#I like to go visit him in the void from time to time

[erineas]

Do you like WD Gaster? :3

I barely draw him but this is my header so

Yes :3

At least the funny silly version of him, that's my favorite hehe

[em1i2a3]

Carry The Zero

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry (or The Void) x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bob are sharing a room while the Avengers Compound is under renovations, which brings on a slew of new things to learn about one another.

Warnings: Semi Spoilers for Thunderbolts I guess because Bob is in here. Other than that there is nothing too extreme happening in here, it’s a bit emotional, but there is fluff in here, I would kind of describe this as a Hurt/Comfort fic than anything. There are mentions of abuse and there is also some heavy petting maybe? I mean, I’ll put that in here to cover my booty lol.

Authors Note: My second viewing of Thunderbolts truly got my mind racing for what to write in regard to Bob. Thought I would put out this lil blurb and probably add more to it later in another segment or something! Anyways! Enjoy y’all and happy premiere weekend!!! :)

Word Count: 6,784

The room wasn’t built for two people, that’s what you knew for sure. It used to be a storage space, at least that is what you assumed judging by the various filing cabinets that lined the area, the dented lockers that were near the door, and the strewn papers that nobody decided to throw away in preparation for the move-in. The only thing that was the saving grace was the fact that the place had a window that let you look out onto the city. But it still didn’t truly make up for the cramped space, even though they were able to shove two twin sized beds inside it and call it a room–which showed how effective their planning was throughout all the chaos.

The Avengers Compound was still under renovations after a security breach took out part of the living space, meaning everyone needed to be shuffled like cards in a losing deck. Room assignments were given unwillingly to everyone, and you had been paired with Bob.

It was weird to be rooming with someone who had the power of a million exploding suns as people liked to say, because even though he carried that on his sleeve sheepishly, his personality certainly didn’t match that of a person who could take down the entire world. He was shy, quiet, and careful, tip-toeing around you like you were going to snap at him at any second–which was not the case at all.

Compared to the other options you had you actually preferred to be rooming with him.

The first few days had passed in near silence. You didn’t talk much, you’d only go into your room to sleep or change, and when you would do something outside of those two things Bob would rush out pretty quickly, apologizing nervously under his breath, like he thought you were obligated to time alone.

He’d go to bed early, and you’d catch him reading beneath the awful buzzing lamp that was left in the room from before the two of you moved in. You never really asked him what he was reading because the title was always changing, like he couldn’t finish anything, or he had so much time to himself he was finishing books like they were snacks.

Then there were little things you began to notice.

He’d pace a lot, wring his hands in his lap, or pick at the skin on his fingers. He was clean, he never left shoes in the middle of the room, and always lined them up neatly under his bed frame, even yours. He would flinch at loud noises, like if there was a childish argument happening in the communal kitchen and things got too high in volume he would get a little twitchy. He was observant, and paid attention to everything around him–sometimes you would hear him talking to himself, repeating fragments of conversations from earlier in the day, like it grounded him in some way.

He had his routine and you respected it as much as possible, but tonight was entirely different.

You were coming in late from training, and a med bay visit.

The scrape on your shoulder wasn’t serious, but it was bad enough to have Bucky send you down to get checked out. It was standard–some antiseptic, a lecture from one of the nurses about being more careful and aware of your surroundings, and then you were released with a warning, and a fresh bandage. You were exhausted, sore, and annoyed with yourself for not paying attention and letting your guard down during a simulation, especially because the past few nights had been like that.

By the time you reached your floor, the halls were quiet. There wasn’t any bickering or discussions happening in the kitchen, nobody was lingering in the living room with post-mission jitters, it was just peace, for once.

You stopped at the fridge to pick yourself up a bottle of electrolytes, then paused, eyeing the row of them. You bit your inner cheek, and after a second of hesitation you grabbed another one for Bob, tucking it against you.

You figured he would be awake like he always was when you were on your training nights. You weren’t sure if he was just waiting for you or if he was just incapable of resting when you weren’t accounted for, but you never asked.

Slowly, you moved down the hall, twisting the cap off your drink with a wince when you strained just a little too much, causing the bandage to sting beneath your shirt. You gritted your teeth and let out a frustrated grunt.

“Gotta take it easy on yourself.” You heard Bucky say from behind you. You turned on your heel, seeing he was still in his training gear, also holding a bottle of electrolytes as well, “You’re gonna burn out if you don’t take breaks.” You shifted under his gaze.

”I want to be better, that’s why I’m training. If you got your ass handed to you on the field you would be doing the same.” He shook his head.

”No. I would be resting and seeing what I could do better the next time. Don’t come to training for the rest of the week, just relax and recoup, we’ll revisit your regimen when you’re better.” Before you could say anything he typed his code in for his room, and was out of your sight. You could feel your body seething as you turned back around to continue making your way down the hall. You’d seen it coming from a mile away just by the way he was watching you during the simulation but you never thought he would say anything to you like that. It just added another layer of annoyance as you reached your room.

You pushed the door open gently, careful not to let the hinges creak too loudly. The room was dark, which was unexpected, Bob’s light wasn’t even on. The only thing that was illuminating the room was the shimmer of city lights, casting silver-blue shadows across the floor.

Bob was in bed, lying on his side facing you, with his blanket tugged up to his neck. His face was soft in the low light–features relaxed, eyes closed. Sleeping, or at least you thought he was. You lingered in the doorway for a moment, squinting in the dimness of the room to see him a bit better.

His light brown hair looked a little messy, like he’d been shifting around for a while before finally settling on the position he was in now. You wondered how long he was lying like that, or if he had been waiting for your return but fell asleep in the process, and now you felt even worse than before.

You let the door close softly behind you with a gentle click, removing your shoes slowly, one at a time. Every motion felt heavier than it should have–dull with fatigue, and edged in frustration. You padded across the narrow space, keeping your steps quiet, with the extra bottle of electrolytes tucked against you, the condensation seeping through your training jacket.

You crouched slowly beside Bob’s bed, biting back a wince as your muscles tensed in protest, while you placed the bottle down on the floor, angling it so he’d see it when he woke up. It was a small, quiet offering, just something kind, a consideration in a way. You took your next moves slowly as you stood up and turned to your own bed with a tired exhale, putting the cap back on your drink and throwing it onto your bed. One hand rose to the zipper of your training jacket, pulling it down in a swift movement, teeth grinding while you pushed the fabric off your shoulders, feeling pain erupt from your ribs and shoulder now, the muscles pulsing with burning heat.

The cool air of the room hit your skin instantly, and your tank top didn’t do much to hide any of your injuries from the environment. Your back arched with the grating sting that came through you, and one hand came up to press against the bandage, making sure it was still on properly and not tugging at your skin. The ache was sharp and pulsing, and when your fingers came away damp, you already knew there was blood seeping through the gauze. You grimaced but didn’t consider making another trip to the med bay. You were too tired to care at this point, and it wasn’t something that would cause you to bleed out, so it was a morning issue to deal with.

You turned toward your dresser, collecting a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized sweater that smelled faintly of sage, throwing both articles of clothing down onto your bed with a soft plop. You rolled your shoulder gently, testing the range of motion in it with a quiet wince before reaching for the hem of your tank top, peeling the rough fabric up your skin carefully, trying to avoid the worst of the sting, though even at your slowest pace you could feel the movement pulling at the wound.

The cotton clung briefly to the tape of the gauze and the dried sweat that coated your skin before finally giving way, and coming off completely. You let out a sigh of relief, as you let the fabric fall to the floor, reaching for your sweater next. The bandage on your shoulder throbbed with every shift you made, but it was the deeper bruises scattered across your body–ghosts of impacts from the past few days–that ached beneath your skin like an echoing thunder. You glanced down at yourself, taking in the way they bloomed across your ribs, stomach, and hips, at this point you could see more bruises than your actual flesh at this point, and they were tender, dark and swollen. Maybe Bucky was right, maybe you really did need a break…

Your fingers curled loosely into the hem of your sweater, but you didn’t think to pull it on yet, you just continued to look down at the wreck that was your body, and the longer you stared, the more numb you became. It was easy to take a break but it wasn’t deserved, you couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes during missions, and you knew you weren’t going to listen to Bucky, you would keep training until your body gave out.

You closed your eyes for a moment, before lifting the sweater towards you, ready to retreat into its softness, ready to disappear and call it a night, but then you heard it.

A breath. Sharp and quick. You froze in your spot.

Then came the sound of movement, the shuffling of the blanket, the mattress creaking under the shifting weight.

Your eyes darted toward Bob’s bed instantly, seeing that his back was now turned towards you. His blanket was pulled up around his shoulders, almost covering his whole head, but there was tension in his posture now, like he was more alert, and less relaxed.

Another breath was inhaled, only it was thinner this time, and wet, followed by a muffled sniffle. Your brows furrowed, and you worked quickly to throw your sweater on without hurting yourself so you were covered up completely, before making your way to his bed, crouching down on the floor, keeping your attention fixated on him. His shoulders were rising and falling now in uneven motions, and now you were piecing together that he was actually crying.

”…Bob?” You whispered, voice soft and low, like if you made it any louder than the volume you were at now it might shatter him. You could see the shuddering in his shoulders halt at the way you said his name, and he pulled the blanket higher over his head, like he was trying to shield himself from your eyes.

”I’m sorry…” Your brows pulled together in confusion as you leaned against the bed a little more, watching the outline of his frame beneath the covers, seeing the small tremors still running through his shoulders. You bit the inside of your cheek as you reached out, your hand hovering for a breath before resting gently against the curve of his back. He was radiating heat through the blanket, but he was stiff beneath your touch, like he didn’t know what to do with the comfort you were offering.

“Bob…Why are you apologizing?” You asked softly. He took in another shaky breath, but didn’t answer. You let out a sigh, rubbing your hand up and down his back like your mother used to when you cried, trying to soothe him, to calm him as much as you could.

”I…I saw the bruises.” He said, barely a whisper. Your hand on his back froze for a moment, “I-I didn’t mean to look, I swear, I just-“ His breath hitched, realizing that you were probably throwing daggers into his back with your eyes, “I just woke up…And saw them, and I couldn’t…Couldn’t stop remembering…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, it was just too much, as another set of sobs escaped his throat. You could feel your gaze soften at the noise, almost like a piece of your heart was breaking for him, continuing your movements along his back, pressing just a little harder into the muscle.

“Is there anything I can do? Do you want some electrolytes or something?” He shook his head.

”No…P-Please just stay…” His voice was hoarse, cracking under the thickness that coated his throat from the tears. You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, staring at his shoulders as he continued to cry, curling in on himself beneath his blanket.

You continued rubbing his back, keeping a steady and consistent rhythm. The heat of him radiated through the blanket like a furnace on the verge of burning itself out. Every time your hand passed over his spine, his shoulders seemed to loosen by a fraction.

“C-Can I ask something…Kind of w-weird?” His voice broke through the quiet again, in such a timid whisper that you barely heard it.

“Sure.” You replied, hearing him sniffle again. There was a long pause, and you could feel the hesitation, like he was trying to put his words together properly so whatever he was going to say didn’t come off creepy. You continued to run your hand over his back, waiting patiently for him, watching his figure rising and falling beneath the blanket, still seeing it shaking. In your mind, you were worried, you hadn’t seen him like this before, and there was a moment where you considered calling Bucky or Yelena to come help you, but then his voice broke through the thoughts.

”…Could you…” He took another breath, “Could you…Please hold me?” The question came out strangled, like it had clawed its way out of his throat before he could second-guess it again. You blinked slowly at the request, not because you were unsure of your answer, but because the way he said it was so gentle, and embarrassed it caught you off guard in a way.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to say, you thought maybe he was going to ask you for a tissue, but this was something far more vulnerable, something you never thought would come from Bob of all people, even though you knew he was sensitive. Inside you hesitated only because you didn’t want to hurt him by possibly doing the wrong thing, yet your heart ached watching him break down beneath his blanket which at this point was drowning him because of how much he had curled up beneath it.

“Of course…Just let me change out of these training pants first okay? It’ll just take a second.” There was no response to that, just movement. He shifted towards the wall so he was giving you enough space to get in, still hunched over like he felt guilty for the area that he occupied. You quickly stood up, and made quick work of shimmying out of your training pants and putting on your cotton sleep shorts, which was probably the best idea since you felt him burning through the blanket he was wrapped in. You brought your attention back to him soon after, returning to the side of the bed, your eyes roaming over the lump that resembled his body.

With a gentle hand, you tugged the edge of the blanket down just enough to uncover the top of his head, revealing his light brown hair again which looked dampened with sweat beneath the illuminating city lights that shined through the window. He didn’t say anything, or protest being exposed to you, so you took that as a good sign to continue.

You slid into the space he made for you, careful not to jostle the cocoon he made for himself too much, and eased your bad arm underneath his pillow so your scraped shoulder could rest in a neutral position where your bandage wouldn’t rip off your skin completely. You pulled up the blanket slightly, getting in behind him, scooting closer until your chest met his damp back.

His navy blue t-shirt was soaked through completely, and it wasn’t helping that he was wearing long pants to bed either. There was a fear he was gonna pass out from heat stroke or something, but he had mentioned it several times that he ran hot in general, you just didn’t see it to this extreme. He smelled like a salty rain storm, or like ozone, it was something indescribable to you in those moments, but it was what he typically radiated, it was familiar.

Slowly, you brought your arm over his torso, placing your hand onto the hard plane of his sternum, the muscles beneath his shirt twitching against the unfamiliar touch that you introduced to him.

Neither of you spoke, you just laid against each other in pure silence, listening to each other's breathing–his trembling, yours steady. He could feel your hot breaths against his neck and tried to pay attention to it, as you pushed down the blanket a bit with your elbow to shed the makeshift shield from his body. It took him a while to compose himself enough to speak again, but when he did, you were hanging off of every word.

”…When I saw the bruises…” He rasped, “All I could think about was me. When I was a kid…” The mentioning of his childhood immediately felt like a blow to your stomach. He had said something about how he was raised in passing, but it was an off handed remark that nobody really paid attention to. You figured it was something he didn’t want to talk about, but hearing him say this only made you dread what he was going to continue with.

”After he’d hit me…I’d go over to the mirror, just to see how bad it was. I’d tell myself it didn’t hurt, even if it did, I’d just lie to myself, because I knew if I cried, he’d just get angrier. He was always in the mood to beat me up so when he had a reason I think it made him feel justified in some…Messed up way.” Your chest tightened at his words, thinking about how scary it must’ve been for him, and how terrified he must’ve felt not knowing when his own father would strike. You didn’t speak right away, but you did shift, sliding your hand up higher on his chest, so you could press your palm flat over his heart. His shirt was soaked there too, yet beneath it all you could feel the frantic fluttering of his pulse, like a bird rattling against its cage.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your breath tickling his neck again. He didn’t respond, though he didn’t recoil either.

“None of that should’ve ever happened to you,” You continued softly, brushing your thumb along the fabric against his heart, “You were a child, and you didn’t deserve that.” He let out a breath like he was trying not to begin sobbing again.

”You don’t have to say that.” You raised your head a bit, almost in disbelief that he truly thought that what happened to him was somehow okay or justified.

”I do, Bob.” You murmured, inching just a little closer, feeling your body screaming in protest as your injured shoulder moved the wrong way, causing you to hiss through your teeth. Bob noticed instantly.

”You’re hurting,” He said quietly with guilt sinking into every syllable.

”I really couldn’t give a crap about that right now Bob, trust me I’ve been through worse. You’re hurting right now too and I’m not going anywhere. Do you understand?” You replied back, your voice low, but lacking bite, not that you intended to have it sound stern or anything.

Bob shifted beneath your touch, slowly rolling onto his back like the weight of your words cracked something loose inside him. You adjusted carefully to give him space, keeping your injured shoulder angled away from the impact of his back pressing against your arm, even though the ache felt like white noise beneath the tension that was beginning to rise in the room. When he settled on his back you adjusted yourself so your chin rested against his chest, keeping your hand splayed in the same position over his heart.

His eyes didn’t find yours at first, they stared blankly at the ceiling, the soft glow of the city lights catching the shimmer of the tears that were still pooling in his eyes. Now that you could see him fully, you realized how bad things really were. His skin was blotchy, and flushed from how hot he was. His cheeks were stained with fresh tears, mixing with sweat that created this overall sheen on his skin in general, which made his hair cling to his forehead. A long, old kind of hurt settled over his face, the kind that hid quietly within the corners of a person.

He inhaled shakily, and every exhale got caught somewhere between exhaustion and restraint. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your chin, and it made you ache in a way that put a hole deep in your chest.

”Bob…” You murmured, barely louder than the sound of the city humming outside the window, “Look at me.” At first he didn’t move, keeping his eyes fixated on the ceiling, distant and confused, still taking in those short bursts of air. Your hand left his chest, bringing them up to his jaw, coaxing his attention with the lightest touch you could give him.

“Look at me Bob,” You whispered again.

Then slowly, his eyes shifted downward until they found yours. The moment his gaze landed on you, something cracked open between you both–it was quiet, and delicate, but present and grounded in the center of it all. His expression was drawn, and his lashes were clumpy and wet with tears, framing his shimmering blue irises.

The skin surrounding his eyes were raw, almost a blood red, like someone had scratched it and left their marks streaking down his flesh. You didn’t flinch away from it though, you just looked at him with such focus, like your gaze could settle the storm that was in him. You could see his lip tremble slightly under your gaze as he tried to hold himself still, tears brimming in his eyes again, threatening to spill.

”I hate remembering…I can’t stand it. I don’t want to remember this stuff…I don’t want to think about it anymore, and I don’t want you to associate me with being weak.” You raised your eyebrows, now raising your head up to you were looking at him a little better, resting your hand against his chin now.

”I don’t, ” You stated, watching a set of tears flow out of the corners of his eyes, swallowing loudly, “I don’t associate you with weakness.” You whispered, brushing your thumb along the smooth skin of his cheek.

”I associate you with patience…With overwhelming kindness, and with strength so deep it doesn’t even have to be displayed. You could burn the sky down…You could use all the pain inside you to destroy the planet…Yet you help, you listen, and you keep going. That’s not a weak person Bob.” You wiped one of the tears away with your thumb, feeling him hesitate before leaning into your touch.

“Y/N…I’m not right in the head…You don’t understand…You’ll never understand.” You shook your head, and sighed.

”I don’t have to understand everything to care about you,” Bob’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment, like the words that you said hit him like a truck. You could feel the tension in his jaw, as he clenched it tightly, trying to contain himself a bit.

“I used to think that if I could just bury everything deep enough maybe it wouldn’t make me feel so contaminated…But then when I got the serum…And The Void came…And that awfulness manifested into something bigger…I realized that it just wouldn’t go away. I’m dangerous Y/N…I’m not someone that can be fixed. I know you care, but I can’t risk hurting you.” You shifted closer to him, moving up slowly, dragging your chest along his. His eyes followed your movements, turning his head when you settled near his shoulder, feeling your hand leave his cheek.

“You don’t scare me Bob. You’re just saying this stuff because you think it’ll make me give up on you, but I’m not that easy to sway.” You whispered, reaching down to touch one of his hands, which caused him to flinch. He was already bracing himself, preparing to be pulled into one of your memories, but it didn’t happen…It was like…Things were quiet. Just pure emptiness, and the only thing he could see was you. He stared at you as you wrapped your fingers around his hand, seeing his brows draw together.

“H-How are you…Doing this?” He asked quietly, like he was afraid he was going to disturb the peace and get thrown into your mind out of nowhere.

”I locked it out.” He shook his head at you quickly.

”That’s impossible…It always gets in…” A small smile came up on your lips, hearing the disbelief in his voice, the way he was almost entirely taken aback by what you had just said. You leaned in a little closer to him, like you were going to tell him a secret, feeling his breath fanning over your face.

“Before I was recruited, I was part of a different team. Black-ops, kind of like what the X-Men used to be, but very much under the radar. It was just…Constant missions, we were a clean up crew basically, picking up the scraps that nobody else wanted…” You smiled faintly, the corner of your mouth twitching with the memories of your team, how close you all were, how none of you took crap from anyone…Similar to what you had now, just a little better because of the tether you all had between each other.

“We ran into a lot of people with gifts. Telepaths. Empaths…Stuff like that. Some didn’t even know they were projecting until it was too late. Others weaponized it. Pulled secrets out like stitches and drove people insane without ever touching them.”

Bob was still staring at you, eyes wide and brimming with tears, his chest rising beneath you in short bursts.

“It was mandatory,” You continued. “To train in mental shielding. Neural control. The discipline to lock down your own mind so tight it’s like a vault. We trained until our thoughts didn’t even echo. You learn to breathe around psychic pressure, to mask trauma with static, to reroute memories into dead space. You learn to feel someone reaching for you…And then cut the line.”

Bob swallowed hard, hearing the way you explained everything to him step by step, while still holding his hand, running your thumb over the back of it.

“I wasn’t trained to stop the Void,” You said gently, “But I was trained to stop something similar to it. And apparently, it’s just close enough.” You watched his lashes flutter like he didn’t know whether he was going to cry again or if he was just going to sink into the mattress and disappear entirely.

“…That’s why the mental noise isn’t so loud when we're alone in a room together…” He whispered under his breath, almost like everything was clicking in his mind, as his hand began to tighten around yours now, matching the same hold you had, “…Mental shielding…Who knew that would be the thing that makes everything go quiet.” You smirked at his comment, already hearing the tension in his voice wavering, feeling his breath sticking to your cheeks, shifting in front of him so your noses bumped slightly.

“Technically it’s still quite an experimental thing, but…It works when needed I think.” You can see his lip twitch slightly, drawing into his mouth just a little bit, as if he wanted to get a taste of your breath that coated it.

“It’s…Amazing.” Was all he could muster up to say, continuing to hold onto your hand tightly, like it was anchoring him to this quiet space in his head that he had not been able to reach since taking the serum. “…All I hear, and all I feel…Is you and I had no clue until now…” The sound of his voice made your spine tingle, and goosebumps raise on your skin.

It was shocking that moments ago he was this wreck, then suddenly it was like he was on top of the world. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been touched like this in so long, or maybe it was because he finally had a break from all the noise that kept draining him, you had no clue…But what you did know is how soft his eyes had become, and how deep his breaths were now that he was a little calmer, and not being treated like a threat of some kind.

You shifted again, getting almost unbearably close to him now, the fabric of the blanket sliding down slowly, exposing your clothed bodies to the silvery-blue light just a little more. Bob didn’t move, but his eyes never left yours, he kept every ounce of attention on you, waiting for your next action, hanging on every moment. His breath hitched when your knees bumped gently against his thigh, as the warmth of your bodies radiated like twin heartbeats pressed just barely apart.

Your noses were brushing against one another, and if you tilted your chin up by just a little bit, you’d be kissing.

”I’m glad I’ve been able to make it go quiet for you…Even if it’s not permanent.” A faint smile slowly appeared on his face–crooked, and trembling, but so genuine.

“It’s more peace than I thought I’d ever get…So thank you.” He replied back, his hand squeezing yours, not in desperation, but with something closer to awe, like he still couldn’t wrap his head around the situation that was happening in front of him. His breath brushed across your face as he watched your eyes roaming over his. You couldn’t help but stare at him, to take him in now that he wasn’t crying, to admire the person who was in front of you. It was hard not to lose track of time studying his features, and how they were just…Him.

There was a long pause between the both of you, a snippet of time suspended into the universe where nothing else existed beyond the narrow bed and the hum of the city beyond the window. His chest rose slowly, puffing out warm shallow breaths against your lips, and for a second it felt like he was hesitating on something…But then, he leaned in.

It wasn’t fast, or sweeping like he was trying to catch you off guard. It was careful, like every little millimeter he closed between the both of you was an offer for you to pull back, but you didn’t take it.

When his lips met yours, it was a soft, trembling brush of mouths that lingered more in intent than execution. He kissed like he was afraid you were somehow going to disappear, but you could feel how much he truly wanted this. His lips were warm, and slightly parted, and you could taste the faintness of tears and salt, still hesitating to go the full mile.

There was a moment where he was about to pull back, and that’s when you took the opportunity to fully lean into the kiss and throw logic out the window, just for this one cut of time

Your lips moved against his, answering the softness of his approach with something more certain and grounded. The taste of him was still there, but now it was amplified tenfold from how much more pressure you were placing on the kiss now.

He was stiff at first, the tension in his jaw made it evident, like he was unsure of what he was allowed to do, what he was okay to give back, or like he was bracing himself for the possibility of you pulling back before he could even try to meet you where you were at. But then your hand let go of his, and slid up to cup the side of his face, and he let out the smallest gasp of disbelief against your mouth. Your thumb brushed gently beneath his eye as your lips molded to the shape of his mouth with a tenderness that shattered whatever restrain he’d been holding onto.

Your arm shifted beneath the pillow, bending just enough so you could lace your fingers into his damp hair, pulling him in more with such grace that it made him groan. His hand moved to your neck then–his shaky fingers pressing softly just below your ear, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw as he located your pulse instantly. His touch wasn’t possessive, it was filled with care, and curiosity. He wanted to feel the warmth of your skin, the steady–or not so steady–rhythm of your heartbeat beneath his fingers, he craved to be closer to you, and every moment that passed was giving him the signal that you wanted that too.

He shifted gently, slowly turning onto his side without breaking the kiss, being cautious not to put anymore unwanted pressure on your arm beneath him as he wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you in until your bodies were flush against one another. You could feel the dampness on your sweater from his shirt, and your bare legs brushing against the cotton of his sleep pants, which only overwhelmed you more, knowing it was going to be a challenge to stop this from going too far.

His hand splayed out on your back, twitching against the fabric that covered it as you parted your lips for him, allowing his tongue to brush against yours with the softest flicker of hesitation, tasting you like he was drinking something sacred. The breath he let out against your mouth made your skin prickle beneath your sweater, and it only encouraged your response.

You angled your mouth to his, encouraging him to continue, feeling him follow suit in an instant, matching your energy bit by bit, syncing with the way you moved against him. When your hand slid further into his hair, and curled within the damp strands, gently tugging, he let out the smallest, softest moan–it was so quiet and desperate it sounded like it had been buried within him for years. It made your head spin hearing it, and it only made you shift yourself towards him even more, feeling his thigh nudging between your legs so the both of you can completely mesh together. It was such a subtle move, but it lit up every nerve ending in your body like it was nothing.

Bob’s hand slid beneath the hem of your sweater, craving the feeling of your skin beneath his touch. His fingers traced the small of your spine, barely putting enough pressure on it, yet he still managed to send shivers through your body. He was getting bolder, but kept his awareness at the forefront, like he was cataloging every reaction you gave him, terrified that he might cross an invisible line and ruin the moment.

You felt the muscles in his arm shift as he pulled you even closer, putting more pressure between your bodies until you felt every rise and fall of his chest, and his heartbeat pulsed through you. His knee shifted again, nudging further between your thighs, pressing it gently into the thin cotton fabric that covered your most sensitive area, eliciting a gasp from you now. You could feel yourself falter control for a moment, moving your hips just a little to test the friction that you wanted, and that’s when you both realized just how far this could go–and how close you already were to getting there.

His hand tensed against your back, and the kiss slowed down, until he found the correct moment to pull back, just a few inches. His lips were still parted, only now they were swollen and wet with saliva. He was out of breath, and you mirrored the same sentiment, as the both of you tried to even your racing hearts before they exploded. His pupils were dilated, and in the dimmed lighting you could only see a faint glisten of blue that rimmed the darkness that took over, the burn was there, the want was there, but there was the looming fear that you both were going from zero to one hundred really quickly, and that’s when regrets could be made, and neither of you wanted that.

”…We can’t do this…” He whispered, his voice cracking from being the first one to speak. You nodded faintly, your fingers still toying with his hair, reluctant to let go completely, but understanding him.

”I know,” You murmured, “Not like this…Not tonight.” You clarified. He closed his eyes, a soft exhale brushing your lips as his fingers twitched against your pulse point on your neck again.

”It’s not that I don’t want to,” He added quietly, “God I do…You have no idea.”

“I know,” You said again, running your thumb along his cheek, soothing the skin there, “Me too…I want to as well…But we’re not ready. Especially after being in the headspace that you were in a few minutes ago.” He nodded slowly.

”I don’t want it to be something that will be confused for a moment of distraction.” You stared at him, hearing how serious he was about it, “And I don’t want to ruin anything.” He added softly, opening his eyes again to look at you.

”You’re not ruining anything, we’re just pressing pause…And that’s completely fine, and it’s the best decision to make for right now.” He gave a small, nervous smile at that and leaned forward to rest his forehead against yours, “We’ll talk more about it later…But for now how about we just relax hmm?” He let out a shaky breath, the heat from it hitting your lips and invading your mouth for just a split second.

”Yeah…I’d like that.” You smiled faintly, as your bodies untangled just a bit from one another, removing the both of you from the intimate position you had found yourself in moments before. His knee shifted out from between your legs, and rested against them instead, letting the tension unravel and disappear slowly.

He wrapped both arms around you now, carefully noting your injury, and you folded yourself into his chest, letting your hand rest on his ribs as he pulled the blanket up to shield the both of you.

You both stayed there, nose to nose, breath to breath, hearts beating unevenly against one another until sleep came over you like a harsh wave.

[ds-angel1]

TEACHERS LITTLE PET

cw: SMUT(18+), teacher x student relationship, hitting it from the back(in the classroom), big age gap(ages aren´t specified), reader is a senior, i´m not american and have no idea how the school system works so please just smile and nod

wc: ~ 5.1k

a/n: tell me what you think of this dynamic and if you want more cause i have some ideas!! also this is the longest fic i´ve ever written, not my best work but atleast i managed to write something?? keep in mind i had a fever when i wrote this

Rafe had no idea how he ended up here.

Well, if he was being honest, he did. He just hated admitting it.

He hated kids. Teenagers weren’t much better. If they weren’t whining about something trivial, they were loud, obnoxious, and bursting with opinions they thought were groundbreaking. And high schoolers? They were the worst of the lot, caught in that unbearable limbo between childhood and adulthood, convinced they knew everything and that the world had been tailor-made to inconvenience them.

He hated his job, too. But after his father had all but shoved him into college, and he had somehow managed to scrape together an art history degree through a chaotic jumble of barely thought-out course selections, he needed a paycheck. He needed something, anything, to make use of the four years he had spent drowning in essays about the Renaissance and lectures on the symbolism of Baroque architecture.

And there it was, a high school history teacher.

He was fairly certain the school had been desperate. Desperate enough to hire the first applicant who could string a coherent sentence together about the American Revolution. And lucky him, that applicant had been Rafe.

The school itself was unremarkable. Small, under 400 students, just two squat brick buildings separated by a weather-beaten schoolyard that reeked of stale cigarette smoke and teenage apathy. Five hours from the Outer Banks, he could visit home whenever he wanted. Not that he did. There was nothing left for him there, nothing worth the drive, and frankly, there was nothing for him here either.

His days were a loop, a monotonous, uninspired cycle of standing in front of rows of disinterested, hormonal teenagers, rattling off lessons about long-dead historical figures far more interesting than any of his students would ever bother to realize. He graded half-assed essays, endured halfhearted excuses about missing assignments, and spent more time than he cared to admit staring at the clock, willing the hours to pass. Then, when the final bell rang, he trudged back to his apartment, a bare, impersonal space that he never bothered to decorate. No photos, no art, and no signs that anyone lived there. Just a bed, a couch, and a kitchen table that mostly went unused.

And then there were the truly miserable days, the ones where he was roped into subbing for freshman P.E., a biweekly exercise in self-inflicted torture. Half the girls refused to break a sweat, acting as if running a single lap would somehow lead to their untimely demise. The other half of the class consisted of cocky, over-competitive boys who treated dodgeball like a blood sport. He spent most of those periods standing on the sidelines, arms crossed, blowing the whistle when things got too heated, and watching the clock even more desperately than usual.

It was a dull, uninspired existence; monotonous, predictable, and entirely void of passion. He lived his life the way his students listened to the outdated documentaries he played in class: half-awake, uninterested, just going through the motions because it had to be done.

Until you walked into his class.

The first day of school after summer break always carried a certain energy; electric, restless, filled with voices overlapping in an unfiltered rush of stories from the last few weeks. As Rafe pushed open the door to his classroom, that familiar wave of chatter hit him like a sudden gust of wind. Laughter, exclamations, the scrape of chairs against the floor—it was all as chaotic as he had expected.

With a quiet sigh, he made his way to his desk, setting his thermos down on the bleached oak surface before picking it up again almost instinctively, taking a slow sip before returning it to its place. His fingers moved on autopilot, retrieving his school-issued laptop from his bag, pressing the power button, and waiting for the screen to glow to life. His gaze lifted, sweeping across the students, his students. The same faces he’d taught last year, now a little older, a little different, officially juniors.

But one face wasn’t familiar.

You.

Rafe spotted you almost immediately, sitting in the third row, right by the window where the morning sky stretched in endless hues of soft blue. You were listening—well, nodding, at least—to Amanda, whose mouth moved a mile a minute. He didn’t have to hear her know she was spewing an endless stream of conversation; Amanda was known for filling any silence, anytime, anywhere. But his attention wasn’t on her. It was on you.

A dark navy skirt draped over your thighs, the fabric shifting in gentle waves with every slight movement. Your top, a delicate white spaghetti strap with tiny baby blue flowers, hugged your frame, lace tracing the neckline, a small bow nestled right at its center. A beige cardigan hung loosely over your shoulders, two buttons left undone as if they had never been intended for use in the first place. Your hair was pulled back into a ponytail, not rigid, not loose, just… effortless. A few strands framed your face, soft wisps that moved when you turned your head, catching the light in a way that made them seem almost ethereal.

And sure, you looked beautiful, undeniably so. But it wasn’t just that.

It was the way your eyes flickered around the room, quietly observing, absorbing. The way your lips parted slightly every so often, murmuring the occasional “Uh-huh” or “Yeah” in response to Amanda’s nonstop chatter, even as your mind seemed elsewhere. There was something in your expression, an almost hesitant curiosity, a quiet awareness, that made Rafe’s fingers pause over the laptop’s keyboard.

He had seen many faces in this classroom. Some familiar, some forgettable.

But yours?

Yours was impossible to ignore.

"Uh— okay, let’s get started. Settle down," Rafe called out to the students, his voice steady despite the chaos. The room buzzed with post-summer chatter, desks scraping against the floor as students found their seats. He rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to exhale. The first day back was always like this, full of energy, distractions, and the struggle to rein everyone in. But today, there was another battle brewing beneath the surface, one he wasn’t prepared for.

He hoped that once the lesson began, he could shift his focus, and force himself to look anywhere but at you. He clung to that hope like a lifeline, but the moment he commanded their attention, he had yours.

And when your eyes locked onto him, he was trapped. Hypnotized. His breath hitched, pulse stuttering in a way it had no right to. For what felt like an eternity, he couldn’t tear his gaze away, couldn’t shake the invisible thread tightening between you. His fingers curled into his palm, nails pressing against his skin.

Shit.

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to snap out of it, dragging his attention back to the board. He took a measured breath, gripping the chalk like it might anchor him. "Alright, I know you’re all still in vacation mode, but we need to get talking about history."

The usual grumbling came, but it was muted, fading as students settled into their seats. Good. The routine was safe. The routine was predictable. The routine wouldn’t let his mind wander to places it shouldn’t.

"Before we dive in, we have a new student joining us this year from the senior class," he announced, keeping his tone even, impersonal. His gaze flickered back to you, just for a second, just long enough to acknowledge you without giving himself away. "Would you introduce yourself?"

A brief silence. You hesitated, shifting under the weight of so many eyes before murmuring your name.

"Great," Rafe said, far too quickly. He cleared his throat, turning back to the board. "So, what do we know about American history from the Industrial Revolution to the modern age?"

The next forty-five minutes passed in a blur of discussion, textbook readings, and writing exercises. Normally, this was when he’d catch up on grading or chip away at whatever administrative work he had. But today? No. Today, his focus splintered, frayed at the edges every time he felt your presence in the room.

His eyes kept drifting.

To you.

It was reckless. Stupid. He knew it was wrong, knew exactly how it would look if anyone noticed. He wasn’t blind, he’d found students attractive before, but it had always been a fleeting thing, a passing thought dismissed before it could take root. A moment, nothing more.

But this?

This was different.

This wasn’t just acknowledging that you were pretty, though you were. Incredibly so. This wasn’t just an absent-minded recognition of beauty. No, this was something deeper. Something that twisted in his gut and settled in his bones, something that made his breath catch when he wasn’t prepared for it.

Something dangerous.

His fingers raked through his hair as he stared down at his keyboard, typing nothing. He could tell himself it was just a dry spell, that he’d been avoiding distractions for too long, that it was simply physical. But that would be a lie.

Because it wasn’t just about desire.

It was about you.

And that was a problem.

The shrill chime of the bell split the air, and the classroom erupted into motion. Notebooks snapped shut, chairs scraped against the tile, and a low hum of voices swelled as students shoved books into backpacks, eager to escape into the chaotic freedom of lunch. You swung your bag over your shoulder, weaving through the shifting maze of desks, your focus locked on the door. The cafeteria was called, an oasis of noise and anonymity where you could blend in, and where no one was analyzing your every move.

But just as you stepped forward, a voice cut through the chatter behind you.

"Hey."

It wasn’t loud, but it had weight, like an anchor dropping into the sea of departing students. Something in the tone made your stomach twist. You turned, pulse hitching slightly, to find Mr. Cameron watching you from behind his desk. His expression was unreadable, calm but not necessarily kind.

"Yes, Mr. Cameron?" you asked, hesitating.

"Can I speak to you for a moment?"

It was phrased like a question, but you both knew it wasn’t. He gave a small nod toward the door as the last few stragglers trickled out, a silent instruction.

With a quiet sigh, you nudged the door shut behind them, the click of the latch sealing you in. The classroom, so full of life just seconds ago, now felt cavernous, the quiet pressing in around you. You hesitated before making your way back to his desk, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Mr. Cameron leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the surface of his desk, fingers steepled together. "So… I wanted to talk to you about last year." His voice was measured, and neutral, but something about it put you on edge. "You were in Ms. Wallace’s class, right?" His eyes flicked to a sheet of paper in front of him, though you were certain he already knew the answer.

You shifted uncomfortably. "Mhm." A simple answer for something far more complicated. Your history with Ms. Wallace wasn’t just a class; it was a long, exhausting battle, a relentless tug-of-war between frustration, unmet expectations, and a sinking feeling of inevitability.

Mr. Cameron studied you for a moment before speaking again. "Can you tell me what didn’t work? Was it her? The material? Her teaching style? Or was it something on your end?" His head tilted slightly, voice smooth, probing.

You hesitated, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your fingers clenched the strap of your bag. "I guess I was just… kind of unfocused last year," you admitted, your voice barely above a murmur.

"Mm." He hummed, eyebrows lifting just slightly. "Just last year?"

Your stomach tightened.

"Because judging by today’s lesson, it seems like you're still a little… distracted. More interested in doodles than in history, huh?"

Heat crept up your neck, shame pooling in your chest. Your gaze dropped to the floor as if looking anywhere else might soften the weight of his words.

"You’d think," he continued, his tone carrying the faintest edge, "that after the school let you pass the year and only required you to retake this class, you'd put in a little more effort."

His words landed like a slap, sharp, deliberate. He knew exactly how unfair that was. Knew how it would make you feel. And yet, for whatever reason, he didn’t stop himself.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“You want to pass, yes?”

His voice was low, almost teasing, each word curling around you like smoke. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his desk, dark eyes locked onto yours with something unreadable, something that made your stomach twist.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry, and gave a quick, eager nod.

Rafe watched you for a lingering second, dragging it out just long enough to make you shift where you stood. Then, with an exhale that was almost too casual, he pushed himself up from his chair. He didn’t simply stand, he moved. Slow. Deliberate. A quiet display of control as he braced one hand against the edge of his desk, his weight settling into a lean. The aged wood creaked under him, but he didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care.

His focus remained entirely on you.

“And what do you think I could do to help you achieve that?”

Smooth. Measured. But there was something else beneath his tone, something just sharp enough to catch. Playfulness, maybe. Amusement. Or something more dangerous.

His gaze flickered, sweeping over you in a way that felt too quick at first, like a reflex he hadn’t meant to act on. But then, you saw it. The hesitation. The way his throat bobbed, how his fingers flexed at his sides before he rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to shake off whatever had just slipped through the cracks. But it was too late.

You had seen.

And by the way, his jaw clenched a second later, the way his lips pressed together, you knew he realized it too.

Your heart hammered. You didn’t answer him. Couldn’t. Instead, your fingers fidgeted with each other, twisting and untwisting, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. The silence between you stretched, thick and electric, heavy with something unspoken, something neither of you dared name but both of you felt.

Rafe inhaled deeply, the sound filling the quiet space between you. The air itself seemed different now, charged, like something unseen was pressing in, urging one of you to break.

He let the breath out slowly, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that somehow felt… controlled. Intentional. And then, his eyes moved again.

This time, there was no rush. No flicker of hesitation.

Now, he studied you.

It was slow, almost methodical, th

6e kind of look that made heat crawl up the back of your neck, the kind that lingered just long enough in places that made you second-guess every inch of yourself. When his gaze reached your thighs, a nervous jolt ran through you. Almost instinctively, you gripped the hem of your skirt, twisting the fabric in your fists, your knuckles turning white.

A nervous habit.

One he noticed.

One that made his eyes darken, not dramatically, not in some exaggerated, obvious way, but just enough. Just enough for you to catch the shift, to see the amusement flicker across his face like the hint of a smirk he didn’t fully let through.

“Hm?” The questioning hum he let out brought you back to reality, back to his question, and back to the answer that you had yet to give.

“Um… I- I don’t know…” you stammered out.

His eyes flick down again, taking in your upper body, eyes practically circling in on your chest. As if your body has a mind of its own, you straighten your back, puffing out your chest.

Rafe’s eyes flickered up to yours, and for a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

The air between you had thickened, dense with something unspoken, something dangerous. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, slow, almost pensive as if he were considering something he shouldn’t be. He exhaled sharply through his nose, a breath that almost sounded like a laugh but carried no humor, just tension.

“Yeah?” His voice was softer now, quieter like he was testing the waters, like he was trying to figure out how far this would go before one of you came to your senses.

Your lips parted, but no words came. Your throat felt tight, your skin burning where his gaze traced. You felt like you were standing on the edge of something vast, something that couldn’t be undone.

His fingers tapped once, twice against the desk, a steady rhythm that contradicted the barely concealed restraint in his posture. His body language told two different stories, one of hesitation, and another of inevitability. He was too close, and yet he wasn’t moving away.

Your breath hitched as he shifted, his body angling just slightly towards yours. It was a minuscule movement, one that could’ve been mistaken for a simple change in weight, but you knew better. It was deliberate. Calculated.

“You want to pass this class?”

The question was a mere whisper, his voice dipped in something that made your stomach twist. Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, nodding, too fast, too eager.

His lips twitched, almost smirking like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. He leaned in just enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne, something dark and musky, something entirely him.

“Then you’re gonna have to focus.”

The way he said it—low, deliberate—sent a shiver down your spine. His words weren’t inappropriate, but the way he looked at you, the way his voice wrapped around each syllable, made them feel like something else entirely.

Your knees felt weak, your heart pounding against your ribcage as your grip tightened around the strap of your bag. The classroom, once suffocating in its quiet, now felt electric, charged with a current that neither of you dared acknowledge aloud.

Rafe exhaled again, this time slower, measured. His hand moved, not towards you, not touching, but close enough that you felt the shift in air between you.

“You’re nervous.”

It wasn’t a question.

Your breath shuddered. “I—”

His head tilted slightly, watching, waiting. His pupils were blown wide, his expression unreadable but entirely focused on you.

His jaw ticked, his fingers twitching at his side like he was fighting something. A beat of silence stretched between you.

And then, Rafe moved.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t forceful. It was a slow descent, a moment stretched into eternity. His lips hovered just above yours, close enough that you felt the ghost of his breath against your skin, close enough that your lips parted in anticipation before your mind could catch up.

He paused—just for a fraction of a second, just enough to give you the chance to pull away. Just enough to make it clear that if this happened, it was your choice, too.

But you didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

And before you could let a single other breath out, his lips met yours.

Soft at first. Testing. A barely-there brush that sent a sharp current through your veins, igniting something dangerous and uncontainable in your chest.

He exhaled against your mouth, and in that moment it seemed like something in him snapped.

His hand found your waist, fingers splaying against the fabric of your cardigan as he pulled you just slightly closer. His other hand lifted, skimming along your jaw before his fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head just so.

The kiss deepened, slow but demanding, every movement deliberate, every touch igniting another spark beneath your skin. He wasn’t rushing—no, he was savoring, taking his time like he wanted to memorize the exact way you fit against him. He knew this was a mistake but couldn’t bring himself to care.

Your hands found his chest, pressing lightly against the fabric of his dress shirt, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms. His fingers tightened slightly in your hair at the contact, his grip on your waist firm but careful, as if he was anchoring himself as much as he was anchoring you.

The sharp sound of footsteps in the hallway shattered the fragile haze that had settled between you two, yanking you both back into reality.

Rafe was the first to react, pulling away, but only just. His forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath still ragged, chest rising and falling in sync with yours. His fingers, warm and possessive, lingered at your waist a second too long before he finally, finally, let go, stepping back just enough to put a sliver of space between you. But not enough to erase what had just happened.

His eyes searched yours, dark blue depths swirling with something unreadable, something dangerous. His exhale was sharp, tension coiling through his jaw as he dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers gripping at the strands like he was trying to ground himself.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough and uneven. Then, with more force, “Fuck. Fuck.”

His eyes shut tight, his head shaking in frustration as if the motion itself could erase the last few minutes. When they opened again, they were filled with something even more intense. In two strides, he was in front of you again, his hands gripping your upper arms, fingertips pressing just a little too hard, just enough to make you feel trapped between the heat of his body and the reality of the situation.

“This didn’t happen, okay?” His voice was firm, but there was a slight tremor to it like he wasn’t sure if he believed the words himself. His grip tightened before loosening again, as if he was at war with himself as if he didn’t trust his restraint.

You didn’t answer. You just stared at him, your pulse thrumming wildly, your breath uneven. His eyes flickered down to your parted lips, then back to your eyes, and something in him cracked. His hands slid down your arms in a slow, deliberate motion, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. When his fingertips finally settled at your hipbones, pressing in lightly, his resolve wavered even more.

“This…” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

His voice was different now, lower, more raw. His fingers traced absent patterns along the fabric of your skirt as his mind spiraled, thoughts tumbling into a chaotic storm. Why was he doing this? This wasn’t like him. He had met you, his student, his goddamn student, less than an hour ago, and he had already crossed every possible line. And yet, even knowing that he wasn’t pulling away. He was moving closer.

His hands ghosted up your sides, the touch sending shivers across your skin. His lips brushed against your ear as he whispered, “Don’t tell anyone. Can you do that for me?”

If someone had asked you that morning how you thought your first day of senior year would go, never in a million years would you have said this? Sure, you’d heard the whispers in the halls, and seen the way every girl’s eyes lingered when he walked past. Mr. Cameron was the forbidden fantasy, the subject of countless rumors and stolen glances. But he was also your teacher. And he had just kissed you.

You knew it was wrong. You should run, tell someone, do the right thing. And yet, as your mind battled between logic and desire, only one thought rose above the rest: he had kissed you.

Mr. Cameron, the man every girl in school lusted after, had kissed you. Had he done this before? Had he chosen others before you? Or was this different?

Even as doubt twisted itself into a tight knot in your stomach, you found yourself nodding, unable to speak, afraid your voice would betray you with the high-pitched, breathy sound of a girl who had just been touched by fire and didn’t want to step away.

“Good.”

His voice was barely a whisper, almost more breath than sound. The tension in the room grew, thick and suffocating, but you didn’t want to breathe anything else in. His fingers glided upward again, teasing over your waist, grazing over your ribs, leaving a trail of heat that made your entire body burn with anticipation.

Then, gently, with a tenderness that contradicted the fevered hunger in his eyes, he cupped your face. For one impossible moment, you thought he was going to kiss you again, that he was going to throw every bit of logic and control out the window and claim your lips as he had minutes ago. But instead, he tilted your head slightly, his breath warm against your throat.

Then his lips were on your neck, barely touching, soft and slow.

A sound, something between a gasp and a whimper, escaped you, and his hands tightened ever so slightly, grounding you, making you feel small under his grasp. His mouth moved lower, pressing another kiss, and then another, each one more deliberate, more intoxicating than the last.

You barely registered the moment he turned you around, your back now facing him. Your hands trembled as they found purchase against the smooth surface of his desk, the dark wood cool beneath your fingertips.

Then, with the kind of confidence that sent a shiver racing down your spine, he placed his hands on your thighs, massaging them slowly, possessively.

His voice, low and dripping with something dark and dangerous, ghosted over your ear.

“Stay quiet for me.”

You sucked in a deep, long breath, letting your head fall and your eyes close.

The feel of the Rafe´s fingers slid under the skirt and the pads of his fingers started tracing along your panties, each tiny motion making your body stutter and tremble.

“You´re… you´re real special, you know that?” He spoke from behind you but you couldn’t respond, still holding your breath as if letting out the air would make the situation you found yourself in truly real.

When he had had enough of feeling the warm, twisted feeling in his stomach as he let his fingers glide over your clothed cunt, he pushed your underwear aside with his thumb, letting the tip of his index finger dip into your already quivering hole. The action intensified the feeling and buried it even deeper in his gut.

As if a shock of lightning had hit you, you bolted away from his hand a few inches, clenching your thighs tightly as you finally relieved your lungs of the air they were keeping trapped.

“M- Mr. Cameron…” You started to sputter out but stopped when you felt long, gruff fingers curl around the sides of your panties before pulling the black lace material down tantalizingly slow.

A cold rush of air hit your most intimate body part, making you gasp and pant. When you heard rustling and what you could only assume was the clink of your teacher´s belt, you shut your mouth and froze as you waited for the man´s next move.

“Listen,” he whispered your name like it was a sin he committed and you were a pastor, “You understand that this stays between us, yes?” His large hands massaged your ass and thighs, cursing under his breath when he saw how soaked you were.

“Mhm,” you hummed in agreement. You weren´t sure why. He was your teacher and by the looks of it and the feel of his hands on you, apparently a pedophile. But god did you want this; you wanted it, him, so bad.

Before you could so much as even let another thought pass through your head, he thrust forward, burying his cock inside you as deep as he could with multiple rapid movements of his hips. You moaned and practically screamed, the sounds of pleasure from you making Rafe reach around and cover practically half of your entire face.

“Fuck, you´re so tight,” he muttered sharply next to your ear as he started moving inside of you again, dragging his hips back only to snap them back forward less than a moment later.

“You like that, huh? Like being fucked by your teacher. Little teachers pet.”

He knew this was wrong, you were his student, and you probably didn´t even actually want this but for some fucked up reason that made it even better for Rafe, and as the thought crossed his mind it only made him thrust into you faster. At that point, you were damn near choking and sobbing into his hand, his palm making it hard for you to get a deep breath of fresh air in.

With a sense of panic taking over you, you tried to move your hands off of the desk to claw him off of your face but your attempts proved futile when Rafe pushed you flat onto the desk, forcing you to take his cock even deeper.

His free hand which wasn´t taking away your ability to breathe, found its way between your legs, his index, and middle fingers drawing squiggly circles on your clit. At the shock of pleasure that ran through you as he teased your extremely sensitive bundle of nerves, you clenched around his pipe and arched your back. You felt that familiar coil spring up in the depths of your stomach, your body rocking slightly backward against Rafe´s to help you relive the press soon.

Rafe pushed into you harder than he had any of the other time before then, hitting your sweet spot with a force that would have made you cry out, had you had your mouth free. His fingers applied pressure to the shapes they were making on your clit. The mix of heightened attention and force made your pussy squeeze around him and pushed you over the edge, coming with tears in your eyes.

After a few more brutal thrusts into your soppy cunt, he came as well, unloading into you, his thoughts barely registering anything at that point except for you and your body bent over his desk, his cum dripping out of your used up hole and onto your thighs.

Slowly he took away his hand from your face, a trail of spit following. As soon as you got a few much-needed breaths, you collapsed onto the desk, your body falling limp. Rafe pulled out of you, not wasting any time before he pulled his pants back on and redid his leather belt around his hips. He leaned over you, his body covering all of your sweaty skin as he dressed you in your underwear again.

“You did so good, darling. So, so good."

[midniqhtt]

ᯓ ⚡︎ robert ‘bob’ reynolds

masterlist • marvel • 06/09/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs II gif credit - @/castledevil

here are some bob reynolds stories i’ve read, loved, and reblogged. all the admiration for the writers who share their talent so generously. please be sure to read the warnings on each fic. and if you enjoy them, let the author know by a comment, reblog, or both! ♡

⭑.ᐟ xerox pt2 pt3 I @ichorai

you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?

⭑.ᐟ the fling I @sacredsorceress

bob finds out that you had a one night stand with bucky a few years earlier and feelings bubble to the surface.

⭑.ᐟ therapy I @/sacredsorceress

⭑.ᐟ mocha I @/sacredsorceress

yelena decides to make it her mission to set up bob with her close friend.

⭑.ᐟ lifeline I @/sacredsorceress

When you sleep, the Void visits you. This time, you can't hold your worries in and Bob is there to save the day.

⭑.ᐟ let go I @sunskisser

bob avoided you, and you had no idea why — till the night you help him out of a frenzy.

⭑.ᐟ the woes of bowties and missing puzzle pieces I @websterss

One day Bob having a rough day and void jumps out, creating quite a chaos. She tries to talk him through it but void being void thinking she’s a liability for them, he “consumed” her. Few moments after that he turns back into Bob & other people came back from void but not her.

⭑.ᐟ the hand that’s forced pt2 I @/websterss

You hadn't meant to get attached to Bob, much less fall in love with him. You hadn't meant for things to slip out right from underneath your grasp. Out of your control, much like Valentina holding your love for one another over your heads.

⭑.ᐟ i see you I @cocastyle

⭑.ᐟ sneaking around I @callsign-swan

Bob doesn't mean to be sneaking around. But he can't help it. He's got a secret, and he wants to keep it that way. Too bad he's best friends with Yelena Belova.

⭑.ᐟ alone together I @/callsign-swan

For the last few years, Tony's daughter has been living out in the tower basement. She doesn't realise when Valentina buys the tower, not until she's being choked out by Sentry (turns out Sentry is a really sweet guy called Bob, who knew?)

⭑.ᐟ picnic day I @roanofarcc

when rain threatens a thunderbolts team bonding outing, per the request of Alexei, they turn to their resident weather-controlling team member to save their plans. 

⭑.ᐟ a bunch of teenagers I @mallory524

Bob has really started to like you, but he assumes you don’t feel the same way about him. You do though, and everyone seems to know that except Bob… and apparently also Walker, who really thought he had a chance

⭑.ᐟ going out I @/mallory524

You and Bob finally spend some time together one morning, but you find yourself rushing to defend him when he gets overwhelmed and people aren’t kind to him.

⭑.ᐟ in my arms I @woantohae

The Thunderbolts are constantly on missions, busy trying to do good and save whoever they can. One of them was Bob Reynolds, the defenseless yet powerful man who is part of this team and family. However, he doesn't participate in these missions so he can continue practicing controlling his powers. Despite telling them he's capable, the team prefers to give him more time to get used to them, until one mission, when a member of the team is injured. And all Bob can think about is the fury he feels when he hears Y/N being hurt. And how much he wants revenge on whoever did it.

⭑.ᐟ shadow I @/woantohae

Y/N loved the darkness because she could see the stars better. Void does everything in his power to make sure she can gaze at the starry sky, even if it means turning everything into darkness.

⭑.ᐟ only you I @/woantohae

Bob's dark, evil entity, The Void, appears when you least expect it. The rest of the team must be prepared to confront him and his prevailing malice. However, there is only one person on the team with whom he has a soft spot. And it's her.

⭑.ᐟ like real people do I @froggibus

Bob seeks you out following a bad dream

⭑.ᐟ misunderstanding I @strkly

you and bob were inseparable. until he begins to ignore you and you have no clue why. when you’re injured after a mission gone wrong you’re finally able to find out why.

⭑.ᐟ darling I @fireinmoonshot

You always call Bob darling in private... until you accidentally slip up and use the nickname in front of the rest of the Thunderbolts.

⭑.ᐟ unreal I @/fireinmoonshot

Bob offers for you to share his room while your room in the Watch Tower gets renovated... there's just one problem – he didn't think about the fact that he'd have to share a bed with you.

⭑.ᐟ control I @/fireinmoonshot

Bob always waits for you to come back from missions, but when you don't come back one day, his powers start to get a little out of hand.

⭑.ᐟ lethal touch I @hearts4johnwick

while training, all goes well until a move bob makes changes your concentration as you begin to relive your worst memory.

⭑.ᐟ stay with me pt2 I @scarletmika

Bob wants to feel useful, to truly be part of the team, but the others don't think he's ready. You take it upon yourself to teach him control, to guide him through. But mistakes will be made, and it might not be possible to keep the darkness from creeping back in once more.

⭑.ᐟ destiny or not I @/scarletmika

As The Darkhold foretold Wanda Maximoff's destiny, The Book of Vishanti foretold your own. You just didn't know how much of that destiny was intertwined with Bob Reynolds, until the day you met him in the vault.

⭑.ᐟ peace and quiet I @/scarletmika

Sometimes the tower is too loud, and Bob can feel himself getting overwhelmed. He's always found comfort with you, in your room, where he can find peace and quiet whenever he needs it. And you'll never turn him away, finding the same comfort in him.

⭑.ᐟ request I @lovebugism

you like taking care of bob on his bad days. he isn't quite sure why

⭑.ᐟ stitches I @skeltnwrites

Bob learns how to stitch a wound

⭑.ᐟ plainclothes man pt2 I @em1i2a3

Everyone at the compound knows Bob has a massive crush on you–except you.

⭑.ᐟ carry the zero I @/em1i2a3

You and Bob are sharing a room while the Avengers Compound is under renovations, which brings on a slew of new things to learn about one another.

⭑.ᐟ cherry waves I @/em1i2a3

You’ve been sick for a few days, so while the rest of the team goes out to do a recon mission, you’re on your own watching over Bob. One morning he comes to your room with a weird request.

⭑.ᐟ sailor song pt2 pt3 I @/em1i2a3

Bob is in love with you, but you can’t be what he wants.

⭑.ᐟ i wanna get lost with you I @/em1i2a3

After a rough night, you find yourself with a rare day off–the one that you take on the same day every year in memoriam for the fallen. So you head into the city to spend your feelings away on the only thing that makes sense to you: gifts for your favourite team of scrappy anti-heros…And Bob.

⭑.ᐟ it’s you i’m thinking of I @/em1i2a3

Valentina organizes a PR event for the Thunderbolts and during the event Bob realizes that he may want more out of life than just saving the world.

⭑.ᐟ signs I @/em1i2a3

You haven’t been able to sleep for the past four days, you’ve tried everything in the book, but tonight Bob has come to your room to offer you some help.

⭑.ᐟ the greatest light is the greatest shade I @/em1i2a3

You return back to the compound a week early from an initial two week-long mission, only to find Bob asleep in your bed.

⭑.ᐟ test drive pt2 I @/em1i2a3

You have a late night encounter with The Void

⭑.ᐟ a little bit of jam I @violetrainbow412-blog

⭑.ᐟ archives room I @owastie

you’re tasked with searching through the archives room to find some information on a new threat

⭑.ᐟ oh, scaling all your shadows I @swordgrace

plagued by nightmares, bob takes comfort in the one person who’s pulled him from the shadows time and time again — you.

⭑.ᐟ so high school I @pagesfromthevoid

⭑.ᐟ walk through darkness I @/pagesfromthevoid

⭑.ᐟ unfamiliar feeling I @ang3ltine

Bob was asleep for God knows how long, now that he has the chance at a better life. Who better to show him than you?

⭑.ᐟ admiration I @/ang3ltine

Being recruited by Valentina as part of the new Avengers (z) team was never part of your list of agendas. Yet here you were, doting on an awkward brunette.

⭑.ᐟ look what the cat dragged in I @eyelessfaces

you get bob a cat for emotional support; the cat adopts you as parents and is undeniably bound to bring the two of you closer.

⭑.ᐟ how to kiss I @worstghost

teaching bob how to kiss and accidentally slipping into a 20 minute makeout session

⭑.ᐟ the good side I @cosmictheo

bob loves you so much that he slowly begins to transform into a house-husband for you. and he loves it.

⭑.ᐟ heavenly I @/cosmictheo

it's the first time you're wearing your new suit as an official (new) avenger and bob is a little too excited about it.

⭑.ᐟ fur-evermore I @ofstarsandvibranium

Because you're Bucky's assistant, you, and your service dog, Juniper, head to the tower to give him some files as well as meet the rest of his new team...including a very cute and slightly awkward, Bob.

⭑.ᐟ mr. oblivious I @/ofstarsandvibranium

Bob is sometimes oblivious to the fact that people find him attractive and/or like him. One of those people includes you.

⭑.ᐟ i dream of you even when awake I @deakyjoe

Your gift makes sleep difficult. Luckily, Bob is there to guide you through it.

⭑.ᐟ something special I @blank-potato

You’ve been the live-in doctor at Avengers Tower for a year, and Bob wants to get you something special to celebrate. Unbeknownst to him, that something special turns out to be a sex plant. 

⭑.ᐟ loving you is easy pt2 I @/blank-potato

You and Bob are indifferent to each other, never seeming to mesh. But when you lose your memory, something new blooms between the two of you.

⭑.ᐟ drabble I @undyingdecay

⭑.ᐟ peace in the darkness pt2 I @theonewiththefanfics

Bob knows Y/N isn't one to go back on her words. So when she doesn't show up to go through with their plans, he starts to worry. Luckily for him, Yelena knows how to break-and-enter. And doesn't mind invading her personal space.

⭑.ᐟ the ghost i left behind pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 I @brookghaib-blog

Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

⭑.ᐟ a pleasant inconvenience I @little-miss-dilf-lover

your cat likes to run out of your apartment when you return home. today she makes it further than usual but is luckily stopped by a stranger.

⭑.ᐟ run hot I @moon-fics

The heating in the tower has broken in the middle of winter. This leaves everyone trying to find warmth any way possible.

⭑.ᐟ accident I @upl0aded

you and bob had always been perfect, you kept him happy and he kept you satisfied. but what happens when a buried memory accidentally gets revived?

⭑.ᐟ truth will set you free I @sergeantbuckybarnes

You are injected with a truth serum during a mission, and when you return to the Watchtower, you must avoid Bob in order not to spill your feelings for him, but this causes Bob to believe he has done something to upset you.

⭑.ᐟ gladiator I @trainer-from-unova

welcome to the party, say hi to everybody. you're valentina's daughter and you're late to the party in honour of her new puppet.

⭑.ᐟ i can’t have what i want (but neither can you) I @honeyatsu

You don't know how to explain the feeling when you see Bob and Yelena together. You don't understand it, and you don't like it. You think maybe you're not a people person, maybe you're better off being on your own. You take matters to solve this problem your own way, but everyone doesn't agree with your logic.

⭑.ᐟ i like it better I @sl-ut

every member of the thunderbolts* are struggling with having friends for the first time in… ever, for the most part. the team is shocked to find out that, for some reason, bob is having the easiest time with it. aka, four times the team notices a budding romance, and one time they all realize they’re late to the conclusion.

⭑.ᐟ the complete knock pt2 I @sunsburns

you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.

⭑.ᐟ second nature I @bruisedboys

bob tells you he’s never been kissed. you decide to change that.

⭑.ᐟ request I @gay-dorito-dust

⭑.ᐟ charcoal smudges I @cryptidcasanova

Bob thinks he's in control. At least…until you get involved. 

⭑.ᐟ short circuit I @honeybadgerwritings

Bob helps Y/N train to control her powers under pressure. But when frustration gets the better of her, their sparring session turns tense.

[terrestrialnoob]

Harley crawled into the apartment. It was organized, but it looked like the occupant didn't have a lot of time for cleaning. She walked softly through it, taking it in. There were photos of her target and what had to be her family, but no friends or romantic partners. Some had a pair of older adults, matching traits meant bio-parents. More of the photos were of the target and a younger boy - a little brother, the highest likelihood of becoming another target if things go bad.

Harley continued forward, following the light to where her target was. She stood in the doorway, looking in.

Dr. Jasmine Fenton, Arkham Asylum's newest psychologist, just got her degree and everything. She did what most newbies do, actually thinking she could get through to the Joker. Harley didn't want to say it was impossible, but everyone who tried ended up in a new job or dead. Harley would try and make sure it was the former and not the later.

Harley watched as the redhead read over a file as she ate from a takeout box. She didn't want to scare the girl, yet. The scaring her away from Joker came later. So, she had to wait for the perfect moment to-

"I know you're there." Jasmine didn't look up from her file, but held out the last box of Chinese food in Harley's direction. "There's plenty if you want some."

"Awe, you ruined the surprise." Harley walked out of the shadows of the hallway into the girl's home office. She snatched the offered box of food and took a few bites as she jumped to sit on the desk.

"I'm hard to sneak up on." Jasmine said, closing her file and finally looking at Harley. "So, Dr. Quinzel, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this evening?"

"Oh, call me Harley!" She laughed, she wasn't called Dr. all that often any more. She tapped her chop sticks on the file Jasmine just closed. "I thought you'd like a consult on your new patient, Dr. Fenton. I've got a lot of experience with him."

"I prefer to go by Jazz." She said with a smile, "While I appreciate the offer, I'd like to see how far I can get on my own. And, sorry, but I'm pretty sure your license was revoked."

Harley nodded as she swallowed to get the noodles out of her mouth. "I get it! You're new, fresh outta school, gotta prove yourself. But Joker ain't the guy to do that with. He eats people like us for breakfast, and in all the years he's been in Arkham, no one's been able to get anywhere with him."

Jazz sighed, "I don't like to believe people are lost causes. There's always something we can do to help."

"You can't help everyone, especially when they don't want it. And it's not just a question if whether or not he can be saved or whatever." Harley set down the now empty box, Jazz pointed to another one that still had food in it, but Harley declined. "If you keep it up, he'll think you're worth his time to torment. There's no telling what he'll do when he inevitably gets himself out again."

"I'll be fine." Jazz said, but Harley had to cut her off before she said something stupid.

"It's not just you! You've got family out there he can target, your parents. Your Brother! Anyone you date will become a target! He'll do everything in his power to make your life miserable!"

Jazz chuckled. "If he wants to target my family, his funeral. My parents are - were supervillains. They've really only become less- well, hyper-focused on eradicating an entire race of being- in the past few years. And my brother - I'm pretty sure he's conditionally immortal. So that's nothing to worry about."

"If it's conditional, Joker will find a way around it." Harley said, but she had to admit, this might have been an unnecessary trip. "You sure y'ain't got nothing to worry about? What about you? How conditional is your mortality?"

Jazz smiled. Her mouth seemed too wide and with too many teeth. "Oh, I am nowhere near immortal. But..."

She stood up and the room was suddenly a black void. Toxic green eyes and mouths filled with glowing white teeth opened around them. "I doubt anyone could get close enough to test it."

The room was suddenly back to normal, but whatever that thing was was still there. Harley could see its eyes watching her with amusement from inside Jazz's oversized cardigan.

"Well, I guess this really was a wasted trip. You've clearly got it covered."

"Not entirely." Jazz said, her hand wend up to her neck to rub nervously, "Well, you see... I don't really have a lot of friends. People tend to get - uh, creeped out, you know? Or chased off by my parents or brother or whatever..."

"You wanna be friends?" Harley laughed so hard she almost fell over.

Jazz's face turned bright red and the shadow eyes looked way less amused. "Yeah, stupid question. You've clearly got your own things going on."

"No! No, no." Harley had to take several deep breaths before she could look Jazz in the face again. "I 100% wanna hang out with you!"

"Really?"

"Oh yeah." She took another deep breath, "I mean, I really should have made a support system before trying to take on the Joker back when I worked for Arkham. This" she pointed between them "can only end well."

Jazz's face turned brighter than the sun. "Oh my gosh! This is amazing! We should - I have Thursday's and weekends off - What - what kind of things should we-"

Oh man, Jazz was like an excited kid. She must have had a really lonely childhood... they can psychoanalyze each other later. "Come over for girl's night next week. I'll tell my gf and bff to expect an extra person... Does the-" she motioned to the cardigan creature "-go everywhere you go? Does it need food?"

"Oh, don't worry about Jet, they only eat who I tell them to."

Harley barked out more laughter. "You're going to fit right in!"

---

Now featuring a Part 2

[unintentionalseductress]

Hold Me Tenderly

Warnings: MDNI, sex, angst Summary: When woken up from a nightmare, you and Caleb are forced to confront some uncomfortable truths. WC: 3075 A/n: This week has been crazy. As I've mentioned in an earlier rant, there's more to Caleb than meets the eye and I'm here for it. I've seen a bump in toxicity since his launch, and I just want to take this space to say, please remember this is all FICTIONAL. Let people like who they like and if you have nothing nice to say, scroll on by.

It’s pitch black. You squint, your heart pounding frantically as you try to get your bearings. Up, down, left, right, direction seemed to have lost all meaning. It was dark. And quiet. Too quiet. The unsettling sound of your blood rushing through your own veins adds to the paranoia building inside you.

“Are you looking for me?” Your body jolts at the voice as you look around desperately for the source.

“Caleb?” You call through the echoing nothingness. He sounded so close but where was he? 

“Right here. Can’t you see me?” He sounded further away this time. You jog through the void, not even certain if there is ground beneath your feet. Were you actually moving? Or were you stuck in place, wasting effort to run through a medium that couldn’t be traversed?  

“Caleb, where are you? I can’t find you!” Your voice calls out, shrill, and panicked into the void.

“Here.” He sounded much farther away now, the faint sound of him disappearing into the dark. You give chase, plunging deeper into the unknown.

“Caleb!”

“Hey.” You’re shaken gently and your eyes fly open, your limbs tangling under the sheets as you thrash to free yourself.

“Whoa, calm down. It’s ok. It’s ok my little mouse.” Strong arms wrap around you and you’re pulled into a tight embrace against a firm, muscled, chest. You swallow, then blink your eyes open. The bedside lamp is turned on, and you feel relief flood your chest as Caleb’s face comes into focus. You sniff, burying your face into the comforting warmth of his skin. 

“Nightmare?” He asks softly, cupping the back of your head. You nod, feeling a lump form in your throat. “It’s gone now. I’m here.” He shushes you, patting your back soothingly.

You’re here, but you’re not here.

The thought enters your mind, unbidden, and suddenly, it’s too much. Your eyes squeeze closed, trying and failing to stop the cascade of tears that form. You couldn’t bear it anymore. Caleb came and went like day changing into night - too brief and without a trace. You hated it. You hated him acting like this tension between you didn’t exist, like the events at Skyhaven had been put to rest.

But most of all you hated that whenever Caleb visited, he never seemed to understand that you wanted him to stay. You had never said he was unwelcome, but he treated himself like an unsavory visitor, only packing enough clothes for a day, before leaving the next. 

And you hated yourself for being unable to shake off the question he had asked the last time he had visited. 

“Why didn’t you ask me who kept me up all night? Were you afraid I’d say it was you? Or were you scared I’d say it wasn’t?”

Wasn’t the answer to that obvious? Why else would you keep letting this man back into your life, over and over, like a moth drawn to a flame? Simply put, you were now in a precarious state, knowing you could never go back to a world where Caleb didn’t exist. It was infuriating, the way he thought he was being considerate, never overstaying his visits, when it was so plainly obvious you didn’t want him to go. Your heart broke each time he left without asking if there were feelings that went beyond the bond of growing up together. 

So you cry, and he holds you tenderly. You couldn’t remember the first time you had both done this, years ago, sharing a bed to avoid facing all the past trauma you’d endured together. But all you knew was that you never wanted there to be a last. 

“It’s just a dream baby girl,” Caleb murmurs in your ear. 

Your eyes snap open, and through gritted teeth you say, “It’s not just a dream Caleb.”

His hand pauses. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not a dream.” You sit upright, burying your face in your hands, your body racked with sobs, shaking and trembling on the bed. The sheets ruffle and Caleb pulls you against him, trying to console you. He seems to be at a loss about what to say. You take a shuddering breath and it’s like a dam burst inside you.

“You come when you want. And leave when you want. What about me, Caleb? Did it ever occur to you that I don’t want bits and pieces of you anymore?” You look up at him, tears streaking down your face, your heart skipping a beat as his eyes grow wide with shock. You ramble on. 

“I don’t know how we got here. And I’m trying to fix it but Caleb…I can’t fix it if you won’t stay.” 

You finally admit the things you’d tucked away inside, trying to bury them; now they were crawling out of your throat like ghosts desperate for a rebirth. You swallow, and Caleb grabs the glass of water from the nightstand and presses it into your hands. 

“Drink.” 

The word is said so firmly that you dare not refuse and you gulp, the liquid somehow helping dull the harshness of the lump in your throat. He puts it back before gathering you close to him.

“You realize that’s the first time you told me I could stay.”

“Well, I’m sorry! I thought it was obvious!” You hurl the words, which get muffled by the wall of his chest. 

Caleb huffs. “Well, it wasn’t. And who told you that I didn’t want to stay? I was trying to give you space.” He takes a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me around anymore.”

Your heart clenches, and your hands tighten on his T-shirt. “Of course, I want you around Caleb. You’re my…” Your voice trails as you realize the term ‘best friend’ rang hollow. He was so much more than that. 

Caleb gently leans back so that he can look at your face. He cups your cheek, his eyes gazing at your face searchingly.

“What? What am I?” 

The question snaps the coil that had been steadily winding tighter during his stay. Frustrated, you move to your knees, hands springing out to capture his face. Before he can react, you roughly cover his mouth with yours. The kiss is raw, pouring out every moment of rage and loneliness you have felt since being reunited with him. You had never kissed him before, and a momentary flash of worry crosses your mind at the implications but they’re pushed out as you take what you had been desiring for so long. 

Caleb groans lowly at the feeling of your soft lips against his but his mind is fighting propriety. “Wait. Hang on, wait baby girl.” Caleb’s large hands catch yours and he breaks the kiss, trying to put some space in between you both. 

“Are you sure about this?” Caleb’s eyes are painted with confusion and doubt, but there is no denying the growing darkness at the edges of his irises. Despite everything, neither of you had dared cross that line, the one that threatened to upend your complete understanding of each other. 

“Never been more sure of anything in my life.” 

Your consent brings forth a growl from his throat, and finally, finally, he claims you back. You revel in the push of his body against yours, the hard muscles pressing against your softness as he wraps both arms around you and you’re crushed under his weight as both of you crash onto the mattress. Everything was fair game now, no qualms asked. His mouth, hot and demanding, finds yours, and your hands anchor onto his shoulder blades, trying to pull him impossibly closer to you than he already was. Everything about him was familiar, yet different. 

You’d held his body before, cupped his cheeks, and cuddled him during the bad days, but now, you feel the tension in his body as the boundaries between friendship and something more start to blur. The raging ache in your chest that had been clawing at you since you had left Skyhaven now had a name; possessiveness.

Because he was yours. And weren’t you his? Was it fate that had brought you two together at the shelter after the day of the Chronorift Catastrophe? It hardly seemed to matter but now, the both of you were intricately bound together and you couldn’t figure out where he ended and you started. All that mattered was that he was here. 

A gasp leaves your mouth as Caleb rakes his teeth down your lips, nibbling and sucking the soft flesh. Carding your fingers through his hair, you wait until the sting has passed before leaning up to pepper his face with little kisses, causing him to pause as he catches his breath.

“I was afraid you’d say yes.” 

“What?” Caleb’s eyes knit in confusion as he regards through the haze in his brain.

“Your question. I was afraid you’d say yes.” Your breath hitches as he cushions your head with his arm, gazing down at you with affection. 

“Why?” He murmurs as he dips down to lick and nibble your ear, sending currents of heat down your spine.

“Because Caleb. I’m always afraid. I thought I lost everything during the chronorift. I didn’t want to dare ask for more. Because asking for more means being vulnerable to getting hurt.”

Caleb’s eyes are full of emotion. “I didn’t want to ask you for more,” he admits quietly. “Because I know you are already empty from giving me whatever you have now.” 

The room falls into silence and the only thing that can be heard is the hammering of your hearts, pounding in sync with each other. 

“Take me, Caleb.” You murmur and his heart nearly stops in his chest. “I can never be empty if you’re here. But promise me you’ll stop leaving the way you do.” Your voice hitches. “I can’t do it all over again.” 

Caleb presses kisses to your temples, rubbing your noses together like a puppy and there’s conviction in his voice as he speaks. “I won’t. I promise I’ll never be gone long enough for you to start questioning my position in your life.” 

Your hands start to trace his face and he catches one of them, kissing your fingertips and sighing against your palm. The heat between you threatens to consume you whole. When his mouth touches yours, you open and let in his tongue, exploring the taste and wetness. His hands are now bruisingly dug into your waist like he’s steeling himself from going too fast and rough.

Primal instinct pours into his veins and visions of his past fantasies flood his brain; ripping off your clothes while his hands spread apart your legs. How wet you’d feel as he tasted the sweet nectar of your sex before plunging his cock so deep within you that you’d feel for him for days long after it was over. How long had he held back from acting on those impulses?

He grits his teeth as he rolls you over onto him, knowing he wouldn’t be able to control himself having you pinned powerless underneath him. You’re looking at him in a confused daze, then, with a gesture so cute that it almost made him lose restraint, you raise your arms above your head. He leans up, dragging the pajama shirt off your torso, swallowing hard as you reveal yourself to him. Those soft, inviting breasts, the ones he’d imagined for years now, were perfect. He cups them reverently as he presses kisses to your cleavage, squeezing and enjoying the feel of your flesh. 

Your body reacts naturally to him, responding so strongly that you feel like you might combust from the rising need gathering in your sex. Your clit throbs within its folds, swollen and delicate, as it waits to be unsheathed. Caleb’s erection was straining against the fabric of his shorts, brushing against your crotch and as he pinched and rolled your nipples between his fingertips, you started to grind against him. 

A hiss escapes from him as he looks up at you, crazed with desire, the sight of you rubbing against him pouring fuel into the fire. He sits up, crossing his legs and upsetting your balance before drawing you securely onto his lap. His head dips to suckle, the feel of his tongue and teeth on your nipple sending shocks of pleasure through your system. You struggle against him, finding the hem of his T-shirt and undressing him, amazed at the sight of his bare chest. 

You sigh before running your hands over the expanse, his mouth busying itself with your breast again. There was no shame or reluctance as you took from each other. A sheen of sweat covers your bodies as you tease and stroke each other. Every small gasp, whimper, and moan was part of a private symphony, and he was desperate to hear you sing. 

You could feel the drip of moisture inside your sex now and were growing impatient from the wait. Your eyes lock with Caleb’s, those smokey, purple irises watching you intently. When your fingertips hook into his waistband, he doesn’t question you, but with a show of strength, braces his palms on the bed and lifts his hips. You slide forward slightly but manage to yank off the garments below his knees, watching his cock spring free from its confines, weeping precum from the slit.

“Fuck. Don’t look at me like that.” Caleb’s cheeks are flushed and his voice is gravelly, a soft rumble of barely contained need. He bites back a moan as your fingers curl around his shaft, squeezing and pumping him tantalizingly, and his hips rock against you as pleasure floods his brain. His hand catches your wrist, stilling you as he tries to control the rushes of arousal that shoot through him. His cock felt painfully hard and your willingness was driving him to the edge.

Without missing a beat, Caleb pulls off your shorts and panties, panting as your wet sex hovers over the tip of his cock, your knees sinking into the mattress as you try to settle back on his lap. He groans wantonly as your pussy, moist and warm, brushes against his engorged head, mixing your essence with his. It felt divine, and your hips start to seek friction, dragging the length of his cock in between your folds, gasping softly into his ear each time it hits your clit. 

“That’s right baby girl. Use me. I’m all yours.” Caleb whispers encouragement into your ear and it only makes you want to claim him even more. You whimper as you raise as high as your knees will take you, sliding the slick little bud along his slit, trying to fit it into the little hole that was leaking those milky beads from his shaft. 

“Caleb.” Your voice is a whine as your nails dig into his back, dancing so carefully along the ridge so that your clit doesn’t miss any action. 

“Oh, that’s it little mouse.” Caleb coos at you while his hands stroke down your back. “My sweet girl. Take what you need.” His fingers indent into your hips to help guide your movements and you feel a similar series of small spasms flutter their way into your core. Knowing you’re close you use Caleb, solid and grounding, as an anchor and hump him with abandon, your breasts bouncing with each movement. You’re both in a trance, broken from it when you feel the tension in your clit suddenly start to feel wonderfully light and sublime. You moan as your climax hits you, continuing to stimulate the little bud on his tip as the rest of the orgasm follows, sending ripple after ripple of hot pleasure through you. Your mouth hangs open as you pant from the exertion, then are caught off guard as Caleb cups your face and kisses you.

While he was occupied with your mouth you raise your hips and ease your fluttering hole onto his length. A guttural grunt spills from Caleb’s mouth into yours as you continue to lower your pussy onto him, taking him further into your slick welcoming heat. His cock throbs as it slips further inside you and he watches your face as you settle to his size. You felt so full, the way his cock filled your inner space, and when he rolls his hips, you cling onto him for dear life. You’d never thought he could feel so good, feel so comforting as his meat thrusts up into you before easing back down. 

Your hips start to coordinate a rhythm to his movements, sinking onto him as he pushes up, helping him bottom out each time, and he swore he could see stars forming around him. You were so tight, so inviting, and so unbelievably sexy as you writhed in passion along with him. 

“Fuck little mouse.” Caleb’s vision blurs at the edges as he feels himself on the precipice of a climax. “You feel good. So damn perfect.” He chases his orgasm, his thrusts growing more urgent and sloppy as he did so. Your juices coat his cock and start to form a ring around his length, your walls quivering and sucking him further in towards your cervix. 

Caleb’s abdomen is rigid and he feels every part of him tensing up in anticipation for a mind-blowing finish. He moans, the noise sexily floating into the air, then holds you tightly against him as he finishes, spilling himself messily into your quivering channel, the thick jets of seed coating your walls white. He doesn’t move, savoring the closeness and intimacy of having you pressed up against him, sated and warm. After a few moments, he maneuvers both of you to lay down, his softened cock still nestle within you as you immediately move closer to snuggle into his chest.

“No more running away. Whatever happens, we’ll talk it out. And I promise I won’t leave you unless you’re screaming at me to get out.”

You chuckle quietly, then kiss his chin. 

“Never. Unless you refuse to make your braised chicken wings for me.” 

He laughs heartily and both of you feel some of the awkwardness between you ease. It wasn’t going to be easy but you were both determined to fix whatever had been lost. One step at a time, you reminded yourself, before snuggling into Caleb and finally drifting off into a dreamless sleep. 

© unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating

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[violetrainbow412-blog]

Cobalt [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x reader

wc: 6.7k

summary: Bob loves you, but fear keeps him silent. Void's rage haunts your nights, while Sentry's presence stirs painful truths. Between rejection, longing, and a moment of raw intimacy, you both try to navigate a love shaped by trauma, identity, and everything that threatens to tear you apart.

warnings: +18!! mdni, emotional angst, mental illness (dissociative symptoms, trauma), nightmares, choking imagery (non-sexual), rejection, self-loathing, unresolved romantic tension, intimate apology scene, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, overstimulation, crying during sex, aftercare, emotional vulnerability, fear and trust issues during intimacy, mild language.

masterlist part 1 part 2

You woke up with a dry throat and a cold body, as if you'd been holding your breath for hours. No screams. No shadows. But still—like almost every night since that encounter—with the sensation of Void's hands around your neck, the pressure of his rage vibrating in your ribs.

You sat up in bed, trembling. The nightmares were recurring, and each minute of the night you feared that, upon opening your eyes, you’d find yourself again with the darkness suffocating your room.

You hadn’t told anyone about it. And with every passing day, you only felt more and more confused. Sentry had looked for you. Void had tried to kill you. And both lived within the man who was neither one nor the other.

The confusion pierced your chest like an invisible nail. Who were you supposed to listen to? Who were you supposed to protect? And who, among all those fragments, was really Bob?

You wished you could ask him. Look into his eyes and demand an answer. But you were afraid—almost certain—that he wouldn’t be able to give it to you.

You rubbed your arms, as if that would be enough to ease the sensation that you were still marked by that night. Because you were, on the inside. And you knew it.

Even though your friends noticed the change in your behavior, you assured them everything was fine and that all you needed was a bit more rest.

Bob had been more evasive with you than usual. Most likely, he didn’t know about Void’s visit or, otherwise, he would have come to you, spilling apologies over the incident. Or at least said something about it.

So, why was he avoiding you?

His mind was like a tangled ball of yarn. Finding the end was more complicated than you could handle.

Still, you didn’t want to give up without trying. Void, even when he didn’t speak to you, made it his mission to draw out the worst in your friend. The most reliable words would, of course, come from Sentry. After all, he had described himself as everything Bob wanted to be. But he was also unstable, a megalomaniac who believed the world belonged entirely to him.

Bob was the one who had the final word. He was the only one who could offer you a truth in which the extremes of his personality didn’t interfere with protecting their own interests.

That day, you found him on his favorite couch, reading. He did that almost all the time, in any part of the tower, although you’d noticed he took a long time to finish any novel. After a few weeks of observing him methodically, you discovered he suffered from dyslexia. You had never wanted to bring it up, neither to him nor anyone else, because you feared you might embarrass him in some way.

“Hey,” you greeted, trying to sound casual. Then, carefully, you took the book from his hands. That forced him to look at you.

“Can I talk to you?”

Bob blinked a couple of times, as if he hadn’t expected you to speak to him directly.

“Sure,” he murmured. “What’s going on?”

You sat next to him, your back tense and your fingers intertwined on your lap. You took a deep breath. You didn’t know how to start, but you did.

“Sentry…” you murmured suddenly, your voice barely audible. “Has he appeared lately?”

Bob took a while to respond. His eyes wandered to some invisible point in the room.

“No. But… I feel like he’s close. I mean… I’ve felt him, lately.”

You nodded. You already suspected as much.

“Why are you asking me that?”

“It’s just… he talked to me. He came to me one night… not long ago.”

Bob looked at you then, lips slightly parted. Something in his expression tensed, as if even the name unsettled him.

“He did? I… I don’t remember.”

“I figured,” you said, trying to reassure him. “And then Void came. It was different, of course. But both of them… told me things about you.”

He looked down again. He seemed to be holding his breath, like he was trying hard to remember those episodes, but without any success.

You couldn’t imagine what it felt like to live in his mind for a day. You had faced those disturbing visits, but he had to deal with not remembering anything that his different versions did. God, you didn’t even want to tell him what Void had done, or he’d blame himself for the rest of his life.

“Bob, listen,” you began, “I need to know if what they said is true. Because I’m going crazy trying to understand you. And I need to hear it from you.”

His eyes, when he finally looked at you, were full of something you couldn’t tell if it was fear or sadness. Maybe both.

“What… what did they say?” he asked, his voice rough.

You hesitated a second. You knew that once you spoke the words, there’d be no turning back. In any way.

“They told me that you… feel something for me.”

You didn’t need to say anything more for him to understand what you meant.

The silence that followed was thick. You could hear the pounding of your heartbeat. You wet your lips, nervous, but didn’t look away.

Bob closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them slowly.

“You weren’t supposed to know that.”

His reply was barely a whisper, but it was enough.

“So it’s true.”

Your voice wasn’t accusatory. It was more like a sigh, as if something you’d been holding in for weeks had finally found release. He didn’t reply, but the silence said everything.

“Why didn’t you tell me yourself?” you asked, more hurt than angry. “Why let me find out like this?”

Bob leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands hung loosely, fingers fidgeting as if that helped him think.

“Because I wasn’t going to tell you. And they had no right to do that.”

“I’m not here to blame you,” you added, trying to comfort him. “What I want… is to understand. Because between all these fragments, your silences and evasions… I’m getting lost.”

He looked up, and for a second, the sadness in his eyes made you feel like you were the one who had hurt him.

“It’s just… I don’t know where I am either,” he confessed in a whisper. “Not always. Sometimes I think I’m just the space between the two of them.”

“That’s why I want to talk to you,” you said firmly. “To you, Bob. Not to the things that live inside you. Not to the voices, not to the reflections. You.”

Trying to establish a bond of trust, you gently held his hand. He was still looking at you, but with a certain plea in his eyes, begging you to stop the conversation.

He wanted to avoid the situation, but this time, you weren’t going to let him.

“Why did you say you didn’t want me to find out? Are you not sure of what you feel?”

“I am,” he whispered. He almost sounded ashamed. “It’s just that… I can’t give you what you need.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because every time I think about you, about what I feel, Void stirs. And when he stirs, you’re in danger. And I don’t want that for you.”

Suddenly, the memory of those frigid fingers cutting off your breath sent a shiver down your spine. You knew he was right.

But Void had only attacked out of frustration caused by the internal conflict of his host. You thought that maybe satisfying those feelings would calm him.

“What if I don’t care?” you asked, your voice cracking. “I’m here. Despite everything. I’m still here. It hurts me more that you keep repressing what you feel. And you know it hurts you too.”

Bob lifted his head, his expression broken.

You wanted to cut through the silence with something more definitive. Something clear. But words weren’t what you needed to do that.

You leaned in. Just a little.

And then, unable to keep resisting that pressure in your chest, you did it.

You closed the distance and kissed him.

Your lips touched his with trembling softness. It wasn’t an impulsive gesture—it was a plea. An affirmation. Something that said, I still want you, even if I don’t know how.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he pulled away.

His hands moved to your shoulders, and his forehead pressed gently against yours.

“I can’t,” he whispered. His breath still brushed against your lips. “This… this isn’t right.”

You felt your chest break. You pulled back abruptly, standing in a second, humiliation flushed with anger on your cheeks.

“After all this, after what’s happened between us… you’re just saying no?”

“It’s not because of you,” he said with a frown, as if it hurt him too. “It’s because of what might happen to you if I love you too much.”

“And what about what I want? What if I love you? Does that matter?”

“Of course it matters,” he said, pained “That’s exactly why I’m stepping away.”

He straightened in his seat, staring at you with those enormous blue eyes. His words said no, but his entire body begged for closeness.

But now you were the one who stepped back.

The heat in your cheeks wasn’t from shame, but from the dull sting of rejection.

You felt exposed, vulnerable. Cruelly alone.

“I’m giving you the chance to be with me. To be real,” you whispered bitterly. “But if you’d rather keep hiding behind them… fine.”

He exhaled your name, hoping it would help you understand what was truly happening. That you’d understand his reasons and maybe hate him less.

You were about to leave. You wouldn’t even say goodbye. In a last attempt, he stood up to stop you. His hand reached out to hold the tips of your fingers, touching you like you were made of porcelain.

“It’s just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You held his gaze for a second. Then, without care, you pulled away from his grip. You weren’t sure who it hurt more.

“Again?”

You didn’t look back as you left the room. You didn’t know what you were feeling. If it was pain, or anger, or sadness. You only knew he had left you like that, with everything you felt, trembling in your hands.

The room stayed silent after you left. Bob didn’t move.

His lips were still trembling. The kiss—that brief, heavy instant—hurt more than any blow he’d ever received in his life. Because he knew he hadn’t rejected you out of lack of desire. He had done it out of fear. And fear, in his case, wasn’t an excuse. It was a real warning.

In the days that followed, neither of you said a single word.

You passed each other in the hallways like ghosts trapped in the same house. Sometimes, you lowered your gaze before crossing paths with him. Sometimes it was Bob who turned away, pretending the coffee in his mug required his full attention. Or he simply stopped to stare out the nearest window as if the gray sky had something urgent to say to him.

There were no arguments. No explanations. Just that thick silence that settled between you and refused to lift.

Yelena was the first to notice. She didn’t ask anything directly, but she dropped a few comments out loud that weren’t exactly subtle. Then came John, who frowned every time Bob left the dining room just as you entered, as if the two of you had agreed not to breathe the same air.

Bucky watched you in silence. He noticed the slight tremble in your fingers every time you tried to write a report. Sometimes it looked like he was about to say something… but he stopped himself. You didn’t want anyone to comfort you. Not because you didn’t need it, but because you knew accepting it would be admitting just how much it hurt.

Ava and Alexei, for their part, kept their usual distance, but even they seemed to sense the shift in the atmosphere. In the common room, the air felt heavier, more restrained. Conversations were brief. Meals, tense.

No one said anything. But everyone knew.

Bob, for his part, never stopped punishing himself on the inside. He avoided seeing you not because he wanted to, but because every time he tried, the memory of your voice—cracked, hurt—stabbed at his chest like a splinter.

And the worst part was, Void remembered it too. He brought that scene back to him again and again in dreams, in thought flashes, in cruel whispers that made him feel more miserable than ever.

And still, he did nothing to fix it. And neither did you. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you didn’t know how to get close to him without falling apart in front of him.

Until one day, the mission came.

Yelena was the one who showed up that morning in the training room, the electronic briefing still in her hands. Her gaze went straight to you.

“We need to move. There’s an operation underway. They need you, Bucky, and me.”

Bucky, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, simply nodded. He was already informed. His eyes found yours briefly, as if assessing your reaction, but you said nothing.

You didn’t ask where the mission was, or how long it would take. You didn’t ask if anyone else was going. You didn’t ask if Bob knew.

You didn’t need to know. And you didn’t want to.

You returned to your room in silence, packed your gear with the efficiency of someone who prefers movement over thinking, and when the time came…

You left without looking for him. You didn’t knock on his door, didn’t meet his gaze, didn’t leave a note or a text message. Bob didn’t come looking for you either.

The mission dragged on for a week and a half, a time during which you didn’t establish any communication with him at all. John would sometimes ask how things were going. Even Ava had written to tell you to be careful, but there was no sign of Reynolds.

And it wasn’t due to lack of opportunity, because more than once you caught notifications with his name lighting up on Yelena’s screen. You weren’t angry about it, it just made you think things were more than clear.

“Spit it out,” exclaimed Bucky, the night before you returned to New York. “What’s going on between you and Bob?”

“What do you mean, what’s going on?” you muttered defensively.

The three of you were drinking a beer on the balcony of your hotel room when he brought it up.

“Don’t even try to pretend, you’re not good at it. Something’s going on between you two and we all know it.”

“Did you guys fight?”

“I imagine he already told you.”

“No,” murmured Yelena. She sounded sincere. “He hasn’t said a single word. He avoids the topic every time I bring it up. Even by text.”

A tired sigh left your lips, like someone who knows the battle is already lost. At first you gave short, vague answers. Something like saying you’d just disagreed, that it wasn’t anything serious. Neither of them believed you and, in the end, you had to tell them everything. Sentry’s visit, Void’s harassment, the conversation you had with Bob and how it ended in rejection from his side. You even told them about the kiss.

“So that’s why he’s avoiding me and I’m avoiding him. Though I don’t even care anymore.”

A ridiculous lie. The distance hurt more than they could imagine.

Bucky and Yelena exchanged a knowing glance that made you wonder if they had already discussed the topic. Maybe your friends back home were staging a similar intervention with Bob. Who knows.

“You two need to fix that.”

“What else do you want me to do?” you murmured, defensive again. “He doesn’t want to see me. He doesn’t want to be with me. I think he made that pretty clear.”

“No, I mean…” your friend began. When she couldn’t find the words, she fell silent. “You’re right, it’s a mess.”

“We can’t even look each other in the eye, goddamn it,” you sobbed. You’d spent all those days suffering in silence, and saying it aloud made it hurt even more. “And I don’t even know what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Bucky comforted you. An unexpected empathy tinted his voice. “It’s hard to love someone when you have a mental illness. And for someone like him, it must feel nearly impossible.”

“But that’s not my fault. I gave him a chance, I… told him I was willing to try.”

Your voice cracked at the end. It wasn’t a reproach. It was the wounded confession of someone who felt discarded without knowing why.

Bucky lowered his gaze to the bottle in his hands, as if he were looking for answers in the glass. Then he said slowly:

“I know. And he knows too, believe me. But sometimes… when you’re broken, love isn’t enough. Not even when it’s right in front of you, not even when you want it with everything in you.” He shrugged. “I say that from experience.”

Yelena, who had remained silent, handed you another beer without you asking. Then she leaned her elbow on the railing and sighed.

“You can’t fix it on your own. You can’t love someone enough to heal them. That’s not fair to you… or to him.”

“But I can stay with him,” you said quietly. The words came out without thinking. “I don’t want to save him. I just… I just want him to know he’s not alone.”

“And what about you?” Yelena asked gently, without judgment. “Are you okay with all this? Do you know how much you can carry before you break too?”

That made you fall silent. Because deep down, you didn’t know. You felt like you were walking barefoot on a tightrope, with the storm shaking you from every direction.

“I know it hurts,” Bucky said, calmer this time. “And I know it angers you that he can’t accept something as simple as your affection. But it’s not for lack of love. He’s not rejecting you because he doesn’t care. It’s because he hates himself. And when that happens... the fear of hurting someone paralyzes you.”

“So what do I do then?” you murmured. “Do I just wait? Do I let him go?”

“That’s not something we can decide for you,” Yelena said. “But you can think about what you need. What’s good for you. Because being there for someone in pain doesn’t mean swallowing your own.”

Bucky nodded.

“You can be there for him… without forgetting yourself.”

Silence fell for a moment. Not the awkward kind, but the one that happens when the truth knocks the air out of you.

“He loves you,” Bucky added finally. “And not because Sentry or Void say so. I know because, ever since you came along, he fights harder against himself. He resists more. He wants to be better. We can all see it, just like we could all tell something’s off between you two now.”

You didn’t know when the tears started streaming down your face. Your friends had been through too much; you knew they wouldn’t judge you for sobbing a little, but you still felt ashamed.

Yelena hugged you. Bucky placed a hand on your shoulder, as if that could make the atmosphere feel a little less heavy.

The next day, the return to the Tower was quiet.

The helicopter landed gently, and no one said much as the luggage was unloaded. The sunset was already beginning, since the whole morning had been consumed by paperwork and meetings with Valentina to give a full report.

Bucky was the first to say goodbye with a slight gesture. Yelena touched your arm, as if with that simple contact she was reminding you of what you’d talked about the night before. No more words were necessary.

You didn’t say anything either. You just nodded and walked toward the main hallway.

You didn’t look for anyone. You didn’t ask about Bob and you didn’t wait for him.

You took the elevator up without looking back.

Each floor that passed was another stab to the stomach.

And when you finally entered your room, the silence that greeted you was deafening.

You dropped your bag beside the bed and went straight to the bathroom.

The running water quickly filled the room with steam, and you let the hot stream fall over you without moving much.

As if that could wash off the past days, or somehow prepare you for whatever was going to happen now that you were back.

But it wasn’t that simple.

You dried off slowly, with the sluggish movements of someone who doesn’t know if they’re exhausted or just resigned.

You put on your sleepwear—cotton shorts, a loose T-shirt—and let your damp hair fall over your shoulders as you stepped out of the bathroom.

Then you heard the soft knock on the door.

You froze for a second.

Another knock, more insistent this time.

You didn’t want to open it. You didn’t want to face anyone yet.

But something—maybe a sharp twinge of intuition, or that inevitable instinct of knowing it was him—made you walk toward it.

When you opened the door, he was there.

Standing still, eyes lowered, shoulders tense. He didn’t look like he’d slept much. Maybe not at all since you left.

Your eyes met for a second.

“Can I come in?” he asked, his voice rough. He sounded like he had rehearsed the line a thousand times.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t say yes, but you didn’t say no either. You just stepped aside.

You held your breath the entire time he walked into your room, until the soft click of the door closing behind him. You stayed still, watching him with a neutral expression. And even though you were still mad at him, you could feel your heart pounding erratically — not from anger, but something else entirely.

Bob got straight to the point.

“I didn’t come to bother you. I just… I couldn’t leave it like that. Not after how you left, or what I said.”

You didn’t reply. Part of your silence came from the fear that words might only make things worse. The other part was because you wanted to hear how much he was willing to say.

“I know I fucked it up. But it wasn’t because I didn’t love you,” he exhaled, swallowing hard. He took a step closer. “It’s because I love you so much it terrifies me to ruin you with it.”

“You don’t get to use that as an excuse. What you did hurt. Pushing me away like that… without even giving me a real explanation.”

“There’s no way to explain it without sounding like a coward.”

“Well, I have nothing left to say to you,” you said softly, but not kindly. “I already said everything. And you made a decision — for both of us.”

The sound of his knees hitting the floor was quiet, but it hit you like a slap.

“I’m not here to convince you of anything,” he murmured. “I just want to say I’m sorry. For how I spoke to you. For pulling away. For making you think you weren’t enough… when the truth is, you’re the only good thing in me.”

Your lips tightened. Your heart was pounding so violently in your chest it felt like it didn’t know whether to protect itself or open again.

“Why are you doing this now?” you asked, your voice more fragile than you would’ve liked.

Bob looked up. He looked younger. More broken. Like he was begging you to let him stay — not just in the room, but in your life.

“Because I can’t let you believe I don’t love you,” he said plainly.

His words froze you.

“Then why…?”

“Because I thought leaving was the only way to protect you from me,” he cut in. “Because I’m scared. Because Void doesn’t go away… and when you touch me, when you look at me… I disappear too. I become someone I don’t recognize. And that scares him. It unsettles him.”

The silence between you was thick. Your fingers lowered hesitantly, brushing his. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know if the pain could go away… but you knew he wasn’t lying. That he was shattered. And that all of his fear didn’t come from indifference, but from love — love misunderstood.

He leaned in closer, placing his hands gently on your knees. The touch was warm, almost reverent. He was trembling. You didn’t know if it was from what he felt or what he feared.

“But I’m here now. Because if I’ve already hurt you, if I already failed you… the only thing left is to beg you to let me try and make it right.”

Bob looked down, and for a moment all he did was breathe unevenly. Then he rested his forehead on your knees, like he needed that contact just to keep from falling apart. His warmth seeped through the fabric of your clothes. And slowly, he pressed a kiss there. Just one. Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right.

You didn’t move. But you didn’t encourage him either. The silence between you was an invisible barrier: thin, but sharp.

Bob lifted his gaze slightly, his eyes damp.

“I’m not trying to fix everything. I just… I want you to know how sorry I am. And how much I think of you. Every damn night.”

“I think about you too,” you whispered, barely audible. “All the time. And I don’t know if that’s good… or if it’s part of the problem.”

He nodded, visibly hurt.

His mouth kept tracing trembling kisses on your skin. First your knees, then higher, up your exposed thigh. The contact wasn’t urgent, wasn’t demanding. It was almost devotional.

And still, you felt panic creeping up the base of your neck.

“Bob…” you whispered, tense. “What… what are you doing?”

He stopped instantly. His lips still brushed your skin.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not lifting his gaze. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“You’re not scaring me. It’s just… I don’t know what this is.”

Your hands came down to touch his shoulders, trying to calm the trembling in your own emotions. Your body was split: one part needed him with a physical and emotional urgency you’d never felt before. The other… still carried the fear, the humiliation, the anger. The rejection.

“I’m confused,” you confessed “Everything’s been so weird between us. I don’t know if I can handle it.”

Bob nodded again. He didn’t push. He didn’t justify. He just lifted his head and looked you in the eyes. And there you saw it: the weight of everything he hadn’t said, everything he had buried, was breaking him.

“Please…” he said, voice hoarse and raw with shame, “just let me make you feel good. Not to fix it. Not because I think it erases what I did. Just so you remember how it feels to be touched by someone who loves you. Even if it’s just for tonight.”

Your chest tightened. No one had ever spoken to you like that. Not like your pleasure could be an act of redemption. Not like your pain could be held gently.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmured, softer now.

Bob shook his head.

“It’s not that I have to. I want to. Because I can’t stop thinking about the way you looked at me that day… about how you walked away. I don’t want you to feel like that. Not because of me.”

Then he lowered his eyes again. Didn’t move closer. Didn’t rush. Just waited. And you stayed there, holding his hands.

Your breathing grew unstable. You weren’t sure if you were going to cry or kiss him. There was something so devastatingly honest in his plea that it felt impossible to say no.

Bob met your gaze, his voice low but steady:

“I promise I’ll be slow... gentle. I’m not Sentry or Void. I’m just me. And I want this to be just for you.”

You hesitated, the uncertainty still heavy in your chest, but eventually, you whispered:

“Okay.”

He nodded with a small smile, as if your trust was the most valuable gift he could ever receive. When you let go of his shoulders, he leaned forward, scattering light kisses on your thighs, planting his palms firmly on your hips.

No man had ever apologized to you on his knees before. And none had followed it with a touch like that. The whole situation overwhelmed you.

Within seconds, his hands traced your curves to your waist, slipping under your loose old shirt. The feel of his warm fingers against your cool skin made you tremble. Your pulse pounded in your temples.

The room felt too quiet for the storm rising in your chest. Your legs started to give way.

It was just a faint tremble — but enough. The kind of unsteadiness you only notice once it's too late. The anticipation, the weight of emotion, the memory of everything he was and had been to you: an abyss. You didn’t fall. Bob caught you instantly, hands gripping you with desperate reflexes.

“Got you?” he whispered, his breath against your forehead.

He did. He had you.

But more than your body, what he held in that moment was the invisible crack between the two of you. One that, if it had opened a little wider, might never have closed.

A shaky laugh escaped your chest. Not out of humor, but out of vertigo. Out of absurdity, fear, tension. And he took it as a breath of relief. His lips found yours with a clumsy tenderness that stung. It wasn’t comfort or apology anymore. It was need.

He kissed you with caged hunger, hands firm on your back like you might vanish if he let go. You kissed him back, sinking into him like maybe you’d find answers there. The wall behind you caught your momentum, and he cornered you without aggression — only urgency. His body trembled just like yours.

His hands didn’t rush. They circled your waist like he was trying to map where he’d broken you. He went lower, leaving a trail of breath on your skin. He didn’t break eye contact until the last second, silently asking for permission.

And when he dropped back to his knees, it wasn’t a grand gesture. It was the posture of a man who knew his place, in that moment, was there: at your feet, ready to honor every part of you like you were the only real thing he had left in the world.

His lips found your skin. He didn’t speak — he didn’t need to. When his hands reached the waistband of your shorts, they paused. He looked up.

“Can I?” he asked, voice rougher than ever.

You nodded, barely, your gaze still locked on his — a bundle of nerves. Bob closed his eyes and rested his forehead against your stomach for a moment, like gathering strength.

He removed your clothes with deft care. The air hit your skin and you almost moaned when his hand planted on your thigh to part them.

“If you need me to stop, just say so, okay?” he whispered.

Then he started.

Your legs, barely steady, locked him in place as if the heat of your body could hold him together too. And as it all unfolded, your thoughts turned into a whirlwind of sensations — fear, tenderness, gratitude, and hunger for something that had been contained for far too long.

His tongue began slowly, as if wanting to explore you first. You let out a choked sigh when he licked up the wetness already gathered there. You were so ready for him, so eager, that he swallowed hard, visibly shaken.

It was in that moment that Bob realized just how much he needed you.

Sentry knew it perfectly — he could have ruined you completely if he wanted to. But for the blue-eyed boy, this kind of desire for you was something entirely new.

What devastated him the most was that it didn’t feel purely physical.

It was intimate. Emotional. It was Bob giving you the only thing he still believed he could offer without breaking you. And you gave in. Because you needed him just as much.

At some point your sighs turned into gasps. And then, into desperate moans. With each sound spilling from your throat, Bob felt more compelled to quicken the pace, to deepen the strokes of his tongue. You didn’t know if it was his first time doing this, but God, he was good.

He was intense, like Sentry. Possessive, like Void. And at the same time, careful and attentive — like himself.

“Bob… fuck… I…” you gasped, trembling.

He, thinking he’d done something wrong, tried to lift his head. But your hand flew to his hair and tugged, forcing him right back into place. The moan that escaped him was pathetic and hot at once.

“Don’t stop. Please.”

Your pleading voice was music to his ears. Instantly, one of his hands gripped your ass firmly, and the other lifted your leg, placing it over his shoulder.

He didn’t just eat you out. He devoured you.

It was getting harder to stay upright — if it hadn’t been for the wall behind you and his hands holding you to the real world, you would’ve collapsed.

You could feel everything about him. His lips, his tongue, his nose rubbing against your clit. You didn’t even know if he was breathing, and frankly, you didn’t care.

It was overwhelming. The heat surged from your cunt all the way to the top of your head.

You were sweaty and dizzy, writhing against him like your life depended on it.

It didn’t take long before you came, hard and intense, all over his face.

You felt him swallow your orgasm completely, like the fountain of youth might be between your legs.

But he didn’t stop there. Soon, two of his fingers joined in, while his mouth devoted its attention to your most sensitive spot.

You begged him to stop, tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let you.

It wasn’t a plea born from discomfort, but from sheer overload.

You were drowning in pleasure, overstimulated to the point you thought you couldn’t take it. But Bob knew you could.

He kept going until a sharp cry escaped your throat and your whole body tensed, your legs squeezing his sides as you tried to push him away.

It was a devastating spasm — an uncontrollable tremor that tore you wide open.

A warm, liquid release, as unexpected as it was unstoppable.

You collapsed onto him, boneless, speechless.

And for a moment, the only thing that existed was the sound of your shattered breaths — him trying to recover the air he had denied himself, and you gasping like all the oxygen in New York still wasn’t enough.

You were still shaking when he rose, breathing unevenly, his face flushed from effort.

Bob didn’t speak at first. He just stayed in front of you with his hands open, as if afraid to touch you without permission.

You looked at him with parted lips, chest rising and falling slowly, and then — without thinking — you leaned forward and kissed him.

It was more of an impulse than a decision: a mix of gratitude, tenderness, a need to reconnect from another place, to offer something in return.

Your fingers reached for the hem of his shirt. You wanted to take him to bed, to give back a bit of what he had just given you, as if balance could be restored that way.

But when you kissed him, he kissed you back with sweetness… and a hesitation you didn’t miss.

“No,” he murmured against your lips, his fingers caressing your cheek. “I don’t need anything.”

You blinked, confused, a little hurt.

“But I want to…”

“This was for you,” he replied, his voice lower, warmer. “I’m the one apologizing here.”

Before you could insist, he stepped back slightly and swallowed hard.

He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sorry… I need to go to the bathroom for a second.”

He got up awkwardly, avoiding your gaze, but you still caught the small damp spot on his pants before he turned away to enter your bathroom.

A wave of heat flushed your face. You said nothing.

You just watched him disappear and slowly let yourself fall onto the bed, your body still aching from pleasure.

When he came back, Bob had rinsed his face and his hair was slightly wet, like he’d needed more than water to calm himself down.

He found you lying on your side, wrapped in a sheet, your legs curled up on the mattress.

Your eyes met his, vulnerable.

“Can you… help me?”

You didn’t need to say more.

He came closer without asking anything, grabbed a towel he’d found nearby, and cleaned you up with reverent gentleness, as if afraid to hurt you.

There were no words — just his steady hands sliding respectfully over your skin.

“Stay,” you said, barely audible. “Just… to sleep.”

Bob hesitated for a second, as if that request was even more intimate than everything before. But he nodded and climbed into bed with you, leaving a bit of space between your bodies.

He lay on his side, facing you, blue eyes fixed on your face, reading you in silence. The dim light softened his features.

You looked at each other for a while, not wanting to break the stillness.

“Do you still love me?” he asked, barely a whisper.

“Yes,” you answered without hesitation, just as softly.

Bob looked away, like he didn’t know what to do with that answer. It was a small movement, but you noticed the tremble in his chin. You leaned in slightly and raised a hand, gently caressing his face. He didn’t flinch. He closed his eyes under your touch, like he needed it more than he wanted to admit.

And then, you saw a tear slide down his cheek. Then another. You said nothing. You just wiped it with your thumb, slowly, trying to touch his pain into something less real.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice tight. “For everything.”

You shook your head softly. And without thinking, you leaned in. Not a kiss on the lips — something more delicate.

You pressed your nose to his and rubbed side to side, barely breathing. A butterfly kiss, nasal and unhurried.

Bob froze at first, surprised. Then he closed his eyes and returned the gesture, brushing his nose against yours with trembling tenderness.

It was more than any other touch you’d shared. More than skin. It was a truce.

“Do you think we can still be friends… after this?”

The question was fragile, but not afraid. It was an acknowledgment that a new line had been drawn between you, one that couldn’t be erased so easily. You nodded, not moving away from his face.

“I promise,” you said.

Silence settled like a blanket. After a moment, you slowly turned over, giving him your back. Not as rejection, but as trust. As rest. Your hand reached for his beneath the sheets, lacing your fingers with his, squeezing gently. Like a silent promise: nothing has to break.

Bob moved closer without a sound, wrapping you in his arms with a delicacy that made you hold your breath. He held you like that, spooning you, as if he still feared you might vanish. You let him shield you with his body, his chest brushing your back, his warm breath against the curve of your neck.

And there, entangled in the quiet, the two of you fell asleep. Not like people who had solved everything, but like people who, at least for tonight, had decided not to give up.

taglist (tysm!! ily): @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan @p34ch-tr33 @theoraekenslover @lifeisafreakshow @weponxwrites @articel1967 @mooniesthings @bmyva1entine @lynnieluvsu @96jnie @smok3dpaprika @msun1c0rn @rainymountaindays @yallgotkik @dalu-grantkylo @itzmeme @fourthusername-me

[sheeezu]

Things to expect when you've mastered shifting

This isn't the normal "oh you'll feel on top the world" kind of post which just hypes up everything and the sole purpose is to motivate. This is (???) the logistics, the indepth version of what you'll face psychologically.

I've shifted close to about a hundred times, whether it was from this reality, or shifting within a reality I shifted.

This is all from my personal experience, you might experience differently.

⋆ Disassociation: when you shift back to your original reality, you'll often times confuse both reality's memory, of course, we all know this, doesn't matter if you shifted or not. But what I've seen no one talk about is that sometimes events and certain objects from your DR will unintentionally manifest into your CR, just because of how deeply rooted they become in your subconscious. For example, I had maybe mentioned this somewhere else, but in my DR I had scripted expensive china cups, which broke on my second day being there. Well two weeks ago my family was gifted the same teacups (some details were off) and one of them managed to get a crack in them after we served the guests tea in it.

⋆ Weird Dreams: Not only is the concept of the dreams weird, but overall mechanics of it are unusual as well (I didn't shift unconsciously in my dreams, that's one boundary I've established)

For example, dreams with people claiming to know the future, telling me, and it coming true the next day, but it being minor details, people from my DRs channeling me, dreams which involves falling out of reality/finding the end of the multiverse.

Dreams which involves me floating, strong winds which blow away entirely of the void reality (CR), I had started getting this dream since I've wanted to permashift, the wind is so strong and I feel it, I'm usually at my college and or doing a mundane activity in my current reality, everything dissapears and I end up in the void state for the rest of the night.

Once my S/O visited me in my dream, he asked me to come back home, it was a lucid dream so I consciously agreed because I couldn't deny him; ended up in my home reality.

⋆ Feeling weirdly sad about your CR: this one might be personal to me. truth be told, I haven't studied a single day since I've successfully shifted. This year all of my classmates and age fellows are going to start looking at university applications, the ones they mention are usually universities I used to dream all day long about getting into, when I didn't know about shifting. It forms a pit in my heart, the passion I once used to have regarding hardwork by investing blood sweat tears into studying, pinterest board filled with quotes such as "some dreams are worth more than my sleep" not stirring anything within me. It's not that I think I can't get these things, i know i can just shift to a parallel reality and get it, but I just don't want to, I don't feel the same about this reality anymore, slowly letting it go, no matter how much I try to cling onto it, I know I was never meant to be here.

⋆ Personality changes: When you become an expert at shifting its no question that you'd shift very frequently. Those DR selfs would influence your personality, and people can think you're developing a split personality disorder.

Take me as an example, if you look at the posts on my blog, you'd notice a different tone in each one of them, some are in a more softer tone and the others feel clinical.

⋆ Putting your DR family first, even though they're not here: I don't know how to explain this one, so I'd just take an example out of my own experience again.

I was out shopping with my mother for sweaters, the ones we were coming across were really good quality, but I could only think of my S/O, she was pointing out the things she thought I'd like, but I kept looking at the men's sweater, subconsciously trying to pick one out for him, which weirded my mother out slightly.

...

Why am I crying.

Anyways I have planned to permashift out of this reality before new year, it was my childhood dream to blog, but I was too shy to do so and never had anything common with anyone. But I've finally completed the final thing on my list, alongside with meeting my cousin who I adored, I decided to add her to my DR.

That's it, I'll go on and answer the 50 asks in my inbox.

...

[scarletmika]

Only Good Thing : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x Reader

Summary: There was so much Bob regretted, so much shame riddled through his past, he didn't know what he'd see in his own shame rooms. He hadn't been prepared to see you around every corner, to be reminded of the way he'd left you behind in an effort to be what you deserved.

Warnings: angst, some fluff and happy ending, mental illness talk, depression/suicidal thoughts, violence, SPOILERS for Thunderbolts*, female reader description, drug abuse talk (if you're struggling with addiction or know someone who is, please visit drughelpline.org)

Word Count: 3,195 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

Bob had claimed it was the nicest shame room he’d encountered yet in his head, but the second that Yelena heard the distant yelling from beneath the floorboards, she knew it wasn’t all he’d cracked it up to be.

The younger version of Bob stood protectively in front of his mother, standing between her and the raging excuse of a father figure before them as he threw plates and cups off the table. His mother cried out that Bob was doing nothing but “making it worse,” even as his father reared back and landed a blow across his cheek. What surprised Yelena then was the slam of the kitchen door, and the small body that was you that came flying in, hitting back against Bob’s father.

“Leave him alone! Don’t touch him!”

She’d turned to look at Bob, and could see the tears streaming down his cheeks as he watched it all play out before him. Memories he’d relived a thousand times over in his head, even when the emptiness of the void hadn’t consumed him.

“I’m sorry,” Bob didn’t say anything to Yelena at her words, simply hiding his face and furiously wiping at his tears. Carefully, as if not to spook him, Yelena lowered herself to the ground beside him. “The girl…who was she?”

“...my best friend,”

The way his voice cracked, the way it seemed to break even further when he said that, gave Yelena pause. She eyed him for a second, before deciding that it was a topic best left alone for the moment.

“What I told you before was wrong, Bob. You can't stop it,” he still wouldn’t look at her, even as she reached over and placed her hand on top of his. “You can't contain it all by yourself. Nobody can. We have to let it out. We have to spend time together. And even if it doesn't make the void go away, I promise you it will feel lighter.”

She watched as Bob’s gaze drifted back to that missing piece in the floor, the scene replaying over and over again below them. You flying in, throwing yourself between Bob and his father time after time.

“She always made it lighter,” Bob finally said, still staring down at the younger version of you and him. “She was the only thing that made it lighter.”

“What happened?”

“I left her…” Bob’s voice broke again, another round of tears furiously wiped from his cheeks, before he looked to Yelena. “I don’t want to be here.”

Yelena was back on her feet, tugging gently on his hand to bring him up with her.

“Then try and leave with me. We can figure out a way out together,”

Leaving the Void wasn’t as easy as that, because it simply fought back. The room felt like it had gotten smaller, constraining them, throwing objects across the room in an effort to keep Yelena and Bob trapped there. The curtains came crashing down, the fabric wrapping at each end around each of their necks, cutting off their airways as both Yelena and Bob fought to breathe.

Bob wanted to fight back, he wanted to help Yelena leave. But the sound of your voice grew louder, the sound of your screaming match with his father, and all he could do was shut his eyes and accept it.

He longed to hear your voice again, and if this is what it took, he’d stay here in his own personal hell.

Air rushed back into both of their lungs as Ava appeared in the room, slicing through the curtain around their necks. John and Bucky weren’t far behind, shielding them from the objects flying around the room, before Alexei brought up the rear, ripping a pillow to shreds in what Yelena could only call ‘dramatic fashion.’

“You came for us,” Yelena breathed out, looking around at the rag-tag team that, against her better judgment, she was coming to care about.

“We’re here together, that’s what matters,” Alexei shot the thrown-together team a grin, before turning his sights on Bob. “Now, how do we get out of here?”

With all eyes on him, Bob nervously shook his head.

“I-I don’t know. As far as I know, it’s just uh, it’s just a bunch of infinite rooms,”

“Wait, you told me this was the nicest room you found,” Yelena cut in, receiving a nod from Bob in agreement. “Well…try showing us the worst.”

It wasn’t much of a plan, but it’s all the plan they had. He led the team toward the stairs that led out of the attic of his childhood home, rushing down them. Bursting through the door at the bottom of the stairs should have brought him into the kitchen, it always had.

When the team stepped through, they were standing in the middle of the street, the sun having set already. They’d all glanced at one another before turning to Bob, who stood rigid with his eyes focused down the alleyway beside them

No more than 16, and Bob looked like a mess. He’d been propped up against the dingy brick wall of the alley in back of his favorite scoring spot, whether put there by himself or his dealer, he didn’t know, but if there had been anyone else there, they were already long gone.

The ground around him was covered in empty syringes. One of his shoes was missing, long gone somewhere down the alley, most likely. Bob could barely breathe, his chest heaving as he tried to suck in enough air to breathe, simply staring off down the alleyway before him, seeing god knows what in his own head.

His view was interrupted by you, 15, maybe 16, but still a child yourself. You were kneeling down in front of him now, doing everything in your power to avoid the syringes and broken glass littering the ground around Bob’s body. Pain and sadness were written across your face, clear as day.

“Robbie…”

“Is…is that you?” his head lulled to the side, barely being able to focus on you. He laughed through his inability to breathe, something that seemed to break your heart even more. “Thought…thought you had…had practice.”

“I left it when you didn’t answer your phone,” you adjusted your school backpack on your shoulders, reaching out for him as your hands found his arms. “God, Robbie, you’re burning up. Come on, you’re coming home with me-”

“No, I don’t want to go-” Bob struggled back against you, but your grip remained firm on his arms.

“Bob, you can’t stay out here-”

“I said I don’t want to go!”

It was like slow motion, the way Bob had shoved you away, the way you’d gone clattering to the pavement behind you, hissing as you caught yourself on your bare hands. That sound, that hiss of pain, seemed to sober Bob up for even a moment, able to fully look at you in front of him. Tears immediately glistened in his eyes at the scrapes on your hands, the slight bit of blood staining your skin.

“Okay, Bob-”

“I-I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, I-I didn’t mean to!” he was started to panic, shaking his head wildly as his heart beat erratically in his chest. “I-I hurt you, I’m so sorry I didn’t mean-”

You’d leaned forward, leaning in front of him still as you grabbed him by the cheeks, thumbs rubbing soothingly over his skin as you pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“I know. I know you didn’t, Robbie, it’s okay. It’s okay…just come home with me,”

It was John’s hand squeezing Bob’s shoulder that broke him from his stupor, that tore his eyes from the sight of teenage your dragging teenage him down the alley, high off his ass on whatever the hell meth he’d scored that night.

Bob glanced up at John, and saw the flicker of sympathy float through John’s eyes, before Bob’s own mind seemed to attack them again. The wind picked up, throwing the park benches across the street their way as Alexei led the group down the road, busting through the wall of the gas station down the road as everyone fell through.

Yelena groaned, dragging herself to her knees, as she realized there was carpet below them. She heard Bob’s breath catch as she glanced over at him, at the fear in his eyes.

“Bob?”

“No…no, no, no, please. Please, not this…”

“You’re…you’re leaving?”

The crack in your voice had Bob almost backtracking on his words, but he couldn’t. He needed to do this, for himself…for you.

Bob was barely 22, and you were barely 21 in this moment. Bob knew he was holding you back, even if you never said it. You were brilliant, a genius, and could’ve had a scholarship to any college across the country, and finally leave Florida like you always told him you wanted to. Instead, you’d stayed here, attended college right here in the state you despised, all to be with him.

Your apartment was dingy, barely passing just about every single health code the state had, and Bob knew it was killing you to keep it. He couldn’t hold down a job to save his life, his last one being a sign twirling chicken for the summer. On the other hand, you were working yourself to the bone, attending classes and working two part-time jobs just to keep a roof over both of your heads.

You did it because you loved him, because you’d loved him since the moment you’d met on the swingset in Kindergarten. Bob loved you too, more than anything else in this world…that’s why he had to leave.

“It’s not fair to you,” he’d mumbled out, scratching at his arm even though his long-sleeved sweatshirt was keeping him from rubbing the skin underneath raw. It was something that didn’t go unnoticed by you. “You…you’ve done all this for me. It’s not fair-”

“What’s not fair is to be bombarded with this the second I come back from class,” there was an edge to your voice, even as he heard it break when you took a step toward him, barely in the door. Bob stood next to the couch, his backpack beside him, just watching you. “...where would you go?”

“Malaysia,” Bob answered quietly, afraid to look at you. “There, uh, I heard about this medical study. It’s supposed to help…make you better. You…you deserve better.”

Deserve better than him. That’s what he meant, and you both knew it. He didn’t believe he deserved your love, that you deserved more than him.

You stepped up to him, letting your bag drop to the ground haphazardly, as your hands came up to cup his cheeks.

“You don’t have to leave,” your voice cracked as you pleaded with him. “I don’t care what you think I deserve- I want you, Robbie. I’ve always wanted you, no matter what challenges come with it, because I love you. I’ve always loved you. Please…please don’t leave me.”

He didn’t say anything, and you’d taken the chance to bring him in for a kiss. Bob had barely closed his eyes, kissing you back gently, before forcing himself away, having tasted the salty tears on your lips.

“Don’t…don’t wait for me,”

You’d taken in a single shaky breath.

“...I’ll always wait for you,”

It took Bucky and Yelena to pull the sobbing Bob in their hands away from the scene before them, but his eyes stayed locked onto the scene until it was fully gone. The way he’d left, the way you’d fallen to your knees sobbing, and he wanted to yell at his old self to never leave you.

He’d found himself thinking about all those moments as he sat above the Void, the manifestation of his pain and depression, trying to beat the life out of it. He’d ignored everything around him, the shouts of his new friends trying to stop him, your voice and your face the only things at the forefront of his mind.

Bob wasn’t even sure when he’d stopped punching the Void, when he’d fallen back into the arms of his friends and simply cried. The only thing that got through to him was Yelena’s voice in his ear.

“We’re here, it’s okay. She loves you, Bob…she loves you. Come back to her,”

Even in the coming weeks, since being named The New Avengers, the team couldn’t help but look upon Bob with pity. He didn’t remember what had transpired that day in the Void of his mind, but everyone else did. They couldn’t unsee it, even if they tried to, but no one had the heart to ask Bob about it, to make him relieve it all.

Yelena could see it, though, every time someone on the team made a vague mention of something that was even remotely related to you. Florida, college, the team found ways to test the waters, to see if Bob would talk about it. He never did, they could just see the shadow of pain that crossed over his face, the way he slinked away from them all like a puppy who’d just been scolded.

That’s how Yelena found herself, months later, in Tampa, Florida.

“Part of your healing journey is learning that, for every ten steps forward, there will always be another ten steps back,” the ex-Widow was leaning against the doorframe silently across the room, watching the way you addressed those sitting in the circle around you in the most gentle tone. She’d heard that tone before, the same one you’d used on Bob in each of those memories. “I’ve seen it first hand…with the man I love. Every time I believed he was getting better, every time he thought he was, we fell back into the same patterns over and over again.”

“Why do we do that?” an older man across the circle spoke up, his voice wavering. “Why do we fall back into these…these patterns?”

“Because your addictions have become a part of you,” you leaned back against the table behind you, sending the man a small smile. “Addictions are self-destructive, and because of that, they become part of us. Kicking your habit, leaving it in the past, can feel like losing part of yourself. Subconsciously, you’re afraid of change, so you fall back into patterns because in order to truly enter recovery, you have to change.”

“How’d you help him?” a younger girl, one that Yelena guessed was no older than you’d been in that Florida alley that day, spoke up quietly. “That man you love?”

The room had gone quiet for a moment before you spoke up.

“I loved him. I loved him through it all. Even when he didn’t want my love, when he felt he didn’t deserve it…I just continued to love him. I’ve never stopped,”

It wasn’t long before you ended the session, saying a personal goodbye to each and every person who had attended that day. When everyone else was gone, you were left silently organizing your desk to leave for the night, and that was the moment Yelena decided to speak up.

“What kind of degree do you need to do…stuff like this?”

You’d jumped slightly, thinking everyone had already left for the night. You cocked your head when you looked back at the blonde woman behind you, and kept an eye on her as you leaned back against your desk.

“Psychology, but there are a lot of different options,” you shrugged, and Yelena could tell your guard was up around her. She was happy about this; at least you had good survival instincts around strangers. “I wasn’t sure which field I wanted to go into, but Psychology offered a lot of different options.”

“So what, loving this…’ex’ of yours sent you down the addiction counseling track?”

Yelena saw you bristle at her comment, standing up straighter as you eyed her.

“Maybe…I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“Yelena Belova,” the blonde introduced herself finally, with a small smirk. “Part of The New Avengers.”

It could’ve been a lie, but something in your head clicked, having seen a headline days ago about The New Avengers. You believed her, surprisingly.

“Sorry, guess I didn’t recognize you,” your shoulders relaxed at the information, as you shrugged. “I don’t watch the news much anymore, but I thought I saw something about that. Congratulations, I guess.”

“Thanks, it’s…new territory,” Yelena replied.

There was silence for a moment before you spoke.

“And what is it that an Avenger wants with me?”

Yelena paused, trying to find the right way to broach the subject.

“Well, the simple answer would just be…Bob,”

Bob found himself spending a lot of time in the common room of the new tower in New York, the one still slightly under renovation. Most of the floors were done, but Valentina’s construction crews were still working on a lot of other ones. Bob found the common room the quietest, depending on the time of day and where the rest of his new friends were. He enjoyed the view of the city, of watching the cars down below as they moved throughout the city.

There was a knock across the room as Bob turned on his heel, smiling softly as Yelena stood in the doorway across the room. He cocked his head, seeing the grin on her face widen, before she stepped to the side.

“...Robbie?”

His breath caught in his throat the second he’d laid eyes on you. You, the only person he thought of day in and day out. You, the only good thing he’d ever been given in life.

The woman he’d left behind, his biggest regret.

Bob met you halfway across the room, as if on autopilot, and your shaking hands immediately found his face. Bob’s eyes shut for a second, leaning into the touch he’d missed for so long, before looking at you.

“Are you…are you real?”

You nodded, trying to push down the sob threatening to escape from deep inside of you.

“I’m real,” your voice was shaky, as were your hands, he could feel it against his skin. “I’m real, baby, I promise.”

“I left you,” a sob escaped Bob, his own shaky and nervous hands finding your waist as he gripped you, desperately trying to ground himself in that moment with you. “I left you- I-I’m so sorry-”

You shushed him, shaking your head over and over.

“Don’t apologize, Robbie. You never have to apologize to me,” a small laugh of disbelief left you in that moment. “You’re here…you’re okay…you’re okay, right?”

Bob wasn’t sure what the answer to that question really was. Was he okay? No, and he probably wouldn’t be for a while. But in this moment, with the only good thing he’d ever had back in his arms…

“I’m okay…I’m okay,”

You’d pulled him into a kiss without another moment of hesitation, one he gladly reciprocated as you both cried. The second you’d pulled away for even a moment, Bob had buried his head in your neck, sobbing as he held you as tightly as humanly possible, mumbling the same thing over and over.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

[pagesfromthevoid]

Young God | r. r.

Robert "Bob" Reynolds/The Sentry x fem!reader

Prompt: “It’s okay. They won’t hurt you. Actually, they won’t hurt anyone ever again.”

Word Count: 561

Warnings: Robbery attempt. Sentry is...a threat

Author's Note: this is for @cyber-nya because they asked for this prompt with Void!Bob but I popped off that it fit Sentry better lmao

When she met Bob, it was shortly after the New Avengers had formed. He’d come into the bakery around the corner one morning –a little disheveled, definitely on high alert, and followed by Yelena. She had met Yelena within the first week of the Tower being occupied again; the blonde had come in and ordered breakfast and left a nice tip. Promised that if she needed anything, they’d be there to help. Then it became a ritual.

The day she met Bob, it was apparently one of the first times he’d left the Tower in weeks. Yelena had insisted he needed to socialize and the bakery was a good first step. Then he started coming regularly, until she started looking forward to his visits. They’d chat, she’d flirt, he’d be completely oblivious. He always left a nice tip, always thanked her, and almost always ran into the pull door on his way out.

She’s there late, having stayed to finish a catering order that would be picked up in the morning. Usually, the bakery isn’t open past three, and it wasn’t today. But she’s been there the entire day, finishing up orders. The lights are only on in the back, but she stops what she’s doing when she hears the door of the shop shake. Like someone is trying to open it. 

Then she hears glass shatter, and she immediately ducks down behind cabinets in the back, covering her mouth. With shaking hands, she’s texting Yelena –she knows the police won’t actually do anything, not anymore; not since Fisk became mayor. The intruders are going through the drawers in the front, she can hear them –but she knows that they’re looking for the safe, which is back here.

They’re not even trying to be quiet, ransacking her shop like it’s nothing more than a rummage sale to pick from. The closer they get, the harder it becomes to keep quiet as she’s trying to hold back her tears. 

Maybe they hear her, or maybe they hear something else –but suddenly there’s silence. No more footsteps, no more whispers. They’re just…gone. 

Cautiously, she crawls to the door, just as it opens. 

It’s the eyes that remind her that Bob –awkward, sweet, a little weird Bob –is not entirely human. When they shift into that gold glow, replacing the blue that brings her comfort. When his jaw sets, his eyes narrow, and he suddenly stands up taller –more confident, more intimidating.

That’s when she remembers that he’s an all powerful superhero. Stronger than all of them combined; stronger than the Avengers themselves. That’s when she remembers he might as well be a god amongst men –though she’s certain that the Sentry has never forgotten who he is.

“B-Bob?” She manages to get out, but he’s reaching down and helping her up. But she knows that this isn’t Bob; this is Sentry, and she doesn’t know if she should be scared or thankful. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, hand touching her cheek gently. Thumb brushing over her cheekbone to wipe away her tears. “They won’t hurt you. Actually, they won’t hurt anyone ever again.”

“Did you…,” she pauses, looking over his shoulder, as if she wants to see what he’s done. 

But he guides her gaze back to him, eyes meeting hers. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. Neither of us will.”

Neither of us?

[08luvmailz]

★ ﾟ๑ I'D DO ANTHING JUST FOR ME TO SEE YOU AGAIN ୧ ⊹ ࣪

ᡴꪫ which yeon sieun sees you visiting him ୧ ⊹ ࣪ first part ／ party on you ୧ ⊹ ࣪ second part ／console me, and then i'll leave without a trace ──⠀ angst to fluff , set on ep7 of s2 , depictions of self harm , bullying , graphic scenes ⸝⸝ ◜◡◝ i got sick ... so i couldn't finish writing yesterday. please do make some requests <3

reader will be called dokja ／ because in reader in korean is dokja

For an entire year, she had tried everything to make herself feel whole again.

For someone, so bright — her smile had become rare, something she stored away in a locked box, fearing it would shatter if she opened it.

The fluorescent lights in the hallway buzzed above her, and the cold linoleum floor echoed each step as if the empty school itself whispered her name. Every corner held eyes that whispered behind tilted heads; every passing shoulder carried a story she used to be part of. She walked through that river of eyes like a stone sinking silently, carrying the weight of whispers in her chest.

She remembered how it felt at first, when the quiet ache had swelled like a balloon inside her ribs. She had tried to stretch it with excuses – busying herself with homework until her hands cramped, munching down snacks until her stomach ached, even jogging until her legs turned to jelly – anything to squeeze out a little satisfaction.

But nothing made the emptiness truly leave. It was like trying to fill a black hole with water; every drop vanished before it could make a ripple. In class, she doodled nothing except the back of her mind on the margins of her notebook: a heart that wouldn’t fill, a mouth that wouldn’t smile.

During lunch, while others crowded around tables trading jokes and laughter, she found a quiet corner.

The cafeteria lights and clatter of trays felt distant, as if she watched it happen in someone else’s dream. She chewed slowly on her rice, its dull flavor on her tongue.

She wondered if they were wondering why she ate so slowly, or thought she must eat quickly to stay strong. In her head, she counted the seconds between bites, hoping to feel any sensation more than the gnawing void inside.

She would glance on the table near her, It was the table they used to sat on. But she quickly disregard the gnawing pain of memories her brain kept locked in.

She heard the rumors.

Kids at her locker thinking she couldn’t hear, imagining her knuckles bruised from something they didn’t understand, lips curling into cruel stories.

She was the shadow stretching long across the hallway’s bright walls – not quite human, not quite monster. Some were scared to approach, afraid she might lash out with hands that had, one time, raised to defend something small and precious.

Each morning felt like climbing a hill she could never reach the top of. Even the sun casting light through her kitchen window failed to warm her insides. Her reflection in the mirror as she put on her uniform was a girl with tired eyes, the kind that quiet mornings and too many secrets give you.

She wondered if the corners of her mouth had forgotten how to go up. On some mornings, she pinched her palm with her nails just to feel a flash of anything real, a proof that she was still there and not just an echo.

She often thought about who she used to be, or who she wanted to be.

Sometimes, in rare moments alone in the afternoon, she would hum a tune she once loved, and for a breath she’d almost believe everything would be okay again.

But when the bell rang and the hurried footsteps as the hallway became empty, reality clung to her again like a cold coat. She straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, tried to make herself small and unnoticeable so she could disappear into the background.

It was easier this way – so people wouldn't come closer anymore.

As the year dragged on, she built a quiet routine of coping.

Some days, after the final bell, she would find a hidden corner of the library and bury her face in a book, leaning into the paper and print so she could hold a whisper of someone else’s story.

Other days, she walked home along side streets, feet crunching on gravel, head down so that the roofs of houses blurred her vision and no one would say her name.

At night, before sleep stole her away, she sometimes imagined a dinner table where just once someone passed her plate without a warning glance. Those dreams faded by dawn, leaving only the morning ache.

She watched the other students as if from behind glass. They passed her in the halls—heads held high, friends jabbering shoulder-to-shoulder. They worried about tests, cram schools, summer vacation or going out.

Sometimes at night, late when everything was dark and the house was empty, she touched the scars she kept hidden on her wrist. They were faint lines, as if she had cut herself just enough to feel. Enough to remember that I’m here.

The ache in her stomach and heart became the same longing, and she ached to feel anything but hollow. Yet morning would come, as it always did, and she would tuck those memories back inside her ribcage and wear her uniform once more.

She was careful now.

Careful to walk in the center of the corridors so no one had reason to crowd her. Careful to keep her voice low if a teacher asked her a question.

She preferred to blend into the pattern of her desk in class or the gray cement wall outside the school, so that anyone might forget she was there at all. She told herself that being invisible was the least she could offer the world.

Sometimes when she passed a reflection in a store window, she stared at the girl who looked back with hungry eyes and wondered if that was her, really, or just another stranger pulling a cart alongside the frozen aisles of life. She envied how warm and bright her classmates appeared in her imagination, as if they wore their warmth and hunger on their tongues without any effort.

She started learning how to ride Suho’s motorcycle a month after everything happened. Not because she had a reason. Just because sitting still made her feel like she’d disappear.

It wasn’t easy. Her hands weren’t made for handlebars or throttle grips, and the engine always roared too loud for her quiet head. But she kept practicing. Around the block, then across the neighborhood, then down the same roads Suho used to ride when he was still—

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She just keeps riding.

Sometimes she visits his grandmother first, carrying grocery bags that dig red marks into her palms. They don’t talk much—just share the silence like old friends do. She helps clean, picks up the mail, waters the plants that Suho forgot to before everything fell apart. And then, like ritual, she visits the hospital.

She doesn’t bring flowers anymore. That stopped after the fifth week. Now it’s just her, a quiet chair, and Suho’s breathing. She talks sometimes, about nothing. About school. About how the vending machine’s been out of her favorite drink for a week straight. About the bike.

She took the job to keep her mind busy. A delivery service. Something that paid just enough and asked for nothing back. Using Suho's helmet that's too big on her because she couldn't used the pink helmet he brought for her, a schedule, and a willingness to keep going even when you’re tired.

She took the job because she wanted to make up for what she didn’t do—what she should’ve done back then. Maybe if she earned enough, it could at least cover Suho’s expenses for a few months. So when he woke up, he wouldn’t have to think about wasting time trying to make money again. He could just rest, catch up with everything he missed.

That was the idea. That was a brilliant plan.

Oh, how wrong she was.

It was hard to juggle everything—school during the day, taekwondo classes after, then deliveries until late. Her body ached more often now. Sleep became something borrowed, not earned. And sometimes, when she stared too long at her schedule, she wondered how Suho managed to do it all.

Then she let out a bitter chuckle.

Right. He didn’t study much.

He tried—she remembered that. Showing up to class with tired eyes, scribbling half-hearted notes, pretending to care when the teacher called on him. But studying was never the plan for him. He wasn’t built for libraries or lecture halls. He was planning to survive. To make a living. To take care of the people he loved, even if that meant running himself to the ground.

Now here she was, retracing his steps. As if mimicking his life could somehow bring him back. As if it could undo what happened.

But the truth was, she wasn’t doing this because it was right.

She was doing it because she didn’t know how else to grieve.

She was doing it to remember that she still lived for him—the only one.

It wasn’t like she suddenly believed in responsibility or wanted to prove something to her parents—they didn’t care either way. They nagged her about it at first, asking why she had to deliver food like some desperate kid. She told them she was trying to live like an adult now.

That was a lie.

What she really meant was: I need to do something that hurts a little. Something that makes me feel like I’m still here.

She picked up the helmet, looked at the old bike, and thought, If I could ride it well enough, maybe it would feel like Suho was still beside me.

At times, when she was in the saddle delivering food, her route veered past Sieun’s old neighborhood before she could stop herself. The engine’s hum would carry her right to the curb beneath that familiar streetlamp where they once sheltered from rain.

She’d cut the engine and sit in silence, remembering how he held the umbrella too high—as if standing close was its own kind of risk. She’d force a small, aching smile, tell herself it was only a shortcut on the map.

Other days, she’d pull up behind a low brick wall, park the bike with a screech, and leap off, ready to startle him. But in her memory, his voice would reach her first: “Too loud,” he’d said, never bothering to turn around.

So she’d shake off the pain, clip her helmet on again, and push forward—deliveries waiting, regret left to catch up on its own.

Most of all, she rode just like Suho used to—late into the evening, weaving between streetlights and memories. Each package she carried was fuel for her guilt, her promise to cover weeks of missed chores and unspoken goodbyes.

She was learning to ride the weight of her grief as surely as she learned to handle the throttle: both made her body ache, but at least it meant she was still moving.

She remembered, when she smiled at the mirror for the first time in a long while.

It wasn’t a triumphant smile—more like a small, crooked thing, half-formed and unsure, but there nonetheless. The bathroom was filled with the sharp scent of drugstore dye, gloves stained with streaks of artificial chestnut. She worked in silence, dragging the brush through her hair, clumsily but with care, as if repainting herself would somehow peel away the weight she carried on her shoulders.

When she finished drying it, the strands fanned out like paper—too soft, too light, the color warmer than she imagined. Under the cheap lighting, it almost looked orange. She stared at her reflection, blinked once, and let out a short, surprised laugh.

She looked like she was wearing a wig. Like a stranger trying on someone else’s softness.

She remembered when the three would glance at her when she questioned them if she would look good in a light brown haired color. The two nodded and Beomseok complimented her with a thought, then Suho—that bitch.

Said, "If you ever dyed your hair. You would look like wearing a wig"

She chuckled to herself that a kick was met on his face after he made a comment.

And yet... something about it made her pause. Not in shame. Not in regret. But in that fleeting, suspended moment where grief and girlhood blur.

It didn’t fix anything. But it made her feel like maybe she could try again.

Even if it was just hair.

Even if it was just for a second.

Then, it started.

The bullying.

The girls started again, their voices high and biting, a chorus of yapping dogs circling, teeth bared but too afraid to bite. Each word they threw at her was a stone, meant to make her crack. But the cracks were inside. The outside? The outside was numb, cold—so cold it almost felt like she wasn't even there. Not until the bathroom, cornered between the walls, did she feel the heat of her own anger rising.

Not at them.

No, not at them.

At herself.

She hated how she'd let it get to this point. How had she become this quiet thing—this thing that let them talk, let them push? If it were the old her, she'd have torn them apart by now. Fists flying, voice roaring. She would’ve been the storm they couldn't handle. She would’ve shown them what it meant to not be afraid.

A year ago, she would have struck first—fists flying before thought. She would have tasted the shock in their eyes as blood bloomed on her knuckles. But that girl was gone. Now she stood still, back pressed to cool porcelain, heart hammering a fierce rhythm against her ribs.

But not now.

Now, silence was all she could afford them. Giving them her attention, her energy—it felt like losing, like handing them the power to keep dragging her back into their pit. So, she waited. Let them bark, let them jeer.

She was waiting for the one to make a move. She could feel it coming. The sharpness of her breath, the way her lip trembled under the weight of what she wanted to do.

The fluorescent light hummed overhead, and the walls felt too close, as if they meant to press her in. She looked at them—low laughs, the scrape of heels on tile. Shadows swept across the stalls, narrowing in on her.

They surrounded her: girls with cigarettes dangling from their lips, eyes bright with cruelty. Their words stung—whispers of psycho, freak, worse. Each insult landed in her chest like a stone.

Her lips were dry, chapped beneath the heavy lipstick, so bright it almost hurt to see. She imagined, for a moment, what it would look like—if that lipstick were smeared with blood. Her blood or theirs, it didn’t matter. The thought of wiping it off with their mocking laughter, of seeing them eat their own arrogance, was a sickening sort of satisfaction.

The laughter, the cigarette smoke curling around their words—it all burned her. She didn’t need to move, didn’t need to react. But the fantasy? The fantasy was enough. They'd never know the rage coiled inside her like a snake, waiting for the right moment to strike.

But that moment never came. And she realized, standing there, that maybe it never would. She was a prisoner of her own calm.

She paused, breath steadying, and Suho’s voice cut through the noise in her head. “If they corner you, don’t let them control the space. Use anything around you. Make them intimidate you.” Not her teacher’s drills—Suho’s words, like a lifeline.

She straightened her spine. Every inch of her stood tall: shoulders back, chin up, eyes locked on the ring leader. The others fell silent, startled by the sudden shift in the air. She moved forward, step by deliberate step, until she was toe-to-toe with the girl who’d cornered her.

Her voice was low, rough from disuse—but clear.

" You done spouting bullshit? "

The hallway seemed to hold its breath. The girl’s smirk faltered as a tremor of hesitation rippled through the circle. And for the first time that day, She felt something bloom behind her ribs—not fear, but a fierce, electric calm. The world had tilted back into place. She owned this moment. And they knew it.

The girl scoffed, a bitter sound curling from her lips like smoke. Her voice trembled, mechanical and unsure, stuttering as if caught between fury and fear. “What did you say?” she asked, trying to hold the edges of control, to wear confidence like armor—though it barely clung to her.

“You just keep talking,” she spat. “Saying things you don’t even understand. You’ve got the ego of a man compensating for something small—so small. Always acting like you're above everyone, but you’re nothing more than a coward in a mask.”

Her anger was wildfire now, unchecked and consuming. She moved fast—too fast—reaching out to strike, to make the moment hers again. But the other girl was faster. Calm. Cold. She caught her wrist mid-air, twisted it hard.

There was a snap—sharp, sickening.

A breath caught in the girl’s throat.

She screamed in pain then came the kick, swift and brutal, sending her stumbling backward, wounded pride trailing behind her like a torn ribbon. She hurled in pain clutching her hand as she lay on the ground.

And then—silence.

She had the space she needed. A clear path to run, to disappear, to let this be over.

But she didn’t move.

Not yet, she isn't done.

They circled her like wolves, four against one, grinning with the kind of confidence that came in packs. Cheap perfume, chewing gum, and bad intentions hung thick in the air.

The first came charging, wild and loud. She sidestepped, smooth as water, and swept a leg out low. The girl hit the ground with a thud, her pride landing harder than her body. As another was baffled but lunged—fists swinging, rage without form. She caught her wrist mid-swing, twisted, and sent an elbow into her ribs. The sound that followed was breathless, raw.

The third tried to out-think her. She went low, hands reaching for ankles, but didn’t see the spin. A heel cracked across her jaw with the grace of violence learned in silence. She folded, crumpled, still.

The last girl hesitated.

She could’ve run. Could’ve walked away with just a bruise to her ego.

“Don’t,” she warned, softly. Like mercy.

But pride struck first, than being humble.

She attacked—and in seconds, she was face-down, her wrist bent behind her back, the ground cold and unforgiving. Her face met with the cold disgusting floor where many student stepped in.

She exhaled.

She looked at them with no compassion, she knelt and plucked a crumpled cigarette pack from one of their jackets. Held it up between two fingers like something dead.

“Pick them up,” she said.

No one answered, nor moved.

She exhaled with a look of annoyance.

She stood over them, still as a statue, the echo of violence humming in her bones. Around her, the bathroom was silent save for their ragged breathing—tile cold beneath scraped palms, smoke clinging to the walls like ghosts.

“PICKED THEM UP!” she shouted, voice cracking through the air like a whip.

It boomed off the tiled walls, reverberating through the stillness. The room swallowed the sound, but it stayed there, vibrating in the bones of those crouched on the floor.

They moved slowly, heads bowed like scolded children, fingers fumbling for the torn paper and crushed filters. One by one, they gathered the pieces.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

"Eat it." she commanded at them, as the other stare at her in fear. Others obeyed too quickly afraid to have more blooming bruises on their faces.

But the one who had confronted her—the first to strike, the first to fall—didn’t look away.

She sat against the tiled wall, cradling her broken wrist with the other hand, eyes burning with fury. It wasn’t fear in her face—it was defiance. Pride refusing to kneel, even in defeat.

Blood at the corner of her lip. Breathing sharp. Hate alive in her throat.

She walked toward her—not rushed, not cruel, just deliberate. Controlled. Her knees bent with a soft thud against the tile as she knelt before the girl. A single cigarette still burned on the floor, its ember a fading eye. She picked it up between her fingers, unflinching as the heat kissed her skin.

“Still holding onto that pride?” she asked, almost gently.

She caught her face in one hand, fingers gripping her cheeks, steady and strong. Thumb pried her mouth open.

“No more talking.” She murmured at her, and smiled at her. Sickingly.

The cigarette went in.

Smoke. Ash. Pained gasped. Burning tongue. Silence.

She watched her chew it—eyes wet, teeth grinding through heat and paper and humiliation. The taste of defiance turned to ash on her tongue.

She held her gaze the whole time at her. Chewing at her own pride.

Then she let go.

Her fingers slipped from the girl's face like a dying breeze. And then, without fury—only finality—she slapped her. A clean, echoing sound that cracked through the heavy stillness like a gunshot in a chapel. No rage in it. Just closure. She rose to her feet, slow and composed, the chaos behind her shrinking as if it had never touched her.

At the door, she paused.

The air in the bathroom was thick—smoke curling like ghosts above the flickering light, blood and ash staining silence. The girls were curled inward, pain folding their bodies like paper. Eyes wide, throats dry. Beaten, but still watching.

She turned to face them one last time.

“Tell a teacher,” she said, voice low but thunderous, coiled with quiet venom. “And it won’t just be my fists or my feet kneeling to your faces.” Her eyes swept over them—each one trembling, pride shattered and stinging beneath the skin.

“I’ll make sure you can’t even look in the mirror without choking on what you see.”

A breath.

“I will kill you.”

No screams. No theatrics. Just that promise—quiet and unshakeable.

Then she stepped through the doorway and disappeared. The door slammed behind her with the force of a verdict. The lock clicked shut, sealing the room like a tomb.

She walked slowly, each step measured, as though the weight of her own actions had yet to fully settle. Her heartbeat still echoed in her chest, a steady drum beneath the skin. The rush, that surge of power, still coursed through her veins like fire, bright and consuming.

But she remained composed.

Her breath, though quick, was steady, like the calm after a storm. The chaos of the bathroom—those faces crumpled in pain, the smell of smoke and defeat—was already fading into the periphery of her mind.

Her fingers, still tingling from the force of the slap, brushed against the cold metal of the doorframe as she passed. Her body knew what it had done, but her mind? Her mind was already someplace else, already turning over the pieces like a puzzle that had just been solved.

She didn't regret it. Not in that moment.

She didn’t need to look back.

She just have to keep moving forward.

Its been a year.

After endless of orders, knocking on doors, she fell asleep face-down on a half-finished worksheet, the highlighter uncapped and bleeding neon yellow into the page.

When she slept, she was impossible to wake—like the world could end outside her window and she’d sleep through the fire. It had become her escape, her only silence. But not tonight.

Her phone rang loud and sharp, slicing through the quiet like panic often does. She stirred, groggy and annoyed, until her eyes caught the caller ID: Hospital.

She blinked.

Hospital

Her heart didn’t stop—it collapsed.

She answered without thinking, her voice breathless, the fear already creeping up her spine. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end was formal, wrapped in professional indifference. “Hello. Is this Dokja-ssi’s phone?”

Her breath hitched. Something about the tone felt wrong. Off. Too careful. “Yes—yes, this is her. I’m Dokja. Why? What’s going on?” she asked, already standing, legs shaky, the panic flooding her veins.

“There’s been a complication,” the voice replied, each word like a crack in her chest. "Patient Anh Suho, is in a critical condition, Unfortunately, Sieun-ssi responded but he didn't came. Are you able to come?" The nurse voice replied.

For a second, time slowed. Then it shattered.

She didn’t respond. The call had ended. Or maybe she had ended it. She couldn’t remember. Her limbs moved on instinct. She didn’t change clothes. She didn’t think. She just ran.

She ran like she did the night everything fell apart.

She ran like apologies could catch up to prayers.

She ran like her heart would stop before she made it.

She ran even if her tears wouldn't stop streaming until her eyes became blurry at the sight.

She called and called Suho’s grandmother, but the line rang endlessly. The silence on the other end pressed against her ears like grief.

When she burst through the hospital entrance, breathless and wild-eyed, she was met with chaos—blurred voices, sharp lights, the dull smell of antiseptic, and somewhere behind it all, fear.

A nurse met her halfway, calm hands reaching to steady her. "Dokja-ssi? "she asked gently, guiding her to a seat. She nodded, unable to speak.

Then everything came too fast— loud shouts, jarring footsteps.

Too real.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. She just stood there, rooted to the floor as the world blurred into chaos.

Through the small square of glass, her eyes locked onto the scene like it might disappear if she looked away. Suho’s body, too still on the stretcher, wires snaking across his chest. The defibrillator pads were already in place. The sound of machines echoed even through the door, shrill and unrelenting.

She saw the moment his heart flatlined.

The jagged spike of the monitor became a flat line.

"He's in cardiac arrest!"

Doctors shouted orders she couldn’t understand, but her body translated their panic anyway. Hands moved fast, efficient and desperate, as if time could be bribed to give them more.

His chest lifted—once, twice—under compressions, and she could barely hear the nurse behind her asking her to sit down.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

All she could do was stare at the blinking lights, watching as they flickered like dying stars in a collapsing sky. He had always burned so bright. And now—Now he was fighting to stay lit.

Tears clung to her lashes, but she didn’t cry. Not yet. Not when he was still in there. Not when he might still wake up.

She placed a hand against the glass.

“Suho,” she whispered like it was a promise. Like her voice could reach him where machines couldn’t.

She didn’t know how long she stood there. Could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been forever. Time twisted itself into knots.

All she knew was that she had never felt so helpless.

Inside, the doctor called for another round. The paddles pressed to his chest.

Clear.

His body jolted.

She flinched.

Her knees gave out before she even realized she was falling. The cold linoleum kissed her skin, and her fingers clawed at the base of the emergency room door—desperate, aching, as if she could tear through it and pull him back with her own bare hands.

“Suho,” she choked out, once, then again—until his name was no longer a name, but a prayer dragged through broken sobs.

Her body folded in on itself. Shoulders shaking, forehead pressed against the wood like it could listen. Like maybe if she stayed close enough, he’d hear her crying and come back just to scold her for it.

She wailed quietly at first, then louder, all the grief she had buried beneath discipline and duty unspooling in the rawest of ways. She gripped the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth, nails digging in until her knuckles turned white.

Her voice cracked, mouth trembling as she whispered, “Please… please don’t go.”

No one answered.

Only the muffled chaos of the emergency room beyond the door. The soft buzz of machines still fighting to keep him here. The frantic shuffle of shoes and fabric and sterile urgency.

She quickly kneeled, blood in her throat and prayers in her lungs. Asking the universe, begging God, “If you're here, save him.”

Not long after, the noise settled. The beeping of machines, the shouting of doctors, the chaos in the emergency room all blurred into a dull hum as Suho’s heart slowly found its rhythm again.

She sat there, knees still trembling beneath her, as a nurse gently approached her. She had no words to offer, no comfort to give, but the way she placed a steady hand on her shoulder said enough. It was an anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

“Suho’s stable now,” the nurse said softly, but her voice was still kind, despite the exhaustion that clung to her like a second skin. “He’s in critical care, but the immediate danger has passed.”

“His vitals are steady. We’ll monitor him, of course.” The nurse’s tone was reassuring, but she couldn’t shake the cold dread that clung to her, the fear that, at any moment, everything could tip back into the unknown.

The doctor stepped in next, his presence steady but brisk, offering the facts as they were. “His heart stopped for a few moments, but we were able to stabilize him,” he said, glancing at the monitor and then at her. “We’ll continue monitoring him closely for the next few hours. He’s strong. He’ll pull through. But it’s too early to say much more.”

She nodded, the weight of his words settling into her bones. But her mind couldn’t quite rest on the relief; it was tangled in the knots of everything she had felt before this moment, the panic, the helplessness, the feeling of losing him before she even had the chance to understand what he truly meant to her.

She managed to speak, though her voice felt foreign. “Can I see him?”

The nurse and doctor exchanged glances. The doctor nodded. “Just for a moment. He’s sedated, but we’ll allow a brief visit.”

As they led her to Suho’s room, She felt her legs heavy, like she was walking through water. When she reached the threshold of his room, she stopped, standing there in the doorway for a moment, watching him. The sight of him—his face pale but familiar, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the monitors—was almost too much to bear.

But she stepped inside. Slowly. Quietly. As if afraid that if she moved too fast, she would wake from this nightmare too soon.

There, in the quiet hum of the hospital room, she sat by his bed, her hand carefully brushing through his hair.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

All she could do was stay. And wait.

"You scared the shit out of me, you bastard." Her voice cracked, soft but heavy with the weight of everything she had felt in the past few hours.

A bitter chuckle escaped her lips, her fingers trembling as they lingered on his hand, still warm, still steady. The tears she had held back now fell freely, pooling on the edges of her lashes before they slipped down her cheeks.

"I thought... I thought I was going to lose you," she whispered, the words raw and honest, the fear she hadn’t known how to voice finally spilling from her. "I didn't know what I'd do without you."

"You always make me worry, don’t you?" she said, her voice quieter now, almost a fond reproach, as if she was talking to herself more than to him.

The sterile room felt colder now, quieter, but her presence by his side warmed the space. She could almost pretend that things were normal, that this moment was just one of those fleeting, quiet moments they used to have—when everything felt right, when there was nothing but them, no chaos, no questions. Just the quiet hum of being together.

"If you scared me like that again, i will kill you." she murmured, her hand brushing over the cool fabric of his hospital gown. "Please, wake up."

But silence was the loud answer.

Soon, she would hear his voice.

Again.

Soon she left the room, as the doctor checked his vitals.

She stepped away from the cold, sterile walls of the waiting room, seeking solace in a quiet corner where she could break without being seen. Her breath caught in her throat as her body trembled, each sob a sharp, painful release of everything she had held back.

She pressed her hand against her mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but it was useless. The grief, the fear, the desperate prayer to some higher power—she couldn’t contain it any longer.

"Please," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please, don’t take him too."

She was lost in her own panic, until her gaze lifted, and through blurred eyes, she saw them.

Three figures in the distance, standing near the entrance of the waiting area.

Their presence felt like a strange disruption, their calm demeanor a stark contrast to the storm inside her. She quickly wiped her tears away, forcing herself to steady her breathing, her chest still tight, aching from the earlier rush of emotion.

She couldn’t show them the cracks. Not now. Not here.

Her eyes darted to the sound of heels clicking against the floor, the sound sharp and confident as it drew closer. Without even looking, she knew.

She recognized the familiar cadence, the polished, poised steps of someone who had a presence that filled the room. And when she heard the words, soft yet piercing, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing over.

“Sieun,” his mother’s voice echoed, a quiet, clipped tone that made her blood run cold.

Her heart stopped for a moment, suspended in time. She didn’t move. She didn’t dare.

She had to stay still. To breathe. To keep herself from trembling at the sight of his mother, at the thought of Sieun.

As the woman turned, disappearing into the hallway, the rest of them—those familiar figures from long ago—remained.

She heard those words again, echoing in her chest like a cracked bell, "Don't worry. He's stable now."

But “stable” felt hollow—an empty promise carved from glass. It pressed against her ribs until she could hardly breathe. Stable meant he had already teetered on the edge.

Stable meant the world had nearly slipped him away once, and could do so again.

In that moment, the corridor’s light blurred into silver dust, and every step she took felt haunted by the question: What had broken him, and could she piece him back together?

Her legs moved before her mind could catch up, standing up as the need to know, to understand, burned through her chest. She walked toward them, each step hesitant but determined, her feet carrying her forward as if they knew the path she needed to take.

When she reached them, her voice was steady, but the question she asked felt like it came from someone else, someone too broken to stop herself.

“What happened to Sieun?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, though she hoped it didn’t sound as fragile as it felt.

Her eyes caught theirs, scanning each face, searching for a truth that had eluded her. And for a split second, in that fleeting moment, she realized how deeply she had missed them, how much she had needed to see them. But all she could focus on was Sieun. Where was he? Was he okay?

They met her gaze, each face shifting with something—pity? Worry? It was hard to tell, but she needed to know. She had to know.

The first met her gaze for an instant—his head shaved close, eyes hard—before he looked away. The second hunched forward, hood drawn tight, fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against his knee. The third leaned back, arms crossed, but his glance flickered to her like a startled bird.

“Who are you?” the one wearing a blazer asked, voice cautious.

Her throat constricted. “I—” She forced the words out. “I’m just asking if he’s okay.”

“Why do you care?” the first boy challenged, sharp eyes narrowing.

“I was his friend,” she whispered, voice thin as spun glass. “Please… just tell me.” They exchanged hesitant looks, the silence stretching between them like a wound.

“We weren’t there,” the boy with folded arms finally said, each word weighed by uncertainty. “Someone brought him in. He… hasn’t woken up yet.” She bowed her head, letting the news settle like snow in her chest.

The boy with a fur jacket on as his voice softened, almost a murmur: “You close to him, then?” She blinked at him, She didn’t know how to answer him. Are you close to him? — the question wasn’t cruel, just curious. Simple. But it rattled something. She would've said we are, once. It would’ve been easy. Natural.

But they weren’t.

Not anymore.

So the silence stretched for a second too long, and she could feel it waiting — the question, the boys, even the fluorescent lights buzzing above. “I was,” she said. Quiet. Honest. Maybe too honest. She didn’t know what else to say. Nothing she could say would explain it anyway.

The words hung in the air behind her as she walked, not really expecting them to understand.

The three boys watched her go, but none of them tried to stop her. It wasn’t like they could.

As she neared the hallway where Sieun’s mother had disappeared, the heels clicking sharply on the tile floor were unmistakable. The woman, tall and dressed in black, walked with a certain kind of authority, but there was something fragile about the way she moved — like even the weight of her own footsteps might be too much for her.

She didn't hesitate. Her legs carried her forward, and before she could second-guess herself, she was standing at the door where his mother had entered.

By the time she reached the door — the same one his mother had disappeared through — her hand was already on the frame, fingers trembling.

She leaned in.

The glass was small, but clear enough to steal her breath.

There he was.

Sieun. Still. Pale. Wires crawling across his skin like questions with no answers. Machines blinking quietly beside him, a soundless rhythm of worry. Her stomach turned. Something inside her dropped.

Her breathe hitched.

Him too?

And she didn't even know.

Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes before she could blink them back, stinging sharp and sudden. Not just because of the sight. But because it felt like some invisible thread had snapped — and she hadn't even realized it was still there until now.

It hit her like a quiet betrayal.

She used to pride herself on noticing things—on knowing when people were hurting even if they didn’t say it out loud. But this?

She hadn’t known a damn thing.

She didn't know what happened.

There was no warning. No signs. Just a body behind glass. A boy who once walked beside her now laid out like a question without an answer.

Her chest ached. Not sharp, just hollow.

She wondered if he tried to reach out. If he hesitated before deleting her number. If he thought about her at all.

Would it have changed anything?

Would she have come running sooner, if she knew?

She didn’t even know what floor he was on until she heard his name from someone else's mouth. And now here she was, heart pressed against glass, breathing in grief like it was her fault she didn’t notice him slipping.

She didn’t notice the door open. Not until a voice sliced through the haze, sharp and clean like a blade pressed too close to skin. “What is it?” The woman’s tone was brisk—businesslike, wrapped in steel—but not cruel. Not yet.

And for a moment, she couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. She stood there, breath caught halfway, spine tense like she’d been caught somewhere she shouldn’t be.

What was she supposed to say? That she was standing outside the room of a boy she hadn’t seen in months, one who used to walk beside her like a shadow, now lying still behind glass like a stranger? That she didn’t know why she was here, only that her feet wouldn’t let her go anywhere else?

But none of that would sound right. None of that would explain the tears she hadn’t wiped away, the guilt tightening her chest, the ache of realizing she was too late.

“…What happened to Sieun?” She asked the question again, but it felt heavier this time. More desperate.

The woman paused.

Sieun’s mother glanced at her, with a mask of recognition.

“You...” Sieun’s mother said softly, her voice filled with the weight of years of distance. “You’re the girl who visited us... a year ago?”

She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

“I was,” she managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper.

The woman paused, studying her carefully. There was something in her gaze—concern, perhaps, or understanding—something that made her feel exposed in a way she hadn’t expected.

Sieun’s mother’s eyes softened for just a moment, her expression unreadable, but there was a kindness in the way she spoke next.

But at her first question, her jaw tensed — a small, silent betrayal of everything she refused to let slip. There was a flicker in her eyes, something restrained and quiet, like a dam holding back too much water. She gave a slow shake of her head — not dismissive, not angry — just tired. The kind of tired that lived in the bones, not the muscles. The kind that grief makes permanent.

For a moment, the hallway felt too still. The soft mechanical murmurs behind the walls seemed distant, unimportant. Time hung suspended in fluorescent light and stale air.

Then, finally, Sieun’s mother exhaled — low, controlled, as if she could force herself to stay composed with nothing but breath.

“He’s in a bad state,” she said, and the words landed with the weight of something half-buried. “Unconscious when they brought him in. He got hit by a bus, thankfully it wasn't that critical. But the doctors are trying. They’re doing what they can.”

The ache hit without warning — a sharp, invisible thing that cracked down her spine like lightning. She didn’t know when she started shaking. Only that it hurt to stand still, and it hurt more to listen.

She wanted to ask more. A thousand questions pressed behind her teeth, begging for air. But none of them mattered. Not right now.

“Do you... want to see him?” Sieun’s mother asked, her voice softer now, like she understood what it meant to be left behind by someone still breathing.

“Yes.” Her voice came out too fast, too fragile. “Please. I— I need to.” The older woman gave a quiet nod and turned, her steps slow and heavy. And the girl followed, unsure if her knees were steady enough to carry her through the weight of the moment.

Behind every step was a memory. Behind every breath was something she wished she’d said.

But ahead… ahead was the hope of seeing him again — and maybe, just maybe, a chance to fix what time and silence had fractured.

“Are... are you a friend of Sieun’s?” Sieun’s mother asked, her voice faltering slightly. “I always believed something must have happened... between the two of you.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut, a sharp reminder of the distance she had put between them, a distance that had been as much her doing as anyone else’s.

“I used to be his friend,” she replied, her voice faltering, unsure of what else to say. Sieun’s mother’s eyes softened for just a moment, her expression unreadable, but there was a kindness in the way she spoke next.

She steps slowly toward Sieun's room, her heart racing in her chest, and each step feels heavier than the last. The guilt still lingers, but she pushes it aside, forcing herself to focus on the present. She can’t afford to think about the past anymore. Not now.

The reality of what’s happening hits her—she’s finally facing Sieun after all this time, after everything that’s happened. She doesn’t know what she’s going to say, or if she’ll even be able to say anything at all.

But she knows one thing for certain: she has to be there for him, even if it’s just in silence.

The sterile smell of the hospital room fills her senses. The sound of beeping machines and the soft rustle of sheets are the only noises that break the stillness of the room. She looks at him, lying unconscious in the hospital bed. His face is peaceful, but his body is marked with signs of his struggle.

It’s hard to look at him—he looks so fragile, so far from the boy she used to know. She’s reminded of all the things left unsaid, of the friendship that was lost, and the connection that never truly faded, even when she thought it had.

His mother gave a small nod, saying nothing, only shifting slightly to offer the empty seat beside her.

She sat down, the chair cold beneath her, the air colder still.

Silence erupted in the room—not hollow, but thick. The kind that fills your lungs until it’s hard to breathe. Machines hummed gently, steady and indifferent. But everything else felt still, like the world had paused just outside these walls.

She didn’t look at him right away. She couldn’t. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers laced tightly together, as if they were the only thing keeping her grounded.

She heard sieun's mother sighed softly, a mix of relief and lingering worry in her voice. “The doctor says it wasn’t critical, but his nervous system was affected. He’s been having trouble...” Her voice falters a bit.

“...trouble sleeping.” Her voice barely above a whisper, heart racing at the realization. As she finished Sieun's mother sentence. Her eyes widen in surprise, as if a flash of recognition crosses her mind. “Did Sieun tell you this?”

She shakes her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips, though it’s drowned in the ache of regret. “No, I haven’t talked to him... not since he switched schools.” She glanced at her lap, fiddling at the edge of her t-shirt, afraid to look at her.

A pause, her gaze softening, yet heavy with understanding. Her voice becomes quiet but firm, almost as if she’s been waiting to say this. “The moment I saw you standing at our door... I knew you had a connection with him. I don’t know what happened between you two, but I could tell you meant a lot to him.”

She is struck by her words, her heart sinking in guilt. She bows her head into her lap, the tears threatening to spill over. She couldn’t hold it back anymore, not with all the emotions swirling inside her, not after everything she wished she’d done differently.

Her voice lowers with empathy, a soft sadness in her words, as she takes a cautious step closer. “Sieun’s always been reserved... He’s never been good at opening up, especially when it matters the most. That’s how he is... always locking everything inside.” She paused as she glanced at the girl's appearance.

She trembled, shoulders tight, voice barely holding beneath the weight that had sat on her chest for far too long.

“I... I let my pride get in the way,” she whispered, each word splintering against the silence. “I didn’t talk to him when I had the chance... I should’ve, but I didn’t. I thought he’d be fine—like he always is. I told myself he’d figure it out. But now—” her breath hitched, “now he’s in here, like this. And I wasn’t there. I wasn’t even close.”

Her hands lifted, covering her face as the tears finally broke through, warm and merciless.

She hated herself for waiting. For hesitating. For thinking there would always be more time.

The silence they once shared now felt like punishment. A distance she could’ve closed, but didn’t. And now the air between them was filled with wires and machines and too many what-ifs.

If only she’d said something. If only she hadn’t let fear speak louder than her heart.

Now, it might be too late to say any of it at all.

Her voice was calm—steady in a way that only someone who had learned how to carry pain without letting it break them could manage. It reached her like a soft touch, like the kind of comfort that doesn’t need to be loud to be heard.

“It’s not your fault,” she said, not accusing, not dismissive—just honest. A breath left her lips, weary but full of knowing. “You can’t predict everything. Especially with someone like Sieun.”

She paused, as if weighing her next words with care.

“Sometimes... people need to fall a little. Walk into the dark by themselves before they can find their way back. That’s not on you. You can’t carry that alone.”

The words lingered in the quiet, gentle but undeniable. A truth that she hadn’t let herself believe. She had been so sure it was her failure, her silence, her pride that led to this—but maybe... it wasn’t all hers to hold.

Then, softer now, almost like an offering:

“If you were once his friend... maybe you still are. Maybe that hasn’t changed. It’s not too late. He’s been through more than we know, but maybe—just maybe—seeing you now will remind him... that he’s not alone. That someone still cares.”

And in that moment, the she felt something shift—not the ache, not the guilt, but the helplessness. It didn’t fade completely. But it loosened just enough to let hope slip in.

She feels a sudden rush of uncertainty—an ache that rises to her throat and threatens to pull her under. Should she stay? Should she leave? What right did she have to be here, after everything?

Her pride claws at her, whispering that it’s too late. That she should walk away quietly, like she always did. But something deeper—something older and softer—fights back. The part of her that still remembers his tired eyes, his rare half-smiles, the way he tried even when no one else saw it.

Regret crashes against her chest like a wave, but it’s no longer paralyzing. It’s a reminder. Of time wasted. Of words left unsaid. Of the cost of silence.

She glances at Sieun’s mother, who doesn’t speak—just waits with that patient, knowing gaze. Her breath stutters, but her feet don’t move. Something has shifted. The guilt is still there, heavy and sharp, but now it’s tethered to something else—resolve.

She can’t go back. She can’t undo the past.

But maybe... she can be here now.

Maybe this is the moment that matters.

For a moment, the room is silent again. The machines continue to beep steadily, and the she wonders if Sieun can hear her. Wondering if maybe, deep down, he knows that she’s here, that she’s trying. Her eyes start to blur with tears, but she blinks them away.

She stands by his bed, her hands shaking slightly as she places them on the edge of the bed, as she closed her eyes and whispered.

"I'm sorry, Sieun-ah"

The next day felt like a blur.

She quietly steps into the sterile hospital room where Suho still lies, unmoving. She finds solace in the mundane, almost as if speaking about ordinary things could bridge the chasm of everything that had happened recently.

She talks to him, her words flowing easily, the way they used to when everything was simple. She tells him about her day—how the schoolwork felt heavier than usual, how his grandmother seemed well despite the worries she had about him. And she mentions Sieun too, his mother, how strange it felt to walk that line between regret and the need to reconnect.

“I saw his mom yesterday,” she continues, her voice softer now. “She said he’s not critical... but his nervous system’s been hit harder than I expected. He’s having trouble... sleeping. I didn’t know, Suho... I thought I was the one to blame for everything.”

She doesn’t expect an answer, but the words feel like they needed to be said.

She pauses, blinking away a few tears, but laughs softly to herself as she recalls the comforting words of Sieun’s mother. “She said I wasn’t the cause of it... that people sometimes have to go through things alone before they come back. I guess... I didn’t think it would be like this.”

The quiet hum of the machines fills the silence as she sighs, her shoulders slumping as though the weight of it all is settling in. She leans back, taking a long breath, her exhaustion creeping in after days of emotional strain.

Her eyes flutter closed, and before she knows it, the chair becomes a quiet refuge, the steady beeping from Suho’s side becoming the lullaby she never thought she’d need.

Her hand, instinctively, rests on Suho’s, and in the quiet of the night, she falls asleep. It’s not the restful sleep of peace, but the kind that brings temporary relief—a brief escape from the chaos of everything around her.

And even if it’s just for a moment, she finds some comfort in the familiarity of the space, the stillness, and the softness of hope that maybe, just maybe, things will begin to heal.

She stirred awake slowly, but didn’t move. The heaviness in her limbs wasn’t from sleep—it was from everything else. Her head remained rested against the hospital bed, her hand still loosely curled near Suho’s.

The room was dim, still caught between the fading night and the gentle glow of morning.

The door creaked open quietly. She heard it but didn’t open her eyes. Part of her wanted to turn, to see—but she stayed still. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was both.

Then, his voice.

“Suho… I’m sorry I’m late.”

Her breath caught in her throat. That voice, distant yet achingly familiar, dragged her right back to every moment she spent waiting—for answers, for closure, for him.

She felt like she couldn’t breathe. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, her fingers twitching slightly.

And then, the second wound.

“I’m sorry, Dokja-ah.”

It was said softer, like a ghost brushing past her.

She heard the shuffling of shoes, the sound of someone about to leave. Her pride could’ve let him walk. Her anger, too. But grief, time, and the ache of everything unspoken pushed her forward.

She sat up slowly, eyes still fixed ahead, and her voice—tired but sharp—cut through the sterile room, as the machine beeping echoed.

“Took you a year to say that?”

The footsteps paused. Silence stretched—long enough for her heart to pound in her ears.

He froze.

The sound of her voice—raspy, fragile, but laced with something unmistakably raw—stopped him in his tracks. He faced her, still seating on the chair faced forward. She didn’t look at him.

Not yet.

Her eyes stayed on Suho, like she was still guarding something, or maybe just trying to keep herself from unraveling.

A long silence passed before she finally turned her head, just slightly. Enough to see the outline of him in the soft light.

Her gaze didn’t soften, but it didn’t harden either. It just held.

“I waited,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Not for an apology. Just… something. Anything.”

Her hand brushed lightly against Suho’s, grounding her. She didn’t want to cry. Not again. Not in front of him.

“But you disappeared,” she continued. “Like none of it mattered. Like we didn’t matter.” Her voice wavered, but her words stayed steady. “You don’t get to walk in and say sorry like that’s enough.”

She wasn’t yelling.

She didn’t need to.

Her silence hurts the both of them.

She looked at him then, fully—and for a moment, he looked like the boy she used to know. And someone else entirely.

Still, her next words weren’t bitter. Just… tired.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Sieun.”

And beneath it all, she meant it.

Do you even know what you left behind?

He stood there, caught in the doorway like someone who didn’t belong in the scene he'd wandered into. His hands twitched at his sides, empty. Always empty when it came to her. And yet, somehow, this felt heavier than any fight he’d ever taken.

Her words didn’t cut—they lingered.

Hung in the space between them like mist over a lake he was too afraid to step into.

He wanted to speak.

He wanted to explain.

What could he say that wouldn’t sound like an excuse?

So he just looked at her.

The way her shoulders curved inward now. The way her voice cracked like a fault line trying to stay closed. The way she kept glancing at Suho—as if he were the bridge between them. As if he was the only one allowed to still believe in them both.

He swallowed the guilt, thick and sharp. “I didn’t know how to come back,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And when I finally did… I wasn’t sure I deserved to.”

She didn’t respond—not right away.

But her looked says it all, "You didn't even try?"

So he took a step closer.

“I didn’t stop caring,” he murmured. “I just… didn’t know how to carry it without breaking.”

"You think I didn’t notice, but I did," she said, her voice low, not shaking, not angry—just tired. The kind of tired that sits deep in your bones, where no sleep can reach.

She let out a breath, almost a laugh, but it was hollow.

"I just didn’t want to believe it. So I made excuses. I told myself you were busy, or overwhelmed, or just... thinking things through. I waited. I gave you space. And you took it—so much space there was nothing left of you. No message. No call. Not even a goodbye. Just... absence. You left, and I stayed behind trying to stitch something back together that I didn’t even break." Her hands were still clenched at her sides, but her shoulders had slumped slightly, the weight of it all pulling her down again.

"Do you know what that feels like?" she asked, not looking at him now. "To lose everyone, one by one, and then have you—you—just disappear like you were never part of any of it? Suho ended up in a hospital bed. Beomseok vanished like smoke. Yeong-i stopped answering. And then there was just me. Alone. And you were supposed to be the one who stayed." She turned her head toward him, finally meeting his eyes again.

"I waited for you. I waited so long, and it got quiet. So quiet that it hurt. I’d stare at my phone for hours. I'd start typing something to you and delete it before I sent it. I’d run out of reasons to pretend like it was okay, like you were coming back. But I still hoped. Isn’t that sad? I still hoped." Her voice wavered now, just a little. But she didn’t let it fall apart.

"I kept asking myself, what did I do wrong? Was it something I said? Something I didn’t say? Should I have asked more questions, held on tighter, yelled, cried, anything? I was folding myself into pieces trying to find the version of me you wouldn’t walk away from." Her breath caught, but she blinked it back.

She didn’t cry.

She didn't want to anymore.

"And now you're here, and you look sorry, but sorry isn’t a time machine. Sorry doesn’t put things back where they were. Sorry doesn’t tell me why you thought I couldn’t handle the truth when I was already surviving the wreckage you left behind." She took a step back.

"You left. You made that choice. And I lived with the silence. Don’t come back now and act like you were the one hurting."

She stood now, walking past the bed until she was closer to him—arms still at her side, fists clenched.

She shook her head, a bitter laugh slipping past her lips before she could stop it. It sounded smaller than she expected. Tired, too.

“I waited,” she said, the words sitting heavy in her throat. “Every day, I waited for you to come back. And when you didn’t… I started to hate you. But worse than that—I hated myself.”

Her voice thinned, the way it does when something old and buried rises too fast, too sharp. Like the weight of it had finally lodged in her chest and was pressing, hard.

“Because I kept thinking—if I’d just opened my mouth. If I hadn’t let my pride win. If I’d said anything instead of staying silent... maybe we wouldn’t be here. Standing like strangers, pretending we used to be something more.”

Sieun looked pale, like the guilt in his chest had found its way to his face. He looked like he wanted to reach for her, but didn’t. Couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Softer now. Like he meant it, but didn’t believe it was enough.

She looked at him, hollow-eyed.

“I don’t need your sorry,” she said. “I needed you.”

The silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt deafening—like the aftermath of a scream. Like the room itself was holding its breath.

She turned away and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket, pretending the motion was casual. It wasn’t.

“If you’re going to leave again,” she said quietly, “just go now.”

“I’m not—” he stated.

“Don’t promise me things,” she snapped, too fast. “You’re not good at keeping them.”

That stopped him. His gaze dropped for a second, shame flickering across his face. But when he looked up again, something had changed. His eyes weren’t defensive or desperate. Just steady. Heavy with everything he hadn’t said until now.

“I know,” he said. “I know you did. You waited.”

He stepped away from the door, not closer to her—but toward the weight between them. Like he was choosing, finally, not to run.

“You think I didn’t want to come back?” he said, his voice quiet. “I did. Every day I told myself—just one message. Just one call. But then I’d remember the way you looked at me the last time. Like I’d already broken something important.”

She opened her mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to agree—but he kept going.

“I couldn’t face Suho. Or you. Or who I used to be. Because after everything fell apart, I thought it was my fault. I thought I ruined everything. And maybe I did.”

There was no anger in his voice. Just weariness.

“I told myself staying away was cleaner. That I wouldn’t hurt you more by showing up broken. But the truth is... I was just scared. Scared of being the one who couldn’t fix what he shattered.”

She didn’t speak. She just stared, hands clenched at her sides, like letting them relax might make all of this too real.

“I thought forgetting would be easier if I stayed gone. But I didn’t forget,” he said. “I just kept losing parts of myself, until there was nothing left that felt like enough.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His words came steady, quiet—but sharp enough to cut.

“I couldn’t face it. I told myself I was protecting you, giving you space, whatever lie made it easier to breathe. But the truth is—I was a coward. Not the dramatic kind, not the ones who run screaming. The quiet kind. The kind that slips out the back door and convinces themselves it’s mercy.”

He looked at her then, really looked—like maybe it had taken this long to let himself.

“I thought if I stayed away long enough, you’d stop needing me. That you’d forget whatever version of me you used to count on. That you’d move on, and I could pretend I didn’t break anything.”

She didn’t say a word. Her jaw was tight. Her eyes were red. But she listened.

“I saw Suho in that bed,” he went on, softer now. “I saw you next to him. And I realized how much I missed. How much I left you to carry. Alone. You always carried everything so quietly—I think I convinced myself you’d be okay without me. But you weren’t. And I wasn’t okay without you either.”

He took a step forward, not asking permission. Just letting her see that maybe—for once—he wasn’t hiding behind silence.

“I’m not going to make promises. I don’t think I have the right to anymore. But I will say this: I never stopped thinking about you. And I was wrong. You didn’t deserve that kind of silence. You didn’t deserve to feel like you were the one left behind.”

“I’m not here to undo it,” he said, voice low, steady. “I know I can’t. I know showing up now doesn’t erase anything.”

His gaze lingered on her—the shine in her eyes that wasn’t light, but tears; the shadows beneath them carved by sleepless nights; the way her hair had grown longer, falling like silence across her shoulders.

She looked heartbreakingly beautiful. Not in the way the world defines it, but in the way sorrow shapes someone who kept going anyway.

And it killed him—

That he was the reason her eyes were wet.

That her sadness wore his name.

She stood there, shoulders tight, something trembling at the edges of her expression. She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or fall into his chest and tell him to hold her like nothing ever broke. But all she could say was, “Then don’t leave again.”

He looked at her, really looked—no flinching, no turning away.

“I won’t,” he said. “Not if you want me to stay.”

The moment his words settled between them, she didn’t think—she moved.

Two steps. Three.

She crashed into him.

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders with a desperation that trembled. He froze at first, caught in the sheer force of her pain, then slowly—gently—his arms came up, holding her like she might disappear again if he let go.

Her voice broke between sobs against his shoulder. “I hate you… for disappearing from me.” Her fists curled into his jacket like she wanted to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.

“I hate that you left without a word. I hate that I waited. That I made excuses. That I let you take everything with you.” Sieun didn’t flinch. He just held her tighter, his chin resting lightly against the top of her head, grounding her in the way she didn’t know she still craved.

"I know" he whispered into her ear, as his hands rested carefully on her waist, "I hate myself too."

Her crying wasn’t loud—but it hurt. It was the kind of crying that sounded like years of swallowed grief cracking open in the arms of someone who once knew her heart.

And in that hospital room, with the beep of Suho’s monitors humming steady in the background, it was the most honest they’d ever been.

No more pride.

No more what ifs.

No more sleepless nights.

No more wondering.

No more pretending.

Just them.

The two of them.

And maybe Suho too.

Just them—tired, broken, but finally, finally not alone.

The sobs had quieted into soft sniffles. She didn’t let go at first—but Sieun gently pulled back, just enough to meet her eyes. His voice still low from everything that had been said. "I have to go."

She didn’t flinch. She just blinked, slow and steady, like she was trying to brace herself for something she already knew. “They’re waiting for you, aren't they.” she said to him.

That made him pause. His brow pulled in, confused. “Have you met them?” She nodded once, wiping gently under her eye with the edge of her thumb. Her voice softened, raw at the edges. “They remind me of Suho, Yeong-I and...Beomseok before.” She whispered like a broken tale.

There it was—the way his shoulders dipped, almost imperceptibly. Something in him shifted. A ghost passed between them. And for the briefest second, something rare flickered across his face: a smile. Small, hesitant. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it curled faintly at the corners, like it was trying.

Like it still hurt.

“You want to meet them?”

The question sat between them like glass. Fragile. Waiting.

She looked down, flexed her fingers once, then met his eyes again.

“Do you want me to?”

The air shifted—just slightly. It was still thick with history, but the weight of it wasn’t unbearable anymore. Something in it had softened. And for once, there was no panic in his silence.

He didn’t rush to answer. He just breathed.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “I think I do.”

She took a breath of her own, the kind that comes from choosing to stay, even when the past clings to your ribs. Then she stepped forward—close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, not quite touching, but near enough that warmth moved between them again.

“Then let’s go,” she said.

So they did. No grand declarations. No clean endings. Just two people walking slowly through the quiet, side by side, carrying what couldn’t be fixed—but not alone this time.

They stepped into the lobby, their fingers still loosely threaded—barely holding, but not letting go. The world outside the hospital buzzed with fluorescent hums and distant footsteps, louder now, clearer somehow. And yet, the quiet between them was no longer something sharp. It was calm. Steady. A kind of peace.

Sieun’s pace faltered when he saw them.

Jun-tae stood with a gaze filled with worry. Go Tak was next to him—always alert, the crease between his brows softening the moment his eyes landed on Sieun. Baku sat on the bench, knee bouncing restlessly like he’d been trying not to bounce off the walls entirely.

Jun-tae noticed first.

“Sieun,” he said simply.

Go Tak straightened, the edge in his posture lifting slightly. “You okay?”

Sieun gave a small nod. His voice was low, but there was something solid in it now.

“Yeah. I'm pretty sure.”

He didn’t elaborate, but none of them needed more than that.

Jun-tae gave a tearful confession, she smiled at him. He was a nice kid. Then this guy—stands up and pats him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Saying that he doesn't need to worry about Sieun at all. Go Tak offered a small nod, concern folding quietly into relief.

“Took you long enough,” he said, voice just above a murmur.

This guy, Baku.

He stood with all the dramatic energy of someone who’d been holding back a performance, like the entire hospital lobby was his stage and he’d just found his cue. With a flourish only Baku could pull off, he patted Jun-tae’s shoulder—a casual gesture that somehow still managed to be loud—and then turned, eyes narrowing like he’d spotted something scandalous.

His gaze dropped to their hands—still loosely laced, still warm from all the unspoken things they hadn’t let go of yet. Baku’s eyes darted between them, growing comically wide. He pointed, slowly, accusingly, like he’d uncovered a government secret.

“WAIT—SIEUN—YOU—SHE—YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?!”

Sieun blinked.

She blinked.

The hand-holding, still soft between them, hadn’t quite registered until that exact moment.

Sieun looked down at their hands like he was just now remembering he’d been holding hers. She didn’t let go, though. Neither did he.

Go Tak rolled his eyes with a sigh. Jun-tae chuckled softly even with tears brimming his eyes.

But Baku was already mid-spin, arms out, voice raised dramatically.

“Can we just take a moment to appreciate this development? Sieun! With a hand-holding—a hand-holding!—in public!”

Sieun groaned under his breath.

“It’s not like that.”

She lifted her chin a little, trying not to smile.

“We’re just close.”

Baku gave them both a slow, skeptical once-over before the corners of his mouth curled up into a knowing grin.

“It’s like the confession scene in Slam Dunk,” he said, voice dipped in exaggerated awe, clutching his chest as if overcome by the sheer romance of it all. “You know—when Rukawa says nothing but it’s everything? The hands, the silence, the undeniable tension—ah, iconic.”

She laughed at him, “…Rukawa never confessed.”

“That’s the point!” Baku cried, throwing his arms up. “The beauty is in the restraint! In the mutual understanding! In the unspoken emotions shimerring beneath the surface!”

Go Tak sighed, clearly done with this.

No one bothered correcting him again.

The group moved on, steps falling into rhythm. The jokes kept coming, the teasing never quite biting. And between all of it, their hands stayed where they were—still laced, still sure.

She smiled as she watched them—three boys tangled in their usual chaos, laughter sparking like old warmth in a place too quiet for too long. Her voice came low, almost a sigh dressed in fondness.

“Wah… he really is like Suho.” She murmured quietly but enough for Sieun to hear. At the sound of her, Sieun turned. His gaze found hers, lingering—not with surprise, but something quieter. Something like recognition. “You’re leaving?”

She nodded, the edges of her smile softening. “I should. I’ve been here too long… and you’ve got company now.” But he was already moving before she finished, closing the distance like a reflex he hadn’t forgotten.

“I’ll walk you out.”

The three looked at them, and just let them be.

They stepped into the hall together, silence pressing gently between them—not heavy, not awkward, just full of all the things neither of them had the courage to name.

Then, from behind them—

“YEAH, SIEUN—TAKE CARE OF YOUR GIRLFRIEND!” Baku’s voice rang out, unfiltered and obnoxiously proud.

Sieun didn’t miss a beat.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

He stated, but his eyes glint at him. "Back off"

Baku grinned wider, unbothered. “So I can ask her out?” A sharp thwack cracked through the air as Go Tak smacked the back of Baku’s head, exasperated. “You idiot.”

She laughed, quietly.

And Sieun, for a moment, almost smiled too. He grasped tightly to her hand as they walked side by side.

The automatic doors slid open in front of them. The cold outside air kissed her cheeks, sharp and sobering. Sieun stepped out beside her, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes cast toward the horizon like he was searching for something that hadn’t quite arrived yet.

They walked a few steps in silence, their shoulders not quite touching, but close enough to feel the presence of one another.

“I wasn’t planning to stay long,” she said quietly, watching her breath curl in the air like smoke. “But it felt hard to leave.”

Sieun looked at her. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

She nodded, eyes fixed on the ground. “I didn’t know what I wanted to say when I saw you again,” she admitted. “But it was never about the words, was it?”

“No,” he murmured. “It was about showing up.”

The silence this time wasn’t heavy. It hung between them like a thread, soft and delicate, but strong enough to hold something unspoken.

She paused near the curb, the edge of where she had to go. He stopped with her.

“Text me,” she said again, barely above a whisper. “Even if it’s just one word.”

“I will.” This time, she smiled—not wide, but real. She took a step backward, eyes still on him.

“Take care of them, okay?” He nodded. “I will.”

And when she turned to leave, he didn’t stop her—not out of apathy, but trust. Trust that she would turn around if she ever needed to, and he’d be there.

Sieun stood beneath the washed-out glow of the awning, the light pooling softly at his feet. He didn’t call her name. Didn’t move. Just watched as she walked into the night, her figure slowly swallowed by shadows and streetlight.

She didn’t look back. Not at first.

But a few steps before the crosswalk, she stopped. The kind of pause that wasn’t hesitation—it was decision.

Then she turned.

Her eyes weren’t bright with tears, and her expression held no drama. Just a kind of quiet knowing. She walked back toward him, deliberate, steady. When she stopped again, it wasn’t hesitation—it was declaration.

From her pocket, she pulled something small.

Then—flick—the arc of motion was smooth, unceremonious. It landed in his hand with the soft clink of metal.

A black punch ring.

Sieun blinked down at it, the cool weight settling into his palm. He didn’t need to ask why. Her voice came low and firm, laced with something fiercer than sadness. “You can’t possibly win with just a ballpen, Sieun-ah. I don’t know what you’re fighting for… but you better win.”

And just like that, she turned.

No goodbye. No glance over her shoulder.

Only the echo of her footsteps and the charged silence she left behind.

Sieun stared at the ring, the hard curve of it pressing into his lifeline.

And then—just barely—a smile found its way to his face.

Not joy. Not hope.

But the kind saying that he was ready.

Ready for her.

Reay to face it all.

After all, he is a hero. A weak one.

♡ note ───── I'd do anything just for you to be mines again. I felt sadness pour into me. When you became a stranger, I knew that you'd be leaving me. Then you became a danger, I felt sadness pour into me.

♡ note ── hope you enjoy it, this would be the last part <3 Probably there would be another one but in S3

───── ★ requested by : @heeknow @alwaysgenerousvoid @snowflakemoon3 @yeon103 @kellystyles18 @littlebluebird2000 @hollxe1 @dripoftheseus @enhajungwonheart @energydrinkstastegood @zuwizy @trasshy-artist @cassieeelim @myouiwp @dutifullyannoyingstrawberrie @rexxiiia @aple-piie @sarangs-world-02 @enhacolor

[yestrday]

i wanna see a yandere who has destroyed their darling's life beyond no repair. all your classmates and friends shun you, your family's basically abandoned them, and all sorts of rumors prevent anyone from even getting near you. it was all an elaborate scheme on the yandere's end to have you to themselves and it worked, amazingly so.

you come to them for comfort. they're your only safe space these days. he thinks you have had your suspicions for a long time now, but to his amazement you don't really seem to care. your eyes are a dull, endless void compared to the bright ones he had fell for, but he doesn't seem to care. he likes you before and he likes you even more now.

but it is getting concerning how disturbed you become with every visit to his place. your words barely connect as you ramble about something or other, and you laugh to yourself out of nowhere. he is nothing but understanding, but he worries. he once brought up this to you and you... stared. then laughed. laughed so much that he feared you'd laugh your throat hoarse. somehow, he can't help but feel that your amusement was directed at him.

he watches as the bags under your eyes grow darker and heavier. with only him and studies occupying your time, there was nothing to do but throw yourself into your studies. your drafts are nonsensical ramblings about the given topic, sometimes segwaying to gruesome thoughts. your grades are nothing special, maybe even failing, but you study and study and write and write and drink coffee after coffee and—

they call you insane. you do look insane. you can't bring yourself to care about brushing out your hair or cooking a half-decent breakfast, and if it weren't for him you'd probably be dead a long time ago. they whisper about you behind your back and you laugh. you haven't cared in a long time anymore. you don't see yourself caring ever.

he becomes increasingly frustrated as the time goes by. he can't be by your side all the time, so whenever you go off and do whatever self-destructive thing you want to do, his stress levels spike. he wants to take you away before you do something irreversibly stupid, but then all evidence would point to him. because you only have him.

guilt and terror wrecks his mind as he looks at you. even if he finds you beautiful even in your damaged state, he can't bring himself to look at you. your kisses tastes like every vice all at once— addicting, guiltily so.

BAKUGOU, deku, geto, YUTA, MALLEUS, vil, riddle, AZUL, kaeya, ayato, AVENTURINE, HUGO, ROMEO, jin, THOMA, sho,

[em1i2a3]

Spoiled

Pairing: Touch Starved!Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Escort!Fem!Reader

Summary: In an act of desperation Bob calls up an escort service to help him with his touch starvation, only to find out that maybe it was more than he bargained for. (NEXT PART: Plainsong)

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! (To be on the safe side because of the content of escorting being involved in this) Fluff, Angst, Reader is an escort (for reasons that will be revealed of course), Bob is super touch starved in this, Reader has a bit of a traumatic past.

Author’s Note: I may or may not make a part two to this, I found this to be a really interesting concept (I listened to a few podcasts recently where they interviewed escorts and I kind of got this idea.) I really enjoyed how it turned out, and I hope you guys enjoy it as well <3, this is Part One BTW

Word Count: 9,449

You were used to getting all kinds of emails and messages.

Some were short and crude–no greeting, no name, just a timestamped demand from someone who thought money gave them the right to speak to you as if you were an object…A product of some sort. A very stark: “I want to fuck you. When, where, and how much?” Those were the messages you deleted without hesitation, the ones that made your stomach twist because there was a high chance that someone more desperate would respond to it and possibly get hurt–they were the ones you tried to report whenever you got them just because you had a gut feeling that the person sending it was looking to do something bad to the receiver.

Then there were the verbose types–the clients who treated your inbox like it was a confessional booth, flooding it with elaborate fantasies, personal grievances, and attaching expectations to every word like you owed them an experience just because they took the time to justify why they wanted to book you in the first place.

Worse still were the transitional poets–the men who tried to hide the objectification with romance. Who talked about your femininity, while asking for a discount if they booked more than one hour. Those always made you cringe.

You had read it all before. Nothing surprises you anymore. But now that you had your own website, and you were your own boss, you could afford to be a little more picky, a bit more…Selective

You didn’t always have that luxury. There had been a time when you had to take whoever came in–the requests that sent your gut twisting into knots, the agreements that blurred lines, the sessions that left you feeling numb, embarrassed, and in a morally compromising headset for hours after. But now? You were cautious. You had a screening form, a secondary phone number, a separate bank account, a fake name, and a security guard on call if things did go wrong–even though technically you were your own security, and that meant you had sharpened your own instincts over time.

There weren't any dire moments anymore. Not scraping the bottom of your savings or dreading every grocery run. But sometimes, when you wanted a bigger savings buffer, or when your cat had a surprise vet visit, you dipped back into your old habits, even though you were attempting to pull away from it. There were still some clients–a very select few–who made things a little easier and made it worth the couple of hours. The ones who respected you, and the ones who didn’t just expect sex–the ones who truly just wanted a connection without the end goal being sex.

One night though, you were curled up on your second hand couch, with a faded blanket tucked around your legs, and the soft flicker of your television playing out in a low murmur across the room. The news anchor’s voice buzzed beneath your attention as you scrolled half-heartedly through your phone, idly listening to a heated congressional hearing replay. The camera panned to two men mid-argument, both leaning into their microphones as their voices rose.

“They’ve completely dismissed the Veteran Integration Act for the third time this quarter,” The anchor reported, “And it appears tensions are running high–especially with the representative from New York.” The cameras cut to one of them as he leaned back, jaw tight, his metal hand catching the light beneath his navy suit jacket as he adjusted his cuff. His eyes–piercing, exhausted, a bright blue–looked like they could level a room. You tilted your head at the image, humming thoughtfully to yourself.

”I’d also be pissed off if nobody listened to me,” You muted, half to the screen, half to yourself. The faint buzz from your second phone then caught your attention, drawing your eyes away from the images that the anchors continued to show of the mysterious representative from New York.

You shifted your blanket down, sitting up a little bit to reach for it. A flurry of notifications greeted you on the Lock Screen: A scam alert from your phone provider, a confirmation from one of your regulars–someone who typically just wanted to take you to dinner–and one new message with a subject line that made you pause for a moment.

‘Non-Sexual Booking Inquiry?’

Your brows pulled together slightly, your thumb hovering over the screen. The subject line alone wasn’t unusual–people asked about platonic companion sessions often. but the question mark at the end gave you a little bit of a hint that they were hesitant, or nervous, or they hadn’t messaged an escort.

The jingling of your cat’s collar pulled your attention just as she meowed softly and kept onto the couch beside you. Her nails clawed at the cushion before curling up against your hip, her warm orange fur clinging to your sweater instantly, purring loudly like she wanted to distract you.

”You here to approve the new client with me, Luna?’ You murmured, voice soft with amusement as you scratched the top of her head, right behind your ears, “Hmm? Gonna help me screen them?” You added, clicking the email with your free thumb.

From: Bob R.

To: Onyxbookings@gmail.com

Subject: Non-Sexual Booking Inquiry?

Sent: 2:03 AM

Hello,

I hope this email finds you well. I discovered your website earlier this week…I’ve never reached out to anyone like this before, so I’m not sure if I’m doing this the right way, if I’m not, I’m sorry. Please feel free to ignore this message if it’s out of line.

I saw on your info page that you offer overnight sessions, and I wanted to ask about something that’s maybe a bit unusual. I’m not really looking for anything sexual. I don’t want to cross a boundary or make you feel uncomfortable.

I’ve just been having a hard time, and I don’t feel like I can reach out to the people I know for this. I saw that you offer companion hours where you just stay. That’s what I’m kind of looking for.

If you’re available, I’d like to ask if I could book you for a full night and the morning after. I’ll pay your full rate for overnights, and I’ll cover the cost of the room and stuff. I’m happy to meet any security measures or screenings you need, and I’ll pay upfront if that helps ease your worries.

I understand it might not be something that you do often, or maybe not at all, but I thought I’d ask.

Also…I read your About Me page, and saw you quoted a line from The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I wasn’t sure if that was a coincidence or not, but…If it wasn’t, I guess I wanted to say that I love that book.

Thank you for your time, and I hope I hear from you soon.

- Bob.

You blinked at the screen, your mouth softening with a small breath and a smile. Luna let out a sleepy mrrp beside you.

There were always people who claimed they weren’t looking for sex. You were used to reading between the lines, tracking their use of language like little breadcrumbs. But this…This didn’t really read like a trick.

You tapped the edge of the phone against your thigh, thinking, contemplating what to do next. Your eyes scanned over the info you had.

The name wasn’t familiar–just Bob R. No photo. No burner address. The domain looked real enough. You could trace it if you wanted. Everything was cautious, the words seemed to emit the nervousness that plagued him.

Your fingers found the keyboard instinctively, tapping into a rhythm you’d perfected over time. Professional. Calm. Gentle. But this one? This one had a little softness curled beneath every word.

To: Bob R.

From: onyxbookings@gmail.com

Subject: Re: Non-Sexual Booking Inquiry?

Sent: 2:23 AM

Hi Bob,

Thank you for your email. No need to apologize.

I do still offer non-sexual overnight sessions, and what you’re describing falls within the scope of what I provide during those things. Companion hours are meant to be whatever you’d like them to be, for example we can talk if you want, and typically during these sessions people want to be held, stuff like that.

I’ve attached my new client intake form to this message. It’s a simple thing that outlines a few safety requirements and gives me a better idea of how I can best support you during a session, and it helps me get to know you more too, and get a feel for who you are. A background check will also be conducted, I hope you don’t mind.

Once that’s filled out, we can talk about scheduling and choosing a location. Your comfort also matters too, so we can figure out logistics together.

I typically ask for at least 48 hours’ notice for overnight sessions, just to ensure everything is booked properly and there’s no scheduling conflicts. I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have along the way.

Good catch on the book quote, by the way. I really like it too :)

Looking forward to hearing from you,

Onyx

Attachment: intake_form.pdf

You clicked send, then stared at the screen for a moment, watching your outbox refresh. The nervous flutter in your stomach wasn’t about fear. It was something quieter. Lighter. The curiosity that came with someone who didn’t come at you swinging with demands or masks–the mystery of who they were.

You glanced down at Luna, “What an interesting character…” You murmured, nudging her gently. She stretched her back legs and rolled onto her side, belly exposed, tail flicking.

Then your phone buzzed again, and just like that, the email chain grew with quick succession. The both of you were up until dawn sending messages back and forth.

————————

The zipper of your overnight bag rasped quietly through the stillness of your bedroom, breaking the soft hum of the heater that was ticking in the corner. You folded a spare t-shirt and tucked it in next to the worn sweatpants you always travelled with–both items were already dusted with orange fur from Luna, clinging in thin curls that no lint roller could ever fully remove, not for a lack of trying of course. You tried to sweep them off absently with your hand, muttering under your breath, “Hope Bob isn’t severely allergic or something…”

Your room smelled like dried flowers and indistinguishable heat–warmed wood floors steeped in the scent of the pine oil you’d used earlier, mixed with the sweet, heady cling of a melted soy candle you had lit–smoky votives and honeyed chamomile, like a summer evening breeze drifting through a half-open window in the countryside. Earthy, rich, and quiet. Soothing even.

Your second phone buzzed again on the bed beside your bag, the screen flashing briefly.

Bob: Front desk says there’s an extra key for you. I’m going to order room service, would you like me to get you anything?

There was something disarming about how nice he was, like he was always trying not to inconvenience you–even though he was the one paying for all of this.

You didn’t hesitate to reply.

You: Thanks Bob, I’ll pick up the spare key. I’ve eaten so no need to order anything for me, enjoy your food xx.

You slipped the phone into your back pocket and gave a final once-over to your bag. The essentials were all there. Toiletries in their travel pouches, the backup pepper spray tucked in its dedicated side pocket, and a small pouch containing your ID, a burner card, and cash tucked behind a decoy wallet.

You were always prepared for the worst.

Even now–after three days of emailing back and forth with Bob–you were still a bit wary. You’d been catching yourself checking your inbox more often than usual. Not for work, not for confirmations. Just to see if he’d sent another message. They were never long. Just little snapshots of his day, thoughts he seemed almost embarrassed to share, like he didn’t have anyone else to say them to.

“I passed a bakery today and stood outside for five minutes smelling the bread. Didn’t go in. Just stood there like a weirdo. It smelled like rosemary and garlic. You ever get memories from smells?”

They were mundane, and in a strange, unexpected way, you looked forward to them.

Sometimes you needed to remind yourself he was a client. One who probably didn’t even realize how rare it was that you were letting him speak to you so freely, outside billable time. You weren’t even sure when you started seeing him as more than a client. But something about his awkwardness, his transparency–it made you soften. Against your better judgment.

A knock on your apartment door pulled you from your thoughts.

You walked briskly out of your room, and through the living room–feeling the worn wood creaking slightly beneath your socks. Your apartment was a small second-floor walk-up in an older building that smelled like peeled paint–but you had made it your own.

A long patchwork curtain hung over your front window, filtering the streetlamp glow into warm amber streaks across the floor. On the shelf beside the couch sat a worn incense dish, still warm from a burned-out stick of cedarwood and sweet orange peel. The scent mingled with Luna’s presence–cat fur, clean litter, a faint whiff of the treats you kept in a mason jar near the TV. It was a little messy, but thoroughly lived in.

You opened the door.

”About time,” Alana said, smirking as she breezed in, kicking the door shut with her heel, letting her oversized tote bag thump against the floor by the entryway as she pulled you in for a hug. She smelled like peppermint gum and luxury perfume layered over late-night city grit–spiced fig, amber resin, a little hit of something musky and warm that clung to her hoodie like a memory of velvet. Her sunglasses were pushed up into her messy blonde hair, and her sweatpants were rolled twice at the waist to show a faded logo from a wellness retreat you both used to laugh at when clients offered to send you there as a “gift.”

“Where’s my niece?” She asked brightly. Before you could reply, there was a soft thump from the hallway and then the telltale tap-tap-tap of claws on hardwood. Luna trotted out from her designated hiding spot in your closet with regal purpose, her orange tail curled like a plume, like she heard a familiar voice.

”Aww, there’s my baby!” Alana gasped, immediately bending down and opening her arms. Luna let out a pleased trill and leapt up gracefully, settling into her embrace with the spoiled contentment of a lap cat who knew she was adored.

You raised a brow. “Well, you’re never that excited to see me. That’s disappointing.”

Alana turned to face you, cradling Luna like a newborn. The cat’s paw was curled possessively around her shoulder. “Hun, I gave you a hug. You want me to hold you like a baby, too?”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Never mind.”

You moved back toward the bedroom, the floorboards groaning faintly under your weight as you reached for your overnight bag on the bed. You slung it over your shoulder and gave the room one last glance–candles out, phone charger packed, windows locked. Still, there was that tug in your chest, the same one you always felt before a booking. A strange blend of readiness and reservation.

“I hope you didn’t have to reschedule anyone for this,” you called over your shoulder as you walked back out into the living room.

Alana flopped onto the couch, Luna now sprawled across her legs like a queen. “No, I’ve got one tomorrow in the afternoon, but you’ll be back by then I’m assuming.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Bob’s got me till eleven in the morning tomorrow. I’ll be back in time to let you off the hook.” You reached down and gave Luna a scratch beneath her chin. She purred like a small engine, then lazily rolled onto her side and pressed her paws into Alana’s hoodie.

Alana looked at you again, lips pursed. “You haven’t sent me a photo of this guy. Do you have one?”

You hesitated for a beat. “Thank you for reminding me,” You said softly. “I’ll send you the one from his intake form. It’s not great–kind of looks like it was taken in a DMV waiting room–but it’s clear. And I’ll send you the full intake info too. Alias, emergency contact, the works. I ran the background myself–he checks out.”

Alana sat up a little straighter, her brow arching. “You don’t usually do all this before a booking, don’t you usually have Manny run everything?” You shrugged, selecting the intake files on your burner with a few practiced taps.

“Maybe I was a little curious to know the results right away,” you muttered, pressing ‘Send.’ “You know how Manny is. Background checks take him hours. I’ve got more experience.”

“Mm-hmm,” Alana hummed, already pulling out her phone as the message came through. Her thumb scrolled, then paused. “Wait…This is him?” You nodded, watching her reaction closely.

Her eyes lingered on the screen. “He’s definitely not what I was expecting… Definitely cute though.”

You tilted your head. “Cute and lonely, apparently.” Alana turned the phone around to show you again, as if to confirm–like maybe you hadn’t gotten a good enough look. The photo wasn’t flattering, not really–just Bob in what looked like a blurry office lobby, standing stiff in front of a glass wall. His light brown hair was a little too neat, as though someone else had combed it for him. His posture was awkward, shoulders drawn tight under a plain gray jacket. But it was his face that stuck with you.

He had the kind of expression you only caught when someone thought they weren’t being seen–his blue eyes too open, a bit too tired, like he carried something heavy behind them and didn’t know where to put it down. His features were soft in a strange way. Boyish, even. Slight freckles dusted the bridge of his nose. His mouth looked like it wanted to smile, but didn’t quite know how. You had seen a lot of faces. But Bob’s was one you found yourself staring at longer than you meant to.

Alana gave you a pointed look. “It’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for…” You rolled your eyes at her comment.

”Really? You have to say that?” You questioned.

”I’m serious,” She shot back, holding Luna a little tighter, “Did you pack your pepper spray?”

You nodded, deadpan. “Of course I did. You know I would never forget that.”

She sighed, shoulders sagging. “And you’re gonna share your location with me, and send me a text when you get there?”

You let out a soft laugh. “Alana…You’re really overthinking right now. You know I’m gonna do everything I normally do. Don’t worry about me.”

But her lips pressed into a hard, unreadable line. Her gaze flicked downward–then up again, landing squarely on your bicep. You didn’t need to ask what she was looking at. You already knew.

The scars were old now–faded, but still visible beneath your skin when the light hit just right. Three long slashes that twisted like torn fabric. They’d healed, but not quietly.

You didn’t cover them anymore. But you still hated how people stared, or made reference to them in silence, like you didn’t live with the memory of what happened everyday, even if it was just little glimpses of it.

“I’ll always worry,” She said quietly.

You exhaled slowly. “I know,” You murmured. “I know…” Silence sat between you for a second, heavy but not unfriendly. Luna stretched across her lap, one paw still touching your friend’s arm, her nails sticking out slightly. You glanced over at the clock.

”Shit, I’m gonna be late.” You exclaimed, leaning down to kiss Luna on the head, giving her one last scratch between the ears.

“Be nice to your auntie, and don’t climb the fridge again.” You warned.

”She’ll do it anyway, she likes stressing me out.” Alana huffed. You snorted and grabbed your windbreaker off the coat hook, sliding your arms into the sleeves and tugging it snug over your shoulders. Your shoes were by the door–scuffed but reliable–and you slipped them on just as you pulled out your phone to order an Uber.

A soft ping confirmed your ride was two minutes away.

You turned back to Alana, holding her gaze for one more beat. “I’ll see both of you tomorrow.”

“Text me,” She reminded gently.

You nodded once, then stepped out into the dim hallway, the door clicking shut behind you with a quiet finality. The warmth of your apartment–the incense, the faded wood, Alana’s perfume–lingered in your coat like a memory.

—————————

The drive had been quiet. The city blurred past your window in a stretch of headlights, puddles, and red taillights, and for once, traffic hadn’t fought back. Your driver kept to himself, classical music humming faintly through the speakers. You rested your head against the window for most of it, watching as Brooklyn gave way to midtown, the streets glinting wet under the drizzle that had just started up again.

When the car slowed to a stop in front of the hotel, you straightened in your seat, blinking yourself back to the present.

It wasn’t luxurious, not in the gilded, chandelier-studded kind of way–but the building stood tall with clean, modern lines and a confidence that came from being quietly expensive. Wide steps led up to a double-doored entrance set between two columns of warm brass lighting. The name was etched into a slate-gray stone plaque near the awning–no backlight, no flashing sign, just understated serif font: The Winslow.

“Thank you,” You murmured to the driver, putting a tip in on the uber app before leaving. He nodded without looking up, the quiet music still playing.

You opened the door and stepped out, adjusting the strap of your overnight bag as the chilled air immediately kissed up your arms, threading beneath your coat. It was that sharp early spring bite–wet and clean, scented faintly with car exhaust and the lingering echo of someone’s nearby cigarette.

The doorman opened one of the glass doors for you with a smooth nod and a polite “Good evening, miss.”

You offered a kind smile and a quiet “Good evening, thank you,” in return, stepping inside.

Warmth bloomed instantly across your skin.

The lobby was tastefully designed–modern, but not sterile. The floors were polished stone, a deep marbled charcoal with hints of green veining that glimmered beneath the soft downlighting. The walls were a blend of matte slate and warm oak panels, arranged in sleek vertical slats that stretched up toward the ceiling, which was high and open with recessed lighting fixtures casting everything in a muted golden glow.

At the center of the lobby sat a large, low arrangement of fresh flowers–dark red lilies, white orchids, and soft trailing eucalyptus branches nestled in a ceramic bowl the color of river clay. The floral scent drifted subtly through the air, mingling with something richer–coffee, maybe, or the faint perfume of someone who had just passed through. A few plush velvet chairs dotted the seating area beside a gas fireplace, where a couple sat murmuring over two glasses of wine. Behind them, tall windows overlooked the city street below.

The front desk was tucked along the left wall, made of dark walnut with a granite countertop. A clean-cut young man stood behind it, tapping lightly at his keyboard. His name tag read David.

You approached slowly, taking in the details, the smell, the way your shoes echoed faintly against the stone as you crossed the floor, clearing your throat before stepping up to the desk.

“Hi there,” You began, polite and practiced. “My partner is here already. The reservation should be under Reynolds. He said there’s a spare key down here for our room.” It was a lie of course, an easy one that you usually used so it didn’t raise suspicion of what you were doing, even though it was harmless. You always wanted to be cautious. David nodded, the soft click of his keyboard filling the momentary pause.

”Ah, yes,” He said, giving a small smile to you, perfectly straight, and stark white, “Room 505.” He turned and pulled a keycard from a slot behind him, sliding it across the counter. “Enjoy your stay.”

You took the card out of his hands with a smile of your own draped across your lips, “Thank you.”

The card was matte white with a thin copper border, and the room number was handwritten in smooth black ink across the top: 505.

You took a slow breath, steadying your heartbeat with the little rituals of movement–tightening the strap of your bag, brushing your hand over your windbreaker, checking your burner phone for the time. Then you turned and made your way toward the elevators, heels clicking softly on the stone as the lobby murmured behind you.

The elevator bay was nestled in a corner alcove. Brushed metal doors gleamed under warm downlighting, and a simple brass plate beside them displayed a list of floor amenities. You pressed the up button, the cool metal dimpling beneath your finger. You quickly messaged Alana that you got there safely and you’d message if anything was happening.

The doors slid open and you stepped inside, the scent inside faintly lavender from whatever air freshener they used. The space was clean, lined in a mixture of steel and warm paneling, with soft jazz playing through a hidden speaker.

You tapped the 5 with the corner of the keycard and leaned against the back wall, staring at your reflection in the faint sheen of the mirrored panel opposite you.

Out of nervous habit, you ran your hands over the rough fabric of your coat again, soothing yourself. Typically–right before you meet a client–your nerves were always on edge, your adrenaline put you on high alert and it was like your senses were tuned into everything. It was a fight or flight response, even though you knew you weren’t in any danger.

The elevator slowed and dinged softly.

Level five.

The doors opened with a hush, revealing a quiet hallway lined with soft gray carpet and cream wallpaper, broken up every few feet by wall sconces that cast a mellow golden glow. The air smelled faintly like linen and whatever rich, clean fragrance the hotel pumped through its vents–subtle, noninvasive.

You walked slowly down the hall, scanning the numbers.

501. 503. 505.

You stopped.

The numbers were printed in dark brass, etched into a rectangular plaque mounted beside the door. The hallway was hushed, distant from the buzz of the city outside.

You adjusted your grip on your bag and took a long breath, letting it ease out slowly through your nose.

Then you smiled.

Small. Steady, and slightly forced.

You lifted the keycard and slid it into the lock, hearing a gentle click.

You pushed yourself through the threshold, as the quiet hum of the hallway was replaced by the soft murmur of the television inside.

“Hello?” You called softly, your voice easing into the space like a polite knock. There was a pause.

Then, the unmistakable scrape of a fork against porcelain.

A clink.

You moved forward slowly, kicking off your shoes as you passed the narrow entryway. The carpet was plush beneath your socked feet. The lights inside were dimmed low, casting a warm, amber wash over the room. There was a soft pine scent in the air–faint, like someone had lit a candle an hour ago and forgotten to blow it out.

As you turned the corner, the full suite came into view.

A kitchenette sat tucked into the left wall, minimal but well-equipped—shiny appliances, a marble backsplash, a sleek coffee maker. A small dining table took up the space near the window, where thick curtains had been half-drawn. That was where he stood.

Bob.

He was still holding his fork, mid-step away from his plate like he’d been heading toward the door before you surprised him. The television behind him was playing some muted wildlife documentary–snow leopards moving across a mountain slope–but the sound had faded into the background.

His hair was windblown, a little messy like he’d run his fingers through it on repeat. And in the low golden light, his pale skin looked warm–kissed by something soft, like the late-day sun. He wore a loose, oversized green sweater, and a pair of slate grey sweatpants that matched the understated comfort of the room.

He looked younger than you expected. Not in age, but in vulnerability. His hands were twisting at the hem of his sweater before they dropped to wipe nervously at his thighs, palms flattening against the cotton like he was grounding himself.

When he saw you, he froze–eyes wide, like a deer in headlights.

“Hey…” He said, startled. “I–I didn’t know you were here.” You smiled gently, slipping the strap of your overnight bag from your shoulder and letting it rest quietly on the floor beside your feet.

“Yeah, sorry,” You murmured. “I should’ve messaged you. I was running a bit late and completely forgot to warn you.” He shook his head, stepping away from the table with a nervous laugh, one hand motioning vaguely in the air like he was trying to brush away your apology.

“No worries…No–no worries, totally understandable. Tr–traffic must’ve been bad.” You toed your bag closer to the wall and glanced at him, the soft corners of your mouth tugging upward.

“Not as bad as you’d think, honestly. I was even surprised.” Your hand found the zipper of your windbreaker, tugging it down with practiced ease. The fabric made a soft sound as you slipped out of it, turning toward the coat rack near the door to hang it beside his–a dark, long-sleeved jacket that looked worn-in and well-loved. When you turned back around, he was still watching you. His palms had resumed their nervous fidget, dragging against the front of his sweatpants again. His lips parted like he had to remind himself to speak.

“I’m… Bob, by the way,” He said, his voice soft as he lifted a hand toward you, the gesture tentative. You glanced down at it, surprised for a moment by the earnestness of the offer. Then you moved toward him slowly, your own hand rising to meet his.

Your fingers slid into his palm, and for a beat, everything in the room seemed to narrow into that simple point of contact.

His grip was gentle. Not loose, but not insistent either–careful in a way that told you he wasn’t used to holding anyone at all. You could feel the texture of his skin beneath your own: calloused in some places–like he’d worked with tools, or something heavier–and softer in others. His thumb twitched slightly, like he was trying to stay composed. Your own thumb drifted along the curve of his knuckles, more out of instinct than anything else.

“O–Onyx,” You said, stumbling slightly over your fake name. You had almost said your real one, but you caught the syllable before it escaped fully, feeling the heat crawl up your neck at how close it had been. But Bob didn’t flinch. He just held your gaze with those open, tired eyes, the kind that felt like they’d seen too much and still tried to be gentle.

“It’s nice to meet you fi–finally,” He murmured, voice catching briefly on the word.

You nodded once, a quiet breath leaving your lips. “Same.”

The handshake lasted longer than it probably should have. Neither of you seemed in a rush to let go. When you finally pulled your hand back, you felt how slightly damp your palm had become from his–nerves clinging like condensation. His hand hovered for a second before falling to his side again, like he didn’t quite know where to put it.

He stepped aside awkwardly, motioning towards the table. “I–I was just finishing dinner. I didn’t mean to be rude for not…Not coming to greet you at the door.”

You shook your head, waving your hand gently in the air, voice light. “It’s okay. I’m not…Royalty or anything. You don’t have to get up to greet me.”

That made him laugh–soft, sheepish, with the corners of his mouth tugging upward almost like he wasn’t used to the feeling. His shoulders slumped slightly in relief. You glanced down at his plate. It was about half-empty–neatly arranged like he didn’t want to eat messily. There were a few fries left untouched, some salad off to the side, and several small pieces of steak cut into almost comically even squares. You could tell he was the type of person who didn’t want things to go to waste.

“I–I don’t really know how to do things like this…So.” You shifted on the balls of your feet.

”Well, you’re definitely doing fine so far.” Bob looked up, a flicker of something warm–something close to disbelief–passing across his face. “You can sit and finish eating,” You added, nodding toward the table. “I really don’t mind. We can just…Chat while you do.” He blinked at you for a moment, like you’d offered something he hadn’t realized he needed. Then he nodded, lowering himself back into the chair with a kind of careful, deliberate motion, the wood creaking slightly under him.

You slid into the seat across from him and leaned forward just enough to rest your elbows on the table, folding your hands beneath your chin in a relaxed way. The soft light from the ceiling warmed the lines of his face as he looked down at his plate again, fork shifting through a patch of greens.

“So…What did you get up to today?” You asked gently, tone light, coaxing–trying to ease the residual stiffness in his posture. Bob’s lashes fluttered a bit, poking a piece of lettuce gently.

“No–Not much…My roommates weren’t really ho–home,” he murmured, his words stumbling a little, like they hadn’t stretched much today. “They were doing their own…Th-Things. So I just kind of lingered around until now pr–pretty much.”

You hummed, nodding slowly as you tilted your head. “How many roommates do you have?”

He brought the fork to his mouth and chewed, covering it politely with his hand as he replied between bites, “Um… A few…” He didn’t elaborate, and it seemed like something you shouldn’t push for answers on.

“Do–Do you have roommates?” He asked a moment later, like he was reminding himself this was a two-way conversation, and he actually wanted to know a bit more about you.

”Unless you count my cat Luna…No, no I don’t.” That coaxed a quiet laugh from him–surprised and slightly breathless, like it snuck up on him.

”A ca–cat definitely counts as a roommate.” He reached for his phone instinctively, thumb unlocking it with practiced ease as he swiped through his photos.

”M–My roommate brought his ca–cat when he moved in. Her name’s Alpine.” He turned the screen toward you, and you leaned in to see. The photo showed a fluffy white cat sitting primly in a patch of sunlight, staring into the camera with unmistakable disdain. Blue eyes like little chips of polished ice.

You pouted at the photo. “Oh, she’s a cutie. Look at that little judgmental stare.” Bob let out a tiny snort, ducking his head as if even that small little noise embarrassed him.

”Sh–She takes after her owner…” You arched a brow at him, amused by the comment.

”So what I’m hearing is your roommate is quietly judgemental?” He smiled, bashful but genuine.

”Pr–Pretty accurate.” Your eyes flicked to his sweater then becoming hyper aware that he was covered in a smattering of white fur that caught the light. The contrast made it look almost silver in the soft glow of the room.

”Wh–What does Luna look like?” He asked quickly, like he was afraid the conversation might falter if he didn’t keep tossing little threads toward you. You reached for your second phone and tapped the screen awake.

“She’ll definitely put up a stiff competition to Alpine,” You said, turning it around to show him your lock screen–Luna, sprawled out like royalty in a sunbeam, belly up and eyes half-closed like she was squinting at the light. Bob’s whole face softened. His smile widened with something close to delight.

“Oh sh–she’s very majestic,” He whispered. You laughed, a warm sound that seemed to ease the remaining stiffness in his shoulders. He swiped through his phone again, showing you another photo of Alpine, this time curled in a blanket like a little marshmallow. As he angled the screen toward you, a notification slid down from the top.

Bucky: Bob, are you out for the night? If you are can you pick up a carton of milk before you come home? I forgot to buy some on my way back from the office.” You blinked, reading it aloud before you could stop yourself.

Bob made a startled little sound in his throat, quickly flipping the phone back toward himself. “Sp–Speak of the owner,” He said, eyes wide, then gave you a shy smile as he typed a quick reply, before setting his phone down with a soft clink. He picked up his fork again, poking through the remnants of his dinner, then looked up at you almost shyly.

“Di–Did you get up to anything interesting?” he asked, a little hopeful, like he wanted to keep the rhythm going. Keep you talking. Keep the space between you filled with something gentle.

You shook your head with a faint smile. “Not really. I don’t do much with my spare time, honestly. Usually just mundane stuff. Grocery runs. Laundry. Replying to emails and stuff, scheduling if I need to.” He gave a quiet, understanding hum, chewing slowly. His gaze dropped to the edge of the plate again, like he was building up to something.

“D-Do you get…A lot of bookings?” He asked after a pause, the words coming slower, more hesitant now–carefully chosen like he was trying not to offend you. You met his eyes for a moment, just long enough for him to feel seen, then glanced away thoughtfully.

“I create my own schedule, technically. So…Not as many as I used to,” You explained gently, folding your arms across the table. “It’s more of a casual thing now.” You caught the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. His fork stalled mid-air as his voice dipped softer.

“Is… Is there a reason why you’ve made it more of a ca–casual thing?” He asked, eyes flicking up to you, then down again just as quickly. His blush deepened when he brought another small piece of steak to his lips, chewing as if the question might be too much.

You took a slow breath, pressing your tongue to the inside of your cheek for a moment before speaking, like the answer needed a filter you hadn’t quite settled on.

“Um…” Your hand drifted to your phone instinctively, slipping it into your back pocket so you could focus fully. “It’s definitely a long story…But I guess the short version would be that I just…Wanted to have more control over myself. My time. My boundaries.” You didn’t say the word safety outright, but it hovered between your sentences, unspoken but unmistakably there. The weight of it settled into the air like a hush.

Bob didn’t answer right away. His fork dragged gently against the plate, pushing a piece of lettuce toward the side.

“It… It mu–must’ve been very dangerous,” He said quietly, his voice barely louder than a breath. He didn’t look up. Just stared at the food, hands still. His jaw ticked slightly. Your eyes softened, watching him carefully. The way his fingers started to curl around the edge of his plate, the way he blinked like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say that.

“Well,” You started, voice low, and warm, just enough to draw his attention back to you, “Let’s just say everyone is as kind as you are, Bob…You’re definitely one of the rare ones.” He gulped, hard this time, and nodded, still avoiding your eyes. His fork stilled in his hand completely, and he let it rest against the edge of the plate. His fingers shifted, curling and uncurling slowly like he was working through something quietly.

“I–I don’t know if I should ta–take that as a compliment or feel really bad about that…” He glanced at you, just briefly. “You don’t…De–Deserve to be in those situations.” Your lips pressed together slightly. You let the moment linger–quiet but not cold. Then your voice softened around the edges as you spoke.

“I do my best to not get in those situations now. Hence the…Schedule change.”

He nodded, almost too quickly. “Guess that makes a bit more se–sense.” Then, without a word, he gently pushed his plate away. The soft scrape of ceramic on wood filled the space between you. He looked down at it for a beat longer, then let out a quiet sigh. His gaze drifted to the bed behind you, then quickly darted away again, like he’d only just remembered it was part of the night.

“So…” He started, hesitant. His fingers tapped the table once, then curled back into his palm. “How…Ho–How does this work? If I want to cuddle now…”

You followed his glance toward the bed and then turned back to him, your tone calm, grounded. “You just climb on and tell me what you want me to do,” You explained, voice soft but confident. “But I’m just going to change first. I don’t really like wearing my street clothes to bed.” You pushed your chair back and rose from the table, padding over to your overnight bag in the corner near the coat rack. Your fingers curled around a folded shirt and a pair of soft sweatpants, the fabric already faintly scented with home–chamomile and cedar and something that still clung from Luna’s fur. Behind you, Bob nodded, slow and thoughtful.

“You can get ready too, if you’d like,” You added, glancing at him as you straightened up.

He took a short breath, then asked, almost too quietly, “Do you ha–have a preference as to how much clothing I should wear?” You turned to him, one brow lifting slightly in surprise–though not judgment. You let the pause breathe for just a moment before replying.

“No… Not really,” You said honestly. Then your mouth tugged into a small, curious smile. “Do you have one for me?”

He shook his head immediately, almost too fast. “I don’t re–really mind what you wear. I just don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.” That answer hit you a little deeper than it should’ve. It was simple. Plain spoken. But sincere in a way that felt unfamiliar coming from someone you’d only just met in person.

Your lips curved again–softer now, gentler. “You paid for this booking,” You reminded him quietly. “You can do whatever you want…”

Bob bit the inside of his bottom lip at that, his brows twitching just slightly like the sentence didn’t sit entirely right with him. And then he said–quiet, clear:

“Yeah…Bu–But you’re still a human being who deserves to be treated nicely.”

Your throat tightened just a little.

You nodded once, more to yourself than to him, trying to keep the emotion from rising too visibly to the surface.

“I guess you’re right,” You murmured. With that, you stepped into the washroom and gently clicked the door shut behind you, the soft latch of it closing sounding louder than it was.

Inside, the bathroom was warmly lit, clean, and minimal, with a few mini bottles of soap and shampoo lining the countertop. You could still hear the faint hum of the television through the wall, and it gave you something to focus on while you changed. You peeled off your top and pants, folding them neatly on the counter before pulling on the soft shirt and sweatpants over your bare skin. You glanced at yourself briefly in the mirror, wiping off the slight sweat that had plagued your neck and collarbones, feeling the way your pulse thrummed gently beneath your skin.

Bob was, without a doubt, the softest booking you’d ever taken, and it made your heart ache that somehow he needed to turn to you for this type of comfort. There were always moments–fleeting, quiet ones–where you felt something for your clients. Not attraction. Not pity. Just a kind of…Recognition. A flicker of ache. And this was one of those times.

He seemed like someone who had people around him–roommates, a stable enough job, the means to book a hotel like this. By all accounts, he led a normal life. But something about him–the way he avoided eye contact, the way he apologized for things that didn’t need apologies–made you think he’d faced more rejection than anyone ever deserved. Or maybe he was just scared to put himself out there. He seemed shy. Guarded. Soft in a world that didn’t know what to do with softness.

It would make sense if he couldn’t find someone the natural way.

You let out a slow breath and shook your head, trying not to let it sit too heavy in your chest. You turned the faucet on and splashed your face with cold water, letting it ground you. The chill cut through the warmth that had settled in your skin, and for a brief second, it steadied your heartbeat. You reached for one of the folded white towels and dried your face, dragging the cotton gently across your cheekbones before taking a deeper breath and switching off the light.

The door clicked shut behind you, and the soft hush of the bathroom was replaced by the low murmur of the television.

When you rounded the corner, you saw he’d already slipped beneath the sheets, propped up against the headboard in a black t-shirt now–his silhouette faintly lit by the flickering screen. The nature documentary had been replaced by the news, a muted reel of late-night headlines washing the room in pale blue light. His head turned toward you, a small smile tugging at his mouth. You gave him one back.

”How do you want me?” You asked, motioning to yourself. Clearly you caught him off guard with the question just by his eyes widening a bit. He shifted a little to the side, peeling back the corner of the blanket so you could climb in beside him.

“I was…” He started, voice low and careful, “…Th–Thinking maybe we could be on our sides, and you could ho–hold me.” He hesitated, eyes flicking to yours, then down again. “Like…You wrap your arms around my neck or something. Like we’re hugging.” There was something so achingly innocent in the way he phrased it–like he hadn’t been held like that in years, or maybe ever. You gave him a soft smile and nodded.

“Alright,” You said gently. “That’s doable.” You slipped under the covers, the fabric warm from his body heat and the lingering scent of him–clean cotton, and something faintly like cedar soap. He turned onto his side to face you, and you mirrored the motion, slipping one arm beneath his pillow and bringing the other one over him, sliding over his torso, pulling him in close just a bit. He tensed under your arm. Not sharply, not like fear–but more like hesitation, like his body wasn’t used to being in this position. His shoulders went tight, his breath shallow, and his eyes flicked everywhere but yours.

You shifted just slightly to create a little space–enough to show him you’d meet him wherever he was.

“You okay?” You asked, voice low, just for him. Your fingertips stilled on his side, waiting.

The pale blue light from the television danced across his cheek, highlighting the warmth that had started to bloom there. His mouth opened, then closed again before he managed to speak.

“It’s re–really been a long time since someone held me like this…” He whispered, his voice cracking halfway through. “Just ge–getting used to it again.”

You nodded, the motion slow, calm–like you were trying to offer your steadiness as something he could lean against.

“That’s okay,” You murmured. “Take your time. There’s no rush.”

He let out a shaky breath–barely a sound, really. But you felt it leave him. The smallest release of pressure. Your hand began to move again, a slow, even rhythm up and down the line of his back–just enough to soothe, to ground him.

“How long has it been?” You asked gently, barely above a whisper. Bob’s eyes flicked upward, then down again. He gave the smallest shake of his head.

“I–I can’t even remember, honestly…”

The answer made your throat tighten.

It wasn’t the kind of thing you were supposed to let get to you–not this deep, not this personally. But there was something in his voice, in the sheer honesty of it…Like a cut that hadn’t been cleaned in years, and only now was starting to sting from the open air. He wasn’t saying it to make you feel anything. He wasn’t performing. He was just admitting it because no one had asked in a long time–maybe ever.

He shifted closer, the warmth of his body gradually replacing the last bits of tension in the air between you. You could feel it before he even spoke–the way his chest moved with hesitant breath, the small twitch of his hand against your side, like he was building the courage up behind his ribs.

Then, his voice came—quiet, tender, and cracking just slightly as he tried to keep it even.

“C–Can I pu–put my head on your chest? And…Put my arms around you?”

Your heart tugged, slow and aching.

You nodded before he even finished the sentence.

“Of course,” You said, your voice soft like flannel–gentle, welcoming. “Come here.”

He moved with a kind of careful urgency, not rushed but deeply intentional, like the moment mattered more than he could afford to let on. His strong arms slid around your waist first, wrapping fully around you like he was trying to keep something in–his own composure, maybe. His hands splayed wide across your back, firm and hesitant all at once. Then he shifted downward slightly, cheek brushing along your collarbone as he found the center of your chest and rested his head there–right over your heart.

His whole frame pressed into you, his legs drawing close under the blankets as if instinct had taken over and told him: stay warm. Stay safe. Stay here.

And then, the sound.

A shaky inhale.

You felt it before you heard it, the uneven breath catching in the hollow space between one heartbeat and the next. His nose brushed your shirt. His shoulders trembled, just barely. Not crying. But certainly close. You looked down at the crown of hair he had, up close it was fine but thick at the same time, messier than he probably would’ve liked if he’d known you’d be looking at it so closely. You dipped your chin slightly toward him, your voice just above a hushed whisper.

“Can I touch your hair?”

He nodded against you, and his voice was tight–barely held together by thread and hope.

“Pl–Please.”

The word fell out of him, brittle with restraint.

You smiled, even though he couldn’t see it–something gentle tugging at the corners of your mouth, carved out of understanding and warmth.

Your hand rose slowly, sliding up the curve of his shoulder until your fingers found hie hairline. You threaded through the strands with deliberate care, brushing them back from his face. His breath hitched the second your nails grazed his scalp–not in fear, not in discomfort, but in something deeper. Something like relief.

He melted into you a little more.

His arms tightened. Not possessively. Just…Like he didn’t want to lose the shape of this.

The pads of your fingers moved slowly, stroking through his hair again, letting your touch map his skull like it mattered. Because it did. You let your palm flatten and slide once, twice, before your nails gently dragged back again. Bob let out a sound–half-sigh, half-murmur–and his grip on you relaxed slightly, like the weight on his chest was easing under the rhythm of your breathing.

“This okay?” You asked quietly, lips close to his head.

He nodded against your sternum, his voice so faint it was nearly swallowed by your skin.

”Yes.” You felt it first–not the sound, but the subtle warmth blooming through the fabric of your shirt. A dampness that hadn’t been there a moment ago. His breathing was uneven now, pulled in sharp little huffs like he was trying to stay composed but couldn’t quite rein it in anymore.

Then his voice came, small and cracked.

“I…I didn’t know ho–how much I was really needing this…Un–Until now. It’s… It’s overwhelming.”

Your heart ached.

Your hand didn’t stop moving. You stroked through his hair with the same steady tenderness, letting the motion anchor him as you whispered,

“It’s okay to be overwhelmed by it, Bob.”

He let out a small, broken sound against your chest and pressed his face deeper into your shirt–like he wanted to disappear, to hide the evidence of how much it was affecting him. His nose nudged your sternum, breath catching again, more fragile this time.

“I’m…I’m an adult,” He choked out. “I sh–shouldn’t be crying about stuff like th–this.”

You let out a quiet laugh–not mocking, not light. Just…Gentle.

“Bob…Trust me,” You said, your voice warm and firm. “It’s okay to show your emotions. I’m not going to judge.”

His head shook against you, the movement small, trembling.

“I…I hope th–this doesn’t ruin your first impression of me…”

Your hand paused briefly at the crown of his head. Then you leaned down, resting your chin there, letting the weight of it settle over him like a promise.

“No,” You murmured. “It definitely hasn't. You’ve actually given me some hope in humanity again, so…That’s a good thing.” There was a long pause–a beat where the air felt softer, the shape of the silence not heavy, but full.

Then a quiet, sniffled,

“Re–Really?”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it, your voice quiet but certain.

“Really. You’re a very kind person, Bob. And you have a big heart… I can tell.”

His arms shifted slightly around your waist, pulling you closer–not like he needed to prove something, but like he needed to hold on to the truth of that.

He let out a shuddering breath, voice rough with emotion.

“I ru–ruin a lot of things… My heart ge–gets me in trouble a lot.”

You hummed, slow and low, your hand continuing to thread through his hair, pushing a few strands back gently as you replied,

“I doubt it. I’m sure if I asked your friends, they would say something different.”

Bob gave a watery laugh–barely there, but it trembled up from his chest like he couldn’t help it.

”I th–think most people would disagree.” You smirked into his hair, whispering just loud enough for him to register your words.

”Well…If most people don’t see how lucky they are to have you around, then clearly they haven’t seen what I’m seeing right now.” Bob didn’t respond–not with words. Just a quiet, warm breath against your chest…And a slow, aching squeeze of your waist.

By morning time, Bob would be rebooking you again, asking if he could see you twice a week and you would be scheduling him two months out, starting the tumultuous journey of healing him, and healing yourself too.

[msfantasy-anime]

A Visit from Father

Monkey D. Luffy x Wife!Reader

Summary: Y/n’s father Mihawk has visited to check in on his daughter.

A/n: I wasn’t ever going to give Y/n parents in this AU. But someone sent a DM requesting to Mihawk to be the father and on good terms, so here we are hehe. You mother is whoever you want to picture.

Part IX

Where the hell is everyone?! One minute you were all walking down the street. The next minute everyone walked off on their own without saying anything.

Whilst you begin to wonder the back streets yourself, you came across someone you expected the least.

“Dad?!” You shout with pure excitement, jumping into the arms of Dracule Mihawk, who is suddenly standing right before you in a random back alley. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“Saw your wanted poster.” Mihawk answers, holding up the newest edition. “Came to check in on you.” He answers, his demeanour remaining void of emotion, but the corner of his lips twitch ever so slightly at his daughter. “I just wanted to check in on you...“

“Huh? What about it?” You grumble, unable to resist making a sour face.

“You know, I never wanted this life for you.” Your heart plunges, unable and uninterested to be lectured by your father. It’s rare to cross paths and you just want to enjoy him being there whilst you can until he rushes off like he always does.

“Ugh, are you serious right now? Let’s not talk about it let’s just go and-”

“Listen.” Mihawk says, grabbing your shoulders and forcing you to listen. Your eyes darting away, unwilling to have a heart to heart with your father who you haven’t seen in a long time, next to some garbage. “After the Marines took your mother from us, simply because she was my lover, made me realise that you could never live a normal life with my name attached.”

“Yeah I know. You made the hard decision to leave me to be raised by others and your sacrifice was all for nothing because I went and became a pirate anyway- well I’m sorry to disappoint you-“

“Stop. You do not disappoint me.” Mihawk said sternly, his fingers digging into your shoulders and gives you a slight shake as if shaking you would bring you back to your senses. “You would never disappoint me. But since you now have a bounty, I see no reason to hide you from the world anymore.”

Your heart begins racing at your father’s words. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying, I want you to come live with me, I can teach you, spend time with you, take you on adventures.” He offers. “And I want the world to know you are my daughter. There’s no reason to hide you anymore.”

You missed out on being with him in your early years and now is your chance to spend time with him. But…

“It’s a dream come true dad… but…” Mihawk had some suspicions before, but he’s certain now.

“My offer doesn’t expire my girl.” He says, pulling you into a hug. “When you are finished with your adventures, the front door will always be open, ready to welcome you home.” Your eyes welled up but you swallow back your emotions, too embarrassed to cry.

Mihawk holds your face one last time before turning to leave. “Dad, before you go, I just wanted to thank you for leaving me in the east blue all that time ago.” Mihawk pauses, his eyes widening, his back remaining turned to you. “I could not have imagined what life would’ve been like without Sabo, Ace and of course … my husband, Luffy.”

“Your mother would be so proud of the woman you grew up to be.” Mihawk smiles at your bittersweet fair well. “Take care of my girl for me Strawhat.”

“Will do.” Luffy answers making you jolt from your spot.

“Ah! Seriously?! How long have you been standing there?!” You screech making Luffy cackle.

“Still afraidy cat huh?” He teases but quickly shuts up when he sees your serious face.

“I’ve just been thinking.”

“Yeah?”

“My dad won’t hide me from the rest of the world anymore, which means I’ll be known as Dracule Y/n.”

“Yeah and?” Luffy asks, picking his nose.

“I know I shouldn’t care but I do! You’re my damn husband and I want people to stop questioning it! Take me to the courthouse so we can hurry up and make this official already!”

“Huh?! We already talked about this damnit! We don’t need papers! We already had the wedding and everything!” Luffy protests but you stomp off on a mission.

“I don’t care! We are doing it again!”

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can you do more both wet cat Void please! That shit is hilarious

wet cat void is the best thing to ever happen, all powerful diety being a wet cat in silly ways should be the norm.

For a being as powerful, independant and comanding as himself, void happened to be quite...clingy to you. He would appear out of nowhere -within a blink of an eye if you will- mostly when you least expect him to or when you were busy with other things, and just stand close enough that when you moved you were risking the possibility of colliding into him constantly.

Like an black cat who didn't want to stay close by your feet when you were in the kitchenette, being so close that you would effectively trip over your own feet with how close he was, leading you to end up to fall into Void's awaiting arms. Void is amused by this and would do it constantly, finding your little gasp of surpise when you noticed his presence, your face changing from surpise to annoyance and how your hand never left his bicep as though you were still finding a way to support yourself from the fright.

'void.' you said looking at his pinprick eyes that seem to twinkle, showing his humour in all this.

'yes my little dove?' he asks, tilting his head to the side.

'do that again and you're getting the silent treatment.' you warned him and from an outside perspective you telling an shadowy entity who could make shadows out of people that your going to going to 'give him the silent treatment' was enough for people to look at you as though you had grown a second head. However you knew Void loved the attention you gave him, the kisses you give him and the affection you gave him you might as well have been spoiling him rotten with it, it had gotten to the point where void felt entitled to your love whenever he wanted.

If a Void could pout then you knew he was as he burrows his face agaisnt the side of yours, holding your waist tightly, keeping you close to him as your palms were pressed to his chest. 'Must you torture me, make me suffer without your affection for a single second more, how cruel.' He says lowly as though trying to provoke sympathy from you but you weren't buying it, you did so in the past and were left with having to scratch Void's head for hours on end or hold him in your arms until he felt satisfied; and when he was satisfied with the affection, he would wander off wothout a word.

Truely a black cat who was independant but wanted to be swaddled in affection but on their own terms, take that away and soon enough that black cat will become vocal and clingly, much like how Void was being right now.

'Then suffer.' You replied, not giving in nor planning to as you've done so many times in the past and didn't feel like falling into old traps, not when you were all too aware of the fact that you would be stuck cuddiling him for hours on end. 'i have stuff to do and i don't feel like having you try and distract me.' You added with a huff as you finally managed to pull yourself away from Void, but he was still very much stuck to you like glue and refusing to remove his hands from your waist, his grip was like iron as you had him trailing after you like a second shadow but just darker and more menacing and a pair of pinprick eyes.

'little dove.'

no response.

'my love?'

you barely looked up from the massive wall of glass that overlooked the streets of New York, taking slow sips of your drink of choice, taking note of how you should visit that corner store to stock up treats for the next movie night with the rest of the team seeing as John and Alexei ate more then their fair sahre last time. Your poor malteasers.

'My light, my walking daydream do not play such silly games.' Void sounded as though he was pleading as he managed to wrangle you close to his chest once more as the entity pratically swamped you in his entirety. He was cool, almost frigid but you found comfort in his chilled embrace, only to remind yourself that you were still ignoring him and steel your resolve as to not fall for his buttery words and affection; so you merely shrugged in his embrace.

Void huffed and pushed his head futher into your neck. 'this is childish even from you my dear.' he says, voice muffled agaisnt your neck but you didn't respond, merely taking another sip of your drink to hide your amusement of Void’s suddenly clingy and neediness.

Truly a black cat Void was through and through.

[hopelesslonelyghost]

has anyone seen those tiktoks where it goes “if i die don’t look for me i’ll come to you?” and it’s like a cat or a puppy….

yall know where this is going …..

:)

what if you spoke about that with your boys. just randomly one afternoon when all five of you are chilling in the living room watching a movie and you’re just like, “if i die i’ll come back as a cat” and they all just whip their heads towards you and you’re like “what?”

the only one who bites the bullet is simon, who snorts and asks, “wha’ type o’ cat would you be, love?” and price is lowkey highkey glaring at him because why the fuck is he encouraging this?

you just shrug, “i think maybe a black cat. i’ve always had a soft spot for them.” and that was the end of the conversation because the movie got to the good part and you shushed everyone.

what if you died on a mission. ambushed and shot dead in front of your squad. just like that, you’re gone.

what if one day a couple of months later when your boys are visiting your grave they’re all sat on the grass when all of a sudden a black kitty comes meowing up to kyle and immediately jumps in his lap and begins to purr and knead at his jeans.

what if all of them just freeze because they remembered that conversation you all had years ago about you coming back as a cat. a black cat.

what if kyle picks the kitten up, staring at it with tears in his eyes and just holds the tiny feline up to his face and whispers, “you really came back.”

what if they take the kitty home, bathe her and cuddle her until she falls asleep.

what if they all cry themselves to sleep that night because they just miss you so much but you really kept your word because even in the afterlife you’re right there in the form of a rambunctious kitten that loves to sun gaze just like you did. that loves to sit on their laps just like you did. that loves to nap at all hours of the day just like you did. that loves to sometimes spend time alone just like you did. that loves to leave wet kisses on their cheeks just like you did. that is just as clumsy just like you were.

what if one day they all come home to their fur baby staring at a framed picture they have of you. smiling and trying to cover your face from the camera. they remember you weren’t fast enough, and that flick of you is now one of their most precious memories.

what if the little void looks back at the boys and chirps a soft greeting. happy to see them back and running over to them and rubbing themselves against their feet, welcoming them back home.

WHAT IFFFFFFFFF