listen, his voice oiled with performance, face clean with practiced pity. “The poor painter,” he’d said. “Mad with grief. Imagining monsters. His daughter brainwashed.”

They never asked for your side. They never wanted it.

By the time you found your father, he was already bound and trembling, hands clutching the bars of the cage. His eyes lit up when he saw you— but the fear didn’t leave his face.

“He’s sending me away,” he whispered. “They won’t listen—”

“They will,” you said. “I’ll make them.”

You turned.

Naoya stood by the wagon with his arms folded, coat freshly pressed, a gleam in his eye that made your stomach turn. “Come to your senses?” he asked. “Or just here to cry some more?”

“I’m here to end this.”

Naoya smirked. “You don’t even know what you’ve been sleeping beside.”

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you held up the mirror.

And the courtyard fell silent.

⋆｡°✩

Gasps rippled as the image bloomed— Sukuna’s face, sharp and monstrous, watching from the castle gate. Behind him, the castle stretched in shadow and stormclouds. His four arms moved with eerie stillness. His eyes glowed.

Naoya’s smirk faltered.

“You see?” you said. “He exists. My father told the truth.”

“But he’s a monster,” someone muttered.

“He’s cursed.”

Naoya recovered fast. “Then he’s dangerous.”

“He saved my life.”

“He’s bewitched you.”

“He let me go,” you snapped. “He gave me freedom when no one else did.”

Silence. Then someone shouted, “Even if it’s true— who’s to say he won’t come for us next?”

Naoya turned, voice rising with mock-heroism. “The time for talk is over. The creature threatens our home, our children, our future. If no one else will act—”

He raised his musket.

“I will.”

⋆｡°✩

They moved like floodwater.

Torches lit. Guns drawn. Blades rattling against pitchforks. You tried to fight your way back, tried to shout above the roar— but Naoya had planned this too well. You were grabbed, shoved, dragged toward the same cage your father had escaped from only minutes before.

“Lock them both up,” Naoya growled. “They can watch the castle burn.”

And as the mob marched toward the mountains, you kicked against the bars and screamed his name.

But the wind stole it from your lips.

⋆｡°✩

The castle saw them coming.

Long before the first torch lit the cliffside, before the wheels of the cart screeched against the stone, before the mob had even reached the gates— the castle knew. You could feel it in the air. The torches inside flickered low. The mirrors dimmed. The wind outside rose like a warning.

And the servants prepared for war.

Gojo lit every candelabra in the main hall like it was a funeral pyre. Geto barked orders no one listened to. Kaori shoved Yuuji into a cupboard and told him not to come out no matter what. Shoko, brush raised like a spear, muttered something about having waited centuries for a good excuse to stab someone.

And through it all, Sukuna stood on the highest balcony, silent.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared down at the torches approaching like they were stars fallen from the sky.

“He’s not coming back,” he said, to no one.

No one corrected him.

⋆｡°✩

You had never run so fast in your life.

Your father limped behind you, breath ragged, hand clutched tight in yours. You didn’t know how long the gate would hold. Didn’t care. The mountain path blurred beneath your boots, the wind howling past your ears, your lungs burning.

You saw the smoke before you saw the fire.

And then— through the trees— the castle.

And Naoya, musket raised, climbing the stairs.

⋆｡°✩

The servants fought like chaos incarnate.

Kaori tripped one man with a swinging teacart. Geto lobbed vases from the top floor with mechanical precision. Gojo lit half the mob’s torches out of spite. But it wasn’t enough. The villagers kept coming. Loud. Angry. Terrified of what they didn’t understand.

Sukuna met Naoya on the roof.

There were no words. Just a flash of steel, a snarl, the clash of teeth and blade. Sukuna didn’t hold back. But he didn’t kill him either. He let him fall once. Let him scramble back to his feet. Let him swing again.

He turned away.

And Naoya fired.

⋆｡°✩

The shot rang out sharp against the storm.

You saw it hit— watched Sukuna stagger, one knee dropping, blood already soaking through the silk. You screamed his name. But the castle was too high. The bridge too narrow. You couldn’t reach him.

Naoya raised the gun again.

But this time, the ledge gave way.

He didn’t have time to scream.

⋆｡°✩

You reached Sukuna just as he collapsed.

He was so heavy. So warm. You dropped to your knees and caught his face in your hands, blood slick beneath your fingers. His eyes fluttered open— unfocused, glassy, still watching you.

“You came back,” he rasped.

“Of course I did.”

“You… idiot.”

You let out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “You’re not allowed to die. Not like this.”

“It’s too late.”

“No—”

“The rose…”

You looked over your shoulder.

The last petal falls.

⋆｡°✩

You didn’t feel the petals hit the ground.

You only felt his hand in yours— colder now, less steady. The weight of his body against your knees. The way his chest rose slower with each breath.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, “look at me.”

He didn’t.

“Sukuna, please.”

One eye opened. Barely. The glow had faded. The strength was gone. But he was still here. Just barely.

“I’m not ready to lose you,” you said. “I didn’t come back to watch you die.”

“You came back because you’re good,” he murmured. “You always were.”

“I came back because I love you.”

That stilled him.

Completely.

The breath in his lungs caught. His jaw twitched. You saw the disbelief flood his face like something painful. Like something he hadn’t let himself imagine.

“I see you,” you said. “I always have. You’re not a monster. You never were.”

He blinked.

Once.

Then the light left his eyes.

⋆｡°✩

The stillness that followed wasn’t real silence— it was a grief so sharp the world seemed to hold its breath. The castle groaned beneath you. The wind outside died. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered.

You didn’t let go of him.

You bowed your head, forehead pressed to his. Your voice was too quiet to echo.

“Come back.”

Nothing moved.

“Come back to me.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I’m not done loving you yet.”

⋆｡°✩

The magic cracked like thunder.

It didn’t explode— it bloomed.

Light poured from the wound on his chest, golden and blinding. His body lifted, spine arched, arms outstretched as if something ancient had taken hold of him. You stumbled back— not out of fear, but awe— and watched as the lines on his skin unraveled. The ink melted. The horns splintered to dust.

He dropped to the floor— whole.

Still.

Then his chest rose.

He gasped like someone drowning.

And when his eyes opened, they were still him.

Sukuna. Just Sukuna. Not a Beast. Not a curse.

“...You stayed,” he whispered.

You launched into his arms before he could say anything else.

Later— after the villagers’ memories returned, after Kaori wept openly in the kitchen, after Gojo danced with the mirror for no reason at all— you stood beside him in the ballroom, chest pressed to his as the music rose. His hand in yours was solid. Strong. Warm.

You wore your best shirt. He still wouldn’t put on a crown.

You looked up at him.

“I still hate you a little,” you said.

He smiled, just slightly.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

⋆｡°✩

The castle bloomed again, slowly.

The halls brightened. The ivy peeled back from the windows. Rooms you hadn’t dared open now welcomed you with soft lamplight and warm air. The gardens thawed first— roses blooming in defiance of the season, red and gold and white, petals trembling in the breeze.

The servants were alive again. Whole again. Gojo wouldn’t shut up for three days. Geto complained about everything and still offered you tea every morning. Shoko took up smoking and refused to explain why.

You didn’t need a title. You didn’t ask for one. But the people came anyway— not to see a fairytale, but to see the man who’d saved their prince. Who’d kissed the curse out of a beast’s broken body and asked for nothing in return.

You stayed.

And he did, too.

⋆｡°✩

The night was warm. Summer had finally found the mountain. Fireflies gathered in the rose garden like floating lanterns. You leaned against the railing of the balcony, bare feet on cold stone, the wind brushing through your hair.

Sukuna stepped behind you.

His arms came around your waist, steady and slow.

You let your body melt back against his. His touch was different now— less cautious, more certain— but never greedy. He held you like you were something fragile only because he knew how hard the world had been to you.

“You’re thinking again,” he murmured.

You smiled. “That obvious?”

“Always.”

You turned in his arms.

Looked up at him.

“Do you still have nightmares?” you asked.

“Not when you’re here.”

You kissed him then— slow, sure, like you had nothing left to prove.

And when the stars came out, you were still there, tucked against him. Safe. Wanted. Home.

⋆｡°✩

The castle slept.

The rose never bloomed again.

It didn’t need to.

#male reader #bottom male reader #x male reader #jjk x reader #jjk x male reader #x reader #gay #smut #trans male reader #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x reader #sukuna x male reader #sukuna x ftm reader #ftm reader #sukuna ryomen x male reader #sukuna ryomen x reader

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sleeplessspell · 1 day ago

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It was a well-known fact across the kingdom that Princess Elyse was a gentle soul. Birds landed on her shoulders, children trusted her with their secrets, and grown men swore her laughter could turn frost to spring. She spoke softly, with a musical cadence that made even bad news feel like a lullaby.

But those who truly knew her—her handmaid, her old fencing instructor, the Captain of the Guard—knew of a rare and dangerous phenomenon known only as “the snapping.”

It had only happened four times in living memory.

Once, when a foreign diplomat commented that women shouldn’t be taught statecraft. Once, when someone kicked her dog. Once, when a lordling drunkenly told her she’d “never marry well with hips like those.” And once, today.

Lord Harwin of the Southern Isles, who looked like a powdered cake and smelled like rotting ambition, had pushed every button in her psyche during the royal council meeting. He interrupted, condescended, smirked, and finally, said the sentence:

“Perhaps the Princess should leave such matters to the men. War is a rather rough business.”

Captain Lucy stiffened beside her. Chancellor Morevich blinked slowly, calculating escape routes. A crow outside cawed, sensing imminent doom.

Princess Elyse stood. Slowly. Deliberately. Her silken skirts whispered like drawn blades. She smiled the kind of smile that meant either divine mercy or total annihilation.

And then she spoke.

“Rough business, my lord?” she said sweetly. “You pustulent windbag in lace—if brains were water, yours couldn’t fill a thimble. If your sword is as limp as your wit, no wonder your barony keeps getting raided.”

The council froze.

“Do you think because I speak softly, I think softly? That because I wear gowns and not chainmail, I don’t understand blood and fire? I’ve watched generals die with more grace than you muster when someone says 'no.'”

Lucy was silently mouthing gods above.

“You overboiled cabbage,” Elyse continued. “You flea-ridden whelp of a maggot-stuffed goat. You’re not a lord—you’re what happens when incest and incompetence share a bottle of wine and a bad idea.”

Lord Harwin turned crimson. Then pale. Then somewhere in between.

She took a step forward, eyes blazing. “You arrogant, preening, gas-leaking excuse for a noble. You smell like spoiled butter and think like curdled cream. I’ve seen toddlers with more tactical acumen and fewer tantrums. You’re a blight upon silk, an insult to chairs for having to hold your weight, and a crime against patience. If arrogance were armor, you'd still bleed stupidity.”

Lord Harwin opened his mouth, but nothing emerged except a confused wheeze.

“Truly,” she said, voice rising, “you are the human embodiment of mildew in a boot. If you were set on fire, the flames would write apology letters for touching something so pathetic. If incompetence had a patron saint, you'd be on its stained-glass window vomiting onto a map of your own lands. And do not think I haven’t noticed you wear more rouge than half the brothel district.”

The air seemed to shimmer.

“And if you ever—ever—speak to me like that again, I will personally drag you through the mud until the pigs ask me to show mercy. Do I make myself clear, you sweat-slicked sausage of a man?”

Silence.

Absolute, radiant silence.

Then, in a voice as calm and gentle as ever, she turned to the Chancellor. “Now then. As I was saying, we’ll move the western battalion to Fort Brindle before the first frost.”

The rest of the council nodded. No one met her eyes.

The normally soft-spoken and kind Princess has a truly awe-inspiring array of swears and insults. Annoy her enough and you will bear witness to the vocabulary of the royal family and a drunk sailor being used in perfect unison.

#writers on tumblr #writers #writing inspiration #writing prompts #short stories #short story

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mononijikayu · 2 days ago

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sumire — ryomen sukuna.

(happy mother's day concubine reader)

the other woman masterlist

ryomen sukuna had always believed even ever so quietly, ever so instinctively that you were born to be someone’s loving and kind mother. it wasn’t something he thought about often. not when the world demanded blood and grit from his hands. not when he had buried softness under centuries of survival. but then he saw you with chiharu.

he watched the way your arms curved instinctively around her small frame little by little, the way your own voice softened as you brushed back strands of her luscious long hair, your thumb tracing ever so kindly behind the shell of her ear like it was the most natural thing in the world.

she wasn’t yours. you knew as much, he knows just as well. she was not your own blood. she was not yours by birth. not even by any bond you had asked for. he had given the child to your care well enough, that was for certain.

you could have let the girl live in the comforts of your household without the luxury of your touch, or your care or your affections. you had more than enough to let her be educated by the maids of your household, to be cared for by the strangers that took care of you too.

after all, his scarlet eyes were perceptive enough to see. enough to see the very essence of your soul, to see the very essence of your face, that face which held the face of a ghost he longed for. he knew that you resented living with the ghost of ryomen hiromi well enough.

yet, instead of the frown on your lips when you look at the looking glass, you smiled at his little daughter. you smiled at her like it didn’t matter that she was a living ghost left behind by the one ryomen sukuna had long loved and grieved.

for the longest time, he had pondered all about it. you had not spoken to him about it. and he did not have the gall to ask. curiosity was enough and he was not willing to let it eat him whole and take root of him.

still, he allowed that curiosity to remain. and to let it be a fond echo that reflects when he looks at you laughing as you and chiharu played in the autumn leaves together.

but he felt like he had seen something that made him understand that day as you both played together in the bright expanse of the manor. it had been the first time she ran to you after scraping her knee.

as she stumbled toward you, tears streaming down her face, ryomen sukuna saw something flicker in your expression. it had felt almost something beyond him. something so unknown, something so ancient, a tenderness that rose within you like a quiet, instinctual force, older than any word, older than language itself.

“mama, it hurts!” chiharu sobbed, her small hands clutching at her knee.

without a second thought, the grandeur of your bright red silk did not matter to you. nothing else had mattered. not the possibility of the dirt, not the possibility of his displeasure that he could later notice the unkempt creasing through your skirts. yet you did not care.

you quickly dropped to your knees, your caring hands moving swiftly to pull every inch of her small frame into your arms, cradling her with a tenderness that seemed to come from somewhere beyond this world. this moment felt so unique to him. to a god who couldn’t have ever had a mother.

“shh, it’s okay, little flower.” you murmured softly, your voice gentle, soothing, as you pressed your cheek to her temple. “it’s just a little scratch, sweetheart. i am here.”

the words fell from your lips like a lullaby, and the god named sukuna watched, transfixed. it was more than just comforting a child. there was something about the way you held her, something in the depth of your gaze, that made it clear.

it was as if you had known this moment long before it happened. it was as though she had once been curled inside your womb, your bond not formed in this lifetime but some quiet place in a world long past.

“i’m sorry, mama.” chiharu whimpered, her tiny hands clutching at your kimono. “i wasn’t careful! a–and now your skirt is wrinkly!”

“don’t apologize. that does not matter to me at all.” you whispered, brushing her hair back, the softness in your touch betraying the strength of the love you had already wrapped around her. “what matters is that you’re safe now, hm? I’m here for you.”

sukuna stood frozen, watching the scene unfold. he didn’t know why, but in that moment, something inside him shifted. this child, who wasn’t his, wasn’t even yours by blood. she was a piece of another world, another time.

but somehow, she had become yours in a way that left no room for doubt. he watched you cradle her with such tenderness, such absolute certainty that she was yours to protect, and for the first time, he felt a pang of something unfamiliar. of loss, of wonder, of something more fragile than even the weight of his grief.

“you never flinched.” ryomen sukuna’s voice broke the silence, though his words were barely above a whisper. the flickering candle light dancing against the wind. you did not look up to him as you drank your bounty of sake. “not even when she called you mama.”

you glanced up at him then, your eyes soft, but something still raw behind them. “why would i, my lord?” you replied, your voice steady but quiet, the question hanging in the air between you.

he shook his head slightly, still unable to fully grasp the depth of it. "she's not yours by blood, little one." he said, the words rougher than intended.

“no, she is not, my lord. you and i both know so.” you agreed, looking down at chiharu as you continued to stroke her back. “but you had tasked me to care for her. and such tenderness….it doesn’t need blood to make it real.”

"i should suppose it does not." he murmured, his gaze flickering from you.

“i hope you will allow me to continue to care for her." you tell him. "that is....my only request, my lord."

he swallowed, fighting the lump in his throat. he turned to the small bowl of sake and drank it himself. your answer had merits in his eyes. after all, he knew very well what it was like to know that. he who was once human, an adoptive son of the ryomen.

and for a fleeting second, he wondered if he could ever understand how such love, such quiet, unspoken devotion, could take root in a heart as hard as his. a god has no use for love, after all. yet still, he found fondness still remained. for all the parts of him that could remember what it was like to be human.

he could only think that such feeling was reserved for ryomen chiharu, his only daughter. hiromi’s beloved little daughter. hiromi, whose name still lingered in the hollow places of his memory, whose laughter sometimes echoed faintly in chiharu’s giggles. the shape of her nose. the tilt of her head when she was being stubborn. the brightness of her smile.

all of those were all hiromi. and sukuna thought that when he would take her to you that those echoes of your anguish might make you pull away as she teared up, as she laughed, as she dreamed, as she breathed. but you didn’t. not once had you done so.

he had expected it. and he wouldn’t have blamed you. years and years of misery. and he had broken it into you. he had forced a world that was never yours for you to suffer carrying, like some unholy punishment. years later, he had added more. her, that little girl. that ghost of hiromi left in her blood, in her flesh. in everything.

you saw the ghost in her face and didn’t flinch. you didn’t chase it out or smother it in jealousy. you made room for it. for her. for all of it. and when he came to you one evening, scarlet eyes lowered in guilt he could not name, he tried to ask for the first time. he tried to press the weight of his remorse into words. but a god was not good at such words.

“i never meant to bring this onto you, little one.” he murmured, the sentence fragile and foreign on his tongue. perhaps it was the sake talking. “yet i have.”

“there was nothing to be done when you had brought her to me.” you say to him, almost as if it was a matter of fact. “she is a child. she cannot do much on her own just yet, after all. you know that well enough......she needed someone, my lord.”

“you think that i cannot be that one for the child?”

you could feel a bellowing laughter blossom to your lips, perhaps more graceful than anything else. “my lord, you live to be a god. how can a god love so thoroughly without contradicting himself?”

you only looked up at him from where you sat on the floor, chiharu asleep on the edge of your knees, the soft fabric of your new kimono becoming a comfortable canvas for her little head. your fingers gently combing through her hair.

“and….she’s not a burden, my lord.” you said simply, a small ghostly smile on your lips. “she is a comfort…..in my gilded cage.”

he was quiet for a long time after that, the silence stretching between you like the hush after a storm. his scarlet eyes were on the sleeping child curled in your lap, the rise and fall of her breath steady against your silk. he watched the way your fingers moved through her hair, careful, unhurried, as if you were weaving something sacred into each strand.

“a gilded cage, little one?” he echoed, voice low, almost bitter. almost as if this was not the thing he had expected to hear from you. “is that what this place is to you?”

you tilted your head slightly, considering. “it is beautiful here. soft food. silk beds. still gardens. a hundred rooms and a thousand silences. but it is still a place where i am kept.”

he said nothing.

he merely stared.

he let it simmer in.

“but it is not a cruel cage, my lord.” you added gently. “not always. it is just… one you built for yourself, and then placed me inside when you thought it might ease the ache.”

his jaw flexed. “i did not mean to make you stay, little one.”

“If you say so, my lord.” you said, a tight smile beckoning on your lips. perhaps tighter than the ribbons that adorn your hair. “but you never gave me a door either. as always, i am a twittering bird who can never fly.”

your words were not angry. there was no fire behind them. only the low, enduring warmth of someone who had long made peace with something difficult. someone who had learned to live inside the quiet, instead of fighting it. as if you had resigned to living such a life like this.

“and yet, little one…..” he said finally, eyes meeting yours. “you stayed.”

you gave a small shrug, cradling chiharu a little closer. “where else would i go? and….she needs me. i need her too.”

he looked away then, as though the weight of your honesty was too much to meet. his voice was tight when he spoke. “do you resent me for it, little one?”

you hesitated, not because you didn’t know, but because the truth was fragile, and you did not wish to wound him with it. not more than he already had been. your husband may have been a god, but he still liked to hear flowering words. perhaps more than most mortals would.

“.......i do not know for certain, my lord.” you said at last, more honest than before. “however, i think…..i can only resent the way you grieve. the way you think pain must be carried alone. as if to let anyone help would tarnish the memory of what came before.”

sukuna’s hands curled into fists at his sides, the tremble in his knuckles barely noticeable. “you speak as though you knew her.”

“no, my lord. i dare not encroach upon that.” you whispered. “but i know you. and sometimes… that is enough to see the shape of the one who came before.”

he looked at you then, truly looked for a moment. he looked at you like a man drowning who hadn’t known it until just now. like someone seeing light in the corner of a cave he thought would never end.

“she would have liked you, i should think.” he said hoarsely. he lets the alcohol become stale. “and perhaps that’s the worst thing of all.”

you gave a sad smile. “i would have liked her too……that’s the tragedy of it, my lord.”

chiharu stirred in your lap, shifting in her sleep with a soft sigh. your hand came to rest over her back, soothing her with no words at all. “does she haunt you when you look at chiharu?”

sukuna was silent for a moment. you like to think he would not ever speak. but when he does, it surprises you. “mayhaps.”

“and me?” you asked quietly. “do i remind you of her?”

he didn’t answer right away once again. he lets his hardened eyes linger to your face, the essence of that ghost, the love he had longed to see. a crestfallen darkness falls in the corner of his eyes. he purses his lips in a flat line.

“a face is nothing to the soul, little one.” he said finally. “you are nothing like her. you never truly will be. and that… is why it hurts less, when i look at you. it is better to have less regrets. and….less ghosts roaming about.”

you nodded slowly. perhaps that was the kindest thing he had ever said to you. “i see.”

“that is for the better, do you not think, little one?”

“.....perhaps it is.” you said, more to yourself than to him, the words hanging in the air like soft thread waiting to be tied.

the silence that followed was not cruel. it was not the kind that was punished, not the kind that once wrapped itself around your throat in the early days of knowing him. it was something else now. something closer to understanding, or at the very least, to resignation.

sukuna let out a long breath through his nose, steadying the storm behind his ribs. he looked at the pale cup of sake near his hand, untouched since his confession. then he looked at you again, perhaps more honestly this time.

he did not look at you the way he looked at others, those who were truly below him. not with suspicion or calculation or hunger. but as if you had become something still and holy, wrapped in moonlight and child–breath.

“you are… softer than i remember you being, little one.” he said at length, and the words startled even him.

you blinked. “.....that is surprising to hear from your lips, my lord.”

he gave a strange, low sound. it was part sigh, part scoff. “you think i would let anyone raise my daughter without remembering every line of their face?”

a pause, thick like honey. “but you didn’t know me then, my lord.” you said, almost gently. “at least not truly. not as you do now.”

“no, i do not suppose so, little one.” he agreed. “and even now, i wonder if i truly do.”

you glanced down at chiharu again, whose little hand had curled into the fold of your kimono like a bloom seeking warmth. you could feel the breath leave you in shaky bits as you looked up to your husband.

“i am no great mystery, my lord. only a woman with two hands and a heart full of borrowed grace.”

he looked at the child, and then back at you. “and yet you carry her as though she were born of you, little one.” he murmured.

you smiled. “children do not care for blood, my lord. only warmth. and safety. and someone who will stay when night comes.”

he was silent again. there was a kind of stillness to him now, almost like a mountain after thunder. like an old wolf sitting at the edge of his cave, watching snowfall for the first time in many years.

“you will stay, then?” he asked suddenly, voice quiet, but firm.

you blinked once. then again. “you never gave me a door to this cage, my lord.”

a flicker of something passed through his expression. perhaps remorse, maybe, or something more ancient. grief shaped like guilt. you want to shake off the feeling of it. that was not your husband. you don’t think that is him.

“would you walk through it, if i gave you one, little one?” he asked, almost too sincerely.

you turned your gaze to him fully. “.....i do not have anything beyond this life, my lord. perhaps….perhaps, i would not walk through it at all.” you said, honest and unafraid.

“i see.”

“but….” you say, before stopping yourself. “it is kinder to be given the choice.”

his head bowed slightly, as if he were accepting judgment from some unseen god. perhaps it was you. perhaps it had always been. outside, the wind shifted through the garden trees.

inside, ryomen chiharu’s breath deepened. the moonlight painted your face silver, and sukuna, this man of fire and wrath and blade and destruction, merely sat in the hush beside you, quiet as prayer.

“then stay, little one.” he said again.

the words came softer this time. it was not a command, not a plea, but something stranger. gentler. as though he were offering something not even he fully understood. something raw and trembling beneath the weight of all he had ever lost.

you could not look at him when he said it. your gaze stayed fixed on the child in your lap, her breath rising and falling in a rhythm so steady, so innocent, it made your chest ache.

you watched the tiny curl of her fingers against your kimono, the way she had unknowingly claimed you with such trust. the moment felt suspended. it was left fragile and swollen, as if even breathing too deeply might shatter it.

you couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. you didn’t want to see the truth in them, even the ones you can only lead yourself to believe to be drunken ones. the grief, the weariness, the quiet terror of someone who had lived too long and loved too little.

you didn’t want to see him asking something of you he didn’t know how to name. because you feared, maybe, that you would give it. so you said nothing. not a yes. not a no. only silence. the kind of silence that spoke of everything you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

but you stayed.

not because he asked.

not because you were bound.

but because the child in your arms had curled into your warmth like she had known you before she ever learned to speak. because the night was long and the world outside was cruel, and someone had to carry the softness of it all. someone had to stay when everyone else had gone.

you stayed because love does not always bloom with fireworks or fever. sometimes it creeps in quietly, like ivy up the walls of a ruin. the tenderness, persistence, patience. and most of all, the foolishness. the foolishness of the other woman who loves.

the next morning, the hush of dawn settled over your manor like a breath held too long. outside, the sky was barely pink, the sleeping world still blurred at the edges with sleep.

the massive paper screens of vermillion hall filtered the morning sun into soft amber streaks across the floor. the kind of light that asked for quiet. that seemed to say: let things lie, just for a while longer.

chiharu was still curled beside you, her small body warm and heavy with sleep. one hand clutched the edge of your sleeve, even now, as though in her dreams she was still afraid you might vanish.

you brushed a few strands of hair from her cheek, gentle as falling ash, and began to sit up slowly. you wanted to be careful. it was best not to wake her before the sun was up in the sky.

and then you saw it. your husband, he was gone. the space he’d occupied last night was empty, blankets pulled back, the weight of his body gone from the world beside you. no footsteps. no voice. no warning.

just the flowers.

a small bundle of the finest flowers. you could remember the name almost instantly. it was sumire, you think to yourself. bright and fresh sumire.

it was resting neatly at the edge of his side of the futon. they weren’t wrapped in silk, weren’t tied with care. just a single length of red thread, likely torn from his own sleeve.

their vibrant purple petals were slightly crushed from where he must have held them too tightly. damp still from the mountain air. imperfect. wild. real. they were hard to find, you knew that too well. in this season, in these mountains.

your hand moved without thought. fingertips grazing over their delicate shape. soft. trembling a little. you sighed for a moment. not heavily, but deep. it was a sound from the chest, from your heart. it was like something exhaled that had been caged inside for far too long.

because this wasn’t just a gesture. not for him. he hadn’t left with silence this time. he hadn’t vanished into grief or guilt or the excuse of war. he had left something behind. something beautiful, in its own clumsy way. you slowly allowed yourself to let your lips flicker upwards.

at first, it was real. it was wide and warm and a little surprised. because it was so like him to do the most tender thing in the least expected way. because somewhere between the blood on his hands and the weight of his past, he had still chosen to say thank you.

then, slowly, the smile turned softer. sadder.

like a leaf curling at the edges with the coming cold.

because you knew what those flowers meant.

they were a confession in the only language he trusted. they were an apology not for what he had done, but for what he had never learned how to be. for the way he loved in crooked, fumbling pieces. too proud to speak it, too broken to hold it the way you deserved.

you brought the flowers to your chest and closed your eyes. “you’re trying, aren’t you?” you whispered. “you….you never cease to make a mess of me, my lord.”

not with bitterness. not with expectation. just the quiet truth of it. and that for a man like ryomen sukuna was a kind of miracle. it was a miracle for a god to let such thought ever come across.

chiharu stirred beside you, a soft, slow rustling beneath the layers of the futon. her breath caught a quiet yawn as her fingers flexed around the fabric of your sleeve, and then you heard it.

“...mama?”

the word was slurred with sleep, fragile as a moth’s wing. hesitant, as though she wasn’t quite sure if she was still dreaming. your heart caught. it always did when she called you that.

not because it wasn’t true, not in the way that mattered. but because it reminded you how easily love could take root in the spaces grief left behind. even when you were broken. even in a gilded cage, you could still love.

you turned to her, placing the sumire flowers gently to the side, as if they, too, needed to rest. then you smiled. soft and immediate. like sunlight spilling over a quiet room.

“good morning, little flower.” you murmured, reaching for her.

she blinked up at you, herr lashes still wet from sleep, her cheeks flushed with warmth. when you brushed her hair from her face, she leaned into your touch without hesitation. in this light, she looked like ryomen hiromi too well. almost identical to the stone in the audience hall. in the koi ponds. in the forestry.

“you’re still here, mama.” she whispered.

“of course i am, silly flower.” you replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “where else would i be? you slept in my chambers last night.”

“did i?” she questioned, her tone still slurring from the sleepiness.

you laughed slightly. “yes. you had too much fun yesterday, did you not?”

“yes….i think i did.”

“then i’m glad.” you say, embracing her close.

she didn’t answer, only curled closer, tucking herself into the space beside your body like she had always belonged there. and maybe, in some quiet, secret way, she always had.

you held her for a moment longer, the scent of the sumire still clinging faintly to your skin. and even though the bed was emptier than it had been last night, your heart didn’t feel quite as hollow. not this morning. not with her. and perhaps....not with the sumire tight by his sleeves.

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orellazalonia · 20 hours ago

Text

The Weight of the Truth

Summary: You form an unlikely bond with Bucky Barnes during your time with the Avengers. What begins as mutual trust and quiet companionship slowly deepens into something more. However, when Bucky begins pulling away without explanation, it leaves you hurt and confused. Tension builds until a raw, emotional confrontation forces the truth out of both of you. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to compel people to tell the truth against their will. Light angst. Hurt/Comfort.

Word Count: 3k+

A/N: Based on the poll I ran, the majority voted Truth Compulsion and Telepathy. I chose the first for now and will do telepathy next, maybe something lighter or fun for the latter. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You weren’t born with the power to pull truth from people’s mouths. It came later in life one rainy afternoon, so suddenly, like a curse wrapped in silk. It didn’t matter how much someone wanted to lie; if you asked the question and truly wanted the answer, they had to speak it. Every word dragged from their chest like it weighed a hundred pounds. You didn’t need to raise your voice, threaten, or coax. No. Your voice simply made the truth impossible to hold in.

Some people thought it was a gift. However, you never saw it that way, knowing what people really felt, what they really meant, and what they were too afraid to say. You were too young back then when you failed to realize most people didn’t want honesty. And some truths, once spoken, couldn’t be unsaid.

Therefore, you weren’t used to people staying. Not when they learned what you could do.

Your presence alone made people uneasy, not because you were loud or threatening, but because you listened. People were afraid of what you might ask, afraid that even an innocent question like “Are you okay?” might unravel something carefully buried. Over time, you learned how to walk lightly, how to speak softly, and how to exist without pressing.

When the Avengers found you, you were a wild card to them. Useful indeed, but dangerous. You could end a fight with one question or tear a team apart with one sentence. As a result, most of them kept their distance. Not out of fear, exactly but more out of caution. As if being near you meant something deep inside them might be accidentally pulled to the surface.

Natasha was polite. Steve was kind but wary. Wanda, empathetic but unreadable. But Bucky? He didn’t avoid you. He didn’t tiptoe. That’s what made Bucky Barnes different.

He didn’t fill the space around you with noise. He didn’t dance around your power. He never stared, never fidgeted, never waited for you to break the silence with something intrusive or painful. He just… sat beside you. Quietly, like he had nothing more that could possibly be confessed considering the world knew most of his past by now.

You noticed him long before he noticed you. You picked up on how he scanned every room like someone would pop out and attack him. How he clenched his jaw every time someone brushed against him without warning. How he kept his left arm always at an angle, like he was guarding something, himself. It was like he didn’t know if he was allowed to be comfortable in his own skin.

Regardless, you never asked questions. Not even once. You gave him something rare: Space.

And in return, he gave you something rarer: Presence.

It started with him sitting near you in the common room during team meetings, even if it meant skipping an open seat to get there. Then came the training sessions, where you sparred silently, never needing to speak but always aware of each other’s limits. You matched each other’s pace like you’d done this for years. Then came the early mornings. You’d enter the kitchen with your favorite mug in hand and find him already there, black coffee in one hand, gaze out the window. The first time, he only nodded. By the third week, he was pouring you a cup before you even spoke.

You noticed the way he remembered things no one else did. That you hated synthetic fabrics, that the buzzing of certain lights gave you migraines, or that your favorite tea had to steep exactly three minutes. He didn’t say anything, he just did things. Adjusted the lighting, quietly requested your sheets be swapped for cotton, left your tea on the table with a timer set. It warmed your heart in some way. You never thanked him aloud, but you knew he felt your gratitude anyways.

In return for his kindness, you learned to read his silences.

There was a difference between when he was tired and when he was haunted. A difference between when he wanted company and when he couldn’t stand to be alone but didn’t know how to ask. On those nights, when the ghosts were louder than his thoughts, he’d find you. Sometimes just to sit beside you on the couch, sometimes to walk the perimeter of the compound in wordless patrol, and sometimes… to talk. Little things and often one sentence at a time. A memory or a sarcastic comment. Sometimes a moment of truth disguised as a joke.

You fell for him slowly. Hopelessly.

In the way his voice softened when he said your name. In the way he watched you like he was memorizing every move, not to predict it, but to understand it. In the way he spoke of nightmares but never had them when you’d fall asleep on his couch for movie nights. In the way you never had to use your power, but he always told you the truth anyway.

You told yourself it wasn’t love. Not yet. Just admiration or connection. It was just the beginning of something you’d never be brave enough to touch.

And still, you saw the way his eyes lingered a second too long when you laughed at one of Sam’s jokes. How he stiffened whenever someone else stood too close to you. How his voice dropped an octave when he asked “You okay?” like the answer would define the rest of his night.

There was always something unfinished between you. Something neither of you dared name. So when your moments of silence became distant and suffocating, it chipped away at your sanity and heart each time.

You had always thought that silence was something you could share. Something safe. But over the last few weeks, the quiet between you and Bucky had begun to feel like an unwelcome gap, a widening chasm neither of you wanted to cross.

It started slowly. You started to notice a coldness in his gaze when he used to look at you with an unreadable warmth. Distance in his movements that used to feel comfortable, like two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together, now felt like two pieces of glass, edges sharp and unyielding.

It was subtle too, little things you thought you could brush off. Like when you’d walk into the common room after a long day and find him sitting there, but when you sat next to him, his shoulders would stiffen. He’d give a tight smile, then turn his attention back to the mission reports without saying much. Or when you found yourself at the training mats together, and he’d deliberately avoid your eye contact when he used to be the first one to look at you after a move. You wondered if he was just tired, or if it was something else but it didn’t feel like tiredness.

Then came the mission.

It was a routine operation. It was a simple extraction clean and precise. You and Bucky worked seamlessly together, as always. He covered your back while you disabled the security system. You moved in tandem, a perfect machine. But when you completed the mission, something shifted in the air. It was like he was pulling away, retreating into himself again. He didn’t speak much during the debriefing, and when you caught him glancing at you, there was something unfamiliar in his expression. Something distant. Something… closed off.

That night, when you returned to the compound, you thought it was just the usual exhaustion from a mission. But Bucky didn’t act like himself. He didn’t come by the kitchen for the usual quiet company. He hadn’t sat next to you during team discussions. He didn’t even bother to make small talk as he passed you in the hall. You caught him avoiding your gaze, his face a mask of calm, but his posture rigid.

It confused you. And it hurt more than you cared to admit.

Had you said something wrong? Done something wrong?

You spent the next few days wondering if you were the cause of it. Maybe he’d gotten too comfortable around you, and now he needed space. Maybe he just didn’t want to deal with whatever had started between you. He was still Bucky, still the same guy who’d saved your life more times than you could count. But now, everything felt like an impenetrable wall.

You didn’t want to push him. You never wanted to be that person. You never wanted to be the one who pried, the one who pushed when someone needed time to process. After all, your powers had long pried out the secrets and words of too many people to count. But Bucky was never like this before. His silences were always comfortable. The absence of his presence now felt like it was hollow, like it was filled with unsaid words and unexplored tension.

You tried to get his attention, at first, with small gestures. A shared look during a team briefing. A subtle joke meant to make him laugh. A fleeting touch of your hand on his arm when you walked by. But each time, he stiffened or pulled away. It wasn’t like him.

The hardest part was not knowing what you’d done. Maybe you had said something wrong, maybe you’d done something that made him close off. It wasn’t like you had any experience in relationships, not any real honest connections. You weren’t even sure what you and Bucky had, but you had thought it was something good and worth holding onto.

Days turned into weeks, and the distance between you both only seemed to grow. There were moments when he was still around, when he still spoke to you in clipped sentences, still walked beside you when the missions called for it. But there was no warmth behind it. No understanding or connection like before. And every time you tried to talk to him to try and ask what was wrong, he’d pull back. His responses were short, almost guarded. Every time you tried to bridge the gap, he’d distance himself further.

Finally, one night, after yet another cold interaction, you couldn’t take it anymore. You cornered him in the hallway. His steps faltered when he saw you, but you weren’t going to let him walk away this time.

"Bucky," You called out, your voice a mix of frustration and hurt. "What’s going on? You’re avoiding me."

He stiffened, eyes darting to the floor. His lips pressed into a thin line, like he was fighting a battle inside himself. “I’m not avoiding you," He muttered, but you could hear the lie in his voice. It wasn’t convincing and you knew it wasn’t the truth.

"Then why is it like this? What did I do?" You couldn’t keep the edge of desperation out of your voice. “You’ve been pulling away from me for weeks now and I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s wrong, but you’re driving me crazy, Bucky.”

His jaw clenched as he stood there for a moment in silence before he finally looked at you. His eyes were wide, vulnerable in a way that scared you. This wasn’t Bucky Barnes, the man who always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and kept his emotions under lock and key. This man, standing in front of you, was someone broken, someone you couldn’t fix with a touch or a kind word.

"Is it because of the mission?" You pushed gently, your voice softer. "Did I mess up somehow? If I did, just tell me. I’ll fix it."

Bucky shook his head slowly, his hand running through his hair in frustration. "No. It’s not the mission. It’s…" He looked away, and for the first time in a long while, you saw the weight of everything he’d been hiding in his eyes. "It’s me."

You were silent for a moment, the realization creeping up slowly. Your heart beat in your chest as you tried to keep your voice steady. "Bucky, you’re scaring me. You’re shutting me out, and I don’t know why."

“Just… nevermind. Forget it. Goodnight.” He said tightly, moving to depart with his gaze incapable of facing you directly.

It was then that something inside you snapped. The years of silence and loneliness, of holding back, and of not letting your power show when it was the only thing that might break through. You had to know the truth. You had to hear him say it. You had no other choice. You couldn’t just keep waiting for him to open up not after you’ve tried relentlessly and hopelessly the past couple of weeks.

You focused. You’d never used your ability on him before, not because you were afraid of the power, but because you never wanted him to experience another situation where he had no control. You were afraid of what you might find if you pushed him too hard; but tonight, you weren’t going to let him walk away.

You took a deep breath, your voice steadier than you felt, mentally asking for his forgiveness as you spoke firmly. “Bucky, I need you to answer me. Why are you really pushing me away?”

His body stiffened. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the way he fought against your words, as if he could physically resist them. But it was futile. The pull of your power was subtle, like an invisible tether pulling at him, a force beyond his control.

His mouth opened, and for a moment, it was as if he tried to choke back the words. It was like he tried to shove them down into the depths of his mind where he thought they’d stay buried forever. But they spilled out anyway, raw and jagged, his voice betraying him in a way you hadn’t expected.

”Because if I let myself love you,” Bucky whispered, his eyes flickering with the weight of the confession, ”I don’t know if I could survive losing you too.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the cracks in the armor that he’d built around himself. The fear, the raw terror, that if he let himself love again, he wouldn’t be able to bear the inevitable heartbreak. Because Lord knows how much he’s lost and had to grieve in his life.

You didn’t know what to say. For a moment, everything felt like it was frozen in time. You’d never seen him so exposed, so raw and it made your heart ache for him.

His breath hitched, like he was waiting for you to run, waiting for you to take his confession as an excuse to push him away, just as he had done to you.

"What do you mean?" You were barely breathing, every word feeling too heavy to bear.

"I’m not good for you," He spoke softly. "You deserve someone who doesn’t drag you down with their demons." He took a step back, shaking his head. "I can’t give you what you want. What you need."

And there it was. The wall he’d been building between you had a name: fear. Fear of opening up or of what you might see. Fear of the man he used to be and the damage he’d done.

But you weren’t afraid. You never were, not of him.

"I don’t need you to be perfect,” You stepped closer, heart hammering, and placed your hand on his chest. "I just need you to be here."

His breath hitched at your words. For a moment, you thought he might step back again. That he might raise those walls so high you’d never reach him. But he didn’t move. Instead, he just stood there, chest rising beneath your hand, heart pounding steadily under your touch.

“I’m not going anywhere,” You repeated softly, like a promise. “Even if you try to push me away.”

He closed his eyes, and something in him cracked, right there in front of you. Not loudly or with any dramatics. But it was like watching winter thaw, slow and quiet and inevitable.

“I tried to stay away,” Bucky admitted, his voice low, rough, like it hurt to speak. “I thought if I could put some space between us, it’d fade. That maybe I could stop wanting you.”

The confession landed like a lightning bolt. Your lips parted, a thousand emotions flooding you at once: relief, confusion, heartbreak, hope.

“You tried to stop wanting me?” Your voice echoed, barely above a whisper.

His eyes opened then, meeting yours, and you saw it, everything he’d been holding back. All the pain, fear, and longing. “I’ve wanted you for months,” He said. “Maybe longer. But I thought if I kept my distance, you’d find someone better. Someone who doesn’t wake up screaming. Someone who hasn’t done what I’ve done.”

Your fingers twitched against his chest. “But I don’t want someone better,” You said quietly. “I want you.”

Bucky stared at you like he didn’t quite believe it. “Even after everything?”

You nodded slowly, fiercely. “Especially after everything. Because I’ve seen you, Bucky. Not just the soldier. Not an assassin. You. The man who watches bad movies with me in silence. The one who always notices when I’m tired or hurting and doesn’t say a word, just sits a little closer. The one who remembers how I take my coffee. Who makes me feel safe, even when everything else falls apart.”

He looked away for a heartbeat, jaw tight, like he was trying to keep himself together.

You moved forward, stepping a little closer. Your heart racing as you added in a firmer voice. “And you don’t get to decide that you’re unworthy of being wanted. Not for me. Not when I’ve been falling for you this whole damn time.”

And that, broke something in him. He exhaled sharply, like the weight he’d been carrying finally tipped over. His hand came up hesitantly before it settled over yours on his chest, warm and shaking.

“I don’t know how to do this,” He admitted. “I’m not good at… feeling.”

“That’s okay,” You whispered. “You don’t have to be. I’m not asking you to be perfect. Just to let me in.”

He looked at you like you were sunlight cracking through a storm cloud, his thumb brushing gently against the back of your hand. “You already are.”

And then, slowly, carefully, he leaned in. It wasn’t rushed nor desperate. Just real. When his lips met yours, it was tentative, like a question. But when you kissed him back, it became an answer. One you’d both been waiting for.

#Whispers of the Gifted #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #marvel fic #bucky barnes fic #marvel x reader #bucky x you #james bucky buchanan barnes #avenger!reader #angst #angst with a happy ending #hurt/comfort

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blueberrypancakesworld · 1 day ago

Note

Hello dear. Can you write yandere Robert Reynold/(Void/Bob/Senrty) and female reader ? Thanks 💞

Void/Bob/Sentry – As a Yandere

Void/Bob/Sentry x female reader

warning: Yandere behavior, obsession, confinement, blackmail/manipulation, kissing, cuddling, power imbalance

Summary: As Bob, he was simple; as Sentry, he was a god; and as Void, he was a monster. But all three personalities would stop at nothing, not even murder, to get what they wanted when it came to her. She never leaves any of us, and none of us would ever let her go... she belongs to us.

info: Hi, sweetie! Thank you so much for your request, it means so much to me and I'm so happy to get a Thunderbolts request. I hope you enjoy reading it ;)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Bob, he was just a former addict, he was nice and friendly to those he knew and recognized.

He did his best for the team he now belonged to, but above all, he did everything for his love, “My Fairy” as he called her, because she helped him with everything like a fairy and every day with her seemed incredible.

As unbelievable as it is for any drug addict, Bob found something to occupy himself with.

However, neither she nor anyone else ever thought that someone as nice as Bob could become someone who would become everyone's nightmare.

It started small, with her having to lie next to him until he fell asleep, holding his hand, “Can you tell me a story?” he asked tiredly, and her movement prompted her to hold him tighter.

In the dark, she could only see him dimly, but she saw how he was looking at her...she would do what he asked, otherwise she would have to deal with Sentry or Void.

“Of course, Bob, I'll tell you a fairy tale,” she replied, holding him as the dark-haired man laid his head on her chest so he could hear her better, so he could be with her, so she could hold him.

His quiet “Thank you” seemed to dispel her doubts again. He just needed someone; he would never go that far... he was just Bob.

He was just Bob, he was everyone's friend, and maybe she had feelings for him after meeting him back then.

She had taken care of him and been there for him, but she never thought he could change so much, that behind every gentle smile and joyful expression there was always a threat. “I want you to stay with me and not go on the mission,” he said, immediately reaching for her hand and holding it.

The agent glanced at the others, and the Thunderbolts looked at each other uncertainly. “If that's okay, stay with Bob until he's feeling better. A relapse wouldn't be good,” Yelena said, placing a hand on her friend's shoulder and squeezing it gently.

They all knew it was only a matter of time before Bob gave in and one of them would show up, which meant the mission would have to go on without the agent.

“Thanks, guys, really, that means a lot to me...especially coming from you, my fairy,” he said, and his embarrassingly grateful smile sent a shiver down her spine.

Bob took advantage of it, forcing her to spend every free minute with him, sleeping next to him every night and cuddling up to him, helping him with everything during the day, even though they both knew how meaningless it was, but she did it anyway.

Why?

Because she and the others knew exactly why: one mistake and they would be facing God and the monster. “You have no idea how grateful I am to you for everything,” he said one day as they were cleaning up in the kitchen and cutting berries and fruit for the others who would soon be back.

This made her look up from the cutting board where she was cutting kiwi fruit that her friend Ava liked so much. She had only been watching Bob out of the corner of her eye as he washed the dishes and tried to strike up a conversation every now and then.

Now, when she looked up, he was suddenly standing next to her, an almost excited look in his eyes. “Thank you, Bob, it's not always easy, but it helps us all, and I'm happy to do it,” she replied and was about to turn away, her heart beating a little faster because she couldn't figure out why he seemed so excited.

She grabbed the knife more tightly as his hands rested on her arms and he turned her toward him.

Perhaps she would have returned the kiss he initiated if he hadn't ruined it. “I'm so incredibly grateful, my darling,” she heard, and the slight change in his voice made her push him away...at least that's what she tried to do.

When she looked at Bob now, she saw the gold in his eyes, saw how his demeanor had changed from awkward and gentle to triumphant and proud.

As Sentry, he was a god, and her attempted attack as an agent would have hit him, would have gotten rid of her enemy. But he didn't even flinch and didn't have a single cut on his face, even though the knife shattered against him and Sentry was still holding her.

The weaker one couldn't free herself, she couldn't get him off her, she couldn't hurt him, and she couldn't do anything when he kissed her as he took what he wanted. “Bob just has to learn who's better for you,” the gold-eyed one said, giving her an amused smile as he slowly let her go.

She could have run, she could have called Yelena and told her what had happened, but he saw everything she did.

Her steps backward only made him follow her, watching her like something to look at, like a pet he wanted to touch, while her heart, beating with fear and uncertainty, didn't know what to do.

She tried to convince him, “Let Bob come back, Sentry, please-please, before the others return” she tried to argue, to reason, tried to avoid damage. Yet the more she talked, the more amused he seemed to become, the more his eyes seemed to glow.

The distance she put between them was a human attempt not to panic, her arms held defensively in front of her, a foolish attempt to convince herself that she had a chance against him. “You are truly an interesting pet,” he said, and her scream echoed through the tower as he grabbed her and lifted her into his arms.

She had to hold on to him as he flew out of the building with her, the living room far below them, the entire city beneath them as the wind swirled around them, her fingers clawing at him as she saw, despite his amusement, that he knew what he wanted. He was in control, he was her god, he was more than that, and she belonged to him.

His pet, that's what she was to him as he flew with her over the city, he liked her enough that Sentry didn't let her fall. Her fear and feelings seemed little more than a distant thought to him.

He had her with him, pressed against him, and like a pet, she would go wherever he went. “Sentry, if you would be so kind as to fly back, I don't feel very well,” she told him, looking at him and seeing that he seemed a little confused before he noticed the slight trembling of her body, the tears in her eyes, and how she clung to him.

He may have wanted to be more than a god, but in doing so, he overlooked her as an individual. “Oh, of course, my dear, forgive me, I forget how simple you humans are,” he smiled and covered her lightly with his cloak as he flew back to the building.

When she felt the ground beneath her again, it was Sentry who was holding her, giving her a moment before she sat down on the couch and tried to pull herself together. “I know the others will appreciate this, your care and caution,” she murmured, running her hands over her face so he wouldn't see how tearful she was.

How could she be of interest to a god? How could she let Sentry become Bob again? What did she have to do?

Questions swirled around in her head and she took her hands away from her face when the darkness that had disappeared turned into something else.

When only the god's glowing eyes remained in front of her, when the room was plunged into blackness, she swore she saw his satisfied gaze as she was swallowed up by nothingness.

The Void was a monster, a nothing and a someone at the same time, a state that could not be touched without being pulled in. But for her, he created what he had always wanted, in his infinite darkness.

In the blink of an eye, everything around her had disappeared, and now, when she opened her eyes again, the agent was surrounded by a cell.

Iron bars in nothingness, surrounded only by blackness, she stood there with nothing but him. “It's better this way, less fear, less pain, less discomfort in front of the other two,” he smiled at his other selves, and she felt like she wanted to hit him.

Sentry might have been one thing, but Bob, Bob was kind and nice, and there was an explanation for all of this. There had to be, none of this would have happened if something hadn't happened before. “Leave the other two alone, Void. You were pushed back, we can do it again,” she argued, taking a demonstrative step toward him.

Void wanted to hurt her, wanted to show her his fears and his past, but she knew that the others would help her, that she would help Bob.

Her attempt left him unimpressed, but his approach made her tremble when she saw only those golden eyes as his jet-black hand reached out for her.

Her scream was barely audible in the nothingness as she felt a sense of heaviness and emptiness, the pain she felt and Bob had ever felt when Void let her go of his own accord and she staggered back.

It made her cry, and she didn't know why. Her heart ached like never before, and she felt empty. But worse than that was when she saw the other two next to Void.

All three of them, Bob, Sentry, and Void, reached out their hands to her, after what she had been to each of them.

She was Bob's love, Sentry's pet, and Void's warmth, and none of the three would ever let her go again.

She would stay with them because she had never had a choice; they had belonged to them forever and ever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@crimsonkingart

#marvel mcu #thunderbolts #bob reynolds #the sentry #the void #bob reynolds x reader #the sentry x reader #the void x reader #male x female #reader is female

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mzyjxu · 2 days ago

Text

.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.

Disney movies are a big part of the Gojo household, unbeknownst to you all they have slipped into your lives like a tradition, from early-morning chaos to late night cuddle puddles, they have been there as a gentle reminder that you are at home.

When you lived alone, Disney was your white noise, comforting, familiar, always playing in the background- while you were cooking, doing laundry even when studying for the finals they acted like a companion trying to suppress your loneliness. Then Satoru came into your life, and the white noise stayed, but now it was layered with his endless chatter, his laughter, his love confessions. Lady Purrshia quickly grew fond of them too—sometimes you swear she started acting like the main character, swishing her tail with more drama than usual. And your baby? He started watching Disney when he was in your womb- maybe that's why he sees magic in everything— as if he was born from the glow of those animated frames.

For example…

.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.

You sit curled on the couch, Satoru’s oversized hoodie wrapped around your bump, softly sniffling. Lady Purrshia sat on your lap her head on your belly like she knew there was someone else growing in there too.

You cuddled closer with Purrshia softly rubbing your cheek against her head trying to hold it in when Dumbo’s mother reaches through the bars to cradle him.

And then, from behind you —

A sigh. A soft, tired sigh.

“Wifey… come on,” Satoru says, walking in with a mug of red raspberry tea, his voice full of fondness with a little sprinkle of amusement “You can't be watching this movie every day my lovie, I don't like to see my angel cry like this and what will the baby think? Huh? He will be so sad to feel mamma crying.” He says while patting your head.

You don’t say anything. Just a little hiccup of a sob and a helpless shake of your head.

He walks over and kneels in front of you, placing the mug on the glass table before he brushes the tears from your face. Lady Purrshia flicks her tail but doesn’t move — protective as ever.

Satoru presses a kiss on your pouty lips and damp cheeks. “You’re so soft right now,” he murmurs. “It’s kind of killing me” he chuckles “You’re glowing and crying and glowing again.”

You glance down at your belly and sniffle. “It just makes me think about…what if our baby ever feels alone like that?”

Satoru sits up beside you, pulling you into his chest with one arm around your shoulders and one hand resting protectively over your belly. “He won’t,” he promises softly. “We will make sure of it, okay? No matter how hard our life was he will never have to go through even one percent of what went through. Not with you as his mamma. Not with me as his papa. And not with Purrshie around either — she’ll train him in world domination before he can walk.”

Lady Purrshia pats your belly as if agreeing with Satoru.

You laugh through your tears, snuggling deeper into Satoru and Purrshie. Dumbo keeps flying across the screen. And just like that, the room feels safer again.

⸻

The plush Dumbo is slightly worn now, one ear perpetually folded from being chewed and hugged and dragged across every room. Chonky Baby giggles as he squishes the stuffed elephant in his arms, sitting on the ground with Purrshie- occasionally trying to chomp on her tail, showing off his Dumbo to her while asking her to love the plushie by shoving the doll on her face to kiss it, placing sloppy kisses on the plushie and the feline- just being a love bug all around. While you and Satoru watching him from the same couch and Dumbo playing on the TV.

You blink back tears again — this time, happy ones — as the baby claps at the flying elephant scene.

“He really loves Dumbo,” you whisper, your voice thick with adoration and warmth.

Satoru grins as he rests his chin on your shoulder. “I mean… he technically watched it, like, ten times before he was even born.”

You laugh, wiping a tear as Chonky Baby crawls into your lap, clutching Dumbo.

Lady Purrshia climbs on Satoru’s lap sitting like a royalty, eyes the plush toy with faint judgment.

.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.

It was around the time when Satoru started to frequently spend the night at your place, those nights when he didn't want to go home, and you didn't ask him to. A toothbrush appeared in your bathroom. A pair of socks on your floor. And still, neither of you said anything. You still don't know how to tag your relationship. Just two broken humans co-parenting a kitten.

Satoru’s grandmother had passed away just two months ago, and the grief still lingered—raw and quiet, like a bruise beneath the skin. He didn’t cry as often now, but when he did, it was silent and sudden, like rain in the dark. You’d gotten into the habit of waiting until he fell asleep first, just to be sure he wouldn’t have to cry alone. On those nights, you’d pull him close, gently ruffling his hair, holding his head to your chest like you could shield him from everything he’d ever lost.

Tonight, the living room glowed with the soft colors of Lilo and Stitch, you and Satoru sat on the couch with kitten Purrshie the sleepy baby purring between you in warm loaf. Satoru looked far too big next to you, all limbs and messy hair, his legs half hanging off the couch.

“You know,” you said, squinting at the screen, “I still don’t get Lilo.”

Satoru glanced at you, “You don’t get Lilo?”

“Yeah I mean she is a baby I get it but still she is always fighting, making things harder for herself, always causing chaos, doing weird things on purpose….just makes me remember when I was a kid” you trailed off barely whispering the last line. Satoru heard it.

“She’s lonely,” he said, voice quiet.

“I know, but—” you paused, staring at Lilo on the screen as she slammed the door. “Why does she have to make it so hard for everyone to love her?”

Satoru was quiet for a beat, his eyes soft now. “Maybe she doesn’t believe anyone really will.”

“But she doesn’t even try to be normal. It’s like she chooses to be weird.” Your voice cracked a little there, seeing your 7-year-old self in Lilo.

“Maybe she doesn’t know how else to be,” he said, eyes still on the screen. “You know who I don’t get, though?”

You looked at him. “Who?”

“Stitch.”

“Stitch just wants to be loved… he lashes out when he gets scared. You can’t blame him for that.” you explained

“Yeah but..” Satoru whispered, funnily, seeing his childhood self in Stitch.

“I understand Stitch more. He acts tough but… he’s just scared, he just wants to belong somewhere...” you explained understanding his hesitation.

“He messes things up,” Satoru replied, tone quiet but firm.

“He just wants a home,” you said, softer now, almost to yourself.

You hesitated, then added, “And she’s chaotic.”

“She’s just lonely,” he said without missing a beat.

Silence settled between you, not awkward—just full.

On the screen, Lilo reached for Stitch’s paw. “Ohana means family.”

“I love you,” Satoru said suddenly, like it had been sitting heavy on his chest.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

Neither of you moved.

Then, gently, Satoru reached out, his fingers finding yours beneath the blanket—warm, certain, home.

.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.

One day after a grueling shift at the hospital Satoru asked you to pack something soft and something pretty, no questions asked. You brought Lady Purrshia too in a wooden basket. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other constantly reaching for yours, he was jittery-you could feel it but remained silent.

When you arrive at the quiet lake outside the city, the air smells like pine and twilight. There’s a little wooden dock. A rowboat. And floating lanterns — dozens of them — bobbing gently on the water. Tangled, it was a real-life scene from Tangled.

“Satoru…” you whisper, turning to him. But he’s already looking at you like you hung every star above.

“Come?” He helps you into the rowboat, his hands gentle yet shaky. You sit across from each other under a sky of purple and gold, the lake mirroring the heavens. And then, music — soft, familiar — plays from a hidden speaker in his pocket.

“And at last I see the light…”

Your eyes widen.

Satoru smiles, slowly paddling the boat out toward the center. Then, as the final chorus plays, he sets the oars down, reaches into his coat, and pulls out a tiny box.

The world stills.

He gets on one knee — in a boat, no less, risking a very dramatic tumble — and opens the box to reveal a ring that glitters like it was forged from moonlight.

“You are my light, my home, my peace. I never knew love until I met you, I am like a star separated from the moon when you are not with me, my whole being is all yours- yours to know, yours to love, yours to keep” he says. “And I want to spend every morning and every night choosing you, again and again. Will you marry me?”

You barely manage a teary “yes” before you reach for him, both of you teetering as he kisses you senselessly under the lanterns.

Later, cuddled on a blanket by the water, you rest your head on his chest and whisper, “How did you pull it off—the whole lake?” you whisper, wonder laced in your voice.

Satoru chuckles softly, brushing his fingers through your hair. “Being a detective has its perks, darling,” he murmurs, smirking against your temple.

“And the proposal?”

“Hehe” he grins, “I practiced with Lady Purrshia.”

Lady Purrshia, sitting elegantly nearby in a flower crown, blinks slowly as if to say yup I can meow every word of it.

.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.

Note: hope you guys enjoyed it, and omg the notes on the previous post!! Y’all are crazy, my sister are I were freaking out!

And yeah I think I will make a short series of “Disney x Gojo household”. So if you guys get any ideas related or not related to this please share in the ask box❤︎ and please if anyone knows how to color the text please please tell⊹₊⟡⋆

#dad gojo #dad!gojo #cat dad gojo #gojo comfort #gojo fluff #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk #jjk comfort #jjk fanfic #jjk fluff #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader

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its-luna-noel · 2 days ago

Text

fluctuations of the mind | jason todd x reader

01. steinbeck

summary: working at the local library while you work on your phd thesis seems like the perfect fit. you don't expect it to bring your childhood friend back to you after over a decade. now that you have him back, you refuse to let him go, no matter the challenges you face together.

contents: 18+, MDNI, f!reader, english phd student reader, fluff, angst, smut, drinking & drugs, past abuse, trauma, mental health issues, mental instability, ptsd, depression, suicidal ideation, classic literature, dark academia

word count: 2.4k

chapter 1/? (probably 20ish) next chapter

masterlist | link to ao3

notes: hi! welcome to the first chapter of my first jason todd fic. i hope you enjoy!

“All great and precious things are lonely.”

― John Steinbeck, East of Eden

Jason knew it was you as soon as he stepped up to the library front desk.

He’s not sure what exactly gave it away – the slope of your nose, your eyes, your brows scrunched in that expression of concentration that hasn’t changed in the decade that he’s been away. You’re processing returns, but you look up when you see him standing there dumbfounded, staring at you like a freak. He’s bundled up for the winter, a beanie drawn down over his hair and a coat zipped up to his throat, so it shouldn’t hurt when you look up at him and smile like you don’t recognize him, but it does.

Your gaze shouldn’t send a thrill through his body, but it does.

“Hi there!” you chirp, your voice warm and unfamiliar. It’s lower than he remembers, more womanly, like you’ve grown up, and he supposes you have. “How can I help you?”

“I, uh,” he clears his throat. “I’m here to sign up for a library card.”

Jason isn’t sure this is exactly where his priorities should lie, but he hasn’t had a library card since he was a kid, and he’s tired of spending his meager money on books or resigning to reread tattered copies he’s read three or four times. You perk up, seeming overjoyed to spread the gospel of the public library to a young man like him.

“Okay! Do you have an I.D. and proof of address?” you ask, setting aside your previous task to dedicate your attention to him. Your eyes are tender, so achingly familiar.

He slowly slides the necessary documents across the table towards you, his gloved fingers lingering, almost like he wants to keep them from you. It’s not that he doesn’t want you to know – though he’s not sure he does – that it’s him. But he’s successfully cut out most of his life from before, avoiding memories when he can, and though the memories of you are the sweetest, he’s not sure he’s ready to face them yet.

But you don’t give him much of a choice; you take the documents, and you read off his name, the syllables rolling off your tongue, “Jason To–” And then you freeze, your mouth still agape with the last vowel of his name, and your eyes flicker up to meet his, wide. Like you’ve seen a ghost.

He supposes you have.

You whisper, “Jay?” and your voice holds so much shock, so much relief, so much raw emotion that he folds.

“Yeah,” he says, voice thick, “it’s me.”

You look over at your coworker, who’s watching the exchange with rapt interest. “I have to step away for a second,” you breathe, and then you’re pushing through the swinging gate to come see him. You’re practically running, and you drag him away from the front desk, favoring the corridor between the front doors to talk. He prepares to explain himself, to tell you that you didn’t have to worry, that he was fine.

When you round on him, he has all these things on the tip of his tongue. But instead of asking him where he’s been, or why he left, you just throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and burying your face in his neck.

He blinks, shocked. And then he wraps his strong arms around you and hugs you back, pressing his face into your hair.

Your voice trembles when you whisper, “I thought you were dead. I thought you were worse than dead, I– I thought someone took you. I thought–“

He cuts you off. “I know, bug.” He’s surprised the nickname slips out; it’s like muscle memory has taken over after all these years, like he’s reverting to an old version of himself.

Like no time has passed at all.

But that would mean you’re two scared little kids back in Park Row, with nothing but darkness ahead. And though that may be true for him, it doesn’t have to be for you.

You finally pull away, letting your arms fall from around him. Instead, your hands rest on his arms, and you look at him – really look at him – for the first time.

You looking gives him time to look at you, and he realizes you’re crying. Watery eyes trail over his bundled form, cheeks flushed with emotion. Startled, he says, “Bug–“

You wave him away, letting out a breathy laugh. “You look great!” you blurt, wiping your hand across your face to brush away tears. “You’re– you’re huge!”

He can’t help but chuckle at that. “It’s the coat,” he says, though he knows it’s not.

Your hand squeezes his arm through his jacket, finding his massive bicep beneath. “What happened to the scrawny kid I used to know?” you ask in wonder.

He gives a bitter smile. “I guess he grew up, same as you.”

And at that, your eyes finally find the scars on his face, and you whisper, “Oh, Jay… Time’s not been kind to you, has it?”

He has to clench his jaw to avoid letting emotion through at your words, your kind, broken-hearted words. You have no idea what’s happened to him, and yet you can see him right where he’s vulnerable.

You turn over your shoulder, back towards the library’s front desk. “Let me go clock out,” you say. “It’ll just take a minute, and then we can go get coffee or something. I want to catch up.”

He tilts his head to the side, smirking a little. “You sure that’s okay?”

You scoff, smiling back. “I’ll tell them I had a family emergency or something. It doesn’t matter; you’re more important.”

His heart seems to glow in his chest at your words. “I’ll wait here,” he says gruffly, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his aching chest.

You flit back inside, and Jason keeps his eyes on you while he can. Meanwhile, you step back behind the front desk, whispering to your coworker, “Hey, River?”

They glance at you, looking curious. “Who was that?” they whisper back.

You don’t know how to explain what Jason is to you. You haven’t seen him in over a decade, didn’t even recognize him because he’s nothing like the snappy, glowering child you used to know. But he’s occupied your mind almost every day for those years, never straying far from your mind as you worried what happened to him.

And now he’s back.

“A family friend,” you finally decide. “I need to go; we’ve got an emergency.”

They raise an eyebrow at you, seeming unconvinced. They hum, examining you for a moment, before finally saying, “Fine. I’ll cover for you, but you have to take my Saturday morning shift.”

You roll your eyes but concede. You don’t have time to barter with them. “Fine. I’ll see you later.”

They wave, watching you go. Eyes locked on the gigantic man waiting for you in the corridor.

You return to him, offering a nervous smile. He returns the expression; it isn’t a big smile, just a twitch at the corners of his mouth, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You can’t help but wonder what’s happened to him in these twelve years since you last knew him. What took his fiery disposition and turned him into something quiet.

“Ready to go?” you ask, gazing up at him. Wondering what it’ll take for him to let you in.

He nods, sticking his hands in his pockets. He watches you silently as you pull your coat on and zip it all the way up, throwing a scarf around your neck. Then he walks outside, holding the door open for you. “Know a good coffee place around here?” he asks.

You nod, sticking your nose under the collar of your coat. You point down the street. “Couple blocks that way, if you want to walk.”

He glances at his car, parked in front of the library. He would offer it – it’s far too cold to be walking around like this – but he’s sure the weapons in the backseat and the Red Hood helmet on the floor of the passenger side would bring up several questions he isn’t ready to answer. So he just nods and follows you, making sure to stand on the street side of the sidewalk like a gentleman.

It’s quiet between the two of you for a while, and he’s not sure if it’s the cold keeping you from talking or if you just have nothing to say to him.

Finally, you glance over at him. “Hey, Jay?”

He grunts. “Yeah, bug?”

“Um…” You trail off, like you’re unsure you even want to ask. Here it comes, he thinks. The tough questions, the things he doesn’t want to answer, doesn’t have answers to. But your tone quickly shifts, and you ask brightly, “Uh, what brought you to the library?”

He glances at you. “Like I said, I wanted a library card.”

You quirk an eyebrow playfully. “So it really was just…serendipitous that you stopped by?”

He chuckles quietly, watching his feet as they make their way down the street. “I guess so.”

“You’d think you were checking up on me or something,” you tease.

And he feels a pang in his heart, because he could’ve been checking up on you. He could’ve found you after all these years, could’ve sought you out and followed you and finally showed himself to you.

But the truth was, he didn’t. He didn’t come find you, didn’t seek you out. He just stumbled upon you in this dark, dingy city after all these years.

Serendipitous, indeed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

You shake your head, eyes forward. Unseeing into the distance. “Don’t be sorry.”

Both of you fall quiet again.

You reach the small coffee shop down the street from the library and swing the door open. He catches the door over your head and holds it for you, and you toss a small, grateful smile over your shoulder at him before walking inside. The warmth of the shop helps defrost that bone-deep chill, and you both unzip your coats, slowly shedding your layers as you approach the register.

You order your favorite coffee, and you pay for it before Jason can realize what you’re doing. He frowns as you slip away to go find a table, and then he turns back to the barista, who’s looking up at him with starry eyes. “And for you?” she asks.

“I’ll take an earl grey,” he says, ignoring the look she gives him. He’s not in the mood to be flirting, not when he’s seen you for the first time in ages and just wants to catch up.

He finishes paying and walks over to the table you took up, a cup of hot tea cupped in his large hands.

You smile up at him as he sits opposite of you, watching him take off his winter coat, revealing his broad chest beneath a dark long-sleeved t-shirt. You have to avert your eyes to refrain from staring. Your eyes instead flicker back to his face, examining the scars on his face, the crisscrossing white lines marring his skin. You slowly, hesitantly, reach across the table and gently touch the scar on Jason’s cheek, shaped like a ragged “J.”

He flinches, catching your wrist and pulling your hand away. “Don’t,” he whispers.

You do as he requests and drop your hand, reaching for your coffee mug instead. “I’m sorry,” you say, still watching him.

It’s quiet between you for a second. Then you mumble, “‘To be alive at all is to have scars.’”

A small huff escapes from between his lips, and he brightens a little, recognizing the quote from Steinbeck’s The Winter of Our Discontent. “When’d you get so smart, bug?” he asks, shaking his head.

You smile a little. “I’m in the English PhD program now. I guess you can say I’ve put the work in.”

He’s blown away by the fact. “Wait, really?”

You nod, sipping at your coffee. “I want to be a professor. To teach people like us, who just want to do better.”

His heart aches at the idea that you want to put back into the community that took so much from you. But at the memories, the memories of those dark times, your eyes flicker to his face once more, and you finally ask the question that’s been burning in you since the first moment you saw him.

“Where did you go?” you ask, sounding mystified. “I know– I know your mom’s death hit you hard but… I thought something happened to you. Did something happen to you? I just–” You shake your head. “I missed you.”

He sighs. “I know, bug. I missed you too.”

“Where did you go?”

He hesitates, trying to figure out how to respond. What could he even tell you? “I…went to stay with a family member, outside of Park Row. He took me in, brought me up until I could go off on my own.”

“But you never left the city?” you ask, confused.

He shakes his head. “Not for any meaningful amount of time.”

You avert your eyes, looking down at your coffee in your hands. Then, “Why didn’t you ever come back?” you whisper, slowly lifting your eyes to meet his again.

He clenches his jaw, letting out a quiet breath. His eyes, like sea glass, color shifting in the yellow glow of the coffee shop lights, stay trained on yours. “I’m sorry,” he says, not for the first time.

You shake your head, pursing your lips. “No, Jason,” you say, “not sorry. Explain to me. Why didn’t you come back? Or even tell me you were leaving? I– I was so worried–”

“I couldn’t,” he whispers, slowly shaking his head. “I just… I didn’t have time. It was all so sudden.”

You sigh, lowering your eyes again. Drawing patterns in the wood grain of the table for a moment. “I guess…you’re back now.”

He nods. “I’m back now. I’m…I’m sorry I never reached out.”

You nod, too. Not raising your eyes for a long time. Taking a moment to calm yourself. Then you say with a soft smile, “And I’m not letting you leave again.”

He huffs softly, smiling back. “Alright, bug. Don’t let me.”

And so you take his request to heart. You won’t let him leave; not again. This time, you’re keeping him for good.

thanks for reading! -luna xx link to ao3 | next

(taglist: @corpsedogs)

#dividers by cafekitsune #jason todd #jason todd x reader #batfam #dc batfam #batfamily #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood x you

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claramelooo · 3 days ago

Text

CHECKMATE (1/20)

See? I'm here and you didn't even waited that much😋

I hope you can enjoy the first chapter!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: +18, angst and semi-public sex.

Pairing: Governor!Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: Accepting the date with your friend Carol cost you more than you imagined.

Music recommendation:

Pawn

noun

1. a chess piece of the smallest size and least value. Each player has eight pawns at the start of a game.

Staring at the mirror for the sixth time, obsessively applying yet another layer of lipstick. You sighed—you still didn’t feel grown-up enough.

A little more mascara, even though your lashes were already heavy from previous coats.

But it didn’t matter.

You still weren’t pretty.

You weren’t worthy.

Checking your teeth, you spotted a smudge of lipstick on them. You exhaled sharply, grabbing your toothbrush to scrub away any imperfection.

You brushed a single tooth exactly twenty times.

Fuck.

The lipstick smudged.

You could feel hot tears prickling the corners of your eyes in frustration, as your reflection seemed only to highlight every flaw on your face.

You hated mirrors.

Three sharp knocks startled your muscles into tension.

“Bear, we’re gonna be late!” your roommate’s voice rang out—loud and impatient.

Bear. As if you were special. As if it were affection. But only when no one else was around.

It had been three months since you arrived in Washington. Three months of a new city, new university, new social codes you were still trying to decipher. And tonight would be your first off-campus party.

It felt like some kind of rite of passage into adulthood now.

This wasn’t Westview. Back there, the parties were small, familiar. The big city turned everything into a spectacle, and you didn’t want to be part of it—not even a little.

“Wow. You look… stunning!” Carol’s voice made you smile as you stepped out of the bathroom.

Carol Danvers.

Tall, blonde, with that air of someone who always knew what you were about to say before you said it. The girl of your dreams, your nightmares, your vices.

Having a crush on her wasn’t new. You had always liked them.

Girls.

But especially the tall, popular ones — and maybe, just maybe, the ones who were a little mean to you. But Carol… she’d always treated you differently. One night, she snuck into your room and kissed you.

And in that moment, you felt like the only one.

But you never were. And you knew that. Carol asked to keep things a secret, said it would be weird.

The ambiguity of that word haunted your nights, often stealing your sleep.

“Thanks,” you said, your cheeks flushing under her gaze.

She stepped closer. Close enough to cup your cheek in her hands, a sweet, innocent gesture. One that melted you inside, like everything she did.

“Okay!” She dropped her hand. “Here’s your ID! Don’t worry, it’s totally legit. A few dollars work miracles…” She smiled with her tongue between her teeth—mischievous, cocky.

You took the card from her hand.

“Melinda… Nox?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Amazing, right?” She beamed. “Tonight, you’re someone else. Give Melinda the chance you never gave yourself, Bear,” she whispered it with her lips close to your ear, planting a soft kiss behind it—warm enough to melt your common sense.

You tried to smile.

Pretended to believe her.

Pretended it didn’t hurt.

[...]

“Shit! Deep breath. If you keep staring at him like that, he’ll get suspicious,” your situationship said.

You were in line to enter Lux, an expensive bar in Seattle. You didn’t even know how you were going to pay for it.

Your thoughts spiraled toward the worst. They’ll find out. You’ll be expelled. Arrested. Or worse—you’ll be sent back to Westview.

To your mother.

Oh God.

The thought alone made you want to vomit.

“Carol, how are we even going to pay for this?” You looked at the people in line—it felt wrong.

You didn’t belong here.

“I’ve been working on a project,” she said cryptically, and before you could ask more, a very tall man said:

“ID!”

You handed him the fake ID, which he barely glanced at.

“Enjoy the party,” he returned the papers, leaving Carol confused.

“Excuse me, sir. You didn’t even look properly,” she said with a nervous laugh. “How can you be sure we’re not underage?”

Fuck. Carol. No!

She was being impulsive again.

“Are you?” he asked, peering over his glasses.

“No!” you both answered at once.

“Then enjoy. Next!” He turned back to the line.

Rolling your eyes, you pulled her by the arm.

“What were you thinking? Are you insane?” you hissed.

“Do you know how much those damn things cost? Too much not to be at least looked at!”

“Forget it, okay? We’re in. That’s what you wanted, right?” you softened your tone, trying to calm her.

“Yeah… yeah, whatever.” Her eyes scanned the bar, like she was looking for someone. “Don’t do that again, okay?” Carol warned, and you nodded, ashamed.

Normally, alcohol only amplified what you spent your life trying to suppress — the smothered affection, the unresolved longing, the neediness spilling through rehearsed smiles. And you knew that. Knew that two shots were enough to make you even more desperate than you already were when sober.

Carol probably thought you were unbearable. Too fragile, too dependent, waiting for a kind of love she never promised — and deep down, never intended to give.

You watched her walk away again, disappearing into the crowd, into the lights and noise. And still, even with the absence scraping at your chest, you didn’t follow.

You stayed.

Alone.

A sudden bump against your shoulder jolted you back like a harsh tug to the surface. Your body reacted before your mind: your lungs faltered, the air grew thinner, and everything around you felt both distant and overwhelming.

Panic was an old acquaintance, a silent visitor who always knew where it hurt.

You squeezed your eyes shut, clenched your fists like you were trying to hold the whole world inside them. You could feel the edge drawing near with the precision of a step in the dark.

But not tonight.

Not with this name.

Melinda wasn’t you. She didn’t shake. She didn’t break. She didn’t cry at fancy parties or beg for scraps of attention. Melinda wanted to live. To have fun. To feel something other than fear.

You raised your chin, fixed your smudged lipstick, and ordered some shots of tequila. Drank the first without breathing. The second burned, and you almost smiled.

The alcohol slid down warm, spreading through your body like an unwelcome hug — comforting and fake. But effective.

You looked around, your eyes wandering over silhouettes dancing under pulsing lights.Some laughed loudly. Others whispered before smiling drunkenly.

You wondered, as you always did, if they were happy. What was the story behind each of those figures? Did they also feel small sometimes? Did they watch, too?

Or were you the only one carrying this absurd desire to be seen, this ridiculous need for approval?

Another shot.

This time, a slower sip. The world seemed to dissolve into soft tones and disjointed rhythms. And then your eyes landed on someone.

A woman.

She was surrounded by voices, yet didn’t seem to belong there. She laughed naturally, but there was something rehearsed in it — something too practiced.

The kind of smile a powerful woman wears like a weapon.

You smiled too, without realizing it. A foolish, childish reflex.

Almost ridiculous.

And when you opened your eyes again, she was looking back.

Two blue eyes, intense — but from where you sat, the color shifted. Sometimes green, sometimes blue, deep, almost violet, like precious cold stones carved into a face too sculpted to be real — and you wanted to get closer. To find out the true color of the mysterious woman’s eyes.

She wasn’t smiling anymore. Just that raw and wild look.

Aimed at you.

Your heart skipped a beat. Shame came first, hot and treacherous. But it was quickly replaced by something more primal: curiosity. Fear. Fascination. You should have looked away. You knew that.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You were being devoured by that gaze. And somehow, you wanted it.

You wondered if she saw something in you too — or if she was just playing, like everyone else.

You laughed to yourself. What a stupid thought. A woman like that would never look at you...

Not really.

Not the way you wished she would.

You downed your last shot in one go, the taste burning your throat, your stomach, what was left of your judgment.

The world spun a little — but honestly, you didn’t care anymore. It was past 3 a.m., and the heat of the dance floor felt like it was choking you. Sweat glued the dress to your body like the fabric was punishing you for every misstep.

You needed air.

You got up with effort, ankles a bit unsteady, and pushed through the crowd. Shoulders bumped into yours like no one had time to acknowledge your existence. That was fine. You were used to going unnoticed.

The first door in sight was the emergency exit. Narrow. Empty. The cold concrete outside contrasted with the heat from inside, and you felt the thermal shock ripple across your skin, up your spine.

Seattle's lights blinked on the horizon like promises never meant for you.

The cold air froze the tip of your nose and bit at the bare skin of your arms, but still… it was better than the suffocation inside.

You leaned your back against the wall and sit on a concrete stool, lettting your head fall back, eyes fixed on a starless sky.

For a moment, you thought of your childhood summers back in Westview. Those days when the world was small and kind. When the sound of the ice cream truck’s bell was enough to make you run barefoot, lighthearted, laughing freely.

God, how you missed that.

When you were just a girl — and that was enough. When your father’s love was all you needed to fill the empty spaces. Before he died.

Before the world crumbled at five years old.

Since then, ice cream never tasted the same again.

Your mother never looked at you the same. Or maybe she never looked at you at all.

You were always the mistake.

The disappointment.

She said it with her eyes — and sometimes with harsh words — that you weren’t enough. That everything you did could have been better, prettier, more useful.

But she smiled at your brother with that pride that never belonged to you.

So when the letter from UW came, it was your chance. The chance to prove to her that you could. The chance to find your own path.

The chance to run.

A city where no one knew your flaws. Where you could be someone — anyone. But even here, you brought the same fucking broken pieces.

The same hunger that now made you accept Carol Danvers’ scraps like they were feasts. She kissed you in secret. Called you “mine” in a whisper, but never in public.

And still, you waited. Like a fool.

Because deep down, being with her hurt less than admitting that maybe no one would ever truly choose you.

You bit your lip, tasting the metallic sting of frustration. The alcohol made everything feel more distant. More confusing.

The truth was you didn’t know who you were or who you wanted to be.

You just knew that… maybe you needed a little love.

Was that too much to ask?

The door behind you creaked open.

You turned slowly — thinking it was some janitor asking you to leave.

But no.

It was her.

The woman with the mysterious eyes.

The feminine silhouette in front of you was imposing, exuding importance. Her long dark hair fell like a rope, framing a strong face — and yet, the redness in her cheeks — from the alcohol or the cold — gave a softness to such a harsh figure.

Your eyes locked for a while. Too long. But neither of you dared to look away.

You swallowed hard. Should you say something? Your lips trembled, parted to speak, but her voice came first — strong, rough:

“Are you alright?”

The question cut through the silence like a blade.

Her voice was firm, almost impersonal — but there was something there...

You nodded, a gesture too small to mean anything.

Of course you weren’t alright. But what could you say? That you were trying not to cry over a woman who didn’t know how to love? That the bitter taste of tequila still burned in your throat, but what really stung was the absence — of everything?

You looked away, pressing your shoulders against the cold wall behind you.

“Just needed some air,” you finally said, almost in a whisper, like the words were being swept away by the freezing wind between you.

She stepped closer with careful strides, sitting down beside you. Not too close, but close enough for you to feel the warmth of her body. And her perfume, too — something woody, discreet, sophisticated.

You knew she was special. Rich. Very rich. From the leather heels to the minimalist jewelry.

“I figured…” she said, drawing a breath with some care. Her head tilted slightly, like she was trying to steady her thoughts more than her steps. Her hands buried in the pockets of her cream-colored coat — expensive, heavy, pristine like her. “It’s crazy in there.”

Her voice, though touched by alcohol, still carried strength. But you noticed the subtle crack in her posture. Like a piece of porcelain that only fractures under the right light.

But the question circled her mind and refused to fade away. What was she doing here? Had she followed you? Had she come here just because of you?

"Why are you here?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Shit.

You didn’t want to sound rude to her—not at all.

She didn’t answer right away.

She just turned her face toward you—and there was something in her eyes that froze you in place. A contained glint, sharp, like wet steel under the moonlight. And now, up close, under the moonlight, you could tell. Her eyes held perfect shades between green and blue.

It was like saltwater meeting freshwater in a single gaze.

The woman was truly stunning.

Her jaw clenched, as if she were fighting her own words. Or the impulse to say them.

Your stomach turned. Chills ran down your spine, and it wasn’t just the cold.

It was her.

How could someone look so dangerous and so hypnotic at the same time?

"I don’t know," she finally said. The sincerity in her voice was a near-wounded whisper, and it caught you off guard. "I saw you leave. And... I came."

Silence returned, but now it was a different kind of silence.

Alive.

Dense.

You looked down for a moment, feeling your heart beat too loud in your chest. It was scary. Not her—not exactly. But what she awakened.

The way she looked at you. Like she saw something even you couldn’t name. And still, she didn’t look away.

"I don’t usually do this," she continued, and there was something restrained in her voice. Almost self-directed anger.

And you understood. Fuck. How you did understand!

That feeling of doing something against your own instincts just because, for some inexplicable reason, you have to.

That stupid war between protecting yourself and letting go.

"Me neither," you confess with a laugh, still feeling her now-blue eyes cut through you. Your voice came out small, almost like a shared secret.

You felt naked under those eyes. Like every layer of you was being unfolded with unsettling precision.

She didn’t smile.

She only looked deeper, and for a moment, you had the impression she was going to say something. Reveal something.

But she stopped.

The blue-eyed woman seemed to be battling her own body. Her own impulsivity. As if every inch of the space between you had been measured, restrained, smothered by something she refused to name.

You could feel her breath. The woody scent of her perfume. You wanted to get closer.

She turned her head sharply, like it would stop her from doing something reckless. You noticed her jaw tightening, her hard swallow, and her hands—now out of her coat—clenching into fists.

She rose from the concrete bench, stumbling elegantly in her heels to face the city.

"You’re... different," she said, as if spitting out the word with difficulty.

And she didn’t sound like she meant it in the usual way people try to impress someone at a party. There was real weight behind it. As if that “difference” was dangerous—or worse: unacceptable.

Your eyebrows furrow.

"What do you mean?" you ask, standing up with some effort.

She hesitated. A small pout formed on her lips, as if annoyed that you had asked. Or that she didn’t know how to answer.

Her eyes drifted to your mouth. A subtle, restrained motion, but not fast enough to hide it.

You held your breath.

"I don’t know," she said, but it felt more like a confession. Her hard gaze stayed fixed on you, but there was something different now. Something raw. More... human. "But I despise it."

The words came out like poison caught in her throat—not necessarily to hurt you. But as if the mere idea of someone unraveling what she thought was solid was intolerable.

You swallowed hard, your heart beating so fast it hurt. You stood there, between impulse and fear, trying to figure out someone who seemed made of thorns and glass.

Too beautiful to touch without getting cut.

But maybe, getting cut would be worth it.

"Why?" you dared ask, your voice low. You were afraid of the answer, but more afraid of the silence.

She turned slightly, her eyes meeting yours with something close to fury—but it wasn’t at you.

It was at herself.

A clash of wills sewn by years of restraint. Everything about her was control, you realized that now. Every gesture, every word, every space between blinks was meticulously guarded.

Except here. Except now.

"Because I hate losing control."

The phrase hit you with the force of an intimate confession. Almost an apology, and at the same time, a warning.

The wind blew stronger at that moment, tossing her hair across her face. She didn’t brush it away. She stayed like that, partly hidden, as if she didn’t want you to see what her eyes were saying.

But you saw anyway.

"Maybe..." you began, not knowing exactly where you were going. "Maybe that’s not such a bad thing."

She laughed. Softly. Without humor. A bitter, restrained laugh, like you’d told a joke too cruel to be funny.

"You have no idea what you’re saying."

You stood up to face her.

Now there was no space between you. Only tension. A magnetic, cursed field. Hot and cold at once.

Your eyes searched hers, and in them, you found a wound no one should’ve ever touched.

But you wanted to.

You wanted to enter that pain and know it like someone opening a forbidden book.

"Then tell me," you whispered. "Make me understand," you pleaded.

She was so still, she looked carved out of air.

"I can’t do that." Her voice broke, and it was the first time that had happened. She stood up. Stopped at the door to leave, to run. Run from you. "You should go back too. You’ll freeze out here in that outfit," she said without looking at you, still facing the door and holding the handle.

And she seemed to be waiting.

You studied the silhouette of the much older woman leaning against the door. She was undeniably elegant, and the heels made her seem even taller next to you.

Those eyes seemed so dominant, always in control.

And maybe you were the one who had to take the risk here. After all, she looked like someone who had much to lose.

You stepped closer.

Each step measured, deliberate, until you could hear her breath change. A subtle, trembling exhale, as if your nearness had broken something in her.

Carefully, your fingers touched her dark hair, sliding through the strands like someone caressing a secret.

She let out a soft sound through her mouth—a stifled noise, somewhere between a moan and a protest.

And you smiled.

She was trying to resist. But failing.

"Please..." you begged, your mouth so close to her skin your warm breath touched her.

She turned sharply. Her back against the iron door. Breathing fast and looking like she might kill you if she could.

But you were too far gone now to care about dying.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" she growled, her jaw tight, her breath short like she could barely stay on her feet.

You didn’t answer.

You just let your lips touch her neck. Slow kisses, warm, like promises you didn’t even know if you could keep.

"Please. Please. Please," you begged between the kisses, the words staining her skin like fever.

You lifted your face until it was level with hers. Your lips brushed against hers in an almost-kiss.

Burning. Cruel.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice so low it barely made a sound.

But she heard it.

The woman finally leaned in, ready to be kissed—but you pulled back.

Just enough for her to feel the absence.

Her blue eyes burned with something primal.

“Fuck,” she breathed.

And then she kissed you.

Like she was breaking a promise. Like she was diving off a cliff, not expecting to survive.

And it wasn’t gentle.

It was ravenous.

It was need, despair, fury.

The kind of kiss that shouldn’t happen, but it did.

And you knew—right there, with her back slammed against the cold metal door, lips crushing yours with a hunger that felt decades old—that nothing would ever make sense again.

Her mouth was hot, urgent, and her tongue claimed yours with such authority it made you moan into your own teeth.

She took control without asking, without waiting. Like she was quenching a thirst that had gone too long ignored.

Her hands—big, firm, experienced—grabbed your waist with such force that you lost your breath.

And you let her hold you.

Let her brand you.

It was insane to be there.

In an emergency hallway, in an uncomfortable position and the wind bit at your exposed skin.

But honestly? None of it mattered. Because the heat came from her. That tall, mature body carved by time.

She could’ve been your mother’s age.

And fuck, why did that make it even hotter?

The way she held you—like she already knew every path to pleasure before you even knew their names.

The way she kissed—without hesitation, without the impatient rush of someone just chasing release.

Nothing like Carol.

Your hands moved up her back, feeling the expensive fabric of her coat, then pushed it gently off her shoulders to reveal the heat her skin carried.

Your fingers moved on their own, hooking into the waistband of her linen pants.

She moaned against your mouth, a muffled sound, and a shiver ran through both of you.

She broke the kiss violently, her breath ragged, like she’d just run a marathon.

“No,” she whispered, resting her forehead against yours. “I can’t...”

You whimpered at the sudden distance and pressed into her, needing to make sure she was real.

“Why not?” you whispered back.

“Because...” She inhaled, trying to think, to erase your scent and your kiss from her mind. “Because this is wrong.”

“This?” You smiled, dragging your tongue across your lips. “Well. You don’t have to do anything.” Your voice was soothing. “I can do it for you.”

You brought your lips back to her neck.

Yes. You’d do it. You’d do anything.

She melted under your touch, letting out a desperate moan as your hands traveled lower down her body.

“W-what are you going to do?”

“Shh... Just feel.”

You stole her lips again, this time taking the control that seemed meant only for her. You explored every curve, alternating between squeezing her waist and her ass.

“Can I do this?” you asked, resting your hand over her panties, waiting for a reply.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She just nodded.

You smiled.

Unbelievable.

You slid to her clit, and she gasped. She looked so beautiful, so ready...

You moved your fingers in figure-eights, making her moan and grab the back of your neck.

Then, without warning, you slipped two fingers inside her, dragging a cry of pleasure from her lips.

“Fuck, it’s been so long,” she moaned, delirious.

You kept thrusting, fingertips massaging the soft flesh inside. She throbbed and clenched so tightly around you...

“More!”

You brought your thumb to her clit, stimulating both spots at once. You felt her legs tremble. “I can give you this,” you whispered into her ear, biting her sensitive earlobe. “I’m a good girl.”

And when you heard her moan loudly, you knew she was the kind that liked dirty talk.

You looked at her again.

Fuck! How is she this beautiful?

Cheeks flushed, spit escaping her lips, hair tangled in your fingers, one leg wrapped around your waist—the tip of her high heel digging into your back—while the other leg stayed grounded, giving her that precious balance she seemed to crave.

This time, she was the one who stole your lips. And the moan that escaped you was shameful. Her tongue moved wildly, like it was saying something.

She was going to come.

“God— I—” she cried, bouncing on your fingers.

With one final thrust, she came.

Watching those once-cruel, dominant eyes roll back in bliss was something you would tattoo into your memory, forever.

And when she opened them again, you saw two oceans—still shimmering with pleasure.

Your chest burned with pride. You could die happy.

But all that feeling was devoured by three words:

“This never happened.”

The words hung in the air like the toxic smoke flooding the city, seeping into you.

You needed a second to process. Then two. And on the third, your stomach turned.

Your blood boiled.

“What?” Your voice came out as a choked disbelief.

Agatha didn’t answer right away.

She just straightened her coat, then her hair, staring past you at the buildings like you were a mistake she needed to delete.

Like you weren’t worth her time.

“You heard me.” she said coldly. Sharply.

Her blue eyes locked on yours — and this time, there was nothing in them.

No desire.

No warmth.

Just a shadow of disdain.

You stepped forward. “Are you serious?” Your voice cracked midway, but you stood your ground.

She sighed, like she needed patience to deal with you — and that only made you angrier.

“It was a mistake,” she said, dry. “One I don’t intend to repeat.”

Your chest cracked.

You laughed. Bitterly.

“Of course. Because God forbid someone like you be seen with someone like me, right?”

“It’s not about that, girl.”

Girl.

Said like that.

Like you were too small to understand.

“No?” You stepped closer, so near you could see her spit on her own chin. “Then what is it? Your last name? Your reputation? Whoever you think you are!?”

She glared at you, like she wanted to reduce you to dust.

“It’s about you being nothing.”

Silence.

A bottomless void.

It hit like a punch to the chest. A blow full of condescension and venom.

You stepped back, tears welling in your eyes.

“Yeah. I’m nothing,” you nodded, smiling with eyes full of rage. “The nothing that made you moan like a desperate whore in a dark corner.”

Her jaw clenched. She took a deep breath, but said nothing.

“Don’t look at me like you’re better than me,” you went on, your voice shaking with fury and adrenaline. “You’re just a lonely woman fucking the void inside you with someone else’s fingers. And fuck, you liked it. Every second. So spare me the performance.”

“If I were you, I’d watch that tone.” she replied, tense—but not with the same fire.

You laughed again, bitter, haunted by the echo of that damned phrase.

“It’s about you being nothing.”

Like a low blow. Like a rejection letter.

Like Carol.

Your chest tightened in that familiar, cruel way. Because you already knew that taste: the taste of abandonment that comes right after the touch.

The touch that makes you feel wanted.

The touch that lies.

You pulled away like you'd been burned, as if every second there had started to scald you. Swallowed hard, ignoring the lump in your throat, the salty taste that threatened to spill from your eyes.

“Go fuck yourself,” you said, but your voice came out too soft to hurt.

You brushed past her, your body still hot, still trembling, but already feeling the cold swallowing you whole again.

You stormed out the emergency exit like fleeing from a fire — even if now, the fire was inside you.

The dawn air hit you like a slap — cold, harsh, indifferent.

You descended the emergency exit steps with heavy steps, feeling the concrete vibrate beneath the thin soles of your shoes, but it was like every step was a surrender.

As soon as you returned to the dance floor, you saw your “friend with benefits” grinding on some guy while his hands roamed her sculpted body.

Fuck this.

Fuck her.

Fuck all of them.

A retreat on the board.

A pawn.

The smallest piece. The most predictable. The one that only moves forward — and dies first.

You laughed again, alone, with that irony that rises from your gut. The bitter laugh of someone who realizes they were just a convenient move in someone else’s game.

Just a pawn advanced out of pure whim.

You stumbled outside, like a mistake hidden behind the scenes of a party that was far too expensive.

The wind whipped against your sweat-damp skin and unshed tears. And you swallowed hard again, throat tight, the acidic taste of humiliation rising like bile.

You thought of her.

A stranger — eyes sometimes blue, sometimes green, and always vivid.

Of her touch.

Of the rough fingers gripping your waist. The way she moaned greedily for more, even if only once.

The way she came with her face turned toward the sky, as if you were some kind of gift.

And even then… “You’re nothing.”

Fuck.

Why do those words hurt more than they should? Why does part of you want to go back, just to scream? Just to force her to admit that you gave her the best orgasm of her life?

But you didn’t go back.

You just clenched your fists, walking the dark streets like someone running from their own shadow. Like someone who finally understands that some people were made to move the pieces… and others were made to be moved.

And you swear to yourself — somewhere between the step and the regret — that next time, God, if there’s a next time, you’ll play the game before it plays you.

Because being a pawn is exhausting.

And you weren’t born to die in the first move.

~*~

UHhhh... Agatha's such a bitch... I'm sorry!! Y-Y

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buckybabesonly · 1 day ago

Text

red string

Summary: Bucky sees the same woman in his dreams, night after night. Is it possible to fall in love with someone who doesn’t exist? He wishes so much that you were by his side - until one day, you walk into his life for real.

Pairing: Bucky x fem!reader with psychic abilities

Genre: Angst, fluff

Word count: 5.4k

The invisible red thread of fate connects individuals destined to meet, regardless of time, distance, or circumstance. This thread may stretch and tangle, but it does not snap.

Cherry blossom petals fell, soft and soundless, blanketing the ground with pink. Bucky stood beneath a streetlamp on a wide road, hands buried in the pockets of his leather jacket. Everything was quiet - too quiet. The kind of thick, heavy silence that only existed in dreams.

Of course, he knew it was a dream. He always did.

For the last three months, he had found a reprieve from the usual, HYDRA fueled nightmares that had plagued him for years. One night last winter, he simply found the landscape of his nightmares slowly starting to shift, until eventually he couldn’t call it a nightmare at all.

He used to dream of his past all the time. Of the torture he had endured, the endless kills he had committed, the screams of the lives he had ended.

Now, he dreams of you.

He had been here before. The script rarely changed - sometimes you met on this road, sometimes in a library, on one occasion in a coffee shop. This was the scene he recognized the most. Same blossom trees. Same road. Same ache in his chest that he couldn’t decipher. And then he saw you, and the ache vanished.

You were sat on a bench underneath one of the trees, staring up at the pink flowers in awe. You were barefoot, your toes shrouded in a puddle of petals beneath you.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. You didn’t notice him right away, eyes too full of wonder.

When you did finally notice him, the widest smile broke out across your face. It was contagious, and it made the corners of his lips twitch too.

"You're late," you said, turning to him with a look that was half amusement, half affection. You were happy to see him, he could tell. You were always happy. It was amazing to see someone light up just from the sight of him.

He blinked. “Late?” Was there any such concept in dreams?

“You’re always late,” you teased. “But that’s okay. You came.”

He walked towards you, desperate to close the gap, to be close.

“Where is this?” It was the first time he had thought to ask.

You tilted your head. “I’m not sure, actually. Kinda reminds me of Central Park.” You paused. “Does it matter?”

“S’pose not,” Bucky chuckled, looking down at your face in slight awe. How could his mind have concocted somebody so ethereal? He didn't know that he had the creativity for it.

He looked around again. There was no signage. The buildings in the distance faded into fog. This place was nowhere - and somehow, the safest place he’d ever known. And it was kind of familiar. Huh, it does remind me a little of Central Park, Bucky thought.

You stood from the bench, and automatically you began walking side by side, your footfalls in perfect unison. The backs of your hands brushed, and Bucky thought the sensation felt so real. He wanted to hold your hand, but he was somehow nervous, even though it was his dream.

“I missed you,” you said suddenly.

Bucky’s chest tightened. That was new.

He turned to face you, voice low. “Did you really?” What he really wanted to say was, I missed you, too.

You smiled again, with some sadness this time. “I think I love you.”

There was no warning whenever a dream ended. All it took was for some invisible switch to flip, and he was dragged out of his dream and into reality. One second he was staring at your face, trying to really commit it to memory, though it was a struggle sometimes to remember all the details from his dreams. The next second, he was waking up.

The sheets were twisted around him, pillow soaked with sweat. The early morning light was bleeding through the curtains, shining in his eyes. He sat up, hand on his chest, heart still beating too fast.

I think I love you, your voice echoed in his ears.

The dream hadn’t lasted long, and Bucky felt disappointed. At the same time, he was happy that he had seen you again, the same woman every consecutive night for months.

Always the same woman. Always at some strange, sacredly quiet place. Sometimes you walked. Sometimes you talked. Once, he held your hand and woken up with the ghost of your touch lingering on his palm. He could’ve sworn the touch felt so real.

It was never just a dream. He felt you. The calm you brought. The dull ache in his chest when he woke up and he realized you weren’t real.

You didn’t look like anyone he knew, but his brain knew you. Trusted you. Missed you.

Bucky swung his legs over the edge of the bed, hands on his thighs. He quickly grabbed the notebook and pen on his bedside table - a tip he had read online, to better remember his dreams. Always write them down within the first five minutes of waking up.

He didn't want to forget you. And so he wrote down his notes dutifully, morning after morning, jotting down whatever details he could remember.

His hand shook over the page, his forehead creasing. The only thing he could muster himself to write were six words.

I think I love you, too.

The dreams were getting worse. Or better. He couldn’t decide.

He wasn’t scared of them, and it was that knowledge that scared him.

He was falling in love - with a dream. With a ghost. With a figment of his imagination.

But every night, you spoke to him like you remembered him. Like you were waiting. Like you dreamed of him, too.

You thought you were going insane.

Night after night, you dreamed of him. The man with the dark brown hair, beautiful blue eyes and the metal arm. He was the most handsome man you had ever laid eyes on, and your dreams were beginning to make you lose grip on reality.

You decided to start going to therapy in an attempt to understand what was going on in your brain. These weren't just dreams - they were beginning to impact your day-to-day life, as you slowly began obsessing over this mystery person. Your therapist, Dr. Hartley, sat across from you, gently prompting you with a question after you found difficulty beginning to explain what was happening.

"So - you told me in our initial call that you've been having some dreams?"

"Yes," you said slowly. "More specifically, I've been dreaming of the same person. Every night for months."

"Every night?"

"Every night," you confirm.

"What happens in these dreams?" Dr. Hartley asked with a friendly, inquisitive smile.

"It's not always the same, but he's always there. Sometimes we're in a park. Once we were on a rooftop. Usually, we just sit and talk. Sometimes we don't talk at all. But he's always there."

"Does he have a name?" she asked, scrawling some notes down as you spoke.

"Bucky," you said. You realized with a jolt that it was the first time you had ever spoken his name out loud. "His name is Bucky."

Dr. Hartley leaned forward slightly, cocking her head.

"What's he like?"

You took a deep breath, hesitating. You knew this was therapy, and you should feel safe telling her everything, but this felt... vulnerable. Like you were divulging the most secretive part of yourself, the part of yourself that up until now existed just between yourself and him.

You cringed mentally at the thought. Pull yourself together. He does not exist.

"He's kind," you said to begin with. "Handsome." Dr. Hartley smiled. "And I think he really sees me. He understands who I am. I tell him things about myself that no one else knows.”

He tells me things about him, too. Strange, intimate details that your brain must’ve fabricated out of thin air. You’d always been told you had an overactive imagination.

Dr Hartley nodded.

"It sounds like you may be lonely," she said gently. "This could be a way of your subconsciousness trying to offer you a safe space. Someone to connect with."

Tears welled up in your eyes, catching you off guard, but Dr. Hartley did not seem fazed. She plucked a tissue from beside her and handed it over to you, sympathetic.

"But it doesn't feel safe anymore," you whispered. "It's getting painful. It hurts. Every morning when I wake up, I feel like I'm mourning someone I never even knew to begin with. I don't know how to make the dreams stop."

You blinked hard to will the tears back, biting hard down on your lower lip. Dr. Hartley must've thought you were insane, breaking down over a fictional man.

"You said he had a metal arm," Dr. Hartley said after you'd taken a few deep breaths to compose yourself.

"Yes. Sometimes, he's wearing a leather jacket or gloves so I can't see it. But I know it's always there."

"Do you think it's something you saw on a tv show? On the news, perhaps?"

"Uh, I don't know," you said. "Maybe?"

You didn't know why the question would help. What you really wanted to say was that Bucky was not simply a man you had concocted in your brain after reading some description in a novel, or seeing a character in a movie. He felt real. It felt like you were meeting a real person in a place you weren't supposed to be.

"I know how this sounds," you said slowly. "I'm losing my mind, aren't I? Getting so upset over my dreams?"

Dr. Hartley shook her head. "No," she said firmly. "You're overwhelmed by something you haven't yet made sense of, and that's perfectly normal. This session is just the first step."

You smiled back, eyes still watering.

But what if I’m not imagining him? Sometimes, just sometimes, you allowed yourself to entertain that thought. What if he is really out there, somewhere?

You sat, cross-legged on your couch, sketchpad open on your lap.

You held the pencil firmly in your fingers, the tip of it moving rapidly across the paper, the sound of graphite against paper soothing. You had gotten into a habit of sketching Bucky whenever you had the free time.

You knew it was an unhealthy habit, but you couldn't help it. You missed him whenever you were awake, and this was the only way to feel some sort of relief, by recreating him on paper.

And so you sketched. You sketched him, day after day, trying to recapture how you had seen him the night before. You wanted to remember and revisit those moments in any way you could. You sketched his beautiful eyes, the eyes that stared at you with adoration.

When you finished, your fingers traced over the sketchpad, forlorn. You sighed heavily, shaking your head as a wave of sadness rushed over you.

Dr. Hartley had advised you to go get some fresh air, go for a walk, whenever you felt like you were getting too caught up in your own head. You weren't sure if it would be effective, but there was no harm in trying, you supposed.

The sky was slowly turning a threatening shade of gray, the kind that promised that a storm was coming. You didn't care - it suited your mood. You stepped out of your apartment building into the polluted New York City air, jacket zipped to your throat and earbuds jammed in to keep the world out. Your bag was slung over your shoulder, sketchpad sitting inside safely.

You made it three steps down the block before you saw her.

A woman stood perfectly still near the curb - long red coat, long red hair, her back to you. She didn’t look like she belonged there, and it startled you when she suddenly turned to look at you.

You wanted to keep walking, but instead, you slowed and stopped in your tracks.

The beautiful woman tilted her head, smiling.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” the stranger said. Those were exactly the words to make someone feel afraid, you thought.

Her voice was calm, and somehow, it relaxed you. You pulled an earbud out, recognition dawning across your face.

“I know you,” you said suddenly. “I've seen you on the news." Your brain tried to remember exactly where you'd seen her, and finally recalled the news from a couple of years ago. Captain America... Lagos... some mission gone wrong that had resulted in a number of civilian deaths. "You’re Wanda Maximoff.”

“And I know you,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

"Excuse me?" you asked, perplexed.

“I’m not here to scare you,” Wanda said. “I’m here because I think you need help."

"Am I in danger?" you asked. What else would explain being accosted by an Avenger in the middle of the street?

"Not exactly," she said. "But I know you're suffering."

"How do you know that?" The confusion intensified, your voice a little too terse.

"I possess… psychic abilities," she said simply, "and you're a psychic, too. I could feel your mind calling out to me, looking for help, whether you knew it or not."

Your mouth opened and closed silently. Okay, this had to be a joke or some stupid misunderstanding.

“You’re not dreaming,” Wanda continued. “Not in the way you think. The things you see - the man you see - it’s not your imagination. It's a manifestation of your powers when you are asleep, when your mind is in its most vulnerable state. You have the ability, among others that you don't even understand, to reach across mental planes in a way you never thought possible."

You wanted to laugh, or walk away, but you were frozen at the feet. Her words made your chest tighten.

The man you see - it's not your imagination.

“I think you’ve got the wrong girl,” you said weakly.

Wanda’s eyes softened.

“I don’t,” she said. “And you know that too, deep down. You’ve touched someone who shouldn’t be reachable. Sometimes he's just halfway across the city, sometimes halfway across the word. That's not your imagination. That’s power.”

You shook your head. “No. I don't have powers."

"Bucky is real."

You froze.

"How do you know that name?" you whispered, beginning to feel frightened.

"Because I know him," Wanda said slowly. "Did you ever read about the Winter Soldier?"

Winter Soldier. The name rang a vague bell. Maybe something you had heard in the news.

"His name, is James Buchanan Barnes," Wanda said, the name rolling off her tongue slowly, deliberately. "Bucky, to his friends. He is real, and you are not going insane."

You wanted to believe her. You really did. Could this truly be happening? Could all she was saying really be the truth?

“What do you want from me?” you managed to say finally.

“Nothing,” Wanda said. “Except to help you. To help you figure out what you really are. What you can do.”

She held out a hand.

“I want you to come with me. To Avengers Tower. I want to help you get the answers and the help you deserve.”

For the longest moment, you just stared at her, unable to move a muscle. You were petrified, but underneath the fear, another emotion began to emerge.

Hope.

Bucky was real.

Your breath trembled. Then you nodded once, and took her hand.

The door hissed softly as it slid open.

You stepped through hesitantly, followed closely out of the elevator by Wanda. Avengers Tower was an architectural masterpiece, and you felt that you stood out like a sore thumb among the shiny corridors, the quiet hum of hidden tech in the walls, the very legacy that this place held.

“Wait here,” Wanda instructed gently, before disappearing through a side door.

Bucky was working out alone, sweat dripping from his forehead as he pushed himself to the furthest physical limit he could. The clang of metal echoed through the cavernous gym, a punching bag swinging violently on its chain. The pebbled leather was dented and straining at its seams.

Bucky's fists pounded into the bag with punishing precision, breath short and sharp. He had a lot of contained frustration that he needed to expel. He stopped when he noticed Wanda's entrance, frowning in confusion.

"What is it?" he asked, unsettled by the unreadable expression on her face.

"I need you to come with me," was all she said.

"Why?" He grabbed a towel, wiping his face with it.

"I want you to meet someone," she said mysteriously.

Bucky heaved a sigh, but decided to humor her. He followed her out of the room, footsteps slowing when he entered the corridor. The was a woman there, pacing back and forth.

The recognition hit Bucky like a shotgun wound to the chest.

You stopped in your tracks, gasping aloud when you finally saw him. Sweat shone from his collarbones, his hair damp from his workout. He came to a complete stop as you locked eyes.

The air stood still. Heavy and thick, like the air in your dreams.

Your lips parted, like you wanted to speak, but no sound came out. You watched Bucky, who stared back at you unblinkingly. His body had stiffened, like his brain had short circuited.

"Bucky," you gasped finally. You felt weak in the knees, your head spinning. You were not hallucinating. You were not dreaming. This was truly happening.

You felt a rush of euphoria, the happiness replacing any confusion or anxiety that had been in your mind seconds before. All you could focus on was the fact that Bucky was standing mere feet away from you, truly tangible and real.

A myriad of expressions ghosted across his face. There was happiness, his lips moving like he wanted to smile, before they twisted into a grimace. This was followed by shock, his eyes flashing with disbelief, eyebrows drawing together.

He took a step back, away from you, like he had been jolted by electricity.

The recognition in his face dissolved into alarm.

"It’s you,” he said, his voice sharp. His eyes flicked from you, to Wanda, then back to you.

"You remember me," you breathed with relief, moving towards him.

He took another step back, and you stopped abruptly.

“Don't," he said warningly. "Wanda, what the fuck is this?"

The words were ice to your heart, making your face fall.

"Bucky, it's me -"

“Don’t say my name," he snapped, his jaw clenching.

There was something dangerous in his posture now - a tightening in his shoulders, the tension rising in his upper body. His vibranium hand curled into a fist. His soldier instincts were kicking in, his defenses rising at this unexplained and impossible sight. The emotional onslaught that was brought on by the sight of you was too much and happening all at once. His brain was clicking frantically, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together.

"Bucky, we can explain," Wanda began, but Bucky interrupted her.

“You've been inside my head," he said slowly.

You were trying to find the right words, to make him understand. "I didn't mean to. I can't control it -"

“Bullshit.” His voice echoed through the corridor.

He was breathing hard, his heart palpitating. His mind raced to recall all the times you had spent together in his dreams, all the things he had told you. You had been walking through his mind, uninvited with God knows what motive. How had this happened?

“You don’t just accidentally get into my mind,” he growls. “You don’t just show up, night after night, knowing things you shouldn’t know. That’s not dreaming - that’s infiltration.”

The accusations felt like cuts.

"It's not like that," you insisted. "I didn't know it was real. I didn't know you were real."

“Who are you, really?" Bucky asked through gritted teeth. "Do you know how long I've spent with people clawing their way through my brain?" His eyes narrowed, anger rising at the thought of HYDRA. He spat the words out in such rapid succession that you could barely keep up. "Do you know how long I've spent, purging unwelcome guests out of my mind? Are you with HYDRA?"

You shook your head, speechless and looking to Wanda for help. "I'm not with HYDRA. I don't even know -"

"Bucky, you need to let us explain," Wanda said patiently, but Bucky was not having any of it. “Whatever you think this is, it’s not.”

“You show up in my mind like some... ghost, and you expect me to believe that’s just coincidence?” His voice is low now, trembling. “I worked so hard to make sure no one could ever get in again." Then, he added in a poison-laced whisper, “And you just walked in.”

Tears stung in your eyes. "I would never try to hurt you," you protested, voice quivering.

“Don’t act like you know me,” he said sharply.

He backed away, the distance growing like a chasm between you. He didn't spare you a second glance before he disappeared through the door he came from.

This was not the introduction you had hoped for. It was far from it. You felt your heart strain at the feeling of meeting the man you loved, and being rejected at the same time.

"I’m sorry,” Wanda said immediately. “I knew it was going to be a lot to take in, but… I'll talk to him," she promised you. "He just needs time to understand and process it.

"I think I do too," you said faintly, feeling light-headed at the rush of emotions that had just battered you in the last couple of hours. Wanda guided you down the corridors to a more private space where you could be alone, a seating area filled with plants and artwork that adorned one wall, floor-to-ceiling glass windows offering an endless view of the city.

“I didn’t even know what I was doing,” you whispered, staring at the floor as Wanda sat beside you. “I didn’t know that I could do - whatever that is.”

“Dream phasing,” Wanda says softly. “It’s only the beginning of what you’re capable of. You have extreme physic abilities that just need to be unlocked. I have a friend - Stephen Strange - who can help with that, too."

You could barely process what she was saying, or perhaps you just didn’t care.

Wanda could tell that your so-called powers were the last thing on your mind right now. She trailed off.

"Don't take what he said to heart," Wanda said. "He's just scared."

"He looked at me with such hate," you said, forehead creasing. "He's never looked at me that way before. It just feels... horrible. All this time, I thought I was imagining him, and then when we actually meet, he looked at me like I was an enemy."

"He has a very difficult past," Wanda said, her words measured. You recalled what Bucky had told you before, in your dreams. The things he had shared with you had always been honest, but fragmented - parts of the truth. You didn't quite have the full story yet, but Wanda quickly filled you in. Once she finished speaking, you understood why Bucky had his defenses up.

"He's scared that this is another trick," you said quietly.

"Right."

"But I'm not." You smiled sadly. "Maybe coming here was a mistake. My mind is just so messed up. How could I ever help anyone?”

“No,” Wanda said firmly. Her eyes are soft. “I’m the only one in your life right now who can even begin to understand what you’re going through. I can help you. And with help, your ability - your gift,” she emphasized, “- can be used for the greater good.”

“How can you be sure of that?” you asked.

“I used to be a lot like you,” Wanda smiled. “I couldn’t even fathom how to wield my power, how to nurture it. The team helped me, trained me. I can do the same for you.”

The thought of Bucky’s eyes, accusatory and cold, was still burned inside your brain.

“I’ll take care of him,” Wanda promised, as if reading your mind. “Don’t worry. You’re in good hands.”

Bucky could never have imagined that you could be a real person. It seemed impossible, like - he wanted to scoff - a dream come true.

The woman in his dreams, this seemingly unattainable entity that he found comfort and solace in every day. His escape from the previous horrific nightmares that he suffered from. You were real.

He sat upright on the floor, back against the windows, his mind racing. He thought back to how he had spoken to you earlier that evening, and he winced. He felt guilty, disgusted even, at how he had spoken to you. But the fear lingered in the back of his mind.

He had been brainwashed before. His mind had been taken captive before. What if this was another ploy?

But then he thought back to the look in your eyes. On some level, he knew you were innocent. He knew he was being unreasonable. But this was entirely new territory, and it frightened him.

He rubbed his temples then stood abruptly, pacing like a cat. The more he turned the thought of you over in his mind, the more his mind seemed to unravel.

God, this was so overwhelming. Every night, he looked forward to falling asleep and talking to you. He thought it was so sad, that he was so lonely in life that the only person he could talk to was in his own mind. How could he have been so wrong?

He recalled the feeling he felt whenever he was around you. He felt comforted. He felt safe. It was exactly what he needed right now - to feel safe, in your presence.

He needed to see you.

He nearly collided with Wanda in the hallway as he raced through the Tower, desperation painting his face.

"I was just coming to talk to you," she began, though she could now see that would no longer be needed.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

"She left," she said.

His stomach dropped. "When?"

"Half an hour ago."

Shit, Bucky cursed inwardly.

Wanda rolled her eyes. "I'll give you her address. But before you go - just one more thing."

Bucky stepped into the room where you had waited earlier. You had left your bag behind in your rush to leave, and as he picked it up hastily, a small collection of items fell out onto the floor.

Keys. Chapstick. Your phone. One of those items landed with a dull thud. A book.

Bucky picked it up, curiosity getting the better of him. He hesitated for a moment before he flipped the book open.

His breath caught in his throat.

Pages and pages of him.

Laughing. Smiling. Sitting on benches. Looking out of windows. The corners of his eyes creased with happiness.

Bucky's hands were shaking as his fingers barely brushed the surface of the pages, like he was afraid to dirty it.

He was being portrayed in a way he had never seen himself be portrayed before. As someone... beautiful. Not a machine. Not an assassin. Not something to be feared.

He closed the sketchpad carefully, any doubts he had before completely dissipating. He now knew with absolute certainty just how wrong he had been.

You sat in the cold, dimly lit hallway of your apartment building, head banging back against your door. Like an idiot, you had forgotten your belongings in the Tower, and had no way of getting into your home. You could knock on a neighbor's door, ask them to call a locksmith - but for now, all you wanted to do was cry.

Your eyes were red-rimmed and sore, head in your hands as you pulled your knees up against your chest. You were shattered - emotionally and physically.

You were utterly alone. Your head was ringing, and you felt an emptiness in the pit of your stomach that made you feel nauseous.

Then - footsteps.

You cringed, anticipating the voice of a nosy neighbor asking you what had happened. The footsteps got closer, and you didn't move an inch, hoping they'd just walk past.

But then, you heard the whisper of your name in the voice you couldn't forget.

Your head jerked up, startled. Bucky was standing next to you, your bag clutched in his hands. His eyes were remorseful, guilt clearly written on his face as he appraised you. He could see that you had been crying, and his chest hurt when you wiped at your face with your sleeves hurriedly.

"You left this," was the first thing he said, crouching down slowly to be at eye-level with you.

You couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. He smelled like rain, cedar wood and the faintest hint of soap.

"Should we go inside?" he asked gently, his hand reaching out to cup your elbow. He took a deep breath, like the physical contact made him nervous. But as soon as he touched you, he seemed to gain some confidence. You allowed him to help you stand, your legs shaking.

You were wordless as he rummaged inside your bag and fished out your keys. He unlocked your front door and gently ushered you inside.

"I'm sorry," was the first thing he said as the door closed behind him. "Sorry doesn't even cover it. I'm just - I wish I could take back what I said."

"It's okay," you said, finally meeting his eyes. "I understand."

You walked over to sit at the kitchen table, out of necessity more than anything - you still felt like your legs might collapse from underneath you at any moment. He didn't hesitate to join you.

"I saw your sketches," he said eventually, drawing his chair closer. You blushed, eyes widening. "They were good," he added quickly. "Really good."

You looked at his face, and the only thing you could think was that no recreation of yours could ever come close to his good looks in real life. This man had a face that was crafted by the gods, his eyes your absolute favorite thing about him. Eyes that could not seem to leave your face.

"I saw how you see me," he said, letting out a quick exhale that sounded like a laugh. "And I liked it. It made me feel good."

He leaned in closer, his voice lowering. "I'm so sorry."

"I'm not," you said finally. "You're actually real. I thought I was going insane. But you're here, right in front of me."

Slowly, slow enough for him to move if he wanted to, you gathered the courage to reach up and touch his face with your fingertips for the first time. You traced the edge of his jawline, towards his lips. He shivered.

"I came here because I couldn't stand knowing that I hurt you," Bucky confessed. "I needed to see if you would still look at me like you do in our dreams."

"And?"

His response was to close the distance between you, head tilting as his lips finally slotted against yours. It was soft, tender, and it felt like the weighted air between the two of you finally cleared with a snap.

This felt so right. This was what you had been waiting for all along.

When you pulled apart for air, his hands were cupping your face, his eyes looking at you like he still couldn't believe this was happening.

"Last time, you told me you thought you might love me," he said, the tip of his tongue gliding across his lower lip nervously. "I didn't get a chance to tell you that I love you, too."

You smiled at him, leaning your forehead against his as you felt a sense of serenity fill your body. "I think you're going to change my life," you whispered.

And that night, as you fell asleep together for the first time, you knew you would never feel alone again.

#bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes #bucky x female reader #bucky angst #bucky barns fanfiction #sebastian stan #bucky barns x you #marvel fanfic

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missust3l3vision · 20 hours ago

Text

Bob

Description: Y/n is a barista at a local coffee shop, too bad the newest Barista doesn't know about his past selves mistake.

George Clarke was far from proud of the situation he has put himself in. Coming to the same coffeehouse since he was 10, back when the barista asked his name and he jokingly answered as "Bob, like the Sponge"

Its been years and as the people cycled through the shop his nickname remained. No matter what he got or who with, his cup would say "Bob, like the sponge" at times it would even have pictures of the classic yellow sponge.

The reason of his sudden embarrassment? It was all thanks to the hot Barista who asked for his name and someone else answered for him.

"Oh that's Bob" Georges smirk fell from his face. The pick up line dying on his tongue.

Fuck.

The girl looked at him a moment longer before shrugging and writing it on the cup. As she did so her coworker started to explain the lore. George watched past the extra cups and the hundreds of packs of sugar. How his mistake as a little boy was making a pleasant afternoon hell.

"I don't think you look like a Bob" she said when she walked over, "More like a Cornelius" she said with a smile. Him shaking his head but never telling her the real one.

And so this continued. Him coming in and having her try to guess his name. She started off wacky, something George found cute.

Y/n knew who George was. Her brother was a huge fan, but she knew that if she told him she knew that he might stop coming around.

"I like your shirt, that's a great band" she pointed at his shirt, the band had been one he's seen many times.

They had great chemistry, something she wanted to pursue. Not sure how and trying to buy time she continued the game of guessing until it dawned upon her.

He had been posting about going to a concert she had gotten tickets for and finally used it as an open when he wore one of the bands t shirts.

"Right! I've been trying to get my friends to come with me to see them when they play in August" he says excitedly. He had been texting Chris about going that exact morning

"The one on the 20th or the 21st?" She asked as she set the cup of coffee down infront of him.

"The 20th, I have to take a flight the next day, either wise I'd go both days"

"Well I guess I'll see you there" she said with a warm smile.

He was caught off by it. His ears returned to red as he took the coffee and walked out. Looking at the name on the cup it didn't say Bob or Thomas rather a phone number and surprisingly George Clarke.

Of course when he found out the full of her plan he was amazed. He had no clue, of course now whenever he ordered coffee he always put down the name Cornelius.

Because in his wife's words, he looked like one.

#ukyt #uk youtubers #original ☆#x yn #george clarkey #george clarke fics #george clarke fanfic #george clarke x reader #george x reader #george clarke

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osctwink · 23 hours ago

Text

i. You and me, we got big reputations.

based on the prompt / landoscar.

part one, start:

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

“This collaboration will run for the next six months. There’s going to be a photoshoot this Saturday for the sponsorship deal with Polo Ralph Lauren.”

Lando wasn’t entirely sure if he should be doing this or not, but truthfully, he never really paid full attention to what his PR manager was saying anyway. For the past half hour, the man had just been twirling a pen between his fingers, occasionally setting it down on the desk, only to pick it up again a few seconds later. It was like watching someone try to fight off boredom with the only weapon they had—office supplies.

Lando had stopped counting how long he’d been sitting in the meeting room. Two hours? Three? Who knew. All he gathered was that there was going to be a shoot—which wasn’t exactly groundbreaking news. He’d done more than enough of them to know the drill by now. Except this one… this one would include a model. And not the kind of model who also happened to be his teammate, Daniel Ricciardo.

“The concept’s a little different this time, huh?” Lando asked, lifting his gaze from the glossy table to the team standing across from him.

Charlotte nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I know, Lando. It’s a bit unusual since you’re not doing the shoot with DaniRic like you normally do. But honestly? I don’t think it’s going to be a bad thing.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. There was a quiet sort of stir in his chest—the kind that only comes from not knowing something you really want to know. Who was this model? A Vogue cover girl type? Maybe he was getting ahead of himself, but he was caught off guard, mid-sip of his orange juice, when he heard the name. The name that made him choke just a little on the citrus burning down his throat.

“Oscar Piastri. Model from Australia.”

He knew, even before he looked up, that his reaction would end up as a meme somewhere. For at least a week. Maybe longer, considering the way Daniel—sitting beside him—was barely holding back a laugh. But Lando wasn’t faking it. Not even a little. It had nothing to do with the model being a guy. Gender was never the issue.

It was the name.

There was something about the name that struck something in him. Something distant, like a half-forgotten melody he couldn’t quite place. No matter how far back he dove into his memory—digging through twenty-five years of moments and half-lost days—Oscar Piastri felt like a name that mattered.

And that alone… was enough.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

“Lando Norris. Have you heard of him before?”

Oscar lifted his eyes from his phone, blinking at the sound of his manager’s voice. His back ached from sitting in the same awkward position for too long, and his feet were killing him. The catwalk training had been brutal—heels or not. Even if the sole wasn’t that high, it was still enough to make every step feel like a calculated risk. And then there was the posture. The upright, perfectly aligned posture that they insisted he keep for hours on end.

Oscar chose modeling. No one forced him into it. But sometimes—just sometimes—he wondered if it was worth the physical torture.

“I think I’ve heard the name,” he answered calmly, adjusting the way he sat. “Formula 1 driver, right?”

Mark Webber, his manager, nodded. “He’s the one you’ll be shooting with for Polo Ralph Lauren this Saturday.”

Oscar hummed a soft acknowledgment. The shoot was still days away. He had time.

“His face looks familiar, doesn’t it?” Mark added, scrolling through his phone. The man wasn’t quite old enough to be that old, but the wrinkles etched across his skin certainly said otherwise—though Oscar was self-aware enough to know he was probably just being dramatic about it.

“He looks like one of your classmates from high school. Do you remember?”

Mark turned his phone around and showed Oscar a picture. Lando Norris. The guy he’d be shooting with.

And Oscar had to admit—the man was not a disappointment.

The curls, styled into a soft mullet. The jawline, sharp and masculine. The entire face just had that effortlessly cool, dangerously attractive vibe. Honestly, Lando could’ve passed as a model if he wasn’t already driving at 300 km/h for a living. His face definitely felt familiar… but Oscar’s mind hesitated to latch onto the memory.

“I don’t really remember him,” he said, cheeks heating slightly as he glanced away. He didn’t want Mark reading too much into it. The man had a habit of jumping to conclusions.

“Wow, you’re ancient,” Mark teased with a laugh. “For someone who can’t remember their own classmates.”

Oscar only rolled his eyes and gave a sarcastic sigh, unlocking his phone to open Subway Surfers. His thumbs moved on instinct, tapping in rhythm with the running character on screen.

Still, in the background of his thoughts, a single question echoed again and again: Who the hell is Lando Norris? And why does his name feel like something he should remember?

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

“Mate, he’s actually kinda hot.”

“I know, Lan. He’s your type, right?”

“Wow. Since when do you know my type, mate?”

Laughter echoed through the apartment, bouncing off the kitchen walls and into the dining room, where Lando sat trying not to overthink things. Dinner with Max F and a couple of other friends had turned into something of a deep dive session on his upcoming modeling partner.

Thanks to Max and his impressive internet sleuthing skills, Lando finally had a face to match the name Oscar Piastri.

And honestly? He got it now. Why the guy was a model.

Oscar was tall, with that perfect balance of soft masculinity and delicate charm. His features were a little pretty, his waist was slim, and his hands—Lando noticed—were small. Almost fragile-looking. It wasn’t a weird thought, just… an observation. Probably.

“I guess I’ll wait till I meet him in person,” Lando mumbled, placing Max’s phone back on the table and focusing on his food.

Maybe—just maybe—that photoshoot on Saturday would be a little more… interesting than he’d expected.

#landoscar #lando norris #oscar piastri #ln4 #op81 #f1 #481 #formula1 #mclaren #enemies to lovers #model! oscar #f1 driver! lando #twinklaren #was hesitated to post this but whatever

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joelcrush · 3 days ago

Text

Just This Once

pairing: joel miller x f! reader word count - 7.2k content - mdni, 18+, no outbreak, age gap (mid twenties reader, joel is in his 40s), possessive joel, mild angst, oral sex, explicit smut, p in v sex, fingering, creampie summary - When your family drags you on a week-long mountain lodge vacation, the last person you expect to see is Joel Miller—your dad’s best friend, the man you haven’t seen since a moment years ago nearly crossed a line. Now you're stuck under the same roof with him, and the tension is unbearable. You hate each other. You want each other. And it’s only a matter of time before everything explodes in secret touches, filthy nights, and a week that will change everything.

---

You hadn’t seen Joel Miller in four years. That’s the first thing that hit you when you stepped out of your car and saw him unloading a cooler from the back of your dad’s truck—grayer than you remembered, thicker in the shoulders, still wearing that same beat-up flannel like it was a second skin. The second thing that hit you was how fast the resentment came flooding back.

Your dad’s best friend. The one who used to ruffle your hair when you were a kid and bark at your boyfriends when you were a teenager. The one who used to give you rides home from parties with his jaw clenched and his hand gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him from exploding. The one who looked at you differently the night before your college graduation. You didn’t imagine it. You couldn’t have.

Everyone else was outside, drunk on champagne and cheap beer, and you had slipped into the kitchen to get water. Joel had followed a few minutes later. You’d been wearing that little sundress—the one that made you feel older than you were. You turned around and found him already watching you.

He didn’t say anything, not at first. Just looked at you. And then he asked, low and dry, “You always wear things like that around your dad?” You’d smiled. Teased. “Only when I know you’ll be there.” He hadn’t smiled back. Not even close. He just exhaled, said your name like a warning, and left the room.

After that, you didn’t see him again. Not at your party. Not at any of the holidays that followed. If you asked your dad where Joel was, he always brushed it off—working, traveling, things got busy. You knew better. So when your dad invited you to the “family lodge trip” and casually dropped that oh, by the way, Joel’s coming, your gut twisted. You’d almost said no. You should have.

The lodge was up in the mountains—three hours from the nearest real town, with six bedrooms, a wraparound porch, and a hot tub that supposedly worked “if you didn’t touch the wrong switch.” It was your dad’s idea of heaven. It was your idea of hell.

The rest of the family arrived in chaotic waves: aunts, uncles, cousins, screaming toddlers, someone’s new girlfriend named Cassie who didn’t eat gluten. You tried to stay in the background, helping unload bags and pretending not to notice Joel already inside, talking to your dad like nothing had ever happened.

You almost made it through the first hour unnoticed. Almost. He turned around while you were unpacking the beer into the fridge. You didn’t look up. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. But you heard his voice shift. A beat of silence. Then: “Didn’t know you’d be here.” You closed the fridge too hard. “Guess that makes two of us.” Joel didn’t reply. He never did, not when you had that bite in your voice. You didn’t turn around until he was gone.

---

Joel avoided you the first two days. You weren’t exactly complaining—but you weren’t exactly unaffected, either. It wasn’t subtle. He kept his distance like you were contagious. Always one room away, one beat behind in conversation. If you went into the kitchen, he left. If you started a story, he suddenly remembered something to do outside. Your dad didn’t seem to notice. Nobody did. But you felt it. Because it wasn’t new.

It was just the same rhythm as before—like the two of you had learned how not to orbit each other years ago, and now you were slipping back into that old, silent routine. But it was different now. More bitter. More deliberate. And maybe that’s what made it worse.

---

The last time you saw Joel Miller, you were twenty-two. You were home from school for a few months, in that weird limbo between graduation and whatever came next. Your dad had thrown a summer party in the backyard—beer, a grill, some acoustic guitar, the whole neighborhood vibe. You hadn’t expected Joel to be there. He hadn’t come to much of anything after that weird little moment at your graduation the year before. You figured that distance was permanent.

But then you came outside in your sundress and saw him sitting at your dad’s patio table, nursing a beer and looking like he hadn’t aged a day. Or maybe he had—he looked tired, but in a good way. Worn in. Rough around the edges. That salt-and-pepper scruff, those eyes that never gave away a damn thing. You didn’t speak at first. You couldn’t.

You spent the whole evening pretending not to watch him. Pretending you weren’t wondering if he remembered. If he still thought about that look he gave you in the kitchen. The almost. The maybe. The fuck, don’t do this that hung between you. But something shifted that night. You were walking back from the bathroom, barefoot on the grass, tipsy from sangria and nostalgia, and Joel was there—just standing on the porch in the shadows, arms crossed, that same unreadable expression on his face. You didn’t stop. You just raised an eyebrow and said, “What?”

He looked at you for a long time. Then: “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

You scoffed. “Right. Because you know me so well.”

“I know what that dress means,” he said. Quiet. Low. “I know what kind of game you’re playing.” You took a step forward. Too bold. You always were with him.

“And what if I’m not playing?”

That silenced him. His jaw worked. His eyes darkened. He looked like he wanted to grab you and shake the words out of your mouth—or kiss you until you took them back. Maybe both. But he didn’t do either. He just muttered your name like it hurt to say, shook his head, and walked off into the night.

After that, nothing. No texts. No holidays. Not even a birthday message. You’d disappeared from his life—or he’d erased you. Either way, you’d gotten the message. You were off-limits. Not just because of your age or who your dad was. But because Joel knew better. He knew himself. Knew the kind of man he was. The things he’d already lost. And he didn’t want your name on that list.

---

So when your dad said Joel was coming on this trip, something inside you buckled. You didn’t say no. That wasn’t your style. Instead, you packed your best shorts, your skimpiest swimsuits, and a book you weren’t going to read. If he wanted to act like you were a mistake he never made, you were going to make him remember just how close he came.

---

The first night was fine. Mostly. Everyone was excited, loud, full of wine and bonfire smoke. You stayed in the background, floating from conversation to conversation like nothing was eating you alive. Joel didn’t say a word to you. Didn’t so much as glance in your direction. The second day, you caught him staring from across the cabin porch. Just a flicker of something in his eyes. A memory. A warning. But by day three, the silence broke.

It was over something stupid—a cooler left out on the porch in bear country. You’d forgotten to bring it in after everyone went down to the lake. Joel saw it first and dragged it in, dropping it at your feet with a muttered, “Real smart.” You blinked.

“Excuse me?

“Bears like easy food. You want ‘em crawling up to the cabin?”

“I didn’t realize I was personally responsible for every item on this trip,” you snapped. He narrowed his eyes.

“No, just the ones with your name on them.”

You didn’t say what you wanted to. You didn’t say, You’re still the same arrogant, self-righteous asshole who can’t admit he wanted me. Instead, you smiled sweetly and said, “Glad to know you’re still excellent at blaming everyone but yourself.”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The heat between you spoke loud enough.

---

That afternoon, you avoided him. Took your book out to the dock, let the sun bake your thighs, dipped your legs into the water, and tried not to replay every word of that argument in your head. It wasn’t even a real fight. But your heart was still pounding. And he’d looked good. Too good. That worn t-shirt clinging to his back, sweat on his collarbone, that low voice still rasping in your chest long after he left the room. You hated that he could still do this to you. You hated that you still let him.

That night, there was a bonfire again. You wore a tank top that clung to your skin and made no apologies. You laughed too loud. Let your cousin’s boyfriend sit too close. Ignored the heat of Joel’s stare from across the flames. Until he stood up without a word and walked inside. You followed five minutes later, breath caught in your throat.

You found him in the kitchen, alone, leaning against the counter with a drink in his hand. His eyes didn’t move when you stepped inside.

“You gonna keep acting like this?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“Like a brat.” The word bit. “Like you didn’t do anything wrong.” You crossed your arms. “I was twenty-two. You were thirty-nine. You were the one who disappeared.”

“I had to,” he said. His voice was quiet, hoarse. “You think I wanted to?”

“You think I cared?” you shot back. “You don’t get to act like you’re the one who got hurt.” Joel’s expression darkened. “You have no idea what it cost me not to touch you that night.” The air between you went still. Then your aunt came in looking for wine glasses, and the moment shattered. Joel disappeared again—just like before.

---

Now, on day five, it’s unbearable. Every look, every brush of your shoulders, every shared room—charged. You’re running out of places to avoid each other. And worse—you’re running out of excuses not to want it. You swear at one point he almost says something during dinner, but then your dad claps him on the back and the spell breaks.

Later, you find a reason to go outside. To breathe. To drink. To slip into the hot tub alone. To stop pretending this isn’t tearing you apart.

---

The cabin was quiet. Too quiet. Everyone had gone to bed, eventually. You could still hear the muffled sounds of the TV in the back room—someone watching an old movie half-asleep—but otherwise, the place had gone still. The kind of quiet you only get in the woods. Thick and soft and unsettling. You couldn’t sleep. Not like this. Not with him still under the same roof. Not with your skin buzzing like it was trying to crawl off your bones. So you slipped outside.

A hoodie thrown over your tank top. Nothing under it. Bikini bottoms still damp from the lake earlier. A bottle of wine grabbed from the counter on your way out—half-full and yours now. No glass.

The hot tub creaked when you stepped in. Lukewarm. The jets barely worked. But it was something. Some kind of escape. You sank down into the water with a hiss and let it cover your thighs, your hips. Steam rose into the air around your face, humid and pine-scented. You sipped straight from the bottle. Tilted your head back. Let the stars blur. The ache in your chest hadn’t gone away. It had just learned to settle low—like a bruise behind your ribs. Dull, bitter, always there. Four years of unresolved tension pressing on your lungs. Four years of trying not to think about him. About the way he said your name. About the way he looked at you like he hated himself for wanting to.

You took another swig. The patio door creaked open behind you. Your pulse jumped. You didn’t move. Boots on the wood. A pause. Then—“Figured I’d find you out here.” Joel’s voice, low and even. But not casual. Never casual with him.

You didn’t turn around. “Want me to leave?” he asked. You took a slow breath. “No.”

Silence. The soft clink of glass—he set a bottle down on the ledge. Whiskey, probably. Of course it was. You heard the scrape of wood as he pulled a chair closer, the creak of him settling into it. Still didn’t look at you.

The stars shimmered overhead like they knew something you didn’t. “You always drink alone?” he asked after a while. You shrugged. “Better than company I don’t like.” He huffed once. Dry.

“You don’t like me.”

“Do you like you?”

That one hung in the air. He didn’t answer. You didn’t press. Another sip. Another minute of silence. It wasn’t peaceful—it was electric. The kind of quiet that buzzed with everything unsaid.

Finally, you asked, “Why’d you come?”

Joel didn’t pretend not to understand. “Your dad invited me.”

“And that’s it?” you asked. You turned your head just enough to see him. “You didn’t think twice?”

He looked tired. The firelight from the screened porch lit the edge of his jaw, the slope of his nose. His expression was unreadable.

“I thought twice,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “And the third time?”

His mouth twitched like it wanted to smile. But it didn’t. “I knew you’d be here,” he admitted. The words landed like a punch in your stomach. You swallowed. Hard.

“So what—” you leaned back against the tub wall, stretched your arms across the edge, “you wanted to torture yourself? Or me?”

Joel’s gaze slid to your collarbone. Your throat. The way your nipples had hardened under your thin top, the fabric clinging wet to your skin. He looked away fast, jaw tight. “I didn’t come here to start anything.”

“Bullshit.”

He met your eyes. This time, he didn’t flinch.

“You wanna talk about starting things?” he said, voice sharp. “You think I didn’t see what you were doing back then?”

“I was twenty-two.”

“You were my best friend’s daughter.”

“Not by choice.” He stood suddenly. Pushed off the chair, walked toward the railing like he couldn’t stand being that close. You watched his shoulders rise and fall, tense. “You think I’m proud of this?” he said. “Of wanting you?”

You stood, slowly. The water sloshed. Your tank top clung to every curve—wet and transparent in the porch light. You didn’t hide. You didn’t flinch. “I don’t want your pride,” you said.

Joel turned. You didn’t know which of you moved first. Maybe it didn’t matter. One second, you were dripping water onto the porch. The next, you were in his arms, mouth on his, kissing him like you’d been waiting your whole life to do it. He groaned into your mouth—low, raw, like it hurt. His hands came up to your waist, gripping hard, dragging you closer until your soaked chest was flush against him. It was messy. Desperate. All tongue and teeth and four years of restraint unraveling like thread in a storm. He backed you into the side of the cabin wall with a thud. You gasped. He kissed you harder.

“This is wrong,” he muttered against your lips.

“I don’t care,” you whispered.

He kissed you again. Hands under your shirt, dragging it up, baring your wet skin to the mountain air. His palms were rough and warm, moving over your ribs, your waist, up to your breasts. You arched into him.

“I thought about this,” he said. “Too many times.”

You bit his shoulder. “Show me.”

---

His mouth was everywhere.

You didn’t remember how you got from the hot tub to the porch steps, but suddenly he had you pinned to them—back against the rough wood, legs spread over his lap, and Joel’s mouth on your throat like he was trying to brand you there.

The porch light flickered behind his head, catching the silver in his hair, the tight clench of his jaw as he kissed you. It wasn’t soft. Nothing about this was. It was desperate. Hungry. The kind of kiss you only give someone after years of pretending you didn’t want to. You whimpered into his mouth. His hand slid up the inside of your thigh, fingers teasing the damp hem of your bikini bottoms.

“Still wanna pretend this isn’t happening?” he rasped against your cheek.

You shook your head, gasping. “No. I want you.”

He groaned—like you’d said something obscene. Like you’d ruined him. Joel didn’t waste time. He lifted your top up, pulling it over your head until your bare chest hit the open air. Your nipples peaked, still wet from the tub, and his mouth was on them in seconds. Sucking, groaning, biting just enough to make you squirm.

“Jesus,” he muttered against your skin. “You’re perfect. You fuckin’ knew what you were doing back then, didn’t you?”

You arched your back, fingers in his hair. “I wanted you to look.”

“I did,” he growled. “I fuckin’ looked every time.”

His hands were already moving—down your hips, hooking into your bikini bottoms, dragging them off and tossing them somewhere behind him. Then he leaned back and just stared. You felt raw under that gaze. Bared open. Not just your body—your want. Your need.

“Joel—”

“Goddamn.” His voice dropped lower. “You’re soaked.”

“I was in the tub,” you teased.

He gave you a warning look. One hand slipped between your thighs, two fingers running over your center. You gasped—wet, throbbing, aching.

“This isn’t the tub,” he said.

And then he tasted you. Dropped to his knees between your legs and pushed them open wider with both hands. You moaned—loud, unfiltered, filthy—as his mouth found your core and sucked.

“F-fuck—” your hips jerked. His arms locked around your thighs, holding you still. He licked you like he was starving. Like he hadn’t let himself want this and now couldn’t stop. Long, slow swipes of his tongue that made your stomach clench. Then little flicks over your clit that made your toes curl.

You grabbed the porch railing behind your head, panting, “Joel, I’m—oh my god—”

He didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down—moaning against you like your pleasure was his, like he could feel you coming apart in his bones. His beard scratched your skin in the best way. His grip on your thighs bruised.

When you came, you shook. Back arched, mouth open, your whole body trembling under him. He held you through it—let you grind against his face, let you cry out into the night with no shame. And then he pulled away, mouth wet, eyes black.

“You sure you wanna keep going?” he rasped into your ear.

You nodded, breathless. “I’ve never been more sure.”

He kissed you like that destroyed him. Like you’d just said I love you and he didn’t know what to do with it. You were slumped against the cabin wall—wet, aching, and trembling from the orgasm he’d just coaxed out of you on the porch. His hand was slick with it, shining in the low light, and he looked at you like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or drag you back to hell with him.

You beat him to it. You stepped forward, dropped to your knees on the wood floor, and looked up at him with fire in your eyes.

“Let me take care of you.”

Joel froze. “Sweetheart—”

“Let me.” You reached for his belt. “I want to.”

He didn’t stop you. Couldn’t.

The sound of leather sliding through denim made your thighs clench all over again. You undid his fly, pushed his jeans and boxers down just enough, and there he was—thick, flushed, leaking at the tip. Your mouth watered.

Joel watched you with something close to pain in his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You smiled, slow and wicked. “I think I do.”

And then you took him into your mouth. His hips jolted like he’d been shocked. A deep, raw groan escaped him—so loud it echoed in the trees.

“Jesus fuck,” he hissed. One big hand gripped your hair, not forcing—just grounding. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

You sucked him slow. Deep. Let your lips drag along the underside of his cock as you worked him down your throat. He was hot and heavy on your tongue, the salt of his skin making your head spin. You gagged a little, spit sliding down your chin, but you didn’t stop.

“Goddamn—” Joel’s hand tightened. “You look so fuckin’ good like this.”

You moaned around him. His thighs flexed.

“You always act so tough, don’t you?” he rasped. “But look at you now. On your knees. Mouth full of cock. Drippin’ for me.”

You pulled off with a slick pop, panting. “Only for you.”

He lost it. Joel yanked you to your feet and kissed you like a man on the edge—mouth open, tongue messy, hands everywhere. You could taste him on your own lips. He grabbed your ass, squeezed hard, and muttered, “Inside. Now.”

---

The guest room door slammed shut behind you. He didn’t even bother with lights. The moon through the window was enough to see him—dark and dangerous, shirt halfway off, jeans undone, chest rising and falling like he’d just run through the forest. You stripped for him without a word. You climbed back onto the bed, naked, legs spread—offering. Joel stared.

“Lie back,” he said roughly. “I need—fuck. Just lie back.”

You obeyed. He crawled over you slowly, like a man approaching something holy. And then he was there—settling between your thighs, spreading you with both hands.

“Still so fuckin’ wet,” he muttered. “That just from my fingers, baby? Or suckin’ me off got you like this?”

“Both,” you breathed. “I want you so bad.”

Joel groaned—feral.

“Fuckin’ filthy girl,” he growled. “You want my mouth? Wanna come on my tongue?”

You nodded, frantic. “Please.”

That was all he needed. Joel lowered his head and devoured you. There was no teasing. No slow buildup. He licked into you like a man starving, tongue everywhere at once, sucking your clit into his mouth so hard your back arched off the bed.

“Oh my god—Joel—”

“That’s it,” he groaned against you. “Say my name.”

You did. Again and again. Cried it out while he fucked you with his tongue, his nose pressed against your clit, beard scratch burning your inner thighs.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he murmured. “Been dreamin’ about this. How sweet you’d be. How you’d sound.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

You came with your fingers in his hair and his name in your mouth—shaking, moaning, soaking his face. He didn’t stop until you begged. Then he climbed up your body, kissed you with your slick still on his mouth, and lined himself up between your thighs.

“Ready?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You looked him in the eye. “Don’t be gentle.”

Joel’s face twisted—like you’d just said something cruel and beautiful.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he growled.

And then he thrust in. You gasped—so full, stretched wide, your whole body tensing at the intrusion. He cursed, slammed a hand against the headboard, and stayed there for a second, buried to the hilt, not moving.

“You feel—fuck, baby, you feel unreal,” he rasped into your neck.

“Move,” you begged. “Please.”

He did. Slow at first. Then harder. Then brutal. Joel fucked you deep, steady, with a kind of controlled rage—like he was punishing himself as much as he was giving you what you wanted.

“This what you needed?” he grunted. “Old man’s cock? Daddy’s best friend fuckin’ you stupid?”

You cried out—clawed at his back, wrapped your legs around his hips.

“Years,” he growled. “Years I told myself I couldn’t touch you. And now look at you.”

He sat back on his knees and dragged you with him—lifted your hips off the bed and fucked up into you until your head hit the pillows and the air left your lungs.

“You were mine the second you looked at me in that fuckin’ dress,” he said. “You know that?”

“Yes—Joel—”

“I’ll never be able to stop now,” he whispered. “You ruined me.”

You came with a scream. Your entire body clenched. Shaking, soaked, ruined beneath him—and he followed seconds later, growling your name into your neck as he emptied inside you with a broken moan.

He didn’t pull out. Didn’t move. Just held you there, panting against your skin, his cock still buried deep, his arms around you like he couldn’t let go.

“This changes everything,” you whispered.

“I know,” Joel said. “And I’m not sorry.”

Neither were you.

---

You didn’t see him all afternoon. After breakfast—silent and unbearable—you watched Joel disappear down the trail with your dad and two of your uncles, a cooler over his shoulder and a rifle on his back. Some day-hunt, they said. Nothing serious. Deer if they got lucky. Beer if they didn’t. You stayed behind. Tried to read. Tried to nap. Tried not to think about how sore your thighs still were from the way he’d held you. How your lips still tingled from the way he kissed you—like a man grabbing for something he never thought he’d get to keep.

By evening, the house was full again. Laughter, music, chairs scraping across the floor. Your cousin burned a pan of garlic bread and someone dropped a bottle of wine. The usual chaos. Joel returned just after sunset. You caught the sound of his voice before you saw him—low, gruff, tired. But not angry. Not cold. Just… careful. You stepped into the hallway to grab towels and he passed you. Barely looked at you. But when he did? That glance leveled you. One second, and your whole body remembered everything.

You waited again that night. Waited until the noise died. Waited until the lights clicked off one by one and the lodge settled into creaks and wind. Then you crept down the hallway. Breath tight. Bare feet silent. You didn’t knock this time. Joel’s room was dark when you slipped in, but you didn’t need light. You found him by feel—sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, shirtless, boxers low on his hips. His head lifted the second you closed the door. He didn’t speak. You crossed the room and stood between his knees. You were wearing nothing but a thin tank top and cotton shorts. No bra. No panties. Joel’s eyes dragged over you, slow and unreadable.

“You’re not gonna let me walk away from this, are you?” he asked.

“No.”

His hands came up to your hips. Stayed there.

“You’re gonna ruin me.”

You leaned down, voice soft at his ear. “I think I already did."

Joel's hands slid up beneath your shirt. Slow. Heavy. Callused.

You let him.

You stood still as his palms swept over your waist, your ribs, up to your bare chest. His fingers spread wide, rough and reverent as they cupped your breasts—thumbs brushing slowly across your nipples until they hardened, tight and sensitive under his touch.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “No bra?”

“No need.”

Joel exhaled through his nose like it physically hurt him to keep control. He leaned forward, nuzzled his face into your chest. His scruff scratched your skin, made your stomach clench.

“You’re tryin’ to kill me.”

You pulled your shirt off without answering. He groaned when you were bare in front of him.

“Get on the bed,” you whispered.

Joel did. Leaned back on his elbows as you climbed into his lap, straddling him, letting your thighs spread around his hips. You reached between your bodies, raked your nails softly down his chest, then lower—palming the length of him over his boxers. He was already hard. Of course he was.

You watched his jaw tighten as you touched him. Slid your hand beneath the waistband, freed him slow. His cock was flushed, thick, heavy in your hand. You licked your lips. Joel’s breath caught.

“Don’t fuckin’ tease me,” he said. “You know what you do to me.”

You leaned in close. “Then make me stop.”

His hands flew to your hips. He flipped you—smooth, fast, practiced—until your back hit the mattress and he was over you. Heavy. Solid. Dangerous.

“You got a smart mouth, sweetheart,” he said. “Know that?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe I oughta shut you up.”

“Maybe you should try.”

He kissed you hard.

You don’t remember when your shorts came off. Just that they were gone and Joel’s fingers were between your legs again, stroking through your folds like he already knew exactly what would make you whimper.

“Still wet,” he rasped. “You come into my bed like this?”

You nodded.

He shoved two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust. You gasped—back arching, walls clenching, hands gripping the sheets.

“Fuck,” he growled. “So fuckin’ tight. You missed me, baby?”

“Yes—yes, Joel—please—”

He pulled out slowly. Watched your cunt twitch around nothing. Then he lowered himself between your thighs.

“I told you I wasn’t done tasting you,” he said.

And then his mouth was on you. Joel had your legs pinned open with his hands wrapped tight around your thighs, your hips pulled to the edge of the mattress, and his mouth already back on your pussy like he’d missed it. And you realized quick—he wasn’t going slow tonight. He wasn’t soft. He was starving.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby,” he groaned into you, tongue parting your folds, mouth wet and messy. “I could eat this pussy every night. Every goddamn day.”

You gasped—already shaking, already too sensitive from his fingers. But he didn’t care. He licked through your slit, dragged his tongue flat and slow from your entrance to your clit, then sucked hard.

You cried out, hips jerking. “Joel—!”

“Don’t run,” he rasped, tightening his grip. “Don’t you fuckin’ run from me.”

His mouth latched onto your clit and stayed there. Tongue flicking fast, lips sucking firm, his beard rough on your thighs—just enough to burn.

You whimpered, hands flying to his hair. He let you pull, let you shake, let you grind into his face. He wanted it. All of it.

“Goddamn, you taste good,” he growled, breath hot against you. “You know that? Know how sweet you are, drippin’ like this? Soakin’ the sheets for me like a fuckin’ dream.”

Your head hit the pillow.

“Tell me,” he said, fingers digging into your hips. “Tell me how good it feels.”

“S-so good—Joel, I—fuck, it’s—”

“That’s right. That’s my girl,” he groaned, dragging his tongue in slow, torturous circles. “Gonna come for me, baby? Gonna let me taste it?”

You nodded frantically, eyes rolling back. “Yes—yes, I’m close, please—”

He moaned into your pussy, deep and rough and wrecked.

“That’s it. That’s what I want. Wanna feel you come on my fuckin’ tongue. Wanna hear you cry for it.”

You did. You cried out, thighs clamping around his head, whole body shuddering as your orgasm hit you like a wave. He held you through it—licked you through it—groaned like you were feeding him life itself.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered. “You hear me? Perfect. This pussy’s mine now. Mine.”

You were still twitching when he pulled back, lips swollen, beard soaked, eyes dark with something dangerous. Then he kissed the inside of your thigh. Once. Soft.

“You’re not ready for what I’m gonna do to you next.”

You were still gasping when he kissed your inner thigh.

Still shaking when he rose onto his knees and looked down at you like he’d never seen anything so fucking good in his life. Joel’s beard was soaked with you. His lips were red and swollen, his chest rising and falling heavy. His hands were still on your legs, holding them open, keeping you bare for him like you were something he earned.

“You good?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded. Your voice didn’t work yet.

Joel exhaled through his nose. Then:

“Because I’m not done.”

Your stomach flipped. He moved slow—like a man taking his time unwrapping a gift he’d waited years to touch. He crawled up your body, licking and kissing and dragging his scruff over your ribs, your breasts, your collarbone. You arched into him, hands threading through his hair, your body already begging for more.

“Still want me, baby?” he rasped into your neck.

“God—yes—”

“Need to hear it. Say it like you mean it.”

You looked up at him. Eyes wide. Voice shaking.

“I want you, Joel. I want you so bad.”

He growled—low and deep, like it tore straight through his chest—and pressed his cock against your soaked folds.

“You’re gonna get me,” he muttered. “Every inch.”

He reached between your bodies, lined himself up, and dragged the thick head of his cock through your slick—teasing you, smearing your wetness over his tip.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned. “You feel this? How wet you are for me?”

You whimpered. “Please—put it in—”

“Not yet.”

He smirked. Cruel. “You sure you can take it?”

“Yes—fuck—Joel, please—”

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear.

“Beg for it.”

“Beg,” Joel whispered again. His lips were at your ear, his cock pressed thick and hard against your entrance, but not inside—not yet. His hand gripped your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin like he wasn’t already seconds from breaking you.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmured. “You wanted to act all grown back then? Show me now. Show me how bad you need it.”

You swallowed. Chest heaving.

“Please, Joel.”

“Not good enough.”

You reached down and wrapped your hand around him—hot, thick, twitching in your grip—and guided him to your entrance yourself.

“I need you,” you breathed. “I need you so fucking bad, I can’t think. I’ve been waiting for this. Begging inside. Since the second you walked in that door.”

Joel froze. Then he thrust in. One smooth, filthy stroke—slow, deep, so deep, and your mouth fell open in a silent gasp. Your body stretched around him, impossibly tight, impossibly full, the stretch burning and perfect all at once.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel gritted out, voice breaking. “So fuckin’ tight. You feel that?”

You nodded, breathless.

He didn’t move yet. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours.

“I can’t—” he whispered. “I can’t go slow.”

“Then don’t.”

Joel let out a growl—feral, wrecked—and pulled back before slamming back into you so hard your breath caught.

You cried out. Your nails dug into his back. He started moving. Rough, deep, steady thrusts that pushed you up the bed inch by inch, his hands on your hips to keep you where he wanted you.

“This what you wanted?” he panted. “Daddy’s friend to ruin you?”

“Yes,” you moaned. “Yes—fuck—just like that—”

He fucked you like he was trying to carve it into your spine. Like he wanted your body to remember him even if you never saw each other again.

“Thought about this every fuckin’ night,” he groaned. “Touchin’ myself to the thought of you on your knees, on your back, ridin’ me—fuck.”

Your legs wrapped around his waist. You pulled him closer, begged him deeper, and he gave it to you—all of it.

“You’re takin’ me so well,” he said, voice dark. “So fuckin’ greedy for it. This pussy’s mine now, you understand me?”

You nodded. You couldn’t even speak.

“Say it.”

“Yours,” you whimpered. “Joel—it’s yours—”

“Damn right it is.”

He slammed into you harder.

“Turn over.”

His voice was low. Flat. A command, not a request. You blinked up at him, still dazed, your body shaking under the weight of everything he’d already done to you.

“Joel—”

“Face down. Ass up.” His hand wrapped around your hip. “Now.”

You obeyed. Your limbs were slow, heavy, fucked-out, but you flipped onto your stomach, pushing up onto your elbows. You felt the air hit your wet skin, your thighs slick, your cunt leaking for him—and you felt him behind you, shifting up onto his knees.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “Just beggin’ for it.

He grabbed your hips and yanked you back onto him.

You gasped—loud, broken—as he filled you again from behind. Deeper, somehow. Angled to hit something inside you that made your toes curl and your jaw drop.

“Fuck—Joel—oh my god—”

He didn’t give you a second to adjust. Just started thrusting. Harder now. Rougher. His grip on your hips bruising. The sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, filthy and wet and constant.

“You were made for this,” he growled. “You hear me?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

“Say it. Tell me this pussy was made for me.”

You were already crying, but it wasn’t sad—it was too much. Too deep, too good, too intense.

“It’s yours,” you sobbed. “Joel, it’s yours, I swear—fuck—”

He leaned over your back, one hand sliding up your spine to the base of your neck. Then he grabbed your hair. Gentle but firm. And pulled. You gasped as your head tilted back—and he kept fucking you, right through it.

“Look at me,” he ordered, twisting your head just enough so your cheek pressed into the mattress, eyes catching his in the mirror across the room.

You hadn’t even realized it was there.

“You see that?” he panted. “You watch me fuckin’ you like this. You see what you do to me?”

You moaned, clenching around him. “I see it—I feel it, Joel—don’t stop—”

“Oh, I’m not stoppin’.” His voice dropped even lower. “Not until I’ve filled you up. Not until you know you’re mine. Not until you come one more fuckin’ time.”

You whimpered.

He let go of your hair, slid his hand under you to rub your clit while he slammed into you from behind, every thrust sending you forward, your cries getting louder, messier.

“I’m gonna come—Joel—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he growled. “Soak me. Let me feel you fall apart on my cock.”

And you did. You came hard—full body, voice gone, hands gripping the sheets as your pussy clenched around him, milking him through it. Joel cursed loud, deep, broken. Your orgasm hit you like a wave crashing through every nerve—your body seized, thighs trembling, walls clenching hard around him. You screamed into the pillow, shaking as pleasure ripped through you, too big, too much— And Joel didn’t stop. He groaned—long, rough—but held himself back, jaw clenched like he was in pain. His thrusts slowed, not because he was tired, but because he was trying to hold on.

“Fuck—shit, baby—” his voice was wrecked. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight—fuckin’ beggin’ me to come—but I’m not done.”

You whimpered, twitching, still pulsing around him.

“No,” he growled. “You don’t come once and get off easy.”

He pulled out. You let out a weak, needy cry—your whole body aching from the loss—but Joel didn’t go far. He gripped your hip and flipped you back onto your back, sliding down your body, mouth pressed to your thigh again.

“Wanna taste you like this,” he murmured. “Wanna feel how sweet you get after I’ve fucked you open.”

You could barely breathe. He buried his face between your legs again—and this time, his tongue worked slow. No teasing. Just deep, soft licks, a finger pressing back into your soaked, fluttering entrance while he moaned against your clit like you were his favorite fucking dessert.

“You feel that?” he muttered, voice thick. “That mess? All mine. You’re fuckin’ ruined for anyone else now.”

You were sobbing—sensitive, overstimulated, panting as he licked you through another orgasm so slow it almost hurt. When he slid back up, his mouth was wet and his cock was throbbing. But he didn’t let himself come. Not yet.

“You ready to come one more time?” he asked, lining himself back up.

“Joel—fuck, I don’t—"

“You do,” he whispered. “You’re gonna take it. Gonna let me fuck it outta you. Let me fill you up.”

He started again—deep strokes this time, slower, heavier, grinding against your sweet spot as his thumb worked your clit. And you came again. Tears in your eyes. Nails in his back. Legs shaking like you’d collapse if he let you go. That’s when he gave in.

“Fuck, fuck—that’s it—that’s my fuckin’ girl—”

He pushed in deep, one final time, and groaned into your mouth as he finally came, hot and hard, hips twitching, cock pulsing deep inside you.

This time he didn’t move.

Just stayed there. Breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.

---

You were still shaking. Your legs didn’t feel like they belonged to you. Your mouth was dry. Your skin slick with sweat and Joel’s breath still warm against your collarbone. He hadn’t pulled out. He didn’t move. His arm wrapped around your waist, the other under your neck. Protective. Possessive. Like if anyone opened that door, they’d have to go through him to get to you. Neither of you spoke for a long time.

Just breathing. Soft. Quiet. The only sound in the dark was the wind in the trees and the slow, steady beat of Joel’s heart against your shoulder. Then—

“That mouth of yours,” he muttered. Voice low. Wrecked. “Gonna be the end of me.”

You smiled faintly. Couldn’t quite look at him.

“Didn’t seem to mind it earlier.”

His nose brushed your jaw. “Didn’t say I minded. Just said it’s dangerous.”

“You’re dangerous.”

He hummed.

“Guess we’re both fucked, then.”

You turned your head toward him. His eyes were already on you. Heavy-lidded. Dark in the moonlight.

“Do you regret it?” you asked. Quiet.

Joel’s fingers traced a slow line down your spine. Thoughtful.

“No.”

A pause.

“Scares the hell outta me,” he admitted. “But I don’t regret it.”

Your chest ached. You let yourself curl in closer. Just a little.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t let go.

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mirrren · 1 day ago

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Major spoilers for ep 17 of 911

Ughhhhh okay I’m gonna get beat up for saying this but we throw around words like “gaslight” and “narcissist” so much online that sometimes I feel like there are a lot of people that don’t entirely realize what those words mean. Allow me to give a perfect example, from someone who was raised by a narcissist (hi daaadddd): watch the newest 911 episode and listen to the way Eddie talks to Buck when Buck gets home. I’m not even going to get into the train wreck of an argument they had before, no, for now we’re just focusing on the after.

Something narcissists love to do when they know they’re in the wrong is to shift focus. They’ll give you a gift they know you like, or take you somewhere special, all while ignoring the elephant in the room. It’s a way to manipulate your emotions. You’re so mad at them and then woah! Now you’re going to a fancy restaurant or you have a new diamond necklace. Or someone you miss has just come home from Texas. What a big family reunion this is. It’s a way to make them feel better about themselves, make them seem like the good guy. Remember in Tangled when mother gothel and repunzel got into an argument about seeing the lights, and then mother gothel came back home she announced she was going to make hazelnut soup? She doesn’t bring up the argument until she notices that her “gift” hasn’t shifted the blame effectively. Now, in Eddie’s case it actually works, and Buck doesn’t bring up their argument, so Eddie gets the glory of being the good guy.

Let’s rewind a little bit now. Folded sheets and a note that says “gone to the airport.” Do you fold your sheets when you sleep on a friend’s couch? Maybe if you’re polite. But the inclusion of this detail better serves as a way to hint to the audience that Eddie may be gone forever. Still it works to prove that Eddie had malicious intent. He could’ve put the note on the fridge. He could’ve written “brb” or hell, maybe even texted Buck to let him know. But he didn’t, I wonder why? Gaslighting 101 tells you that if you want to actually make someone feel like they’re crazy it has to be significant and insignificant at the same time. You can’t just say “no” and expect someone to be efficiently gaslighted. If you want to manipulate someone it has to be plausible, something you can twist or something you know they’ll forget. I was born at 10:50 but my dad always insisted I was born at 11. He was able to gaslight me through this because he knew 1. I didn’t have proof and 2. It was so close in time that it really didn’t matter. A few years ago he started to say I was born at 10:50 and any time I tried to argue that he always said 11 before, he would deny. I didn’t have proof that he said that, and I felt like I was going crazy.

Now, mirrren, you ask, what does your traumatic backstory have to do with Eddie Díaz of 911 fame? Hang on I’ll get to it. When buck came home surprised that Eddie was there, Eddie said “my note said I was going to the airport. The airport and Texas are not the same. They don't even have the same amount of letters in their—” which is true, but he never said he was going to be back either. It’s his tone that gets me. “Buck is so stupid for not realizing that he was coming back, Buck should’ve known, Buck is so lucky I’m around because I’m the only thing keeping him attached to sanity, I am a great person for doing this to Buck.” It’s patronizing, and it’s insulting. Narcissists do this a lot. Most of what makes gaslighting insanity inducing is the fact that the manipulator makes you feel like you’re stupid, like you’re just a kid. Maybe Eddie wasn’t intending to manipulate Buck, but his words and his tone indicate the opposite. If he wanted to make Buck feel like he left to Texas that’s still messed up for a friend to do. Even if I shipped buddie I would feel that way. Because this interaction was just so similar to how my dad made me feel every day of my life.

It’s understandable if those of you didn’t know that this behavior was a red flag. I don’t want to hate on any buddie shippers out there. But this behavior is concerning, even if it’s just a plot device or bad writing, it’s indicative of unfavorable characteristics and I can’t support Eddie after that interaction. I know it was an apology. He says “heard some dick was being mean to you” and sure I guess that is apologizing but does he ever say sorry? Does he even say that it was him that’s being mean? And if he did say sorry, or even if he did say it was him, what kind of apology is that? Make your best friend think you’ve left forever just to return with two people you know he likes? Nah I’m still mad, bud.

I had a lot more I wanted to say, but this is already so goddamn long I’ll cut it short here.

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stewpidcheescatarinabluu · 1 day ago

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“Love’s Gonna Get You Killed”

Chapter 4

“Familiarity”

Synopsis: A wounded mafia heir stumbles into a late-night convenience store, where a quiet clerk patches him up. He walks out—but can’t stop watching her. As danger circles and their worlds quietly collide, one question remains: Can you stay untouched in a life soaked in blood?

Word Count: 1,430

Karina X Male Reader

You woke up to the same hollow feeling.

Smoke curled in the morning light as you leaned on the balcony, coffee in hand, the bitterness biting at your tongue. Yesterday’s ambush still clung to your memory like a shadow, and then it clicked.

Why the convenience store?

Of all places—you hadn’t gone there out of instinct. Someone knew. Someone led you there. Why?

Elsewhere, deep in the uncharted base lit only by dim bulbs and rage, Suijoon stood with bandages wrapped tight around his ribs, eyes burning with unfinished vengeance.

“Boss,” he said sharply, bowing just enough to feign respect. “I’m done with recovery. Give me the authority to kill Y/N.”

The man sitting across the room didn’t look up from his files. Calm, collected—dangerous. “Stop with your impatience,” the boss replied, voice like gravel. “Do you have a death wish?”

Suijoon stepped forward, bristling. “Are you saying I’m incapable?”

A beat of silence.

“I’m saying you’re immature.” The boss finally met his eyes. “And that, alone, is what separates you from him.”

Suijoon’s jaw tightened, fists clenched. He wanted blood. But more than that—he wanted to matter

It was midnight.

The city felt quieter tonight, like it was holding its breath.

“Jun-ho,” you said, slipping on your coat, “I’m going out again.”

“Where to, sir?”

“42nd.”

He nodded, though his brows twitched slightly. “Shall I prepare a car? Or your motorcycle?”

You shook your head. “I’ll take the bus.”

Jun-ho blinked. “The… bus?”

You gave a faint smirk. “People watching. Kinda relaxing.”

“…Take care, sir.”

The bus hissed to a stop in front of the dimly lit convenience store. You stepped out, hands in your coat pockets, eyes catching that familiar glow of fluorescent lights and soft indie music humming from inside.

Karina was there, stacking cans. Same aisle, same focus—until she saw you.

“Welcome to Ko—” she paused, eyes wide. “Ah… you.”

You gave a small nod. “Hi, Karina.”

She straightened up awkwardly and bowed slightly. “Hello, sir. A pack of cigarettes?”

You nodded.

She retrieved the pack, slid it onto the counter, hesitating before speaking again. “Not to be nosy, sir, but… aren’t you kind of addicted to smoking?” She looked up at you with gentle concern. “It’s bad for your health, you know.

You looked at her, then at the box, then back.

“Am I?” you asked.

It wasn’t sarcastic. It was just quiet. Tired. Maybe even curious.

Karina let out a soft chuckle. “I mean, yeah. You’ve been here three times and bought cigarettes every time. That’s a bit suspicious, don’t you think?”

You tilted your head slightly. “Maybe I just like the ambiance.”

She arched a brow. “Ambiance? Fluorescent lights and expired cup noodles?”

You shrugged. “Has its charm.”

She smiled, finally easing. “So… do you always show up to convenience stores at 2AM covered in blood or…?”

You smirked. “Only on weekdays.”

Karina laughed then, a real one this time, leaning slightly on the counter. “Well, mystery man, got a name? Or do I just keep calling you ‘sir’?”

“…Y/N.”

“Y/N,” she repeated softly. “Okay. Better than ‘guy who bled on aisle three.’”

There was a brief pause.

“You always work the night shift?” you asked, voice quieter now.

She nodded. “Yeah. Pays a little more. And it’s quiet. I like quiet.”

You looked around. “It is quiet. Kind of peaceful, actually.”

Karina glanced at the empty shelves, the humming lights, the silence between you both. “Peace is rare. I try to keep it when I can.”

You nodded, folding the cigarette pack in your hand. “Do you ever get scared? Working alone at this hour?”

“Sometimes,” she said honestly. “But you get used to it. Or maybe you just learn not to flinch at shadows.”

You were quiet for a moment. That hit a little too close.

She noticed, her tone softening. “Sorry, was that too much?”

You shook your head. “No. I get it.”

Karina offered a small smile. “Everyone has something they’re running from. Even if it’s just bad thoughts at night.”

Your eyes met hers. For a second, everything felt… still.

She broke the silence again with a gentle laugh. “You really took the bus just to get cigarettes?

“Yeah? Is that weird?”

“Yeah,” she replied with a laugh. “But I guess everyone’s weird in their own way.”

You smirked, slipping the pack of cigarettes into your coat. “Well, the cigarettes here hit different.”

She tilted her head. “You’re full of it. Just admit you like loitering here.”

You shrugged. “Can’t help it. Feels warmer in here.”

“I set the thermostat to twenty-two. Very generous of me,” she said, crossing her arms with mock pride.

You chuckled. There was something about her — not the uniform, not the tired circles under her eyes — but the way she stood there, barely holding herself together and still joking around like nothing could break her.

“I’m not a smoker,” she said suddenly. “So I can’t relate.”

“I don’t recommend it,” you replied. “It kills you slow.”

“Well… so does debt.”

You blinked. She grinned like she just won a game.

“Dark humor. I respect it.”

“Survival humor, actually,” she said, fiddling with a pen behind the counter. “You work late hours too?”

“Something like that.”

“Must pay well, whatever it is. That coat looks expensive.”

You glanced down at your blood-stained-not-long-ago designer coat. “Would you believe me if I said I was a night-shift poet?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Absolutely not.”

You both laughed, a little too genuinely. She looked away quickly, like smiling too long might shatter the moment.

“I paint, sometimes,” she said. “When I’m not working three jobs.”

“Really? What kind of stuff?”

“People. Dreams. Sometimes nightmares. I don’t know, it’s dumb.”

“It’s not,” you said. “Not at all.”

She looked at you again. Really looked. For the first time, she noticed something underneath your sharp edges. The weariness. The loneliness. The way you always choose this store over a hundred others.

She didn’t ask why.

And you didn’t explain.

But in that quiet moment, under flickering fluorescent lights and half-stocked candy shelves, you started seeing her differently. Not just the girl behind the counter.

But Karina — debt-ridden, clever, sarcastic, tired, unbreakable Karina.

And somehow, that made the cigarettes taste less bitter.

It started as nothing. A cigarette run. A half-hearted excuse.

But then it became a habit.

Twice a week. Then every other night.

Sometimes, you’d talk about nothing — snacks on sale, weird customers, why strawberry milk tasted like childhood.

Sometimes, you’d sit in silence, just nodding at each other from across the room.

She’d always be restocking something. Taping boxes, pricing ramen, fighting with a soda machine.

You’d always come after midnight. And she never asked why.

One night, you brought her a coffee. Just one. She looked at it, confused, then smiled like it was the nicest thing anyone had done for her in months.

“Thanks… I’ll pay you back.”

“You won’t.”

She didn’t.

Another night, you sat by the window, watching streetlights flicker while she closed up early.

“You come here like it’s a ritual,” she joked.

“It is,” you replied.

No one laughed. But no one needed to.

Then… there was that night.

[That Night — Around 2:40 a.m.]

Rain poured outside, drumming soft against the glass.

Karina was slumped behind the counter, hugging her knees, the store empty and quiet. You leaned beside the fridge, sipping on canned coffee.

“You okay?” you asked, finally noticing the stillness in her face.

She didn’t look up. Just traced circles on the tiled floor with her finger.

“I have about 43 million won in debt,” she said quietly.

You didn’t say anything — just listened.

“My parents died when I was sixteen, Car crash”

She looked up at you now. Her eyes weren’t teary. Just hollow.

“They left behind a house full of bills and a name the banks don’t forget.”

You crouched down beside her, resting your elbows on your knees.

“And yet you still joke about thermostat settings.”

She chuckled, breathless. “It’s either that or cry every day.”

You didn’t offer advice. You didn’t tell her it’ll be okay.

You just sat with her. Let her breathe.

After a while, she nudged your shoulder with hers. “You still gonna keep coming here, now that you know?”

You lit another cigarette, blew smoke toward the flickering light.

“Yeah. I think I will.”

She smiled. Not out of happiness, but relief.

And that night, for the first time, she didn’t feel like just a clerk.

And you didn’t feel like just a shadow.

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