#I knew it was a matter of time before someone asked this

[pyraomen]

“JOLENE, I’M A WOMAN TOO” , stack x reader.

summary — ❝ i can easily understand why you're attracted to my man. but you don't want this smoke, so shoot your shot with someone else. ❞

warnings : strong language, violence (threatening), gun mentioned, alcohol use, sexual references, verbal insults, mary slander.

[ꪆৎ] was having herself a good time down at the juke joint. her belly was full from that fresh batch of catfish annie had just pulled from the fryer; crisp, golden, seasoned just right. she’d even snuck a few sips of liquor from her man’s cup when he wasn’t looking, the warmth of it humming in her chest. the place was alive tonight, packed wall to wall.

sammie’s voice boomed over the crowd, deep and rich, weaving through the smoke and laughter like a sermon of rhythm and blues. the air was thick with sweat, perfume, and excitement. it was exhilarating, felt like home. folks were swaying, stomping, clapping, hips rolling to the rhythm of his song.

everything felt just right, until she heard her name.

mary.

“is that little mary?” she heard cornbread yell out and immediately came to an halt. she wasn’t usually one to eavesdrop, but when it came to mary, she was all ears. that girl was like a fly that wouldn’t quit buzzing around your kitchen — still hung up on her stack. there’d been more than a few run-ins between them, and each time [ꪆৎ] had tried to keep her cool. but tonight, she was fed up.

elias somehow sensing some shit was finna go down, appeared behind her. “what’s wrong, baby?” he asked, his voice low, eyes already scanning the room like he knew who the problem was. she turned slowly, locking eyes with him. “stack,” she said, voice flat and sharp, giving him a look of get her before i do. he let out a knowing chuckle and pulled the toothpick from his mouth, giving her backside a rough tap as he leaned in to whisper in her ear. “i know, i know. i got it.”

stack wasn’t about to let it get ugly, not in front of all these folks, and especially not when he knew his woman didn’t play that. if mary didn’t leave on her own, one or both of them was looking to catch a bullet before the night was over.

[ꪆৎ] watched as stack made his way toward the entrance. she scoffed under her breath, shaking her head, then turned on her heel and made her way to the bar. the mississippi humidity clung to her skin, mixing with the slow simmer of anger already creeping up her spine. sliding onto a barstool, she fanned herself with her hand, though it did little to help.

her jaw clenched tight and eyebrows scrunched together. just the thought of mary trying her luck again made her skin itch. “need a drink?” came annie’s voice, smooth and matter-of-fact. [ꪆৎ] looked up to find the older woman standing behind the counter, a bottle of good whiskey in hand, the kind they didn’t pour for just anyone. she didn’t say anything, just gave a small nod, her fingers drumming anxiously on the bar top in a rhythm she barely noticed.

annie poured a glass, slid it across the counter, and gave her a look ; one full of shared understanding. wasn’t the first time a triflin heffa tried to sniff around one of the smoke-stack twins. and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

she took a slow sip of the whiskey, letting the burn calm the storm in her chest. or trying to, at least. the joint around her pulsed with laughter and music, but her focus was drawn to the front door, past the crowd ; where stack stood talking to her. their voices were low, but every now and then a word or two slipped through the rhythm of the joint.

“i was just... stoppin by,” mary said, her voice syrupy-sweet, the kind of tone women like her used when they were up to no good. [ꪆৎ] paused mid-sip, her ear twitching in their direction.

“you know i always had a soft spot for you, stack,” mary continued, a little louder this time, like she wanted [ꪆৎ] to hear. [ꪆৎ] set her glass down a little harder than intended. annie didn’t flinch, just raised an eyebrow, ready to step in if needed.

before she could make the decision to waltz over there. she heard stack let out a long sigh, voice laced with irritation. “mary, this ain’t the time or the place. i suggest kindly you get the fuck up outta here before i get one of these field bitches to do it for me. or better yet, get [ꪆৎ] to handle yo ass, you know she been itching for the right moment too.”

that should’ve been enough. but of course, it wasn’t.

mary let out a loud scuff, obviously feeling like somebody. “i’ll beat up every bitch in here and you know it.”

that did it.

[ꪆৎ] stood up slow, eyes never leaving the shadowy outline of the two at the door. her pulse thumped in her ears, the whiskey mixing with heat and rage. she didn’t shout, nor stormed ; she moved graciously through the crowd like a woman on a mission. 

annie just shook her head, muttering under her breath, “lord help that girl … she don’t know who she messing with.”

the crowd parted for [ꪆৎ] like it always did. some out of respect, others out of fear, but most just knew better than to stand in her way when she moved like that. her dress swayed with each step, graceful but sharp, the small pistol tucked in the folds at her thigh brushing against her skin like a silent reminder. the music didn’t stop, but the energy in the room shifted, low murmurs stirred, a few folks, cornbread included backed away from the door, sensing the storm brewin.

stack turned just in time to see her coming, jaw tightening. he didn’t move, he knew better than to interfere when she had that look in her eye. he wasn’t scared of his woman, but he was scared of his woman. this was between her and mary now.

mary, still too full of herself to read the room, crossed her arms and tilted her head. “so now you sending your little guard dog to the door?” she spat, chin raised.

[ꪆৎ] didn’t respond right away. she stepped up to mary, slow, eyes scanning her head to toe like she was sizing up trash on the side of the road. then she spoke, voice calm, but low and mean.

“you come to my man’s place of business, looking the way you look and talking nonsense you can’t back up. thought i wasn’t gon show, huh?” her louisiana accent thickening with each word she spoke. mary’s smirk faltered, just a little. “i ain’t scared of you. you hiding behind a man that i already had.”

[ꪆৎ] let out a soft laugh, humorless, deep, dangerous. her head tilted slightly, curls brushing her shoulder as she took one deliberate step closer, causing mary to shift her weight back instinctively. the scent of her perfume sharp and sweet in the thick air between them.

“that so?” she said, voice low and rich, louisiana accent wrapping around each word like molasses. “you had him, huh? must’ve been real forgettable, since he don’t even look your way no more.”

mary’s eyes narrowed. “he still remember.”

[ꪆৎ] nodded slowly, pressing her lips together before replying. “maybe. a man remember trash when it stank long enough. don’t mean he want it back in his house.”

a few folks nearby let out a low “mmm,” like they just bit into something hot and juicy. even stack looked down at his feet, fighting back a grin he knew better than to let show.

mary’s smirk had fully dropped now, her jaw tightening. but [ꪆৎ] wasn’t done. “you got two good legs, mary. use em. cause if i take one more step, neither i nor elias gon be responsible for what happens next.”

mary stood frozen, the fight in her chest but no wind to back it up. she opened her mouth like she wanted to throw another blow, but the silence around them told her loud and clear. she needed to take her ass on.

she huffed sharply, her chest rising with wounded pride, then spun on her heel with a dramatic flick of her hair. her heels struck the ground with angry rhythm, each step echoing her bruised ego as she stormed away from the joint, shoulders stiff with false dignity.

[ꪆৎ] slammed the door shut, then exhaled slowly, adjusting her dress. “yall can go back to having fun”, she said with a wave of her hand. that was all people needed to hear to get back in they groove.

she glanced up at stack, “lets go home. i’m tired of playing with these little ass girls.” he didn't say a word, just took her hand like he always did, following the fire that never steered him wrong.

[sleeplessspell]

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.

[mononijikayu]

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.

[orellazalonia]

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.

[blueberrypancakesworld]

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

[mzyjxu]

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

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⊹₊⟡⋆

[its-luna-noel]

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)

[missust3l3vision]

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.

[buckybabesonly]

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.

[osctwink]

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.

[mirrren]

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.

[r0manceplanet]

hallo!!,, ^_^ uuuhh this is my first time doing one of these so my apolocheese if this is worded oddly!! X-(

Fandom: forsaken

Pronouns: they / them

Gender + Sexuality: agender and pan (open to polyamory)

Personality: i'd like to say im a fairly positive and caring person!! i LOVE socializing, but at the same time I have HORRIBLE social anxiety, so it usually takes me a while to actually get the courage to get to know people,, X-[ I'm typically a very quiet and reserved as im not typically that energetic of a person,, but if I know you well, and if i have the energy for it, then I definitely can become very outgoing :-)

Hobbies: Photography, gardening (every flower I've tried to plant has died within a week </3) studying quantum physics, baking, and storytelling (I LOVE CREATING STORIES!!!)

Likes + Dislikes: i LOVE horror stories, i don't care WHAT form of media it even is I JUST LOVE HORROR!!!! same goes for quantum physics!! Though I'm specifically interested in multiverse theory!!!! also I really really like music!! My music taste shifts very often though, so I like a LOT of different genres,, ^_^;; OH also i love, love, LOVE flowers with all my heart!!!! I'll even paint or sketch them occasionally!! I just wish I actually knew how to take care of one AUGH💔 ((as for dislikes,,, surprisingly there's not much i dislike other than, like, basic things that everyone dislikes,, but if I really had to think of something, I guess don't really like crowded places or overly energetic people(like, YouTube family blogger type of overly energetic. they SCARE me) oh and also ketchup i really hate ketchup))

Love language: Quality time and words of affirmation

What i look for in a partner: someone who l can communicate with, and will communicate with me whenever there's an issue going on and will love me no matter if I'm acting reserved and quiet or energetic and outgoing. But overall, someone who spends time with me and shows they really love me <:-)

(AUUGGHHH SORRY IF THIS WAS LONG DUDE!!! D-:)

FORSAKEN MATCHUP #3

Thank you for sending in your matchup! and it was not too long at all! I love the stuff you added too, you seem like a really cool person— AND I think I had the most fun with this one since I matched you up with someone that I felt was *chefs kiss*

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Press “Keep Reading” to see who you got matched with!

I have matched you with… Azure and Two Time!

• Oh boy, you would not believe how excited I was when I matched you with these two, they both just fit you so perfectly in a way I cannot describe!

• You would meet them both before the games took place and before Two Time slowly turned insane, you were the latest member to the spawn cult, and they were both very eager to introduce themselves to you, they slowly got to understand you more through the conversations you all had together.

• Your insane knowledge for quantum physics was the reason why you were recruited to the cult, it was an asking help to help the cult grow more powerful for other people to join, and two time and azure loved learning about it through you, especially your passion for multiverse theory, they got to share a few things in common with you because of those two topics, which eventually leads up to them figuring out how to ask you out.

• They both were a little nervous on figuring out how to ask you out, they didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable, and they didn’t wanna lose you. Two time was the one that brought the idea up to Azure about how to ask you out, and to talk it out if they were both ok with dating you since they were still partners, but once learning they both share the same feelings with you and were on board with a plan, they go on to ask you out, with two time being extravagant about it with bringing gifts to you as an offering LMAO.

• After they asked you out, and (hopefully) with you agreeing they both were through the roof happy about it, and once things are settled with being in a polyamorous relationship with them, the fun begins. It’s so much fun being in a relationship with the both of them, whenever you all plan a home date azure and two time are both bickering about what movie they wanna watch, or about what they wanna do— but once you come up with an idea you wanna do, they throw all of their ideas out the roof and go along with what you wanna do.

• I headcanon that they both don’t listen to music often, with the reason being that they don’t have the time to listen because of how devoted they both are to the cult, but once they are together with you that all changes when you make them listen to a few of your favorite songs through their playlist, and then they both get into it and make their own, Azure seems like the type of dude to listen to soft music, like pop or j-pop (like lamp, ichiko, etc) and while two time seems like the type of person to listen to nu metal and rock. They would both make a playlist with you in there to listen to all of your favorite songs, and they put it on whenever they’re both hanging out with you.

• If you were to ever paint the two of them, they would both be in awe and hang it up, you made a portrait with azure and two time, and another one with you all in there, and they hung it up in the house they share with you, and they love staring at it whenever they’re both bored. And with your love for flowers, I feel like you would have so many colorful portraits of them being surrounded in flowers, and I feel like they would hang up those portraits you give them with a flower themed case.

• About flowers, Azure would give you a bouquet of flowers as a sign of his love towards you, that also goes for two time too, two time would also do the same but tends to get you other gifts than flowers and leaves that up for Azure to do. Azure makes flower crowns for the three of you, and takes a selfie afterwards. I can see the three of you running through a field of flowers without a care in the world, sprinting through the field and then tripping while laughing all together, it is truly a beautiful sight of the love you all carry for each other.

• Since you mentioned that you have social anxiety and it takes the courage to talk with people, I feel like they would easily get you to come out of your shell, and two time is the person that’s the most social in the trio, and even when you met them they were the first ones to introduce themselves, same with Azure but he’s also like you when meeting people, but oddly gets comfortable when he met you.

• You will always get compliments thrown your way from the both of them, and their compliments are super creative, they always compliment how good you look in a certain type of clothing, or pointing out the little details on your face that make you all flustered and fuzzy inside. They’ll always praise you because of how perfect you are to the both of them, and they couldn’t be more grateful to have you in their lives.

• You and Two time have the best horror stories, you both always tell each other them deep into the night, with azure listening to the both of you talk, and him adding in as well. Azure loves the stories you and two time come up with, and even you and two time have a little notebook you share with the stories you both created. Azure reads them while you both are sleeping each night (as long as he can read while being in the chaos of being close together while sleeping).

• When Two Time slowly goes insane, you and azure both notice immediately as they get slowly further from you both, and you and azure ask if they’re alright and they brush it off with a small “Yeah, I’m alright why?”. It didn’t seem like a big deal at first until an incident happened at the cult where you discovered that Two Time sacrificed azure for a ritual order in order for them to receive a second life, you felt like your entire world just crumbled in front of your eyes while screaming and crying at two time about what they’ve done.

• But two time doesn’t kill nor sacrifice you, no, not at all, but they threaten you that if you try to leave them you’ll end up just like Azure which forces you to stay in the relationship, and you will always live two time, of course you will, but your heart can’t fully recover after what they did to azure, you cry about it silently every night while they’re sleeping next to you. And once your in the games, you only have two time and they only have you, your stuck with two time forever there’s no leaving, will you ever see Azure? And when you do will he recognize the both of you? You don’t know, but when you do you’ll give him a hug and whisper secret apologies into his ear about how sorry you are that you couldn’t be there to protect him, and if he does kill you then it’s whatever, but 99% chance that he won’t, but he’ll always feel resentment towards two time, it’ll take a long time for him to mend things with them.

• Even without the incidents that happened, you have a very loving relationship with the both of them, even in the end when two time become demented and azure coming back to life just to be a killer, you will always have their backs even when the two of them aren’t on good terms with each other anymore, they’ll have you and they don’t mind sharing you, maybe things will slowly get better with them, hopefully, maybe someday things will go back to how they used to be.

[calumfmu]

i'll see you when you get here

You're perfect. There's nothing wrong with you, and he's still single, still stuck in the same town that you left to pursue a better life. You should've been happier than you were, finally glad that you got out of the rut he seemed to be stuck in. But you couldn't help to wonder what your life might've been with him by your side.

ex-boyfriend!Steve Harrington x AFAB!reader | 7.1k + words

cw: smut, p in v, fingering, oral, sweet but rough (?) sex idk, porn with plot, imposter syndrome, mentions of loss of virginity, AFAB reader, angst (what's new), og fictional male character, swearing, 18+, mdni

You belong here.

It's what you keep telling yourself. What you have been telling yourself for the past few years, in every situation or encounter you found yourself in. Oddly enough, it eased the tension in your shoulders, calmed the nerves that always seemed to build up whenever you realized you were so, so far from what you tried to convince yourself.

"-okay?"

Blinking away your thoughts, you felt a hand tighten its grip on your own. Glancing down at it, you were met with the sight of his hand grasped into yours, skin smooth, moisturized, well-groomed finger nails. Someone who had access to money, resources all his life, you could tell. There was a softness to it that couldn't be described.

"Huh?"

It fell from your lips before you could even register the noise properly, chastising yourself at the improper sound. Blush began to tint your cheeks as your date quirked his eyebrow, a similar sound to your own escaping his lips to mock you.

"Huh?" He teased, lightly brushing your cheek with his free hand. You subconsciously tilted your head away from it, his eyebrow dipping as he noticed the movement. "I asked if you were okay. You seem... a little lost."

"I just—yeah." You squeezed his hand instead of fully answering, urging him to lead you through the throngs of people. Nodding, you put on your best smile, moving through the motions.

He couldn't be someone to confide in, at least, with your idea of what was wrong. Because honestly, there was nothing wrong. The man in front of you was Tomas Windsor, heir to the fortune of one of the richest families in your college town. He was beautiful, smart, kind, a gentleman in every aspect of the word, everything that you should've wanted to date at this time in your life. He was marriage material, the type of man you knew that you had to settle down with no matter what age you had found him at. Any girl would have died at the opportunity to be in the same room as him, let alone asked out by him on a third date (third!).

You were three weeks away from graduating summa cum laude, had a paid internship for a multinational corporation, and living in a swanky apartment well beyond your means. He fit perfectly into the mold of your life, a perfect soon-to-be-boyfriend-turned-husband who you couldn't find anything wrong with.

He had taken you to a party in the city, blocks away from your place, yet still so unfamiliar to you due to the crowd. A high rise apartment, some of the richest people you could think of in one room. He was to introduce you to a few "important people", who you had later learned were the adult children of important people. Connections were connections, and networking was going to get you places, you had to keep telling yourself that.

Seven different names that sounded like variations of each other later, that same anxiety began to bubble in your chest, feeling like it was eating away at you.

Gripping his arm, you gave him a tight squeeze. Tomas' blue eyes cut to yours, crinkled with a smile as he laughed at a joke thrown to him by one of his friends—Jake or maybe it was Brandon, you weren't quite sure at this point.

"Hey, I think I may head—step out for a second," you stuttered, feeling the urge to bail on all plans right now.

A small frown crossed his face momentarily before he covered it up.

"Do you want me to come with y-"

"No! No! Please-" You choked out an awkward laugh as his friends suddenly looked at you, the loud outburst somehow sounding out of place at the noisy party. "Enjoy your friends—I'll b-be right back."

You scurried away before you could even process his reaction to it, hot tears stinging the corners of your eyes as you searched for any type of refuge. The palms of your hands slapped into your cheeks as you batted the falling trails away.

Shoulders crashed into yours, a few splashes of whatever kind of alcohol sprayed your arms, shoes stepping over your own as you made your way through the crowd. You felt like an animal with the way your head snapped over the sound of a sliding glass door closing, a primal urge to seek shelter.

"Excuse m—Oh, I'm sorry!" You whispered, placing your hand on the backs of the girls you were trying to squeeze by. You had stepped on one of their boots, kitten heel digging into the toe.

She had recognized you, her face lighting up after a grimace of pain.

"It's me!" She exclaimed, teeth wide and white as she smiled at you. Your eyes were blank. "Ash!" Nothing. "Ash McCoy! From last year's sisterhood retreat?"

Your eyebrow quirked, your own smile mimicking hers, eyes crinkled uncomfortably as your feet slowly moved towards the sliding glass doors. Faking it was something that you had grown used to during the past few years, in every aspect of your life.

"Oh my goodness, Ash!" You reached a hand towards her, waving your fingers in the air as the gap between you increased. You were almost at home base. "Did you do something with your hair?"

She beamed, nodding as she didn't realize how far you actually were from her. Her finger twirled a strand of her locks.

"I went to Sam's girl! She did low lig-"

"You know what, Ash, I'll text you!" You laughed a little, hand finally finding the handle of the door as she nodded, shooting you a thumbs up before becoming distracted with another person who had crossed her path. With a slight roll of your eyes, you pushed the door open and slammed it behind you as you exited.

The cool heat of the night air hit you in the face first, wind wisping up a rosy colour on your face as you tilted your head back. There wasn't a breath deep enough to take in the moment, ears and eyes burning with thoughts of how much you felt you didn't belong here. You leaned over the balcony railing slightly, taking a deep breath that seemed to get caught in your throat.

It wasn't like you this was your first party or first time going on a date or hell, even talking to someone. You couldn't tell what was wrong, but you knew something was. Everything felt off, your clothes too big on you, necklaces too tight, English a language foreign on your tongue.

The balcony you stood on was huge, still scary nonetheless. You had to be at least 60 stories up, the people and cars below you seeming so small. It was the type of view that made you realize just how big the world is, how none of this really mattered.

"You look like you could use a cigarette."

A voice called out to you, a hint of a laugh behind it. You pressed the palms of your hand to your eyes, the pressure causing stars before you turned to the stranger, ready to let the facade slip to tell him to fuck off.

The smile is what stopped you in your tracks.

Hands falling by your sides, you watched as his gaze dropped, smile immediately fading as recognition struck you both.

"Steve?"

"Is that really you?" His voice sounded small as he kicked himself off of the wall, fingers reaching to grab the cigarette that hung between his lips.

Before you knew it, your feet were inching closer to him, a wide eyed gaze set on him.

You could see the watery glaze of his hazel eyes as you came face to face with him, only inches between you. At this distance, that familiar scent of his cologne hit you, memories of the adolescent versions of yourselves flooding your mind. His face was still freckled, lips still rosy pink, boyish charm wafting off of him.

You couldn't find the words to speak, wanting nothing more than to close the gap between you two, fingers itching to lace themselves in his hair, tangle between the fabric of his clothes. Somehow, you found them.

"What are you doing here?" The crack in your voice would've been unnoticeable to anyone else.

"Oh, you know, loitering on stranger's properties. The usual," he quipped, confidence flooding back into him. If you were anyone else, you would've believed his faux confidence, but you saw the twitch in his eye, the slight shake of his fingers as he raised the cigarette to his lips again.

"Steve Harrington," you joked. His smile widened. "Prodigy. A legacy many only dream of becoming."

He shook his head, a slight roll of his eyes as he pulled you into a hug, his chest nearly smothering you with the grip he had. Eyes fluttering close, you breathed in his scent, cedar and cinnamon.

His head was thrown back into a laugh, long expanse of his throat highlighted in the sunlight. A pencil was tucked behind his ear, holding the few strands of hair that didn't fall over his eyes. The hazel orbs were perfectly framed, time slowing down in the moment as flecks of pollen floated in the air around you two, glimmer in the summer light. He was a part of a movie scene, straight out of a catalogue, an endless amount of happiness surrounding him as he stared you down.

For a second, you felt at home.

The summer air around you suddenly felt cold as he let you go, hands lingering on your shoulders before falling to his sides.

"Where-what have you been—you're graduating soon!"

He seemed to remember something in that moment, tapping his coat pockets before pulling out a battered down carton of Virginia Slims. He pulled one out, placing it in his lips besides the already lit one before raising a lighter to it.

Shaking your head, you remembered the same antics five years earlier. He handed the fresh one off to you, lit and smoking into the air. It felt foreign, yet familiar in your fingers, like seeing the first photograph of a memory you always replay to yourself.

You hesitated as you slowly brought it to your lips, breathing in a heavy waft of thick smoke, choking you.

He threw his signature smile, fucking giggled at your coughs.

"Wooww, look what we have here," he shook his head, watching as your face turned crimson. "Years ago, you would've smoked me under the table. You're out here coughing like a dweeb."

A blush covered your cheeks.

"Well, we can't all stay the same people."

A slight uncomfortable silence filled the air between you as he nodded slowly, eyeing you down as he breathed in a long drag. His gaze felt heavy on you, burning with every trace they made over your skin.

"You do look different."

Suddenly, you felt under and over dressed at the same time. Your stupid, pressed cigarette pants, idiotic grey fucking cashmere sweater with gold buttons, tennis bracelets adorning your wrists, an expensive ass handbag that had been gifted to you by your sorority president. Who the fuck were you? Why couldn't you recognize yourself in front of him?

Your hand instinctively shot out to press down a crease in your sweater while the other lifted the cigarette again to your mouth, the drag much easier this time around. You felt the smoke ease a wave of anxiety all while tension began to rise in your shoulders.

There were two sides of you fighting each other, yet working in sync.

Steve's stare became too much.

"I could say the same about you," you sarcastically laughed, your own eyes running over him.

He was the same. But he was so, so different.

He had swapped the bright, striped shirts and khakis for something a little more form fitting. White fitted tee that clung to his chest in a way you don't recall seeing before, a brown canvas jacket hanging over his frame, dark jeans that shouldn't have fit him that tight, in all the right places.

His face had matured, suiting him better than you could've imagined. Facial hair dusted over his face, jawline sharper than ever, hair still wild, but tamed enough to show how much of an adult he had become.

"You look... good," you whispered, finally fully grinning at him. It was the same grin that you used to give him whenever you remembered just how much you loved him.

He recognized that.

Stepping closer to you, his free hand shot up to rest on your upper arm.

Silence filled the air yet again. Comfortable, yet full.

"Where've you been?"

The words of the same sentence left both of your mouths at the same exact time, your eyes searching his for an answer you both weren't quite sure of. After all these years, you two were still in sync, still thinking of the same things at the same time.

The heaviness of the air crept between you two.

As he opened his mouth to say something, you heard the sliding glass door open a few feet away from you two. The loudness of the party inside blared out suddenly, interrupting the moment you shared.

You stepped away from him like you had been burned, eyes widening with a faux persona appearing, smile wide like it hurt. Your fingers tightening their grip on the purse in your hands. You pretended like you didn't notice the way Steve was looking at you, his hand falling to his side as he stepped away from you.

"Tomas!"

Your date smiled at you softly, ignoring the man that stood beside you.

"Are you feeling better?" He questioned, stepping towards you.

His smile dropped, brow crinkling as he noticed the lit cigarette in your hand. Your eyes followed his gaze, dropping it immediately before stubbing it out with your heeled shoe. Taking a step closer to him, you ignored the low whistle that left Steve's mouth, followed by a sarcastic scoff.

Party foul, you both knew this. The only way to put out a cigarette was by smoking all of it.

"I, uhhh...."

You turned to glance at Steve, noticing the way his eyes hung low, focused on the tip of his boot as he puffed away. Smoke billowed around him, clouds filling the air before being drifted away by the small gusts of winds. The balcony light combined with the shine of the moon allowed you to see more of the matured side of him, years of catching up owed between you two.

You glanced back towards Tomas, seeing his expectant look.

"I think we’re going to head out now."

He turned towards inside the penthouse once more, hand on the outside of the building as he expected you to follow him. His words hung in the air between the two of you. A perfectly shaped eyebrow quirked in your direction, his dress shoe tapping once, twice on the tiling.

You glanced back at Steve, seeing his back turned towards the two of you. He was checked out of the interaction at this point, focused on the view of the city skyline in front of him as he neared the end of his cigarette.

Tomas called to you once more, urging you to follow his lead.

Anxiety pooled in your chest.

"I'm going to stay."

What the fuck were you doing?

"What?" Tomas and Steve's voices blended together in disbelief. Blue eyes darted to meet hazel for the first time, both men not realizing what was transpiring.

Steve had a slight smirk on his face, puzzled, yet proud at the same time. Tomas, on the other hand, looked slightly disgusted, surprised by this version of you, even if he really didn’t know you that well. Maybe you didn’t know yourself too well either.

Change your mind.

You gulped, blinking hard as you took a step back. "This is my... old friend from my hometown. I would like to catch up."

Every sentence out of your mouth sounded rehearsed. Badly rehearsed. Too formal, yet too casual at the same time. The persona you had built up during the last few years felt like it was crumbling all at once. And for what? You said all of six words to your childhood boyfriend you hadn’t seen since the summer after graduation?

Tomas' posture straightened up, suddenly sizing up Steve as his attention shifted. Steve didn't look at him once, staring you down as he tried to figure out what you were doing.

It had been years since you had last spoken to him, but he knew that this lifestyle had been what you were shooting for since the day you turned 9 years old. There wasn't anything that could deter you from that. Except maybe one thing—one person.

"Your.. hometown?"

There was a hint of something in his voice, something that made your skin crawl. The same tone that had been directed towards you your entire life. A tone that Steve would understand.

It was like he had read your mind, stepping forward while he flicked his cigarette over the edge of the balcony, the same hand extending towards a hand shake.

"Nice to meet you. Steve."

His smile was smug, an outward show of confidence you had witnessed him try to perfect in his teen years. He had somehow done it, standing taller and more proud than the heir in front of you. It was then you had realized Steve was exactly who he thought he was.

Tomas eyed his hand, reluctantly taking it in a firm grasp.

"Tomas."

There was a small laugh that left Steve's mouth, "Toe- mas? Thomas wasn't good enough for you?"

A thin line pressed into your date's mouth. You can see the flicker of irritation behind his blue eyes, something so unfamiliar to his perfect face.

"Just Tomas is fine."

Steve hummed, shrugging as he quirked an eyebrow. He turned around to face you again, shooting you a face that made you bite back a smile. You avoided eye contact with him, knowing it would take just one more look to get you to crack. He still remained the same world class idiot, always wanting to joke around at the most inconvenient times.

What were you doing?

"Are you sure you don't want to...?" Tomas' voice had trailed off. You felt like an idiot, just standing there.

You heard the scuff of Steve's boots behind you, a metronome in your mind that tethered you to the moment. Remaining silent, you shrugged slightly, not quite sure what to say.

"I guess I'll just... text you then," Tomas muttered, slightly banging his fist on the wall before he turned inside. He lingered in the door for a moment, waiting to hear you call back out to him. When you didn’t, he continued, disappearing into the crowd.

The sliding door was left cracked open behind him, shouting and music from inside spilling out.

Steve was smirking at you as you turned around to face him, his hands tucked into his jean pockets. The canvas jacket he had complimented him well, bringing out the bronze undertones of his skin. It reminded you of an Indiana summer you missed so much, nothing quite like the feeling of home.

"So do you want to get out of here or what?"

He looked up at your apartment building, a long, low whistle in his throat as he slowly guided his eyes up the 15-story building.

"Nice place here, Einstein," he joked, wiggling his eyebrows. He followed you as you got out your key card, opening the door.

Holding it open for him, you rolled your eyes, ushering him inside. You had to push him through the lobby and corridors to the elevator, his jaw dropped in faux mockery as he took in the building. He spun in several circles as you walked through, pointing out the vases that littered the lobby and expensive looking paintings.

It wasn't that nice, you had to tell yourself.

You felt embarrassed by the place, feeling suddenly like you stuck out like a sore thumb. You didn’t belong here.

You tried hiding the floor button you pressed, frame attempting to block his view from it. The elevator was silent as it rose, a small hum of the mechanics along with the pleasant sound of an orchestra coming from the speakers.

"Twelfth floor?!" Another whistle. "I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore."

"Steve."

He laughed at you, hand finding the small of your back as you lead him down the hall and inside of your place. Butterflies filled your stomach, your mind resorting to the teenage version of yourself at the familiarity of his touch.

As you made your way inside hurriedly, you slipped off your shoes at the entrance, throwing your purse down at the table.

Your fingers were shaking as you went into the fridge. Water? Coffee? Wine? Does he even drink still? Would he be hungry? God, you were such an idiot, were you over thinking it? Deciding between the filtered water container and a canned seltzer, you turned to face him, eyes focused on the labeling.

“Do you want mo-”

You cut yourself off, finally noticing the way he was looking at you. He leaned over the small island, head propped up on his elbow, eyebrows raised into his hairline, a fond look in his eyes.

Growing self conscious, you took a few steps towards the counter, placing the drinks down.

“What?”

Steve hummed, blinking languidly at you while his smile softened.

“Nothing, I just—,” he spoke, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “You’ve done good, kid.”

Warmness filled your chest, and you were consumed by this overwhelming sense of home. Something you hadn’t felt in years. Since you left Hawkins. Sure you’ve found your friends here since being in college, spoke to your parents enough to not be homesick (well—whenever they weren’t concerned with your siblings), but it was nothing compared to the feeling that Steve had brought you.

You didn't know what to say in that moment besides offering the beverages to him. He opted in for the water, and you silently kicked yourself, realizing that you were an idiot for even offering him the alcohol.

He called your name, pulling you out of your thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"Stop it," his eyebrow quirked with his words, a stern, but loving look on his face.

A warm flush crossed your face as you stood across from him, fully dressed, yet feeling exposed.

"You don't even know what I was thinking!" Your mouth fell open in a laugh, bringing your hands up to cover your face briefly.

"I do, babe," that nickname had your heart skipping, a deeper flush crossing your features.

Steve stood up, walking around the counter to stand beside you. He leaned against it, hand stretched out. His height towered over you, the waft of his cologne flooding your senses. To distract yourself, you hopped on the counter, nearly next to eye level with him.

"You might be in this nice place," he started, fingers trailing over the marble counter as he took a swift look around. "You may be hundreds of miles away from Hawkins, a college degree away from me, but you're still the same person, babe. I know you."

Huffing, you couldn't help, but agree with him. If there was anyone that knew you better than yourself, it was him.

Years apart couldn't have taken that from you, especially when there was years of history to support your relationship.

He had been a part of your life since you two were in the 3rd grade, way before time had separated you.

"I feel like I don't know you," you finally replied, blinking up at him. His eyes trailed over your face, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "How were you there? Why were you there?"

"I told you," he laughed. "Loitering, it's my favorite pastime."

You cackled, rolling your eyes at him.

"Steve."

"Okay, fine, fine." He leaned slightly closer to you, frame almost fully in front of you. "I was meeting a friend."

You rose an eyebrow, leaning back at his words.

"A friend?"

He hummed, tilting his head side to side as he debated answering truthfully, "A... girl."

Why the fuck did that sting? You literally had been on a date. That same date had a conversation with Steve.

"Oh?" You feigned interest, a wide smile on your face. "And who might this girl be?"

He rolled his eyes slightly, grimacing as he looked towards the ceiling. His body has moved closer to yours, hips squared in front of your knees. This was the closest he had been to you in years, and you never wanted him to move.

"This... girl. We met in the city, a night at the only cool dive there," he muttered, shaking his head as he laughed at the memory. Your cheeks hurt as you continued to fake your smile. "She seemed cool."

"Aannd... what happened to her?"

He hesitated, staring you in the eyes with a serious expression on his face. You had thought he zoned out for a second before he cleared his throat, shaking his head.

"She never showed."

You felt sorry for him and guilty at the same time. Grateful that she hadn't showed because you could have him for yourself, yet so, so remorseful over the feeling that might've caused.

"Oh my goodness, Steve. I'm so sorry," you reached out a hand to soothe him. He captured it in his own, fingers rubbing against yours as he looked down at it.

Your hand seemed so small in his, your manicured fingers contrasting his working ones.

"It's okay, babe," he smiled at you, bringing your hand up to kiss it. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Her loss... right?"

Nodding, you didn't know what to say. It was her loss. She was crazy for not showing up for this man, not realizing what she was missing. He had been the best god damn thing to happen to you, so why would she risk it?

You sat on the marble counter of the kitchen island, legs swinging. It’s not like you were trying to avoid eye contact, but you weren’t able to look him directly in the eyes.

One of his hands was tapping against your knee in rhythm with the swing of your leg, the other caging you in. You could tell he was fighting the urge to step in between your legs fully, hips finding their way in a place they used to call home.

Silence filling the air between you, it felt comfortable.

“I missed you, babe,” he whispered, hand reaching up to swipe at your jawline before finding itself back on your knee.

All you could do was barely nod before he was stepping forward, his hands flying forward to pull you to the edge of the counter. One of your legs snaked up to rest at his hip, muscle memory catering to his body.

Everything was still the same.

The taste of tobacco and mint, a soft tug of his teeth at your bottom lip, the gentle swipe of his tongue against yours.

One of your hands tangled in his hair, the other at his shoulder, attempting to push off the heavy material of his canvas jacket. He was helping you with it, leaning over your frame all while taking off his coat, lips pressed to your own.

Time had worked in both of your favors, knowing each other so well, yet experience allowing you to pleasure each other just that much more.

His coat was thrown across the floor somewhere, your hands running down the expanse of his chest. It was firmer than you remembered, muscle replacing the soft flesh that once was. His fingers found your face, creeping underneath your chin to bring your mouth fully into his.

“St-Steve,” you moaned, gasping into his mouth as once of his hands griped your side hard, pulling your hips into his.

He ground down into you, hardness behind his dark jeans rubbing against your core.

Heat flooded your body, memories of your last moments together all those years ago flooding back. You had hoped they were going to be pushed down, so far in the back of your mind, they didn’t exist anymore.

"You're going to leave me, okay?" His voice was loud in the room, cutting into the midnight hours as sheets tangled around the two of you. There had been so much love between the two of you hours before, bodies becoming one for the last time as you knew it.

Your brow crinkled in confusion as you took in his words. "Steve, what-"

"You're going to get on that plane tomorrow and leave me," There was a soft smile on his lips as he leaned up to press a kiss to your forehead. He brushed a loose strand of hair off of your face, fondly staring down at you. "You have such a big future ahead of you, babe, I would only hold you back. We both know this."

You shot up, wanting to interject. He cut you off before you could say anything. Gripping your hand and pulling you into his chest, he sighed, lips pressed into a smile.

"It's our last night together. It has to be. Let's enjoy this, and then you'll never look back." You wanted to pretend like you didn't know what he meant, but it was clear to the both of you. You did have to leave. Hawkins would only hold you back.

You pushed him off of you, thumb swiping at your bottom lip as you grew self conscious of yourself. He was confused, panting as his eyes trailed over you. Lust was written all over his face, teeth digging into his bottom lip.

It was the type of look that would’ve sent you over the edge in your teen years, but now? It just made you regret every accomplishment you had made because he hadn’t been there for it.

“Sorry—was I—was that too much?”

He stepped away from you fully, hands moving to rest at your knees.

You still avoided eye contact with him.

“I just need to be good,” you said softly, tongue swiping over your lip.

“What?”

“I need to be good, Steve,” you said it a little louder this time, finally looking into his eyes.

He tilted his head in confusion before nodding, a smug look on his face.

“Yeah, heard you the first time,” he shook his head with a scoff, turning to grab his jacket off of the floor. Your heart sunk in your chest, realizing the insinuation of your words. You didn't mean to insult him, but it was the truth. You didn't know how to be good with him, didn't know what your future might hold if he stood here with you in time.

“No!”

Jumping off the counter, you stopped him before he could move.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Steve,” you were frantic with your movements, fingers gripping his arms as he looked to the side.

Turning to look down at you, his hand reached up to smooth back the hair that had fallen in his face. He still had that look in his eye, tongue swiping over his bottom lip as he stared down at you.

Butterflies rattled you from the inside, your tongue suddenly feeling heavy.

“I don’t know what all of this means,” you admit, allowing Steve to move you back towards the counter, your backside hitting the edge of it. “After all this time, it doesn’t make sense.”

His hands touched your hips, pulling you into him. You couldn't breathe with the way he was overwhelming you. He smelled heavenly, temptation you couldn't resist.

"I still feel the same as—as I did w-"

Steve leaned down, his lips finding the side of your neck. Head tilted to the side, you closed your eyes, hand reaching up to toy with his hair. A soft moan slipped from your lips, feeling the wet hotness of his mouth against you.

"—as I did the day I left."

Your stomach turned as he pressed his lips in a trail down the side of your neck. You craned your head back so he could have better access to you.

"Ste—I can't."

"It's okay," he whispered, licking a stripe up to your ear.

The feeling had you whimpering, head thrown back even further.

"I'm going to have to leave again," you whispered, hips tilting as his fingers found their way to your waistline.

He pulled away from you, brow furrowed as he shook his head. Guilt overwhelmed you once again as you saw the look on his face.

'You're not leaving me again," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your mouth. "I finally found you again."

All you could do was nod and not say anything as he pressed his mouth to yours.

"You're mine again, babe."

Lips slotted together, your eyes fluttered shut as he slipped his hands underneath your sweater, pulling it over your head. The cool air of the room hit your skin, his hands trailing warmth wherever they touched. He pulled away from you to look at the lace bralette you wore underneath your clothing, his large hands moving to cup the material.

"You're beautiful, baby."

Before he could kiss you again, you turned away from him, hand clasped into his as you led him through the living area of your apartment. The double doors of your bedroom were thrown open, Steve pressed to your front, hands on either side of your face.

He walked you backwards to the bed, pushing you down on to it before taking off his shirt. His mole dotted skin was flushed red with arousal, skin warm as he laid on top of you.

"Fuck," you breathed, pushed up the bed as he grinded down onto you.

The material of your jeans was getting to you both, frustration evident in both of your movements as you struggled to get them off. His mouth didn't want to leave yours, a clash of lips and tongue and teeth as your hands roamed.

"God, I missed you."

He sounded breathless as he cupped your face in his hands, firm kisses to your lips. He was aggressive in his movements, pushing your face to the side as he kissed down your jawline, down your neck, and to your chest.

One of his hands had trailed down to your core, fingers brushing over your clothed cunt as you attempted to kick off your pants from your ankles.

"Ste—"

You could barely finish moaning his name before his lips had found your nipple, breast spilling out the top of your bralette. His fingers had pushed your panties to the side, finger dipping slightly into your wetness.

You couldn't remember the last time you were this turned on. Wetness was dripping out of you, pussy clenching around nothing as he teased you.

"Ste-Steve, I need more."

He muttered something around your nipple, switching to the other one as he sunk his middle finger into you. A loud moan fell from your lips, back arching as your head was thrown back into the sheets.

Leaving your chest, he kissed down your stomach, biting at the skin just to watch the small indents from his teeth form.

You painted, looking down at him, feeling the urge to cum immediately just from the sight of him. He was fucking beautiful. You couldn't believe he was yours again.

His hair had fallen completely in his eyes as he looked up to you, free hand aiding his teeth in pulling down your underwear while his other worked a long finger deep inside of you.

"Fuck—"

Your back arched again as he added his ring finger along side it, a light kiss pressed to your clit.

"Open wider, baby," he muttered, nudging your knee to the side. Immediately, your legs opened, one of your knees hooking onto his shoulder.

He smirked at you, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.

"Good girl."

Another wave of wetness hit you as you pulsed at his words. He knew exactly what to say to get you going, validation being that one thing that always had you falling apart for him.

He looked down at you, pursing his lips as he let a trail of spit drip down from his mouth to pool at your clit. It was the filthiest thing you've seen in a while, a gasp leaving your lips as he looked up to you to make eye contact while he dipped his tongue to lick at you. His eyelids were low, nearly shut as he sucked at the small nub.

You arched your back, head thrown back against your sheets. Reaching out, you grabbed a handful of his hair.

"St-Steve, you can't—I can't— I'm not going to l-last if you do that," your speech was so muddled, nearly incoherent as you babbled.

"M'kay," he mumbled against you, diving even lower to tongue at your folds, dipping in between his fingers.

A tingle struck your spine, pleasure coursing through your body.

Steve brought his free hand around your thigh propped up on him, pulling you closer to him. The noises filling the air were sloppy, you breathing heavy, panting his name, his tongue running along you, his own moans filling the air.

"I missed this," he breathed against you, eyes squeezed shut.

All it took was one curve of his fingers inside you, and the trigger was released, blinding white pleasure coursing through you. With a whine, you came against his mouth, pulsing around his fingers, clit throbbing under the weight of his tongue.

He knew when to slow down, tongue licking at you once more before he released his grip on you. With one last kiss, he left the space between your thighs, kissing up the length of your body while you caught your breath.

"How's my girl doing?"

He asked, eye to eye with you now. He led his hands through your hair, thumb swiping against your brow bone.

Nodding, you lifted your head off the sheets, kissing him. He was biting back a smile, gripping the back of your head as he towered over you.

"Good, baby?" He asked again, urging you to nod with him. Biting your lip, you brought your hand to his stomach, trailing down slowly until you reached the waistline of his unbuttoned jeans.

Glancing down, he was hard, poking at the fabric, a dark patch at the groin.

Before you could begin pulling down his pants, he gripped at your wrist.

"Babe—we don't have to-"

Rolling your eyes, you cut him off. "Steve."

He grew serious, propping himself up while his grip slightly loosened around your wrist.

"I've waited damn near five years for this," you continued, waiting on him to let up. He only looked at you, concern written in his face. "You're mine again. Let me have you."

With a nod, he let you go, aiding you in pulling down his jeans. He kicked them off of him, off the edge of the bed before he found his place again, settled between your legs.

"Just let me know, okay?"

You nodded, raising one hand to rest of the back of his neck and the other on his arm. He propped himself up on one arm, reaching down with the other to guide himself at your entrance.

The tip of his cock nudged at you, a stretch you weren't prepared for, but had somehow been waiting for this entire time.

"Baby?"

Steve wanted to make sure you were okay one last time, and with the final nod you gave him, he pushed in. Slowly stretching you apart, you felt the puzzle pieces coming together.

With a moan, you dug your nails into his arm, manicured hand turning a few shades lighter as you felt so, so full.

As he reached the hilt, he let himself go before gripping your thigh, pushing your leg up towards your torso. The bend, the stretch, the fullness, this was the most complete you had felt in years.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, waiting for your confirmation before pulling out, a quick jolt of his hips to push back in.

You could tell he was being sloppy, holding back his own orgasm that was threatening to end this a lot sooner than you both were expecting. His thrusts were moving you up the bed, the weight of his body pressing your leg back further with each movement.

"Fuck, Steve, you're so—so deep."

He closed his eyes, groaning at your words.

"Shit, baby, you can't say shit like that."

You attempted to giggle, cut off by a moan as the tip of his cock hit your bundle of nerves deep inside of you. The hand by your hand tangled in your hair, pulling on it slightly as he gained momentum.

"You're so—" Steve leaned to bite at your jawline, nipping the skin hard enough to leave a bruise. "Such a good girl, just for me, baby."

Nodding, you felt his words bringing you closer to the edge.

"Just for you, baby."

He brought his hand to push your leg back even further, his hips picking up speed as he fucked into you. Your pussy was dripping around him, the praise going straight to your arousal. You weren't going to last much longer.

"B-babe." You whined, feeling it build inside of you.

He was close too, his hips only speeding up as his breathed heavy against your ear. He let out a whimper as you squeezed around him, eyes glued shut as you reached your peak.

"Fu—"

A strangled moan left your lips as you came around him, his cock deep inside you, pressed right up against your core. You could've sworn you blacked out for a second, pleasure blinding you as you came around to Steve cumming all over your lower body. It dripped over you, covering your cunt as he worked his length, one arm holding himself up.

Somehow, you managed to keep your eyes open to stare him down, a second wave of pleasure hitting you as you took in the sight.

With a collapse next to you, he stared at the ceiling, panting heavily.

"I think I just died," he whispered, turning his head to look at you.

A giggle escaped you, shaking your head at how dumb he could be after a moment like that.

"I must've too because I think we're in heaven," you whispered, moving to cuddle up next to him. He pulled you into his arms, wrapping himself around you.

You couldn't have dreamt of a moment like this before. Nothing in your life had made quite as much sense as this. All this time spent apart, just to be brought back together in the end. It made sense. He was your person, he had always been your person. You just needed to time to find yourself in between.

Thinking he had drifted off, his breathing evened out. His scent filled your nostrils, tobacco and cinnamon mixed with the sweet scent of sweat.

You could die here.

"She reminded me of you," he suddenly said, hand tracing over the small of your back.

You propped your head up on his chest, your own hand brushing against the dusting of hair on his sternum. Confused, you frowned at him, "Who?"

"The girl," he continued, biting his lip as he avoided eye contact. "The one I went to meet."

Not knowing what to say, you let him continue.

"She seemed like a small town girl, big city dreams," his hand moved higher to rest at the top of your spine. His hands were warm, tingling your nerves where he touched. "I wanted to convince myself that I could be with someone who wasn't you. It's all I've been doing since you left."

"Steve—"

"No, it's okay," he shook his head at you, leaning up slightly to press a kiss to your forehead. His hand was pressed at the back of your head. "It's funny because I went to meet her actually. And I... I couldn't do it. I went straight to the balcony and hid. She was walking around, I heard her ask for me a few times."

Your eyes were wide at this point, feeling your heartbeat beating to the drum of his. The two of you felt in sync.

"I just couldn't get you out of my head." He looked at you in the eyes, soft lines at the corner of his eyes that hadn't been there years prior. "I kept thinking about you, especially the last couple of months. I wanted to reach out, beg you to... I don't know what honestly, but I figured it was too long. You'd have moved on by now, forgot about little ol' me."

He let out a sarcastic laugh, fingers tightening around you as he held you closer.

"I felt... incomplete," he admitted, looking up at the ceiling as he fully laid back down.

You remained silent for a bit, heart in your throat as you took in his confession. You knew exactly how he felt, exactly that feeling that was unable to escape you since the day you left. It was a gnawing pain, an ache that you couldn't shake no matter what remedies you tried.

Laying your head down on his chest, you held him close and tight. You couldn't let him go now, you wouldn't make that mistake again.

"You have me now," you whispered, pressing a kiss to his skin. "We're complete now."

masterlist. inbox open. guess who's baaackkkkkkkkkkk <33

[bxunyx]

Toxic

Pairing-Modern AU-Elijah*Smoke*Moore x BlackOC

Summary-Arna and Smoke can’t let each other go, no matter how toxic it is. MDNI.

A/N-Enjoy and leave comments and feedback I love to read everything you guys say lovelies

There was blood on his knuckles again.

Arna caught the glint of it in the dim light as he leaned against the doorway to her penthouse like he owned the place—or maybe like he dared someone to tell him otherwise. Same dark clothes. Same storm in his eyes. Same chaos wrapped in a grin that shouldn’t make her thighs clench, but did.

“Didn’t think you’d open the door this time,” Smoke said, voice dragging like a blade across velvet.

“I almost didn’t,” Arna replied, voice sharper than she felt. “But you knock like you’re daring me not to.”

He stepped inside without waiting. That was how it always was with him—never asking, just taking.

“You’re bleeding,” she muttered, eyeing his hand as he brushed past her.

“And you’re not wearing pants.” He cocked a brow, eyes dragging down her oversized tee and bare legs with slow, deliberate hunger.

She rolled her eyes. “I was sleeping.”

“And dreaming about me, probably.”

Arna hated that he was right. Hated that her body responded before her brain could throw up the wall. The same wall he tore down every time with a smirk, a scarred knuckle, and a kiss that tasted like sin, violence and longing all in one.

“You’re not staying,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Didn’t say I would.”

But he was already too close, fingers brushing the hem of her shirt, tugging it just enough to show the edge of her underwear. His breath was warm on her neck, his voice darker now. Rough.

“I thought about you.” His lips grazed her skin. “The way you sound when you come. How you beg when you’re too proud to say please.”

Her breath caught, and she hated that she was already wet. Hated that he knew her body like the back of his hand.

“Take it off,” he growled, tugging at her shirt. “I want to see what’s mine.”

She let him. Not because he asked—because she wanted the burn to fill the pain.

The shirt hit the floor, and his mouth was on her before she could exhale. He kissed like he fought—desperate, messy, hungry. His hands were rough on her hips, thumbs digging into her skin like he wanted to leave bruises just to remember her by.

He lifted her like she weighed nothing, setting her down hard on the kitchen counter. Cold tile against her thighs. Hot mouth against her chest. He sucked a mark just above her breast, then another lower, teeth scraping sensitive skin as his hands slid her underwear down and off with an impatient growl.

“You’re already soaked,” he muttered, fingers gliding between her slit, slow and deliberate. “God, you missed me.”

She whimpered when he slid two fingers inside—deep and curling just right. She gripped his wrist, not to stop him, but to anchor herself.

“Say it,” he demanded, lips hovering just above hers. “Say you need me.”

She shook her head stubbornly, lips parted, breathing ragged. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah,” he growled, thrusting his fingers harder. “But you love me anyway. You’ll never find another nigga who’ll fuck you like I do.”

Then his mouth was on her again, this time lower—tongue replacing fingers, licking into her like he had something to prove. She bucked against him, one hand in his hair, the other bracing herself on the counter as his tongue drew circles around her clit, relentless and filthy.

“You gonna cum for me like this?” he asked, voice muffled between her thighs. “You gonna soak my face, baby?”

She shattered on his tongue, thighs clamping around his head as he groaned against her, greedily riding out her climax like he owned it. Maybe he did. Maybe she gave it to him.

But he wasn’t done.

He stood, dragging his belt open with one hand while licking his lips like he’d just tasted salvation. The heavy sound of his pants hitting the floor made her pulse jump.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

She did.

Bent over the counter, her ass bare, legs trembling. He lined himself up and pushed in slow—too slow—just to feel her clench and curse his name.

“Fuck, Smoke—”

“Say it again,” he grunted, pounding into her harder now, hands gripping her hips like she might vanish.

“Fuck, Smoke—don’t stop”

His pace was brutal, punishing, and she loved it. Loved the sting. Loved the heat of his skin against her back when he leaned down to whisper, “You ruin me, Arna. And I keep coming back for more.”

She felt him twitch inside her just before he grabbed a fistful of her hair, tugging her up so her back arched against him.

“Let go for me,pretty girl ” he growled, thrusting deeper. “Come on, baby. I wanna feel you cum on this dick”

She came with a sob, nails scraping the countertop, body going tight and then loose in his grip. He cursed and followed, thrusting once more and spilling inside her with a shudder.

They stayed like that for a moment—breathless, spent, everything unsaid hanging in the air like smoke.

He pulled out and backed away, already reaching for his pants.

“You’ll leave again,” she whispered, eyes still closed.

He didn’t deny it.

But he did lean in, kissed her shoulder soft like it meant something, and whispered against her skin

“Yeah. But you’ll still let me in.”

And she would.

Every time.

They were toxic and she loved it.

[mrsvante]

The Long Game V

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: sugar daddy au, yandere, a man who yearns earns

summary: he tells you it’s a break, a getaway, a few stolen weeks under the sun—but he knows better. this is proof of what he can give you. of how easily the world bends when you smile. he watches you move like you belong to the light, and wonders if you’ll ever realize how deeply he’s already made you his. every laugh, every sigh, every whispered word—he collects them like promises. and he’ll spend every second proving he’s the only place you’ll ever need to come home to.

warnings: joonie’s wealth kink makes an appearance, mc is bratty & pampered, violence, hints of harassment, namjoon takes a dip in the pool 😏, smut (obviously), confessions, soft intimacy in the shower

word count: 4,641

Namjoon watches you from across the terrace, swirling the whiskey in his glass as the warm Bali breeze ruffles your hair.

You’re breathtaking, bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun, your skin glistening with the remnants of the pool water. A year in Singapore—one year without you just a car ride away. It’s a reality he still hasn’t accepted, not truly. He’s spent more hours in the air this past year than he ever has in his life, but none of it feels wasted if it means seeing you.

That’s why he planned this trip. Three weeks of just you and him, no distractions, no work, no excuses. He’s always been a patient man, but when it comes to you, his tolerance wears thin.

He needs you close, needs your attention solely on him.

You stretch your arms above your head before slipping into the pool, sighing in bliss as the water envelops your body. You’re relaxed here—so soft, so trusting. The realization fills him with something dangerously close to contentment. He sets his glass down and follows you into the water, moving toward the deep end where you’re already waiting, arms outstretched for him like it’s second nature.

“You could at least try to swim,” he teases, even as he pulls you against him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“I like it better when you hold me,” you murmur, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

Namjoon exhales slowly, controlling the surge of possessiveness that your words evoke. If only you knew how much he relishes every touch, every glance, every second you give him.

You trace idle patterns on his chest before tilting your head up to look at him. “Do you ever think about getting married?”

The question catches him off guard, but only for a moment. His first instinct is to tell you that he’ll marry you whenever you’re ready, that all you need to do is say the word and he’d make it happen. But he tamps down the urge, keeping his expression smooth, his voice even.

“I’ll settle down when I find someone who captivates me more than you do,” he says instead, watching as your lips part slightly in surprise.

A blush creeps up your cheeks, but you recover quickly, teasing, “And what if you never find someone better than me?”

Namjoon doesn’t hesitate. He holds your gaze, his hands tightening slightly around your waist. “Then I’ll forever be devoted to you.”

You blink at him, clearly flustered, before resting your head back on his shoulder. The silence stretches, comfortable yet charged, until you speak again, voice softer this time. “What would being the wife of Kim Namjoon be like?”

The question nearly undoes him.

You think you’re asking something lighthearted, something hypothetical. You don’t know the truth of who he is—what he is. You don’t know that in his mind, you already belong to him, that in every way that matters, he’s already your husband.

Namjoon lets out a low hum, shifting slightly as he pulls you closer. “It depends.”

“On?”

“On what kind of wife you want to be.”

You giggle, shaking your head. “That’s not an answer.”

But it is. Because the truth is, however you want to be, whatever you want to do, he’ll accommodate it. Whether you want to be a businesswoman, an artist, a socialite, a housewife—he’ll give you the world and then some.

Still, he indulges you, painting a picture of the life that exists in his head.

“You’d wake up in my arms every morning,” he begins, his voice slow and deliberate, as if he’s thought about this a thousand times before. “I’d be the first thing you see—before the sun, before the world. And I’d make sure the first thing you feel is how much I love you.”

Your fingers are still against his skin for a moment before you continue your idle tracing, listening intently.

“I’d never let you lift a finger if you didn’t want to. Breakfast would already be waiting. Your favorite—fresh fruit, pastries, a matcha latte made exactly the way you like it. You’d eat while curled up in my lap, still warm from the bed, letting me hold you because I can’t help myself.”

A small, amused huff leaves your lips, but Namjoon doesn’t let it distract him.

“Then, I’d spend the day making sure you’re happy. Whatever you want, however you want it. If you want to work, you’ll have a team that supports you. If you want to travel, I’ll clear my schedule and take you wherever you desire. If you want to stay home and do absolutely nothing, then we’ll do nothing together.”

You lift your head, tilting it slightly. “That sounds nice.”

“It would be nice,” Namjoon murmurs, brushing a thumb along your jawline. “You’d never have to worry about anything. I’d handle it all—your happiness, your safety, your entire world. All you’d have to do is let me.”

You swallow, a soft pink hue rising to your cheeks. “And…at night?”

Namjoon smirks, dipping his head so his lips ghost over your ear. “At night, you’d still be in my arms, just like the morning. I’d help you unwind—whether that means a bath, a massage, or something else entirely.” His fingers tighten on your waist, his voice dropping lower. “Then I’d take you to bed and remind you exactly how cherished you are.”

Your breath hitches.

Namjoon watches your reaction with satisfaction, a slow burning heat settling in his chest. You think this is just a fantasy, a fleeting moment of playful conversation. But one day, this will be real. One day, you’ll wake up in his bed, in his house, with his last name.

And there won’t be a single thing in the world that can take you away from him.

—

The late afternoon sun filters through the trees as Namjoon steps out of the bathroom, rolling his shoulders before searching for you. It doesn’t take him long to spot you standing near the entrance of the jungle tour’s gift shop, a small bag clutched in your hands, the logo of the gift shop printed neatly on the front.

His expression darkens immediately.

You don’t notice him at first, too busy idly swaying on your heels as you glance around. But the moment he approaches, his presence envelops you—his towering frame, his quiet intensity. He doesn’t say a word as his eyes drop to the bag, the weight of his gaze heavy.

“You bought something,” he finally states, voice unreadable.

You glance down at the bag, then back up at him, brows furrowing slightly. “Yeah. Just a couple of souvenirs.”

Namjoon clenches his jaw. “And you paid for them?”

“I mean… yeah?” You shift on your feet, unsure why he’s reacting like this. “It’s not a big deal, Joon. I wanted to get them myself.”

Namjoon exhales sharply through his nose before reaching for your wrist, his grip firm but not forceful as he tugs you toward a more secluded corner of the building. You follow, eyes widening slightly at his urgency, at the heat rolling off him in waves.

The second you’re hidden from view, he cages you between his arms, pressing you back against the smooth wooden wall. Then, without hesitation, he kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s heated, searing—a claiming.

His lips move against yours like he’s trying to erase what just happened, like he’s trying to make you feel what he can’t quite put into words. His large hands cradle your face, thumbs stroking your jaw as he drinks you in, savoring every inch of your mouth.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, breath warm as he murmurs, “This trip is for you. You don’t lift a finger. Not for anything. Not while I’m here.”

You blink up at him, slightly dazed, your lips tingling from the force of his affection. But then, because you can’t help yourself, you tease, “But why? It’s not like I’m your wife or anything.”

Namjoon doesn’t hesitate.

“It doesn’t matter if you are or not,” he says, his tone firm, almost possessive. “It upsets me to see you doing my job.”

His job. Taking care of you. Providing for you. Making sure you never have to worry about a single thing.

Your stomach twists at the intensity of his words, at the way he stares at you like there’s no version of his life where you don’t belong to him.

Still, you can’t help but joke, your voice slightly breathless, “I think you like me or something.”

Namjoon chuckles softly, but there’s something unreadable in his expression. Something dark. Something certain. His fingers intertwine with yours, his grip steady as he pulls you away from the wall and toward the exit.

“Come on,” he says smoothly, leading you toward the city. “Let’s go find something else for me to buy you.”

—

The streets with life as Namjoon leads you through a bustling market, his hand resting low on your back, always guiding, always touching. As the sun begins to set , lanterns are hung overhead, casting a golden glow over the maze of vendors and stalls that stretch endlessly in both directions. The air is thick with the scent of sizzling meat, grilled seafood, and the sweetness of tropical fruit, mingling with the occasional burst of incense from a nearby offering stand.

You’re enthralled, eyes darting from one stall to the next, drawn in by the vibrant silks, hand carved trinkets, and delicate silver jewelry laid out on display. Namjoon watches you, taking in the way your fingers brush over the smooth wooden beads of a bracelet, the way your lips part slightly in wonder at a display of woven tapestries.

He doesn’t say much. He never has to.

When you pause in front of a stall selling ornate gold rings, your eyes lingering a second too long on one in particular, Namjoon steps forward without hesitation.

“Try it on,” he murmurs, already reaching for the piece before you can protest.

You shake your head, laughing softly. “Joon, I was just looking.”

“And I’m just buying.”

Before you can argue, he takes your hand, slipping the delicate ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly. His jaw tightens at the sight. He likes the way it looks on you—too much.

You stare down at it, lips pressing together. “It’s too expensive.”

Namjoon exhales sharply. “You really have to stop saying that.” He turns to the vendor, pulling out his wallet. “We’ll take it.”

You groan but don’t resist when he hands over the cash. He simply smiles, pleased with himself, before taking your hand and continuing through the market.

For the next hour, he spoils you relentlessly. He buys you everything your gaze lingers on for more than a second—hand painted fans, silk scarves, a tantalizing perfume infused with jasmine and sandalwood. When he catches you admiring a fruit stand, he pulls you toward it, picking out slices of fresh mango and handing you a cup of coconut ice cream before you can refuse.

You scold him between bites, but your eyes are shining, your laughter soft as you shake your head at his indulgence. He watches you eat, watches the way your lips close around the spoon, the way your tongue flicks out to catch a stray drip of ice cream.

He’s dangerously close to kissing you again.

But instead, he distracts himself by guiding you toward a quieter part of the market, where the crowds thin and the lights dim. Small temples line the narrow streets, their steps covered in offerings—bright orange marigolds, delicate lotus blossoms, tiny bowls of rice left for the spirits. The air is warm, thick with the distant sound of temple bells and the murmured prayers of monks.

You slow your steps, your gaze softening as you take it all in. And then, as if on instinct, you reach for Namjoon’s hand.

His heart stutters.

You don’t say anything. You just lace your fingers through his and squeeze gently, your warmth settling into his palm. The simple intimacy of it nearly undoes him.

He swallows hard, his grip tightening.

He should say something. He should tell you that you don’t need to thank him, that just being here with you is enough.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lifts your intertwined hands and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering against your skin.

You don’t pull away.

You only smile, eyes twinkling in the golden glow of the lanterns, and squeeze his hand once more.

And just like that, Namjoon knows—he’ll take you anywhere you want to go. As long as you keep looking at him like this, he’ll give you the whole damn world.

————

The bass throbbed through the floor of the club, rattling glasses and pulsing in Namjoon’s chest like a second heartbeat. He lounged in his private booth, whiskey in hand, content to watch you from the shadows—his dark eyes tracking every sway of your hips, every toss of your hair as you danced beneath the neon haze.

You were radiant under the strobes, your skin glowing, your smile soft and unguarded. You always came alive when music wrapped around you, and Namjoon—despite hating crowds, noise, the stench of sweat and liquor—had taken you to the most exclusive nightclub in the city, just to see you like this.

Unburdened. Happy. Free.

He let himself bask in it for a while. Until his phone buzzed with an urgent notification.

An encrypted email from a MONOLITH executive in Geneva. Something about a pending acquisition and a potential leak. Namjoon exhaled sharply, eyes flicking down to the screen, fingers moving quickly to type out a reply. It didn’t take long, he was a machine when he needed to be, but when he looked up again…

You were gone from your spot on the dance floor.

Panic hit first. A rush of white hot adrenaline that burned through his veins. Then he spotted you.

Cornered.

Two men—young, cocky, drunk—towering over you as you tried to sidestep them, your polite smile stiff, your discomfort clear in every line of your body. One of them reached for your wrist. The other leaned too close, his mouth brushing your ear.

You flinched.

And Namjoon saw red.

He was on the dance floor in seconds.

The first man didn’t even see it coming. Namjoon’s fist connected with his jaw in a clean, punishing arc that sent him sprawling. The second barely had time to react before Namjoon grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him against the mirrored wall, cracking the glass and drawing a choked yelp from the bastard’s throat.

“You fucking touch her again,” Namjoon growled, voice low, guttural, nearly inhuman, “and I will make sure your face is the last thing your mother ever recognizes.”

“Joon—” Your voice pierced through the chaos, soft and pleading. “Joonie, please. Let’s—Let’s just go, I wanna go.”

His fists clenched. The urge to keep going—to finish what he started—sang in his muscles. But then he felt your hands on his arm, small and trembling. Heard the tremor in your voice. Saw the fear on your face.

And that undid him more than anything else.

He let go. Let the asshole crumple. Security rushed in, club staff already scrambling to clean up the mess, but Namjoon didn’t care. He was already pulling you away, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, shielding you from the leering stares and camera phones. His expression was thunderous, every muscle in his body coiled with restraint.

The chauffeured car was waiting by the curb. The moment you slid into the backseat, Namjoon followed, tugging you onto his lap without hesitation.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, his lips brushing your temple. Hands smoothing over your shoulders, needing to physically confirm you were unharmed.

“I’m sorry for ruining your night.”

You shook your head, curling into him instinctively, your fingers tightening around the front of his shirt. “I’m fine now. You didn’t ruin anything.”

His brow furrowed, eyes stormy. “I should’ve been watching you. I should’ve—”

“You did watch me. You saw what happened and you came for me.” You leaned back slightly to look at him, your voice soft with affection. “You saved me from those drunk perverts. So stop looking like you’re ready to murder someone.”

He didn’t respond. Not with words. Just buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in as he tightened his hold around you.

You didn’t know he was plotting murder. You didn’t know that he’d already sent the footage to MONOLITH’s private security division with a directive to identify both men—names, families, weaknesses, assets. You didn’t know he was still debating whether to ruin them financially or make them disappear altogether.

All you knew was the steady thump of his heart under your cheek and the way his fingers traced slow, protective circles over your thigh.

You nestled closer, completely unaware of the darkness brewing in the man holding you.

And Namjoon?

He just kissed your forehead and whispered, “No one touches you.”

—

Namjoon hadn’t wanted to let you out of his sight.

Not after what happened earlier. The way those drunk bastards dared to touch what was his.

But you’d given him that look.

Soft and unguarded, quietly imploring. The kind of look that always undid him, no matter how tightly his anger wound itself through his veins.

And just like that, he couldn’t say no.

You slipped away first, silent as a ghost, your dress sliding from your shoulders and falling in the hallway like breadcrumbs meant just for him. He followed soon after, bare skin meeting the cool air as he discarded his clothes without a second thought.

When he entered the pool area, he nearly stopped breathing.

You stood at the edge of the water, naked under the velvet sky, the moonlight painting your skin in silver and shadow. Your back was to him, hair cascading down your spine, and when you glanced over your shoulder, your smile was playful. Coy. Dangerous in a way only you could be.

Namjoon’s jaw tightened. Every part of him—still raw, still burning with residual rage and possessiveness—snapped taut with want.

But you? You were calm. Untouched by the chaos he’d barely managed to cage just an hour before.

So when you slipped into the water with a quiet splash and drifted farther out, looking back at him with eyes that dared him to chase…

He did.

The water welcomed him with open arms, wrapping around his body like liquid silk. You splashed him teasingly, your laughter light and easy in the night air, and his lips curved despite himself. You always knew how to disarm him.

“Careful, princess,” he warned, voice low and dark as he stalked through the water after you. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

You tilted your head, lips curling mischievously. “Who says I won’t?”

That did it.

A slow, dangerous smile tugged at his lips as he surged forward, closing the distance easily despite your playful resistance. His hands found your waist, tugging you against him beneath the surface until your soft curves pressed flush to the hardness of his body.

You gasped faintly, your teasing faltering as his desire made itself known—thick and heavy between your bodies.

“I mean it,” he murmured, dipping his head so his lips could trace your jaw. “Don’t push me unless you want to take responsibility for what happens next.”

“Maybe I do.” Your voice was breathy, threaded with anticipation.

That was all the invitation he needed.

His mouth found yours—slow and deep at first, tasting you like he had all the time in the world. His tongue swept past your lips, claiming, coaxing, until you melted, sighing against him as your hands wound around his neck.

Namjoon didn’t rush. Not yet.

He explored you leisurely, kissing down your throat, brushing his thumbs along the underside of your breasts, letting the tension build naturally as he mapped your body beneath the water.

When he finally slid inside you, it was with a tenderness that made you shudder. His thrusts were unhurried and gentle, rolling his hips languidly as the water cradled you both in quiet intimacy.

He whispered softly between kisses, murmured things he never allowed himself to say in the harsh light of day.

“Pretty girl… mine.”

Cock stroking along your insides with fervor, “You feel so good like this.”

“Never letting you go.” He moaned, his lips coasting along the column of your neck

You clung to him, drowning in every tender push and pull, every breathless word, but still… it wasn’t quite enough. Not for him. Not for what he needed to say.

Namjoon felt the weight of it pressing against his ribs, heavy and dangerous. He held your hand between them, thumb stroking the ring he’d bought earlier, voice dipping into something achingly vulnerable.

“This looks good on you,” he murmured, kissing your knuckles. “But you know what would be even better?”

You blinked at him, dazed and curious.

“My last name,” he whispered.

You stilled in his arms, stunned by the gravity in his voice.

“Namjoon…” you breathed cautiously, eyes wide and searching.

His movements slowed, nearly stopping altogether as his forehead pressed to yours. His lips ghosted over yours once. Twice. Hesitant, tender.

“I love you,” he said softly. Almost too softly. Like saying it too loud would break something fragile between you.

You froze, the words knocking the air from your lungs.

He saw it—the panic, the disbelief, the shadow of doubt that flickered across your face.

Namjoon’s fingers tightened gently around your nape. His eyes burned with desperate sincerity.

“Say something, baby…” he whispered hoarsely. “Please.”

You swallowed hard, emotion clogging your throat.

“What’s so special about me, Joon? I’m just… just the girl you buy things for and sleep with. That’s all this is, right?”

His face twisted in frustration and hurt.

“No, it isn’t,” he said firmly, shaking his head as he pressed you back against the pool wall. “Don’t you dare say that again.”

Before you could utter another word, his lips crashed against yours, stealing your protests in a kiss so fierce and claiming you whimpered into it. His hands roamed lower, gripping your thighs, pulling you impossibly closer as he began thrusting deeper, harder.

The tender moment gave way to something more primal. More desperate. Namjoon fucked you with purpose now, forcing his truth into every roll of his hips.

“You’re everything to me,” he growled against your lips. “You’re light. You’re softness in a world that’s never been kind to me. You make me want forever. You make me—”

You cum with a soft cry, overwhelmed by the confession and the overwhelming pleasure he gives so easily.

But Namjoon wasn’t done.

Even after you trembled around him, he pulled out, lifting you effortlessly from the water. You clung to him as he carried you to the lounger nearby, laying you down with delicate care before spreading your legs wide under the moonlight.

“Don’t run from it,” he whispered, kissing the inside of your thigh. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

You tried to speak, but he silenced you with his mouth—latching onto your sensitive, swollen clit and devouring you like a starved man. His tongue danced between lazy flicks and deep, hungry sucks that had your head tipping back, sobbing his name to the night sky.

“Joon—please—”

He didn’t stop until your thighs shook and tears slipped down your cheeks from the sheer intensity. Only then did he rise over you, kissing the wetness from your face with devastating tenderness.

“Look at me,” he whispered. “I love you, princess. I love you. I love you.”

You clung to him, eyes glossy, as you finally whispered back, “I love you too.”

His smile was soft and raw as he nestled inside you again, this time sinking in slow and deep. No rush now. Just you and him, making love in the quiet dark while the stars bore silent witness.

Namjoon held you like you were everything he’d ever wanted and everything he’d never thought he could have.

And as he moved within you, tender and sure, he vowed silently—he’d never let you forget this feeling. Not ever again.

—

You didn’t know how long he made love to you under the stars.

Time slipped away, became meaningless — just soft sighs and tender kisses, quiet pleas and whispered I love you’s blending with the rhythm of his hips as he worshiped every inch of you.

When it ended, you were boneless and blissful, wrapped in his arms with your face buried in his neck. Namjoon held you there for a while, both of you too dazed and full of something achingly beautiful to move.

But eventually, his lips brushed your temple, and his voice came, low and hoarse and impossibly gentle.

“Come on, baby. Let’s get you inside.”

You barely managed a sleepy hum, too pliant to do anything but let him gather you up. His arms slipped beneath your thighs and shoulders, lifting you effortlessly from the lounger as if you weighed nothing at all.

Your damp skin stuck softly to his, your cheek pressed against his chest as he carried you through the villa. The sliding doors whispered shut behind you, cutting off the night and cocooning you both in warm, hushed intimacy.

Namjoon didn’t speak much.

He didn’t have to.

Every touch was deliberate, every glance full of reverence and a love that still glowed fierce and tender in his dark eyes. He took his time washing you in the enormous shower, hands slow and careful, fingertips brushing over your skin like you were fragile, precious glass.

You stood there half asleep and leaning back against his chest, eyes fluttering shut as he lathered your hair with gentle fingers, massaging your scalp until you sighed and tipped your head back. He kissed your temple when he rinsed you, murmuring soft praises between every tender movement.

“You did so good for me.” he murmured, his voice rough with residual hunger. He tenderly scrubbed your skin, kissing over all the parts not hidden by suds.

“Love hearing you say it back… love you so much, baby.” You were in your own personal nirvana, head hazy with pampered bliss.

“So fucking perfect.”

By the time he dried you with a thick towel and dressed you in one of the silk nightgowns you’d packed, you were already halfway gone, eyes heavy with exhaustion and contentment.

Namjoon guided you to bed and slipped in behind you, pulling you into his chest as if he needed to feel every part of you pressed against him. His lips found the back of your neck, brushing in soft, slow passes until you melted completely.

“Stay,” he murmured, voice cracking faintly with emotion as his hand slid over your belly, cradling you possessively. “Stay forever.”

You twisted slightly in his hold, just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder. Your fingers cupped his cheek, and you kissed him—sweet and sleepy, but full of something weighty and true.

“I’m not going anywhere, Joon,” you whispered softly, finally, finally giving him the words he’d been aching to hear.

He smiled against your lips, eyes glassy, and pressed one last kiss to your forehead before tucking you tightly beneath his chin.

Outside, the moon lingered high above the quiet villa, casting silver light over your confessions. You fell asleep in his arms, the steady thrum of his heartbeat in your ear, safe and utterly adored.

And Namjoon?

Namjoon stayed awake a little longer, holding you close and tracing invisible promises into your skin with his fingertips.

“I’ve built an empire with my hands,” he whispered against your hair, “but I’d burn it to the ground for you.”

four ½ | masterlist | six

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

“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.