#IT WAS SO COOL TO SEE BOX ALIVE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

faebled-stories · 8 months ago

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Unbroken Connection

Kinkvember Day 18: Voodoo Magic

Aespa Karina (Yu Jimin) x Male reader

11.5k words

The house was everything you and Karina had dreamed up over whispered conversations and late-night plans—a beautiful, old-fashioned structure with a story in every corner, as if each creak and crack held its own memory. The red brick walls were cloaked in ivy, its tendrils winding upward in lazy spirals, giving the house a sense of timelessness, like it had stood for centuries, watching quietly as generations came and went.

“This place is perfect,” Karina whispered as she stepped onto the wide porch, running her fingers lightly along the railing. The wood was cool under her touch, its carvings faint but intricate. “Can you imagine the kind of lives people must have lived here?” Her voice carried a mix of wonder and nostalgia, as though she could already feel the house’s history soaking into her skin.

“Long ones,” you joked, gesturing to the ivy. “Look at this stuff. It’s practically holding the bricks together.”

She smiled, her eyes tracing the ivy’s twists and turns. “I like it. Feels alive.”

In the gentle evening light, the porch radiated a kind of quiet charm, the sort that made you imagine warm cups of tea and conversations that lingered long into the evening under skies painted by the sunset’s last, tender hues. A faint scent of lavender drifted in the air, subtle yet persistent, as if it had seeped into the walls, lingering from some long-forgotten garden nearby.

Inside, each room seemed to come alive with your presence. The wooden floors groaned in protest beneath your feet, their creaks echoing through the empty halls, creating a melody of movement that felt almost like the house was speaking to you, welcoming you home. The walls, bare and waiting, seemed to listen as you and Karina unpacked, your laughter filling the rooms and softening the house’s quiet, almost eerie solitude. Together, you unearthed each piece of your shared life from the cardboard boxes, placing cherished objects on shelves, letting them claim their new spaces.

“Do you think this place will feel like ours?” Karina asked as she set a stack of books on the mantle. She glanced at you, her head tilting slightly. “Or will it always feel… I don’t know. Like someone else’s?”

“It already feels like ours,” you replied. “But maybe I’m just biased because of how much we’ve already carried in.” You gestured at the half-empty boxes, trying to lighten the mood.

She laughed softly, but her eyes lingered on the empty space around her. “I guess we’ll see.”

Shadows began to settle into corners as the evening light faded, casting the rooms in a dim, golden glow. By the time most of the boxes were empty, you felt an irresistible pull to explore. The house, despite its warm charm, held an air of mystery, as if there were stories yet untold in the very walls.

Wandering from room to room, you found yourselves by the staircase, where a small, unassuming door, almost camouflaged within the dark wood paneling, caught your eye. Its handle was worn, gleaming slightly in the low light, and the door itself was so inconspicuous that you might have missed it if not for the slight draft that seemed to drift from the tiny crack at its base.

Karina frowned. “That’s… odd. Did you know this was here?”

You shook your head. “Nope. Maybe a closet? Or a pantry?” You reached for the handle, but her hand shot out, stopping you.

“Do you think we should? I mean, what if it’s locked?”

“It’s not,” you said, testing the handle and feeling it give way easily. A narrow stairwell descended into darkness, carrying a faint, musty smell that hinted at old things left undisturbed.

“I don’t like this,” she muttered, her fingers brushing through her hair in that nervous way she always did when something felt wrong. “This is how horror movies start.”

You grinned. “Come on, Jimin. It’s probably just storage. Let’s take a quick look.”

Her sigh was audible, but she nodded, reluctantly following as you descended. The steps creaked loudly underfoot, and with each groan of the wood, your own confidence waned just a little. At the bottom, the basement unfolded before you—a space cool and dim, filled with shadows that seemed to stretch and shift in the weak light. Dust motes floated through the air, and rows of shelves lined the walls, each one crowded with jars of indeterminate age, filled with strange, murky substances.

“What is this stuff?” Karina whispered, her voice barely audible over the stillness.

“Looks like… I don’t know. Old preserves? Or potions?” you joked, though your tone carried none of the confidence you were aiming for.

She shot you a look but didn’t respond. Her attention had shifted to the center of the room, where a table stood oddly clean amidst the dust-coated surroundings. Something on the table caught her eye—a doll.

The figure lay whole on the table, its shape unmistakably human yet profoundly unsettling. Its smooth, seamless form lacked any definition—no fingers, no toes, no musculature. The limbs and torso were entirely featureless, as if sculpted from an unbroken piece of clay, leaving an eerie impression of incompleteness. This blank, unformed body served only to emphasize the haunting precision of its face.

The skin of the face was painted with disturbing realism: faintly flushed cheeks, delicately drawn veins, and a subtle sheen that mimicked the warmth of living flesh. Its eyes were closed, the lids resting softly as if in peaceful slumber. The stillness of its expression, paired with the intricate detail of its features, gave it an unnerving lifelike quality that felt profoundly out of place against the blank canvas of the rest of its body. The contrast between the intricate face and the featureless form created an aura of quiet, disquieting intent, as though the doll were waiting to be brought fully to life.

“Who would leave something like this in a basement?” Karina murmured, her voice breaking the silence, sounding small and uneasy against the stillness of the room. Her gaze lingered on the doll, her hand tightening instinctively around your arm. “It’s… wrong.”

“It’s just a doll,” you said, though your voice wavered. “Probably an old collector’s item. Some people are into creepy things.”

“Some people need better hobbies.” Karina reached up and ran her fingers through her hair, the motion an automatic gesture of unease. Her fingers caught on a stray tangle, and she tugged lightly, smoothing the strands into place. A few locks cascaded back over her shoulder, catching the dim light as they settled. She took a step back, her face pale. “Let’s just leave it.”

You nodded, slipping your hand into hers. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

As you turned to leave, you didn’t notice the way her hair shimmered faintly, glimmering in the dusty glow of the basement light. The strands that had fallen from her fingers seemed alive, slipping from her shoulders and moving against gravity. They floated as if drawn by some invisible force, a deliberate motion that defied the stagnant air. The golden threads stretched toward the doll, weaving through the stillness like a gossamer pulled by an unseen hand.

The faint draft that had ushered you down reversed, the air now tugging gently in the opposite direction. It brushed past you with a quiet insistence, carrying Karina’s drifting hair closer to the doll. The motion was subtle, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably deliberate, as though something in the room had claimed the strands for its own.

The strands seemed to hover just above the doll’s porcelain surface, quivering slightly, as though testing the boundary between the living and the inanimate. Then, one by one, they disappeared. They didn’t land or settle—they were absorbed, sinking seamlessly into the doll’s cold skin. The process was slow, almost reverent, each thread vanishing into the porcelain as if it were feeding on them, consuming their essence. The doll’s surface showed no disturbance, no trace of the hair’s presence, yet a strange energy began to ripple faintly through the room, subtle but undeniable, as if the very walls shivered in recognition.

Upstairs, the laughter you shared was nervous but genuine, both of you clinging to it like a lifeline to push back the tension left in the wake of the basement. Karina wrapped her arms around herself as she stood in the hallway, her gaze darting toward the closed basement door. Her unease lingered, etched into the slight furrow of her brow and the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“Next time,” she said lightly, her attempt at humor wavering in her voice, “let’s stick to exploring things with actual light switches. Maybe some windows too.”

You chuckled, trying to match her tone, but the unease clung to you as well. “Agreed. No more basements. Definitely no dolls.”

She gave a half-smile, though her eyes lingered on the door a moment longer before she turned away. The house seemed quieter now, its warmth tempered by something you couldn’t quite name.

But below, in the still, heavy air of the basement, the doll’s porcelain surface began to glow. The light started faint, a barely perceptible pulse deep within its core, like the flicker of a distant flame. It ebbed and flowed in slow, deliberate beats, each pulse growing stronger, its glow intensifying with a sickly greenish hue that cast long, jagged shadows across the shelves and floor. The air in the basement thickened, heavy with a strange, metallic tang, as if the space itself were reacting to the doll’s transformation.

The doll’s eyes, closed in serene stillness, caught the flickering light in a way that made the lids seem faintly translucent. At first, it was a subtle effect—a play of shadows beneath the painted lashes. But as the glow swelled, the closed eyes appeared to hold a deeper presence, as though something beneath the surface stirred. The lids, once simple and lifeless, seemed to press outward faintly, hinting at a restless energy concealed behind them.

The strands of Karina’s hair, now fully absorbed, had vanished without a trace. Yet, the doll’s features began to shift. Its porcelain skin, once flawless and cold, took on a faint warmth, a suggestion of pliability that hadn’t been there before. The faint blush on its cheeks deepened, almost imperceptibly, as though the glow from within was kindling something beneath the surface. The contours of its face grew more defined, softening subtly, as if sculpted further toward perfection with each pulse of light.

The house seemed to hold its breath. The faint creaks and groans of its old structure stilled entirely, leaving an oppressive silence in their wake. Even the distant hum of the wind outside faded, as though the world itself had paused. In the suffocating quiet, the rhythmic flicker of the doll’s eerie light became the room’s heartbeat, steady and deliberate, an ominous reminder of its growing presence.

Its aura now exuded a quiet, watchful energy—no longer dormant but active, as though waiting for something. The shadows cast by its light danced across the walls, twisting and shifting unnaturally, their movements disconnected from the flicker of the glow. And deep within the stillness of its closed eyes, there was a stirring—fragile yet undeniable, an unsettling whisper of awareness beginning to take shape. The doll no longer felt like an object but a vessel, and the silence of the room seemed to anticipate the moment when its transformation would be complete.

------

The next morning, warm sunlight slipped through the bedroom curtains, casting a golden glow over Karina as she stretched and let out a contented sigh. You had left early for work, leaving her alone in the quiet intimacy of the morning. The scattered, unpacked boxes around the room hinted at new beginnings, but her thoughts kept circling back to the basement—to the doll. Despite the unease it stirred in her, a peculiar curiosity tugged at her thoughts. It was like a whisper, faint but insistent, calling her back.

After tidying a few last things, Karina found herself descending the narrow stairs once more. The wooden steps creaked softly beneath her feet, their sound amplified in the heavy stillness of the space. Cool, stale air wrapped around her as she stepped inside, carrying the faint tang of dust and metal. Shadows clung to the corners of the basement, stretching ominously toward her as the dim light flickered. She shivered slightly, her gaze drifting over the jars, cobwebs, and forgotten relics lining the shelves before settling on the table in the center of the room.

There it was. The doll lay silent, unmoved from the night before, yet somehow it felt different—like it was waiting for her.

Her steps slowed as she approached, her fingers hovering just above its surface. She hesitated, taking in its vague, incomplete features. The blank, mannequin-like body contrasted starkly with the face, which, though detailed, felt unfinished. Its closed eyes added to its unsettling stillness. Slowly, Karina extended her hand, her fingertips brushing against the surface.

She froze. The material wasn’t cold and lifeless as she’d expected. It was warm, soft, and faintly pliant—almost like skin. Her breath hitched as she instinctively pulled back, her heart pounding, but curiosity rooted her in place. Tentatively, she touched it again, her fingers trailing across its surface. A faint warmth blossomed under her touch, sending ripples through her skin, as though she were brushing her own body.

Her hand moved down its neck and across its vaguely defined chest. As her fingers lingered, the contours began to shift, the undefined surface molding into shape. Karina gasped, her hand trembling as she watched the doll begin to change. Her breath quickened, and she pressed her palm against its shoulder, marveling as the smooth joint took on a lifelike slope.

She trailed her fingers down one arm, the surface firming and refining beneath her touch. The blank limb transformed into something natural, each joint and curve forming with startling precision. The doll’s hand became delicate and human-like as her fingers brushed its palm, her pulse quickening with the impossible reality of it all.

Her movements grew more deliberate, her hand gliding across the torso. The blank plane of its chest yielded to soft ribs and a curved stomach. Karina lingered, pressing lightly into its sides as though testing its reality. Each pass sharpened the details further—faint muscles, a subtle navel, even the texture of skin. Each touch sent an echo of warmth spreading through her, a mirrored heat that made her shiver.

Her hands drifted lower, trembling as they explored its hips and thighs. The surface molded seamlessly beneath her fingers, becoming impossibly lifelike. She ran her hand down one leg, tracing the length as a knee, shin, and the curve of an ankle appeared. Each detail emerged with precision, her breath hitching as her fingers brushed its inner thigh. The texture was so warm, so realistic, that it sent a wave of heat coursing through her.

Karina swallowed hard, her hand returning upward, her touch almost compulsive now. Her trembling fingers brushed the doll’s chest again, the faint curves she’d noticed earlier now fully formed into soft, rounded breasts. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the surface before tentatively pressing against it. The material shifted under her fingers, warm and pliant, as though responding to her touch.

As she lingered, the blank surface of the doll’s chest changed further. Subtle lines formed beneath her fingertips, the soft material shaping into peaks that were unnervingly lifelike. Her fingers grazed the newly formed nipples, her breath catching as warmth surged through her, sharp and electric, as though she’d touched herself. Each gentle brush sent a thrill rippling through her, leaving her trembling and flushed.

Her breath hitched as her hand hovered over the last undefined part of the doll’s form. Slowly, she pressed her fingers to its lower torso. The blank surface beneath her touch shifted and molded, forming folds and curves with startling precision, mirroring her own. Her legs shook, and a low moan escaped her lips as an intense warmth radiated through her body, her cheeks burning as she clutched the edge of the table for support.

When the transformation was complete, Karina stumbled back, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. The doll no longer looked like a lifeless figure. It was her—exactly her. Every curve, every line, every detail was replicated in unsettling perfection, a hauntingly accurate reflection that left her rooted in place.

Her heart raced as vulnerability crept over her. Seeing her own body laid bare in such an intimate, uncanny way sent a shiver down her spine. She hugged herself instinctively, as though shielding her body from her own gaze. Desperate to cover the doll, she turned away, her hands trembling as she rifled through one of the boxes on the floor. Her fingers brushed over soft fabrics until she pulled out one of her favorite dresses—a pale, flowing piece she hadn’t yet unpacked.

Karina carried the dress back to the doll, her hands shaking as she slipped it over its shoulders. The fabric fell into place with unsettling ease, fitting the doll’s body as if it had been made for it rather than her. The way the dress hugged its frame sent an eerie shiver through her, the intimacy of the moment uncomfortably surreal. She stepped back, catching sight of herself in the mirror across the room.

Her reflection stared back at her, but so did the doll’s. It sat upright on the bed, its face now fully hers. Its closed eyes seemed more deliberate, its lifelike features so vivid they felt alive. The uncanny mimicry unsettled her, daring her to look away—but she couldn’t. Her breath came in shallow gasps, the air in the room heavy with an unnameable energy.

The doll, now clothed in her dress, sat motionless, yet its presence filled the room entirely. For a moment, Karina thought she saw the faintest movement—a slight tilt of its head, a shift of its hand—but when she blinked, it was still.

Her knees brushed against the edge of the bed as she backed away, her mind spinning. The longer she looked, the more the doll’s presence seemed to mirror her own. It wasn’t just wearing her dress—it was wearing her.

-----

The days following that intimate reveal of the doll Karina had hidden it in her room unsure of what to do with it, she decided to brush it off and distract herself from another full day of being an idol. After an exhausting but exhilarating practice session filled with music, laughter, and sweat, Karina and the other Aespa members gathered in the conference room, their energy palpable. The lingering rhythm of the studio beats still hummed in her mind as she followed her bandmates, feeling the collective excitement that seemed to bubble just below the surface. Giselle, ever the source of contagious enthusiasm, nudged Ningning with a teasing whisper that sent them both into quiet giggles. Minjeong leaned forward, her curiosity piqued, her eyes darting between their manager and the others as they settled into their seats.

The manager entered the room with his usual steady presence, his hands folded and his smile warm. The girls instantly hushed, their attention snapping to him in anticipation.

“Your recent comeback has been a huge success,” he began, his voice beaming with pride. “You’ve topped charts and we couldn’t be prouder of each of you.”

A ripple of pride swept through the group. Minjeong shot Karina a thumbs-up, her grin as wide as ever, while Giselle reached across the table to squeeze Ningning’s arm, the two of them laughing in disbelief. Karina couldn’t help but smile, soaking in the joy that filled the room. It was moments like these that reminded her of why they worked so hard, pouring themselves into their music and performances.

But the manager wasn’t finished. “That’s not all,” he added, his excitement unmistakable. “We have even bigger news for you—you’re going on tour!”

The room fell still for a moment as the weight of the announcement sank in, then erupted into a cacophony of celebration. Minjeong let out a delighted squeal, practically leaping from her seat as she clasped her hands together. Giselle’s mouth hung open for a second before she broke into laughter, her eyes shining with disbelief. Ningning gasped, her cheeks flushed with exhilaration, and she turned to Karina with a wide-eyed look of joy.

Karina’s heart raced as she imagined the roar of crowds, the thrill of stepping onto stages in cities around the world, and the energy of fans who had waited so long to see them perform. It was everything they had dreamed of, everything they had worked for. The thought of sharing their music on such a grand scale filled her with a rush of adrenaline and anticipation.

But as the manager began listing the tour dates, Karina’s excitement faltered. Her mind snagged on a detail she wished she could ignore: the tour would overlap with her anniversary with you. A pang of guilt and regret twisted inside her, dulling the edges of her happiness. She forced herself to stay present, laughing and celebrating with her friends, but part of her was already mourning the time she’d lose with you.

That evening, Karina returned home with a whirlwind of emotions swirling within her. She couldn’t wait to share the incredible news with you, but the weight of the tour dates pressed heavily on her chest. As she stepped into the warm comfort of your shared space, she found you waiting for her on the couch, your face lighting up at the sight of her. The familiar scent of home—a mix of her favorite lavender candle and the faint aroma of dinner—embraced her, soothing her nerves, if only slightly.

“So,” she began, setting her bag down and fidgeting with her fingers. Her voice wavered as she tried to balance the excitement bubbling within her and the regret tugging at her heart. “There’s some big news.” She paused, drawing a steadying breath before the words tumbled out in a mix of pride and hesitance. “The album’s doing amazing, and… we’re going on tour!”

Your face broke into a smile, your genuine happiness for her shining through. Relief flooded her, but the feeling was fleeting. She hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the table as she continued. “But,” she added softly, her eyes dropping to the floor, “the tour overlaps with our anniversary.”

Your smile faltered for just a heartbeat, a flicker of disappointment crossing your face before you quickly masked it. “That’s… not ideal,” you said, your voice tinged with understanding. “But baby, when I asked you to be my girlfriend, I signed myself up for all of this. I’d never want to hold you back from that.”

She looked up at you, her eyes shimmering with gratitude as you reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice heavy with emotion. “I hate that it’s on that day, but… thank you for understanding.”

You pulled her close, wrapping her in a firm embrace. For a while, neither of you said anything, letting the silence hold the depth of your love and the ache of the separation that loomed ahead. The soft beat of your hearts seemed to sync as you held each other, anchoring yourselves in the present.

The lead up to Karina’s departure were a mix of sweetness and sorrow, a countdown neither of you wanted to acknowledge but couldn’t escape. Each moment together felt heavier, charged with a need to make it last. You and Karina spent every spare moment with one another, finding solace in the routines and small joys of your shared life.

Mornings became sacred. The two of you would wake up early, savoring slow breakfasts at the kitchen table. You teased her about her favorite coffee mug—a chipped, mismatched thing she adored despite your insistence that you’d buy her a new one. Her laughter echoed softly, her smile brighter than the sunlight streaming through the window.

Evenings stretched late into the night. You’d sit tangled together on the couch, your conversations meandering through memories of your favorite moments together. She told you how your first kiss still gave her butterflies, and you shared how proud you were of everything she had accomplished. When the words ran out, you stayed wrapped in each other’s warmth, the quiet hum of your love filling the spaces between.

There were moments of vulnerability too—nights when you found her staring out the window, her thoughts far away. She confessed her guilt about leaving on such an important day, and you reassured her with soft touches and whispered promises.

------

Karina’s departure day dawned with a quiet that felt unnatural, as though the house itself understood what was coming. The air seemed heavier, thick with an unspoken finality, and even the sunlight streaming through the windows felt subdued. Her footsteps on the hardwood floor carried an unusual weight, each one more deliberate as she made her way to the door. In her arms, she cradled a large, carefully wrapped box, its presence as significant as the moment itself. The neat bow atop it added a touch of care, and she carried it with a reverence that spoke of its importance.

Her cheeks were dusted with a faint blush, and her lips parted into a nervous smile as she looked at you. There was something shy and uncertain in her expression, a contrast to the confidence she usually exuded. She set the box down gently on the coffee table, straightening her posture before turning back to you.

“I… I wanted to give you something before I left,” she said softly, shifting the box slightly and holding it out to you. Her eyes flicked between yours and the package, searching your face for your reaction.

You took the box from her carefully, surprised by its weight. It wasn’t heavy, but it had a certain gravity that hinted at its significance. Curiosity mingled with apprehension as you placed it on the table and began to open it. Lifting the lid, you peeled back the soft protective wrapping, and your breath caught as you revealed what lay inside.

A nearly life-sized doll, sculpted with uncanny precision, stared back at you—or would have, had its eyes not been closed in a strange, serene expression. Its resemblance to Karina was startling. Every detail, from the gentle curve of its cheekbones to the cascade of long, dark hair that fell over its shoulders, mirrored her perfectly. The doll even wore one of her favorite dresses, the fabric draping over its form in a way that felt disturbingly natural.

You blinked, taking an involuntary step back as you tried to process the sight before you. “Honey… this is…” Words failed you for a moment as your eyes darted between the doll and her. “It’s… so real.”

Karina let out a soft, nervous laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know, it’s a little unusual,” she admitted, her blush deepening as she shifted on her feet. “But I had it custom-made, just for you. Since I’ll be away for a while, I thought… maybe it would help you feel like I’m still close.”

You stared at the doll again, your chest tightening with an unplaceable unease. Its closed eyes made it look peaceful, almost restful, but its lifelike features made it feel as though it could wake at any moment. The dress only added to the strange feeling—a version of Karina that was simultaneously here and yet absent.

“Jimin…” you began slowly, glancing back at her. “I don’t know. This feels… like a bit much. It’s just… so realistic.” You tried to manage a smile, hoping to soften your reluctance. “Maybe too realistic?”

Her smile wavered slightly, and a flicker of vulnerability passed through her eyes as she stepped closer. “Please?” she asked softly, taking your hand in hers. Her voice was tender, her gaze imploring. “I know it might seem a little strange, but… I really want you to have it. Since I’ll be away, I thought it might bring you some comfort, knowing that even though I’m far away, you’ll still have something here with you. A part of me.”

Her hand tightened on yours, interrupting your thoughts. “I know it’s not the same,” she said quietly. “But I thought it could help. I just… I don’t want you to feel alone. Even if it’s a little strange, I want to leave you with something that reminds you of me.”

Her tone softened, and her eyes glistened with unspoken emotion. “Please, just try. It’s okay if it feels weird at first. I just… I really want this for you.”

You sighed, the tension in your chest loosening slightly at the sight of her vulnerability. Her intentions were pure, even if the gift itself unsettled you. “Alright,” you said gently, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll keep it.”

Relief washed over her face, and she broke into a warm smile, pulling you into a tight embrace. She lingered there for a moment before pulling back, gesturing toward the doll. “Go ahead,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “Look closer.”

You hesitated, then reached out. Your fingers brushed the doll’s cheek, marveling at its texture. The material was soft, warm, and faintly yielding—eerily lifelike. Your hand moved lower, skimming over its collarbone and down its arm. As you brushed against its hand, you glanced at Karina, noticing how her chest rose and fell more quickly than before. Her lips parted slightly, and she pressed them together as though to stifle a reaction.

“You okay?” you asked, watching her closely.

She nodded quickly, her blush deepening. “Yeah, it’s just… weird seeing you touch it,” she lied, her voice barely audible. “But go on.”

You turned back to the doll, curiosity tugging at you despite your discomfort. Your hand drifted lower, tracing the subtle curve of its waist. You couldn’t deny how precise it was—every contour felt real, natural, even though you knew it wasn’t. When your fingers brushed over its chest, you froze, startled by how soft and pliant it felt. The sensation made you glance back at Karina, who was standing rigidly beside you, her hands clenched at her sides.

Her breathing hitched audibly, and for a moment, her lips trembled as though she might speak—but she didn’t. She stayed quiet, her cheeks flushed as she visibly tried to steady herself.

“Jimin…” you said cautiously, watching her reaction. “Are you sure this isn’t too weird for you?”

“I’m fine,” she replied quickly, though her voice wavered slightly. Her body remained stiff, her fingers curling into her palms as she tried to mask her reaction. “Just… finish.”

You hesitated but continued, brushing over the doll’s arm again before moving lower. Your fingers trailed over its legs, the texture as lifelike as the rest of its form. Karina shifted beside you, her breaths uneven but controlled, her eyes fixed on your hand as though trying to focus on anything other than the sensation it might evoke in her.

Finally, you pulled back, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “It’s… impressive,” you admitted reluctantly, though the unease hadn’t entirely left you.

Karina nodded, exhaling shakily as she stepped closer. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I know it’s strange, but I wanted it to feel like I was still here with you. Even if it’s not the same.”

Her hand found yours again, her fingers lacing through yours as she rested her head on your shoulder. “I’m going to miss you,” she murmured, her voice soft and wistful.

You kissed the top of her head, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “And I’ll be here, counting down the days until you come back.”

-----

The days without Karina stretched endlessly, each one a slow ache that deepened the longer she was gone. Though you spoke every night, the absence of her presence—the warmth of her touch, the sound of her laugh filling the room—created a void that even her most loving words couldn’t quite fill. The doll she had left behind sat untouched, a silent reminder of her, but you hadn’t found the will to reach for it. Instead, the house felt emptier with every passing day, its stillness amplifying her absence.

When your anniversary arrived, it brought a bittersweet mix of excitement and longing. Determined to make the night special, you poured yourself into preparing the space, setting the table with flickering candles and the bottle of wine she had excitedly suggested weeks ago.

Her request had come during one of your nightly calls, her tone warm with affection. “Promise me we’ll eat the same thing,” she had said, her voice carrying an almost childlike excitement. “Same cuisine, same dishes. That way, it’ll feel like we’re together.” You’d agreed without hesitation, ordering her favorite dishes from a restaurant she loved back home. Unknown to you, she had gone a step further, arranging for someone she trusted to deliver a special instruction to the chef.

When her face appeared on the call that evening, it was as if the ache of her absence melted away for a moment. She looked radiant, her soft waves of hair cascading over her shoulders, her lips curving into the smile that always sent a warmth straight to your chest.

“Happy anniversary, love,” she said, her voice tender and filled with emotion.

“Happy anniversary, baby,” you replied, your tone matching hers. “You look… incredible.”

Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “So do you.” Her gaze flicked to the setup behind you, and her expression softened with appreciation. “You really went all out. It’s beautiful.”

“Only the best for you,” you teased, pouring the wine and raising your glass. “To us.” “To us,” she echoed, lifting her own glass with a bright smile. The synchronized motion, small as it was, closed the miles between you, making the distance feel just a little less insurmountable.

The evening began with lighthearted conversation, her laughter spilling from the screen as she shared stories from her tour. She described the places she’d been with an almost childlike wonder, painting vivid pictures of crowded streets, twinkling cityscapes, and quaint cafés.

“When we were in Japan, there was this tiny café,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “They served these adorable matcha parfaits shaped like bears. It was so cute I almost cried.”

“You? Crying over a dessert?” you teased, laughing. “I would’ve loved to see that.”

“You would’ve teased me the entire time,” she shot back, giggling. “But it would’ve been worth it.”

As the dinner progressed, the playful chatter softened into something warmer, more intimate. The food, rich and flavorful, carried an unexpected heat—a subtle, lingering warmth that began to spread through your body. It wasn’t just the wine or the meal itself; it was the way Karina’s voice felt closer, her laughter sweeter, her gaze through the screen more magnetic. Every detail drew you further into the moment, as if the distance between you no longer mattered.

She leaned closer to the camera, her smile softening as her voice dipped into a quieter, more vulnerable register. “You know,” she said, her gaze holding yours, “this tour is amazing, but it’s nothing compared to being with you. I miss the way you hold me, the way you look at me.”

Your breath hitched, her words weaving a spell that wrapped around your chest. “Babe…”

“I mean it,” she continued, her voice dropping further, taking on a sultry edge. “I miss the way your hands feel on my skin. The way you touch me like I’m the only thing in the world.”

Her tone shifted, her words slowing as her lips parted slightly. “You don’t know what it does to me, being away from you like this.” Her voice dipped into a low, intimate whisper. “I think about it every night—your hands on me. How you feel. How you make me feel.”

Heat flared in your chest, her words igniting a visceral need that had been dormant for weeks. You shifted slightly in your seat, your voice thick with longing as you murmured, “Jimin, you’re not playing fair.”

“Who said I was playing fair?” she teased, her smile widening. She leaned back slightly, her eyes half-lidded as her voice took on a deeper, sultrier tone. “I’ve been thinking about you every single night. How your mouth felt the last time you kissed me, the way your hands made me forget everything else…”

She let out a soft, breathy moan, her cheeks flushing as she watched your reaction. “I wish you were here to touch me, to remind me what it feels like to be yours.”

You froze, the sound of her voice and the sheer intimacy of her words leaving you speechless. Your heart raced, the image of her filling your mind with every heated word, the space between you shrinking as her tone drew you closer.

“I need you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “Jimin, I…”

“I need you too,” she replied, her voice dripping with longing. “I can’t stop thinking about you. About how much I want you right now.”

Her lips parted, her breath quickening as if she could feel the tension that pulsed through the screen. You leaned closer, captivated by the intensity in her gaze, your need for her overpowering the distance between you. The connection felt real, visceral, until the sharp ring of her hotel room phone shattered the moment.

She sighed, visibly frustrated, and glanced toward the phone. “Hold on,” she said, picking it up.

For a moment, you waited, unsure if she’d return quickly. But when she did, her expression was apologetic, her voice laced with regret. “The manager needs me for something urgent,” she said softly, her tone tinged with disappointment. “I’m so sorry, love.”

The flicker of frustration must have shown on your face because she leaned closer to the camera, her voice soft and reassuring. “I love you. More than anything. And I’ll make this up to you, I promise.”

Before you could respond, the screen went dark, leaving you alone in the charged stillness of your room.

You paced back and forth, your body still thrumming with the heat her words had stirred. The ache she’d left behind was relentless, her voice and the way she’d looked at you replaying in vivid detail. Your gaze drifted to your phone, lingering on the memory of her, when a notification lit up the screen.

A message from Karina.

Your heart leapt as you opened it. The photo hit you like a wave—a shot of her sprawled across the bed, her tousled hair falling in soft waves over one shoulder. Her skin glowed in the warm, muted light of her room, every curve illuminated with an alluring softness. Her lips were curled into a sultry, knowing smile, and her arms were draped in a way that hinted at modesty yet revealed enough to leave little to the imagination. Her bare chest was exposed, the subtle curves and smooth skin drawing your eyes helplessly downward. The photo was bold and intimate, a perfect balance of suggestion and revelation, pulling you deeper into her web with every detail.

The caption read: I hope this is the start of my apology.

You stared at the image, your breath catching as a mix of desire and longing surged through you. The ache of her absence felt sharper than ever, and now her words, her teasing smile, and this image stormed through your thoughts like wildfire.

Far away, Karina leaned back against her pillows, her lips curling into a sly smile as she imagined your reaction. She ran her fingers lazily through her hair, the satisfaction of her plan unfolding exactly as she intended. “Let’s see how long you last without me,” she murmured, her voice tinged with playful mischief.

Your room felt stifling, the air thick with tension as you lay on the bed beside the doll. Its lifelike features caught the soft glow of the bedside lamp, eerily close to hers yet unreachable. Karina’s voice echoed in your mind, teasing and sultry, her plan working perfectly as you struggled with the void she’d left behind. The space beside you felt impossibly empty, the absence of her touch a gnawing ache that the doll’s uncanny resemblance only amplified.

Your hand hovered over the doll’s face, brushing against the smooth, synthetic skin. The texture was startlingly lifelike, warm under your fingers, and as you traced its delicate features—the familiar curve of its lips, the softness of its jawline—it became harder to separate the illusion from the reality you craved. Karina’s name slipped from your lips in a quiet murmur, your chest tightening with longing.

Inside her hotel karina laid on her bed, her bare skin kissed by the cool air drifting through the room. She had orchestrated everything—the doll, the setup, even the lingering ache she hoped would drive you to her gift. She had imagined every step, every reaction, and her body hummed with anticipation as she pictured you succumbing to the desire she’d left behind.

Her lips curled into a smile as she ran a hand lazily along her stomach, letting her fingers trace idle patterns. She could almost feel your touch, phantom sensations that made her skin tingle. “Finally” she whispered, her voice low and breathy. Her thighs pressed together as the anticipation coiled tightly within her. She imagined your hands, your breath, and the way you’d surrender to the distance that had stretched too far.

In your room, you sat up, running a hand through your hair as the ache inside you became unbearable. Your gaze flicked to the doll again, its serene face illuminated in the dim light. Hesitation flickered through you before you reached for the nightstand, grabbing a small bottle of lube. The coolness of it sent a shiver through your body as you prepared yourself, the vividness of your desire making every movement feel charged with electricity.

Karina shifted against the sheets, her eyes narrowing as a pang of doubt crept into her thoughts. What if you didn’t use it? What if her plan had been too much, too bold? Her confidence wavered, and she sat up slightly, running a hand through her hair. Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths as she whispered, “Did you stop? Was it too much?”

Her mind raced, imagining you hesitating, putting the doll aside. A ripple of frustration and sadness swept through her as she bit her lip, staring at her dark phone. “Don’t pull away from me…” she murmured, her voice laced with longing and desperation. She closed her eyes, trying to steady herself against the quiet ache of disappointment.

But then—she gasped, her body jolting violently as an overwhelming sensation ripped through her. Her eyes snapped open, wide and unseeing, as she clutched at the sheets. Her back arched as her entire body shuddered, an unmistakable pressure filling her completely, so vivid and intense it left her breathless.

“Oh my God,” she cried out, her voice trembling as her head fell back against the pillow. Her thighs quivered as the phantom sensation of your length pressed deeper into her, deliberate and slow, making her toes curl. Every nerve in her body was on fire, pleasure rolling through her in powerful, unrelenting waves.

Back in your room, you positioned the doll carefully, the weight of its form adding to the vividness of the illusion. Your body moved instinctively, your mind entirely lost in the fantasy Karina had spun around you. Each motion, each moment felt electric, her name a quiet mantra on your lips as you surrendered to the overwhelming need she’d left behind.

Karina’s chest heaved as her body adjusted to the sensation, her hands clutching the sheets so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Oh, fuck…” she whispered, her voice cracking as she felt you move inside her again, slow and steady, leaving her gasping for air. The intensity of it made her whole body burn, her skin tingling with the phantom connection that defied explanation.

“You’re… using it,” she whispered breathlessly, her voice tinged with equal parts triumph and desperation. Her lips parted as another moan escaped her, her head turning to the side as she let herself fall deeper into the moment. Her back arched as her body responded instinctively, her hips moving subtly, as if to meet the sensation halfway.

The thought of you, so far away yet so intimately close, sent another wave of pleasure crashing over her. She shivered, her breathing uneven as she whispered, “I knew you couldn’t resist…”

The air felt oppressive, thick with the heat and tension that had built throughout the night. Your body moved with a desperation that bordered on animalistic as you thrust into the doll. Its lifelike softness under your hands, the way its core clung to you with an almost pulsing grip—it all blurred the line between reality and fantasy. Every sensation was heightened, vivid to the point of overwhelming, and you couldn’t hold back.

Your hands roamed over the doll’s body, gripping its breast roughly. The synthetic material gave under your fingers, yielding in a way that felt startlingly real. Normally, when you were with Karina, your touch was controlled, measured, careful. She was an idol, and every step in your intimacy came with a layer of deliberation. But now, with the doll’s unyielding silence and perfect mimicry, you felt none of the restraint you would have with her.

Your palm struck the doll’s breast, the sharp sound echoing in the room. A red flush appeared on its synthetic skin, and you smacked it again, harder this time. The sight of your mark left your breath hitching, your body trembling as the roughness spurred you on.

Karina gasped as the sensation of your touch reached her. The sting of your hand on her breast sent jolts of pleasure and pain coursing through her, her back arching off the bed as her chest heaved. “Oh, my God…” she whimpered, her voice cracking with the vividness of it.

Her hands moved to her chest, instinctively covering the marks she felt there. The roughness of your touch, the sharpness of each slap, only heightened the pleasure building inside her. She could feel every movement—your palm squeezing her flesh, the sting as your hand struck her, and the pressure of your fingers digging into her skin.

Her thighs pressed together instinctively, a futile attempt to temper the overwhelming sensations radiating through her body. The motion only heightened the intensity, amplifying the heat that coursed through her. Her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, her entire body trembling as she whispered, “You’re so rough tonight,” her voice tinged with disbelief and raw arousal. “I can feel all of it…”

In your room, your breath came in shallow gasps, your grip tightening on the doll’s hips as your thrusts grew more erratic. The lifelike core pulsed and tightened around you, gripping you with a vividness that blurred the lines between fantasy and reality. Each rhythmic contraction drew you deeper, coaxing every ounce of control from your body, the intensity building with each movement.

Normally, with Karina, you would use a condom. It was an unspoken rule—one born of mutual care and caution, knowing how carefully she had to protect her image as an idol. But now, the rawness of feeling completely bare was intoxicating. The doll’s warmth, its pulsing tightness—it all overwhelmed you in a way you’d never experienced.

You groaned her name, “Jimin,” your voice thick with desperation as you leaned over the doll. Your free hand came down on its breast again, the slap harder this time. The synthetic skin flushed under your touch, and you pinched its nipple, twisting with a force you wouldn’t dare use on Karina.

Karina’s back arched violently as her skin mirrored your actions. She could feel your hand gripping her breast, the sharp sting of the slap followed by the rough pinch. A cry tore from her lips as pleasure and pain mingled, the intensity leaving her gasping for air.

Her body burned, her skin alive with sensation as if you were truly there with her. Every motion was perfectly synchronized, every rough thrust and squeeze sending her closer to the edge. Her chest heaved as she clutched at the sheets, her voice breaking as she cried out, “Yes… just like that…”

The doll’s core pulsed around you again, gripping you tighter, almost pulling you deeper. The sensation was surreal, unlike anything you’d felt before. It wasn’t just the warmth or the tightness—it was the way it seemed to respond to you, as though it were alive. The rhythmic squeezing was enough to drive you mad, and you could feel your climax building with unrelenting intensity.

You buried yourself deep inside it, your release crashing over you like a tidal wave. The rawness of being bare, of releasing fully into the doll’s impossibly realistic core, sent shockwaves through your body. Normally the condom muted the sensation, a necessary precaution you’d both grown used to. But now, the sheer vividness of the feeling left you trembling. The pulsing tightness of the doll clung to you, each pump of your release magnified, each pulse drawing out the intensity.

“Ugh fuck,” you groaned, your voice breaking as your body gave in completely.

Karina screamed as the sensation of your release surged through her, a shockwave of impossible vividness that left her gasping for air. It was as if you were truly inside her, every pulse of your release tangible, every rhythmic pump filling her completely. The feeling was overwhelming, raw in its intimacy, breaking through every boundary she had known before. It was not just physical—it was all-encompassing, lighting up her senses in ways she had never imagined.

Her back arched violently off the bed, her legs trembling as the sensation spread through her. Instinctively, her thighs pressed together, her body desperate to contain the fullness, but it did nothing to slow the relentless tide of pleasure. The startlingly real pressure claimed every inch of her, leaving her utterly breathless. Her hands gripped the sheets so tightly her knuckles turned white, her body reacting instinctively to the connection that felt like nothing she had ever experienced.

Lost in the feeling, Karina’s hips began to move of their own accord, grinding upward in a desperate attempt to meet you. Her movements were met only with air, the stark reminder of your absence making the sensations even more surreal and maddening. The futile grinding only amplified her need, her body seeking a closeness that wasn’t truly there yet felt undeniably real.

“Oh, my God!” she cried out, her voice breaking as the intensity of it overwhelmed her. The rhythmic pulses of your release felt endless, each one sending another jolt of pleasure through her. It was as though her body recognized this as something forbidden, something she had never allowed herself to feel—a complete surrender to being filled, claimed, in a way that shattered her carefully controlled world.

The sensations opened something inside her, a deep well of vulnerability and raw, unfiltered pleasure. The feeling of being filled wasn’t just physical; it was emotional, a connection so profound it left her trembling. “I can feel you,” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper, the awe and disbelief clear. “Every bit of you…”

Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her, each one more intense than the last. The fullness inside her heightened everything, making her body hyper aware of every nerve, every sensation. It was unrelenting, a tidal wave of ecstasy that consumed her completely. Her thighs quivered as her body tightened around the phantom sensation, her hips lifting instinctively as if to take more of you, to hold you closer.

Her climax ripped through her like a storm, an overwhelming, earth-shattering moment that left her crying out in ecstasy. The pulses of your release seemed to synchronize with her own, amplifying the pleasure as if you were truly connected. She could feel everything—the heat, the rhythm, the way you filled her completely. It felt endless, the connection between you growing stronger, the distance between you evaporating in that moment of shared release.

As the sensations finally began to ebb, her body collapsed back onto the bed, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. The aftershocks rippled through her, leaving her trembling and flushed. Her skin was damp with sweat, her hair clinging to her face as she stared at the ceiling, her mind reeling from the intensity of what had just happened.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across her lips as she whispered, “You couldn’t resist.” Her voice was soft, filled with triumph and affection, her body still buzzing with residual pleasure. Her hand trailed lazily over her flushed skin, the memory of the sensations lingering like a brand.

She closed her eyes, her mind swimming with thoughts of you. “Good,” she murmured, her voice a mix of possession and tenderness. “You’re mine… just like I wanted.” The feeling of being filled, of connecting with you so deeply, had changed something in her. It was more than just a physical experience—it was a claiming, a bond that would linger, no matter how far apart you were.

Karina felt boneless, her body trembling violently as wave after wave of aftershocks rippled through her. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, her thighs quivering as she struggled to regain control. She could feel every inch of you—the impossible fullness, the lingering warmth of your release pooled deep inside her. Her entire body felt raw, too sensitive, and yet her arousal continued to build. Every slight movement seemed to push it deeper, a constant reminder of how thoroughly she’d been claimed.

Her hands gripped the sheets tightly, her knuckles white as she bit her bottom lip to stifle the sounds threatening to spill from her. Her inner walls throbbed uncontrollably, her body clenching as if unwilling to let go of the overwhelming sensation.

Her back arched off the bed as a sharp sting spread across her chest—a hard slap on her breast. The sound reverberated through the quiet room, and she cried out, her voice muffled as her face pressed into the pillow. Her nipples throbbed, hypersensitive as your grip returned, kneading roughly, tugging and twisting with no mercy. Another hard slap landed, and she gasped, her chest heaving as the pain blurred into pleasure.

Her mind spun as the sensations intensified. Her legs fell open wider, her body yielding completely as the rhythm grew more relentless. Each tug on her nipple sent jolts of heat straight to her core, and the fullness inside her felt like it was expanding, stretching her impossibly more. Her breath caught as she felt your tongue on her skin—wet, warm, and insistent. It circled her right nipple, the pressure teasing and building as you sucked hard, making her toes curl.

“No,” she whimpered weakly, her voice trembling. “No, I can’t—” But her body told another story. She arched into the phantom touch, her breaths growing faster as her nipple throbbed under the attention. The flick of your tongue sent shivers through her, the combination of pleasure and overstimulation pushing her closer to the edge. When suddenly.

Knock, knock.

Her heart leapt, panic surging through her. Minjeong’s voice came through the door, her tone hesitant. “Unnie? Can we talk for a minute?”

Karina froze. Her mind swirled in panic, her body still alight with your touch. She fumbled for her robe, struggling to gather herself. The fabric clung awkwardly to her damp skin as she tied it hastily, her trembling hands betraying her desperation. She forced herself to rise, but the moment she stood, an invisible grip tightened around her neck.

Her breath caught sharply, her head tilting back as the hold constricted her throat. She stumbled forward, her hand bracing against the wall as she gasped for air. The pressure made her lightheaded, yet it only amplified the arousal coursing through her. Her body betrayed her, her chest heaving as she struggled to take another step, each movement sending the fullness pressing impossibly deeper inside her.

“Oh, God,” she choked out softly, her knees wobbling as she reached the door. Her fingers gripped the handle tightly, and the constriction eased just enough for her to force the door open. She leaned heavily on the frame, her face flushed and damp with sweat, her breaths coming in shallow gasps.

“Minjeong,” she managed hoarsely, her voice barely steady.

“Unnie, are you okay? You look… really flushed,” Minjeong said, her brow furrowing.

Karina forced a tight smile, clutching her robe around her. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, her voice strained. “What’s up?”

Minjeong hesitated but stepped inside, her expression uncertain. “I just needed to vent,” she began softly. “I messed up during the performance yesterday. It’s been eating at me.”

Karina froze, her body still trembling as the sensations rippled faintly through her. “It wasn’t a big deal,” she said quickly, her voice higher-pitched than usual. “No one noticed.”

Minjeong sighed, sitting down on the bed beside her. “But it was during my highlight part,” she continued, her voice heavy with guilt. “I missed the cue, and I could feel everyone looking at me. I feel like I ruined the whole song.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Karina said sharply, her words tumbling out too fast. “The crowd loved it.”

Minjeong tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “Unnie, you’re talking really fast. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Karina snapped, her voice cracking. She crossed her legs tightly, her thighs clenching as the lingering pressure inside her made her shift involuntarily. “I just… I think I left some medicine in my bag in the bathroom. Can you grab it for me?”

Minjeong hesitated, her gaze lingering on Karina’s disheveled appearance, but she eventually stood. “Okay, I’ll check.”

The moment the bathroom door clicked shut, Karina collapsed back onto the bed. Her legs fell open as her body gave in completely. The grip on her neck tightened again, and her head tilted back as she gasped for air. Her chest burned, her body trembling violently as the phantom rhythm built to a breaking point once more.

Her climax surged violently as your teeth grazed her nipple for the first time. Her back arched sharply as the biting sensation left her trembling, and the wet flicks of your tongue soothed the sting, coaxing her higher and higher. She grabbed the pillow, pulling it over her face as her voice escaped in a strained scream, muffled against the fabric as the grip on her neck tightened further.

Her entire body convulsed, the intensity overwhelming as she felt the fullness inside her deepen with every movement. Her cries turned into desperate, broken moans as wave after wave of pleasure consumed her, leaving her trembling and gasping for air.

When Minjeong returned, Karina barely managed to pull herself together. Her robe was haphazardly tied, and her face was flushed and damp with sweat.

“I couldn’t find anything,” Minjeong said, her tone skeptical. “Unnie, are you sure you’re okay? You look like you’ve been running a marathon.”

“I’m fine,” Karina said quickly, her voice shaky. “I just need to rest.”

Minjeong frowned but eventually nodded. “I’ll go down to the lobby and see if they have anything.”

As the door clicked shut, Karina collapsed back onto the bed, her chest heaving as she let out a shaky breath. A weak, triumphant smile spread across her lips as she whispered, “You’re impossible.”

Back at your house, you sat on the edge of the bed, the doll resting before you. The soft glow of the room illuminated it's eerily lifelike features, a testament to the unsettling craftsmanship. Its warmth radiated faintly under your touch, and its pliant texture added an almost unnerving realism. As you worked carefully to clean it, your hands moved methodically, though your mind couldn’t help but linger on how strange and lifelike it felt.

Your fingers brushed against its core, and the unexpected tightening startled you briefly. You shook your head, muttering to yourself about the doll’s unsettling realism. As you continued, your movements remained methodical—careful scoops to ensure it was thoroughly clean. Each curl and shift of your fingers felt oddly precise, the warmth and give of the material blurring the line between artificial and lifelike. You adjusted the angle instinctively, focused entirely on the task while marveling at how well-crafted it was.

Again, Karina jolted violently, her thighs clamping together in a futile attempt to contain the storm of sensations coursing through her. A broken gasp tore from her lips as her fingers twisted the sheets, knuckles white with tension, her back arching off the bed in a mix of helplessness and need.

Each deliberate motion of your hand, precise and unyielding, sent waves of overstimulation rippling through her. Your fingers pressing and curling inside her felt so real it made her toes curl. Her chest heaved with uneven breaths, rising and falling as she struggled to process the overwhelming intensity. She couldn’t escape the unrelenting pressure that pushed her to the brink, her body trembling uncontrollably beneath its weight.

“Stop…” she whispered faintly, her voice shaky and laced with desperation. Tears welled at the corners of her eyes, the overstimulation dragging her into a haze of pleasure and vulnerability. “Please…” she choked out, her plea barely audible as her hips moved restlessly against the bed, seeking relief but finding none.

The pressure built relentlessly, her inner muscles clenching involuntarily, her body betraying her at every turn. Her face pressed into the pillow, her muffled whimpers spilling freely, each sound tinged with a mix of desperation and surrender. Her body bucked slightly, her thighs quivering as she tried to resist the sensations flooding her, but every shift only drew her closer to unraveling completely.

Then, suddenly, the sensations eased, leaving Karina collapsing into the mattress. Her chest heaved with each ragged breath as relief mixed with exhaustion, her body trembling in the aftermath of the intensity. The storm had passed, but her emotions churned restlessly beneath the surface. The earlier anniversary dinner weighed on her heavily—a night cut short, the guilt of leaving the call unfinished pressing uncomfortably on her chest.

Unable to bear the feeling any longer, she reached for her phone. Her fingers trembled slightly as she scrolled to your name and pressed the call button. The line barely rang once before your familiar, warm voice answered.

“Babe?” you said, tinged with surprise and concern. “Is everything okay?”

Karina smiled faintly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I just wanted to check in,” she began, hesitating. “About earlier. Leaving dinner like that—I felt terrible. I wanted to hear your voice… to make up for it.”

The soft chuckle on the other end sent a soothing wave of warmth through her chest. “I miss you,” you admitted, your tone gentle and full of affection. ��It’s been hard without you here.”

“Tell me about it,” Karina murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “I feel it every second.”

A brief silence passed before you spoke again, hesitating as though deciding whether to share your next thought. “You know,” you started softly, “that doll you left behind… It actually helps. I don’t know who made it or how it’s so realistic, but holding it… it reminds me of you. It’s comforting in a weird way.”

Karina’s heart raced at your confession, but she kept her tone steady. “Then hold it,” she said gently. “Cuddle it, like you normally do with me.”

There was a pause on your end, followed by the faint rustle of fabric as you adjusted yourself. Karina closed her eyes, imagining you settling into the bed. Then, like a spark igniting, she felt it—an unmistakable warmth wrapping around her, soft and steady, just like your embrace. A quiet gasp escaped her lips, her body easing into the comforting sensation as her chest filled with an indescribable lightness.

She could feel the gentle pressure of your arms encircling her, the way they always seemed to ground her, pulling her close and making her feel safe. The phantom weight of your hand rested on her back, warm and reassuring, while the faint brush of your breath against her hair felt so real she could almost lean into it. Her body sank deeper into the mattress as she surrendered to the illusion, her heart swelling with a mix of longing and relief.

“It’s perfect,” you said after a moment, your voice rich with affection. “Almost like you’re here.”

Karina hummed softly, her mind drifting into a haze of peace and contentment. She tilted her head slightly, as though nuzzling into your chest, and the sensation met her as if you were truly there. The phantom pressure of your heartbeat against hers resonated, steady and soothing, its rhythm lulling her into a rare sense of calm. Her breaths deepened, syncing with yours as she felt the warmth of you—not just physically but emotionally—envelop her entirely.

Her legs relaxed against the bed, the earlier tension melting away as the embrace seemed to tighten around her. She could feel the way you would normally hold her, firm but tender, your hands moving subtly, like you always adjusted to make her more comfortable. It was so vivid, so intimate, that she couldn’t help but let out a quiet sigh. The connection she felt—the closeness—bridged every mile between you, anchoring her in a love that felt as tangible as the bed she lay on.

As the conversation shifted to lighter topics—your plans for the week, a funny story about something that happened at work, and little observations about the house—Karina hummed absently, her voice soft and dreamy. Her body felt lighter, weightless even, as if she were floating in the comfort of your arms. Her shoulders, always tense from the pressures of the tour, eased fully into the mattress as her lips curled into a faint smile.

“You should’ve seen it,” you said with a laugh. “The way it played out, it was like something out of a sitcom.”

Her hum grew fainter, the embrace and your voice working together to lull her further into relaxation. She could feel the warmth of your chin resting gently against the top of her head, the comforting sensation of being fully encased in your love. The faintest brush of what felt like your fingers grazed along her arm, and her body responded instinctively, her skin tingling as she leaned further into the feeling.

Unbeknownst to her, back in your room, you shifted closer to the doll, your body responding instinctively to the memory of Karina’s warmth. The moment reminded you of all the quiet times you’d shared before, when she’d curl into you, content and serene, indulging in the quiet intimacy.

It had always been her way of staying close, of feeling connected without urgency, and the thought tugged at your chest. Without thinking, you pressed deeper into the doll’s lifelike folds, its warmth enveloping you in a way that felt startlingly familiar. Pulling it impossibly close, you murmured into the phone, “Do you know how much I miss this? Just holding you like this.”

Karina didn’t answer; her hum had faded into a faint, contented sigh. But the moment you settled fully into the doll, she felt it—a slow, steady fullness building inside her, grounding her in ways words couldn’t describe. Her breaths deepened, your touch wrapping around her like a cocoon. The sensation of you filling her wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, a tether binding her to you.

Her legs shifted restlessly, her body reacting instinctively to the steady warmth coursing through her. The subtle pulsing from within deepened the haze of comfort and security enveloping her. It wasn’t urgent or demanding—just a steady, grounding presence that filled her with a connection she hadn’t realized she craved. She melted into the sensation, her body yielding completely as a quiet, contented sigh escaped her lips.

“I miss you so much” you murmured again, your voice tinged with longing and affection.

Karina didn’t answer; her body was too relaxed, too wrapped in the comfort of your embrace and the subtle rhythm inside her. Moments later, the faintest, most delicate snore reached your ears, and a warm chuckle escaped your lips.

“Sleep tight, baby,” you whispered into the phone, your voice brimming with tenderness. “I love you.”

Back at your house, you remained there for a while, holding the doll as the call stayed connected. The sound of her calm, even breaths filled the quiet room, creating a sense of closeness that bridged the miles between you. You smiled softly to yourself, knowing she’d finally found peace. It was the best sleep Karina had since the tour began—a sleep steeped in love, comfort, and the feeling of being wrapped in your arms, no matter the distance.

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cameronsbabydoll · 1 month ago

Text

BEFORE YOU NOTICED — CHAPTER THREE

WARNINGS — terminal illness, coughing up blood, emotional neglect, infertility/miscarriage (implied), medical avoidance, emotional abuse, loneliness, depressive themes, dissociation, suicidal ideation (implied), isolation

you live in a house of gifts, each one a promise he doesn’t keep. they arrive in boxes, sleek and ribboned, left on the counter or the bed like afterthoughts. diamond bracelets that catch the light but not his eyes. perfume in bottles shaped like swans, their glass necks cold against your fingers. silk robes, soft as water, folded in the closet with tags still dangling, whispering of a moment he meant to notice you. you tried, once, to wear them for him. you slipped on the bracelet, heavy as a chain, sprayed the perfume until it stung your throat, draped the robe over your shoulders and stood in the doorway, waiting. he glanced up from his phone, nodded, said, “nice,” and went back to his emails. you stopped trying after that. he didn’t notice.

you move through the mansion like a shadow, your footsteps silent on the marble, the air sharp with the scent of cedar from the diffuser he bought to make the house feel “alive.” it doesn’t. it feels like a museum, all glass and edges, every surface polished to erase you. you touch the bracelet on the dresser, its diamonds winking in the morning light. you don’t put it on. you open the perfume bottle, let a drop fall to your wrist, and wait for the scent to fade. it’s gone by noon, like you are.

your body is heavier now, not just with loneliness but with something else, something that aches in your joints, steals your breath when you climb the stairs. you cough in the bathroom, the sound muffled by a towel you press to your mouth. the blood’s darker today, a clot that clings to the fabric like ink. you rinse it under the faucet, watch the red swirl away, and fold the towel so no one will see. you don’t call the doctor. you don’t open the pill bottle hidden in your makeup drawer. you tell yourself there’s time, even as your hands shake, even as your nails—coral, chipped, forgotten—catch on the towel’s edge.

you wander to the garden, the one place that’s yours, though it’s wilting now. the forget-me-nots are brittle, their petals crumbling when you touch them. you kneel, your skirt pooling in the dirt, and try to coax them back to life with water, with whispers, with anything. your chest tightens, and you cough again, quick, into your sleeve. another speck of red. you fold it away, like always, and stand, your legs unsteady, your fingers stained with soil. you think of the baby shoes, tucked in a box labeled winter coats, a secret you carry alone because rafe was in london when it happened, signing papers for a deal he never explained. you didn’t tell him. you didn’t want to be a burden.

he’s gone again today, a note on the fridge: back late. meeting in new york. you trace the letters, his handwriting sharp as a blade, and wonder when he stopped writing your name. you don’t cook tonight. you don’t set the table or bake or light candles. instead, you pull the silk robe from the closet, its tag brushing your wrist like a reminder. you slip it on, the fabric cool and slippery, and walk through the house, your reflection flickering in the glass walls. you imagine he’s here, that he sees you, that he stops and says your name like he used to, soft and sure. but the house is empty, the city lights beyond the windows pulsing for someone else.

you end up in his study, a room you rarely enter, all leather and oak, his world sealed away. his desk is cluttered with contracts, pens, a coffee cup with a faint ring inside. you touch it, the ceramic cold, and wonder when he drank from it, if he thought of you at all. you sit in his chair, the robe pooling around you, and open a drawer. inside, there’s a photo from your wedding, tucked beneath receipts. you’re smiling, your dress a blur of white, but rafe’s looking away, his eyes on something beyond the frame. you set it down, your throat tight, and cough into your hand. the blood’s there, warm and wet. you wipe it on the robe, a stain he’ll never see.

you leave the study, the robe trailing behind you like a ghost. you don’t go to bed. you wander instead, through rooms you don’t use, past furniture you didn’t choose. the bracelet stays on the dresser, the perfume on the counter, the swans gathering dust. you end up at the piano, the one rafe bought because it looked “elegant.” you don’t play, but you sit, your fingers brushing the keys, their ivory smooth and silent. you press one, a low note that hums through the room, and wait, as if it might call him back. it doesn’t.

rafe comes home at 1:04 am. you’re still at the piano, the robe loose around your shoulders, the tag catching the light. you hear his keys, his shoes, the rustle of his coat. he steps into the room, his silhouette sharp against the city glow. “you’re up,” he says, his voice tired, like he’s carrying the weight of his day. “why’re you sitting here?”

you look at him, your hands still on the keys, and try to find the man who bought you the robe, who promised you forever. “just... couldn’t sleep,” you say, your voice thin, fraying.

he nods, his eyes skimming over you, the robe, the piano. “you look cold,” he says, and steps closer. you hold your breath, waiting for his hand, his warmth, anything. he leans down, presses a kiss to your hair, light as a sigh, and steps back. “go to bed,” he says, already turning, his phone glowing in his hand. “i’ve got calls to make.”

he’s gone before you can answer, his footsteps fading up the stairs. you sit there, the piano silent, the robe heavy, the air thick with the scent of swans you’ll never wear. you cough, soft, into your sleeve, and don’t check it. you know what’s there. you stand, the robe slipping to the floor, and leave it there, the tag a small surrender.

you don’t go to bed. you walk to the garden, the night air sharp against your skin. you kneel among the forget-me-nots, their petals dust under your fingers, and whisper to them, as if they can hear. you tell them about the bracelet, the perfume, the robe he bought and never saw. you tell them about the blood, the ache, the silence that grows louder each day. you tell them about the baby shoes, the loss you buried alone. you don’t cry. you’re too tired for that.

you lie back, the ground cool beneath you, the stars blurred through the glass roof. you think of rafe, upstairs, chasing deals, chasing nothing. you think of the gifts, unworn, untouched, piling up like apologies he never makes. you think of the illness, growing in the dark, and wonder how long you can hide it, how long you can be the wife he doesn’t see.

you close your eyes, your breath shallow, your heart a distant hum. you dream of swans, their wings folded, their glass necks breaking under your touch.

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wendichester · 4 months ago

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⋆˙⟡ bobby's niece,

summary. dean might kinda be crushing on you

pairing. dean winchester x bobby's niece!reader

wordcount. 657

Dean Winchester has been in a lot of tough situations—hunting monsters, dodging the law, saving the world once or twice. But nothing quite compares to the absolute mess he’s in now.

Because he’s got a massive crush on Bobby Singer’s niece.

And that? That’s a problem.

Not because Bobby ever said anything directly, but because, well—Dean’s pretty sure if he so much as thought about you in a way Bobby didn’t approve of, the old man would skin him alive and use his ribs for spare parts.

But damn if you don’t make it hard to behave.

You’re staying at Bobby’s for a while, helping out in the salvage yard, flipping through old lore books like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And Dean? He’s dying.

Because every time you laugh, it does something dangerous to his heart. Every time you brush past him, smelling like wildflowers and gasoline, he has to remind himself to breathe.

And the worst part?

You’re completely oblivious.

You flirt without realizing it—throwing casual compliments his way, stealing his flannel when you get cold, resting a hand on his shoulder when you lean over to read something. It’s torture.

And Sam? That smug son of a bitch? He knows.

“You’re pathetic,” Sam mutters one afternoon, watching Dean nearly drop a wrench because you smiled at him.

“Shut up,” Dean hisses back.

But it’s too late. You’re already looking over, curious. “What’s going on?”

Dean clears his throat, straightens up, desperately tries to play it cool. “Nothin’. Just—uh, fixing this carburetor.”

You raise a brow. “That’s a fuel pump.”

Dean curses under his breath.

Sam snorts.

And Bobby, from across the yard, glares.

Yeah. Dean is so screwed.

The night gets worse when Bobby asks Dean to help you carry a box of old lore books inside. Not that carrying books is the problem.

The problem is you.

Inside the house, you set the books down on the table, stretching your arms above your head, letting out a quiet groan that makes Dean’s brain short-circuit.

“God,” you sigh, shaking out your hands. “Bobby really needs to stop hoarding every supernatural book in existence.”

Dean forces himself to look anywhere but at the sliver of skin peeking out when your shirt rides up. “Yeah, well, he’s stubborn.”

You smirk, plopping down on the couch. “Runs in the family.”

Dean opens his mouth—probably to say something cocky, maybe to deflect the fact that his brain is still stuck on how soft you look lounging there—but then you really ruin his life.

You stretch out your legs, nudging his thigh with your foot. “C’mon, Winchester. Sit. I don’t bite.”

Dean hesitates for half a second.

Then he folds.

He sits next to you, keeping a respectable amount of space between you. Because, y’know. Self-control.

You tilt your head, watching him with a little smile. “You’re kinda weird, y’know that?”

Dean blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I dunno.” You shrug. “You’re usually such a flirt, but with me, you get all quiet and weird.”

His throat closes up.

You don’t know.

You really don’t know.

He’s about to throw out some excuse, maybe crack a joke—because God forbid he just confess that he’s stupidly, painfully into you—when Bobby’s voice calls from the other room.

“Dean! Need you out here, boy!”

Dean jumps up way too fast. “Yep! On it!”

You blink up at him. “Uh. You okay?”

“Peachy!” He forces a grin. “See ya, sweetheart.”

And then he flees.

Later that night, Sam finds him nursing a beer in the kitchen.

“You’re an idiot,” Sam says simply.

Dean glares. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “She likes you, dude.”

Dean scoffs, taking a sip of his beer. “Yeah, okay.”

“She does,” Sam insists. “And if you weren’t so busy being a dumbass, you’d see it.”

Dean pauses, fingers tightening around the bottle.

No.

No way.

Bobby’s niece wouldn’t be into him.

Would she?

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098 ⋆ @lacysretribution ⋆ @globetrotter28 ⋆ @i-love-gvf ⋆ @lemonswinchester ⋆ @4k1vrr ⋆ @bejeweledinterludes ( continues in the comments )

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fic #supernatural #.docx

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arcticwolf144 · 19 days ago

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One thing I haven’t seen discussed much is the fact that Gabe is actively crying during I’m Alive (Reprise) (or at least has very recently stopped). Like tear tracks, spiky eyelashes, red eyes, the whole thing. I think this is such a cool choice and I can think of several possible interpretations:

- It’s an emotionally heightened moment where Gabe is (if we see him as having his own emotions) feeling a lot of relief as well as anger and a desperation to be seen and crying from heightened emotion works well for the younger version of the character. Alternatively it also just adds an extra layer of emotional instability to what is already an extremely emotional moment for the family

- This is Dan’s “version” of Gabe who is therefore crying as that is what Dan remembers him doing. He has none of Diana’s delusions of him growing up, so when he remembers Gabe he sees him crying as he did in the weeks/months before he died

- Implies that while Gabe has been shut up in his little box he’s been crying watching everyone else go about their lives

- This comes just after How Could I Ever Forget and the broken music box and is a further manifestation of Diana and Dan’s pain and guilt (could also see it as Gabe grieving his own death if you want to perceive him as more independent and “real”)

- Gabe is at the height of his power over the family here and the tears maintain that air of vulnerability that characterises Jack Wolfe’s Gabe as compared to previous versions

There has to be a reason for it imo because to enter in that state Jack would have to be standing offstage crying his eyes out (or like inhaling an onion or something). That takes effort and has to be deliberate. (Unless of course he was simply sobbing at Caissie and Jamie’s How Could I Ever Forget in which case same how relatable). Anyway I would love to discuss/hear your thoughts!

#next to normal #next to normal uk #jack wolfe #gabe goodman

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crushpunky · 11 months ago

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drew and actress!reader in their new house

Drew threw himself onto the mattress with a grunt, causing Reader to giggle before joining him. They had just finished moving in the last pieces of furniture to their new house.

Their house resided in a quiet town about half an hour outside of Charleston. A beautiful home adorned with rustic brick and numerous windows that flooded every room with rays of sunlight. Reader remembered the way her heart swelled the very first time they had visited the house and looked at the ivy covered walls and beautiful, spacious backyard. Despite spending multiple nights on a mattress on the floor within the house, the feeling of awe still hit her whenever she looked at the home and imagined how the two of them would fill it with their friends and family.

“I’m amazed with how you managed to not punch a hole in the wall while assembling that nightstand.” Reader said, running her hair through Drew’s buzzed hair, which caused him to roll his eyes.

“Me too. We were almost going to just have to have one.” Drew said with a huff, propping himself up on his elbow and turning to look at Reader. She mirrored him, propping herself up with a grin.

“I can’t believe this.” Reader whispered. Drew reached out, taking one of her hands in his own and gently running his thumb along her knuckles. The metal of his rings pressed into her skin, the cool sensation a familiar and soothing one.

“Me either.” Drew whispered back, his eyes scanning over Reader’s face. The skylights bathed the room in a warm light, giving Reader an ethereal glow. As they continued to sit in the bed, Reader could see flashes of the future: the mornings spent together in the kitchen, Charleston running around the backyard, the spare bedroom filled with a crib…

Without even realizing, she could feel herself begin to cry.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Drew asked, causing Reader to wipe the stray tears from her cheeks.

“I’m just— I’m just so happy, Drew.” Reader laughed, tears continuing to fall even as she grinned. “To be here with you. To start the rest of our lives together. I think it’s all hitting me now.”

Drew smiled before pulling her into his arms, her face resting against his chest. She snaked her arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips. She couldn’t help but grin at the same smoky taste she had tasted millions of times before burying her head on his shoulder.

“Me too, baby.” Drew said, running his hands down Reader’s back and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. They sat there for a moment, soaking in the sheer perfection of the moment. The warmth of each other's bodies, the lingering scent of the muffins Reader had baked earlier, the music that played softly from the record player, the photos that lined the walls of their bedroom.

Despite the silence, Reader could feel Drew stirring slightly, one of his arms leaving where they rested on her back. His eyes still trained solely on her, a grin plastered on his face. She looked into his eyes, a brow raised, before looking down at the arm that now rested between them. In his hand sat a small, black box.

“I promised your parents that I’d wait until they were in town, but I just can’t wait.” Drew said softly. Reader could feel her eyes fill with tears again as she pushed herself up further to get a better look at Drew and the… glittering, diamond ring that rested inside the box.

“I’ve been holding onto this for a year and a half now because, god—” Drew ran his other hand through his hair, “you are the absolute love of my life and I don’t even want to spend another second not being with you. You’re it for me, and I would be the luckiest man alive if you would have me. So, will you marry me?”

Reader raised a trembling hand to cover her mouth as Drew’s words began to truly click. She had dreamt of this moment, imagined what it would feel like to be married to someone who loved her so deeply… but this was even better than anything she could’ve even imagined.

“Yes, Drew, yes.” Reader said with a sob, lowering her hand from her face. Drew sprung forward, kissing her so strongly she thought she would fall off the bed. She laughed as he pulled away, taking her still trembling hand. He pressed a soft kiss to Reader’s knuckles before gently sliding the ring onto her finger.

She held her hand up, admiring the way the beautiful ring twinkled in the sunlight, before looking back at Drew. He still had a smile plastered to his face, his eyes glassy and transfixed only on Reader.

“Oh, baby.” Reader said, snaking her hands around Drew’s neck and pulling him closer.

“I guess I’m the one crying now, huh?” Drew chuckled, wiping his eyes. Reader grinned, kissing his cheek before resting her head on Drew’s chest.

“I love you so, so much.” Drew said, hugging Reader’s body into his.

“I love you too. More than you can even imagine.”

#obx #drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x actress!reader #actress!reader

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kiame-sama · 1 month ago

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Humans Are Extinct (Yandere?TWST x Fem!Reader) Monster AU pt 53

(Trey is the one who helped put together Grim's Heartslabyul uniform, deciding the Jack of Hearts would be the best card for little Grim. He struggles with the buttons and needs help to put on the full uniform, but it makes Riddle absolutely melt in pride to see the Kit dressed up in the dorm's colors.)

Warnings; yandere, yandere behavior, platonic and romantic yanderes, lonely dragon hours, an incomplete puzzle still gives the assumption of a completed image, reader is smart but can only deduce so much with limited information, plans of manipulation, anxieties, everyone is STRESSED, dragon, vampire bat, Shinigami, hellcat, Selkie,

~~~~

The day turned to night as the visitors settled down in the main lobby of Ramshackle dorms. Almost every guard had shown up to keep vigil given the severity of the situation and the fact that you still had yet to wake. From Pomefiore- who had not yet had the chance to officially guard you- all the way to the handful of Royal Sword Academy students. Any who had a connection to you was present.

Despite the outpouring of concern and the presence of so many in the dorm, you did not stir. Your body lay still against the stomach of the Dragon who had yet to stop his mournful noises as he stared at your immobile figure. The only one who had been able to approach Malleus was Grim, the Kit easily climbing up the side of the Dragon to reach you. Not even Lilia had been allowed to come close, which spoke volumes as to how seriously Malleus was taking your comatose state.

Where Leona would have been the first to scold Malleus for his excessive noise, even the proud Lion knew better than to press the Dragon. The simple fact that Malleus was aggressive towards his Hoard to protect you cooled any less than pleasant emotions the others had. There was a time and a place to challenge the Dragon for his general behavior, and this was neither.

Even Hades- who continued his sleepless vigil as the others nodded off- planned to confront the Dragon with you present. He wasn't going to let Malleus' blatant disrespect to your autonomy slide, but he wasn't going to poke the Dragon unnecessarily while you were in such a poor state. Malleus, for now, was protecting you from everyone else and that was enough to allow the Dragon peace of mind.

The elder Shinigami figured you were trapped in that odd dream-like state you had described to him before. To think, the Dragon hadn't even fully Overblotted and you were still stuck within the haunted memories of the Prince due to the blot. Your ability to draw out and absorb blot was nothing short of miraculous for those you helped, but it was no miracle to you. When did the blot become too much for you? The amount you had already absorbed should be enough to kill, so where did your seemingly endless tolerance of blot actually end?

Finding out wasn't worth the cost that it would have for you.

As it was when Vil had come close to Overblotting, your skin bore signs of the blot you had taken on. Around your eyes had darkened to a midnight black, your soft lips bearing those same shadows. Veins along your body spiderwebbed into your flesh and even that illustrious Selkie coat from your temporary transformation took on a darker pigment.

This wasn't healthy for you. Being around these beasts wasn't healthy for you. But could the elder really bring himself to force you into staying on the Isle of Woe where you could be properly protected and monitored?

Would your subsequent anger and mistrust towards him be worth keeping you like a doll in a glass display box? It would keep you alive, but you would fight the forced isolation and shake off the binds with all you had. Even your suspicions towards him and his kin when you heard them speak their native tongue had unsettled the ancient being.

Would your hatred truly be worth keeping you 'safe' among his own domain?

~•§•~

You continued to wade through memory after memory, watching as each wound of isolation and loneliness was cared into Malleus' heart. It was almost a cruel divine joke that so many forgot about Malleus. Even Silver and Sebek would frequently forget the Dragon who took the forgetful actions as yet another scar on his heart.

Eventually it felt almost like it was too much for you to bear just watching the way he yearned for someone- anyone- to remember he existed. Beyond you and Lilia, it was rare Malleus was included in things. The small invitations from you and the Bat meant more than the world to the dour Dragon, seeing how he would even physically mark his calendar with a child-like giddiness to him despite his centuries of life.

He truly saw even small social gestures as a gift.

With so few memories where he actually had genuine companionship, you began to realize just why Malleus behaved the way he did. It wasn't an excuse by any stretch, but it was an explanation. Each birthday Malleus spent crying and alone was burned into your heart. Every crestfallen expression he bore when he realized he had been left outcast from a social gathering haunted you.

Malleus was a lonely soul in search of a friend yet having never truly experienced friendship until he met you. Even if it was a friendship of necessity to you and a friendship of addiction to him, you were the closest he had to genuine companionship. It was simply his nature for him to cling desperately to those bonds.

The scene you were now in was a familiar one despite how hazy the memory was for you. Divus working quickly on your mangled arm as Riddle sobbed into his hands. Malleus was running to your side.

You vaguely remembered that Lilia made it to you first, but you could now actually see the sheer look of panic on Malleus' face as he dashed to you. It was clear you were not fully aware of things as you swayed and tilted your head while laying propped up against Lilia. Despite how disoriented you were, Malleus looked at you as if you were the moon in his night sky.

The panic in his heart was still present, but even his most turbulent emotions calmed when he could be by your side. As he settled next to you, the scene in front of you shifted to yet another memory involving you. This one made your stomach churn. It was a scene you had heard about but not actually witnessed.

Malleus had burst from the woods and into a scene that haunted his memories about as much as it would haunt you. Your body lay limply beneath that of Leona, blood stained your clothes and it looked as if you had already died. The dark color stained Leona as well and- though you knew he had saved you, not hurt you- it looked as if Leona had brutalized you.

You could see the way Malleus' eyes darkened and that blot colored aura surrounded him. It was as if his heart were shattering as he stared at your limp body. He clearly needed someone to blame for your 'death' and that electric green gaze of his locked on Leona.

"For the crime of harming my Hoard and killing my Human, I- Malleus Draconia, Prince of Briar Valley- hereby sign the death warrant of Leona Kingscholar and consign his soul to oblivion."

As Malleus prepared to attack, the scene shifted again. Now you found yourself in the infirmary, watching Divus very gently wrap up your leg.

Malleus sat next to your sick-bed, his eyes somewhat swollen and darkened around the edges as if he had been crying. It didn't matter to him that Lilia, Silver, and Sebek were nearby, what mattered to him was that you were unwell. Even Leona's presence had not really occurred to the Dragon that guarded you so fiercely.

Malleus was holding one of your hands, slowly and gently petting the flesh of your arm as he tried to keep himself calm. The windows along the far walls of the room showed it was raining and you had no doubt it was because of Malleus.

Even as the day turned to night and the others settled down to sleep, Malleus refused to move. His eyes were locked solely on you as he helped Grim up onto your stomach. The only time he released your hand was for a sparing few seconds before he was reaching out to you again for comfort.

He clung to your presence in a way that almost seemed worshipful. The Dragon worshiped the way you chased his isolation and dour emotions into hiding. There was no one way to describe how afraid he was of losing you and being forced back into that painful isolation.

Finally, the scene took on another view, one that confused you more than it should have. It was the day Malleus gifted you the Magestone that hung around your neck. You were busy making food for little Cheka and Grim while Malleus spoke quietly to Lilia. Naturally, you were keen to hear what the two Fae spoke of so secretively.

"... Maleanor used it for the same goal with Raverne."

"So, I simply need her to wear it, and it will maintain her wellbeing?"

"Yes. Her life will be sustained by your own and you will be able to ensure she is safe. I won't question you as to what you plan to do when you look in on her, but I can say that she will be safer with you watching over her."

Malleus nodded as he looked at the lovely Magestone in his hands. The way they spoke made you begin connecting the dots from their behavior and attitudes, leaving you piecing the actions of both Fae together.

You did always feel like you were being watched, even while you were alone. Based on what Lilia said, it was very likely that Malleus had actually been looking in on you through the Magestone when he had the chance. Was it possible Malleus had seen the Human ghosts? No. No, he would have thrown a more destructive fit if he realized you were doing everything in your power to leave.

Despite the way it made you pity the Dragon, you knew that you would take Grim and run if you had the chance to go home. It saddened you to think about the way it would deeply damage Malleus to have his only friend and true confidant flee from him to where he can never hope to follow. Still, this world was not safe for you unless you bound yourself to several of these monsters permanently. Even Hades said it was likely you would have to choose multiple of them just to avoid their cataclysmic meltdowns.

Your choices were limited and you needed to give them something or they may push themselves too far one day. How would you even go about trying to do that without multiple Overblots taking place? What would you have to give them to convince them to give you a bit more slack on your diamond encrusted leash? Even further past the clear invasion of your privacy, something else the Bat had said caught your attention.

'Her life will be sustained by your own'.

That phrase echoed around in your mind as you rest your hand over the Magestone sitting proudly on your collarbone. What kind of sustaining did this Magestone do? Was the Magestone infecting you further the longer you wore it? What was it infecting you with?

None of these questions could be answered while you were trapped in memories of the past. You needed to wake up and face them. The conflict would no doubt push Malleus to the edge given his rejection sensitive temper. How could you make him tell you the truth without pushing him into a true Overblot?

You recognized the fact that you had been lucky to stop Malleus before he fully lost himself to a full Overblot. The fact that his sorrow and isolation weighed so heavily on him only told you how easily he would fall again should you push him away.

Your path forward was not clear, and you knew you would have to give something in order to get something from the Dragon. Within the next few weeks, you would find the truth no matter the cost. If that meant you had to pretend to have romantic interests in the seven different dormheads and the other guards, then so be it.

~•§•~

Your eyes slowly opened as you let out a soft squeak from the sudden feeling of consciousness. A warmth surrounded you and left you feeling like you were floating adrift a sea of comfort on a soft cloud. It took you only a few moments to realize it was due in part to your Selkie pelt laying over you, and in part to the Dragon that breathed warmth onto your body.

Said Dragon was whining a soft lament, the large reptile's eyes were closed and his brow muscles were pulled taught in an expression of concern. It felt like you were lain out on the broad side of the beast, feeling every intake of breath moving your figure up. His black and purple scales glittered like gemstones in the room that was bathed in silver moonlight.

The ever lonely vigil of a broken hearted Dragon.

Beneath your hands, centered on your stomach, was a warm ball of fur. No doubt Grim had desperately snuggled into you as he- yet again- faced the very real possibility of losing you. The Hellcat was so young and already lost so much to the cruelty of life, and here he was having to face the potential reality of losing everything he had learned to love.

As you moved to look at Grim, a sudden silence hung in the air. The low mournful humming had stopped.

Turning your head, you were met face to face with the unblinking bright green eyes of the dark Dragon. His gaze fixed on you and his large slit pupils blown wide. The Dragon knew you were awake.

Silence lasted for only a moment before a confused squeak came from the Kit under your hand, that squeak turning into a shout of jubilation.

"MAMA!"

#kiame-sama #humans are extinct twst au #yandere #tw yandere #yandere x reader #hae au #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst #yandere au #monster au

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mimipolo · 6 months ago

Note

Can u write headcanons for the sakamoto days characters as the animes coming out on Saturday. For ur bestie friendie 😆😆

Sakamoto days x reader headcanons

Yes I will, happy birthday to you. You should be ecstatic rn.

Is the Sakamoto days fandom alive on here??? Hope so.

Shin

He's really obvious about the fact he like you, like reallyyy obvious

Puts extra effort into every little action he does so you think he's cool(he's really not),if you two met in the JCC he'd make sure his entire routine for group assassination missions is basically flawless.

Can't help being curious about what you thought and tunes into your thoughts and has to pretend his face isn't growing hotter by the second as he walks back in line, your inner thoughts of admiration replaying in his head.

Has at least one person(Mr Sakamoto) who he talks to endlessly about you, if he was still an assassin he'd have found it unbearable but now he sits blissfully with a ramen cup in hand as Shin talks away, when his mind wanders to young love and then eventually his wife, Shin snaps at him to pay attention.

Knows a lot about you (most without you knowing but sh), sometimes he just comes up to you and reminds you of something you're about to forget or a question too niche for him to ask and you're like "huh?" and he just blinks at you before going "huh-?"

Takes a deep breath and does that silly shake thing guys do when they're about to run when he's determined to talk to you, ends up folding anyway because he's geeked you asked to eat with him today.

Does the absolute most to keep you out of danger, at the JCC and at the shop, enemies seem to be popping up from anywhere now he and Sakamoto had dropped from the ranks and he didn't want you wrapped up in that.

Cannot flirt, he cannot and it's so embarassing, it's sweet when he tries though, the moment he sees you trying to hold your laugh he just gives up and holds his flushed face as you double over laughing. At least you said he was cute(internally.)

I can imagine you two in his or your room on a hot day, the windows wide open and the fan is blasting in your faces as you split twin popsicles, he thinks you look beautiful even as you sweat profusely and fan your face with your hand.

Nagumo

So annoying, to the point it's almost driving you mad, makes every excuse under the sun to come see you, be it day or night. People often ask how you deal with his unprecedented visits and you can only drag out a sigh and shrug.

Terrible gift giver but it's clear he tries, hands you a beaten up rubber duck and looks at you expectantly when you're not immediately ecstatic (cause what??). He'll explain like some expertise in the science of you that he saw you cooing and feeding ducks one day in the summer five years ago. You look down at the small colourful bird and decide it's actually quite cute, it can go in your random trinket box.

Naturally touchy guy, an arm around your shoulder is not a rare thing but one thing he does get nervous about is holding your hand. Yes he could hold you against his chest for ages as you read out something to him but the idea of holding your has his head in his hands as he squats on the floor.

Would love it if you liked his stupid jokes but would love it even more if you made it your goal to absolutely despite them. He finds the dynamic quite funny. Actively enjoys seeing the way your face crumples up when he cracks a joke at the absolute worst time, something dumb about grannies as the both of you are still panting and painted in blood in a care home of all places.

Not that jealous or possessive but will feel left out when he notices you're hanging out with someone a bit more than him. Will insert himself between you and this new person, mostly unaware he's acting on self preservation to keep himself in your sights.

Shishiba

He's so calm and collected all the time, the concept of him liking someone and that person possibly being you had never crossed your mind and it probably never will.

He likes to praise your work ethic a lot, "Looks good." , "You cleaned them up yourself?" You just nod back with a smile and he's convinced he made the boldest move in the books.

Would want to make absolute certain you like him before saying anything life threateningly risky. Pretty traditional with it, asks you out to eat after work and lets you choose the place. Insists he pays because he earns more than you but he just wanted to treat you. Has a list on his phone of the places you two enjoyed the most and pins them on Maps in case you want to go again.

The type to stare daggers into you while you're busy talking to someone else, when you're done talking he's still looking your way and waits for you to acknowledge him. Sometimes he announces himself, sometimes he'll just walk up beside you and hands your new assignment over which honestly startles you at times.

Wish he could've met you under different circumstances, wherever you're in his line of work or not. He'll never be truly satisfied with the way things are, constantly weighing the options.

For now he's enjoying watching you enjoy your favourite snacks and his heart warms when you offer him a generous bite.

Kashimo

Doesn't know what he's feeling towards you, the only thing he knew was his loyalty to Slur and you were gradually changing that one situation at a time.

It started when you'd apply ointments to where his body disconnected even though he was literally designed to be able to be broken and put back together with no effort. But you put in that effort, insisting he should let you and it'd be beneficial in the long wrong, he liked to believe you.

Often shows up to your cubicle at work just to say good morning then walk away, not even waiting for you to respond. You find it oddly charming and he just likes hearing your giggle as he leaves the office.

He believes you're also one of those people whose never done anything worth damning in their entire life. You're so kind and considerate of him he couldn't even fathom you doing anything wrong. Sometimes he hopes he's still capable of dying just so it could be alongside you, doesn't understand what that means fully though, it's just an ideal.

Likes it when you hold his arm, patting it slightly as you give some feedback on the latest mission. Doesn't understand the point in it but is far from complaining, he enjoys your attention and doting words.

Doesn't like to hold delicate things, like cats he really likes them but has a lingering fear he'd accidentally hurt the small thing. Instead he likes watching you hold these fragile things, pointing to them and you pick them up with a questioning look on your face, he makes a motion for you to scratch it's ears, he's pleased when you do.

(Y'all know like those slime stimboard monkey vids💀💀)

He considers you to also be delicate, so you'll never catch him making a move to touch you even though sometimes his bones ache to, he's fine with the brief touches you give him he couldn't ask for anything more.

Heisuke

He's also helplessly down bad for you, instead he tries his best to be helpful to you but you always seem to one up him in that area, especially when you let him crash at your place. Like a true angel.

Doesn't bother with pickup lines he's tried them out and they're not really his thing but sometimes he says something so heartmoving you pause all together. When he notices your reaction he's completely oblivious he's successfully shot his shot, "Pfft look at ya face."

Piisuke loves you because he does, it's like their brains are interlinked. The bird will catch small sight of you and immediately rush over to perch itself on your shoulder and snuggle its beak into your cheek, it hurts but how could you say no. Heisuke already knows that whenever his small partner did this you were likely around, so he's walking up to you bashfully and taking Piisuke back (he's secretly setting the two of you up.)

Showers you with compliments and praise likes it's nothing, words of affirmation is definitely one of his top love languages on hopefully getting you to like him back. But the moment you reciprocate, admiring his terrifyingly precise sniping skill he's so flushed and hot and fumbling his words he just has to slap a hand over his mouth. Needs a minute before he's chucking softly, his hands smoothly over the rough build of the artillery as he thanks you.

The forgetful sort but not when it comes to you, suddenly he remembers everything. Sometimes he comes to you to say something he needs to remember because it's so much easier when it's your face and voice he remembers reprimanding him.

Dreams of a soft domestic life with you, maybe, if you like, a kid or two to complete the picture and of course the family pet as Piisuke. Grins stupidly to himself at the idea of how he'd propose to you (you're not even together yet.)

#sakamoto days #saka days #sakamoto days x reader #shin x reader #nagumo x reader #kashimo x reader #heisuke mashimo #heisuke x reader #headcanon #yh

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onlyforsebastianstan · 1 month ago

Text

Better Off Without Me

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You, a sharp-tongued Avenger, love Bucky Barnes, but his Winter Soldier past haunts him. When he sees you laughing with Steve Rogers, the “perfect” hero, Bucky’s insecurities flare, believing you deserve better.

📎Genre: Angst | Romance | Drama | Hurt/Comfort | Jealousy

⚠️ Warnings:

→ Emotional Content → Mild Violence → Psychological Themes → Mild Language

The Avengers compound buzzed with the quiet hum of post-mission decompression. The air smelled of coffee and antiseptic, a strange mix of home and hospital that clung to the walls after a fight. You leaned against the kitchen counter, a mug of tea cooling in your hands, the warmth doing little to ease the knot in your chest. The mission had been brutal, Hydra stragglers, a collapsed warehouse, too many close calls, but you’d all made it back. Bruised, battered, but alive.

Steve Rogers sat across from you at the table, his sketchpad open, pencil scratching softly as he doodled. His blonde hair caught the late afternoon light, giving him an almost ethereal glow, like the hero posters you’d seen as a kid. He was laughing, recounting a moment from the mission where Sam had tripped over a crate and swore loud enough to wake half the city.

“You should’ve seen his face, Y/N,” Steve chuckled, his blue eyes crinkling. “Like he was personally offended by that box.”

You snorted, the sound escaping before you could stop it. “Oh, I saw it. He’s probably writing a strongly worded letter to that crate as we speak.” Your sarcasm, sharp as ever, drew another laugh from Steve, and for a moment, the weight of the day lifted. You tossed your hair back, grinning, and added, “Bet he’ll challenge it to a duel next.”

The moment felt light, a rare reprieve from the chaos. But then you felt it, a prickle on the back of your neck, like someone was watching. You glanced toward the doorway and saw him. Bucky Barnes, your Bucky, stood there, his broad frame half-hidden in shadow. His metal arm glinted faintly, but it was his eyes that stopped you cold. Stormy blue, clouded with something you couldn’t quite name, pain, maybe, or something heavier.

“Bucky?” you called softly, setting your mug down. “You okay?”

He blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, and forced a tight smile. “Just tired, doll.” His voice was low, rough, like gravel underfoot. He turned and disappeared down the hall before you could press further, his boots echoing faintly.

Your stomach twisted. Bucky had been distant lately, more than usual. The Winter Soldier’s shadow still clung to him, you knew that, knew the nightmares, the guilt, the way he’d wake up gasping, hands clenched like he could still feel blood on them. But this was different. This wasn’t just the ghosts of his past; this was something new, something aimed at you.

Steve noticed too, his pencil pausing. “He’s been through a lot,” he said quietly, always the optimist, always trying to fix what was broken. “Give him time.”

You nodded, but the knot in your chest tightened. Time. You’d given Bucky time, fought alongside him, held him through the worst nights. So why did it feel like he was slipping through your fingers?

The next few days were a slow unraveling. Bucky was a ghost in the compound, slipping in and out of rooms before you could catch him. You’d find traces of him, a half-empty coffee mug, a jacket slung over a chair, but never him. Not really. You tried to keep busy, throwing yourself into work. You and Steve were tasked with analyzing mission data, poring over grainy footage of Hydra’s latest moves. It was tedious, but it kept you grounded, and Steve’s easy camaraderie was a welcome distraction.

“You’re good at this,” Steve said one afternoon, leaning over your shoulder to point at a discrepancy in the footage. “Spotted that faster than I would’ve.”

You smirked, tapping the screen. “That’s because you’re too busy drawing sunsets to notice the bad guys, Rogers.”

He laughed, a warm, rumbling sound, and nudged you playfully. “Hey, art’s my therapy. Don’t knock it.”

You rolled your eyes, but the banter felt good, normal. For a moment, you were just two friends, not soldiers in an endless war. But when you glanced up, you saw Bucky in the doorway again, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the space between you and Steve. He didn’t say a word, just turned and left, his footsteps heavier this time.

“Damn it,” you muttered under your breath, pushing back from the desk. Steve raised an eyebrow, but you waved him off. “I’ll be back.”

You found Bucky in the training room, the steady thump of his fists against a punching bag echoing like a heartbeat. His shirt was damp with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead, and the metal arm gleamed with every strike. He didn’t look up as you approached, but you knew he sensed you. He always did.

“Bucky, talk to me,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’ve been avoiding me for days. What’s going on?”

He didn’t stop, his punches landing harder. “Nothing’s going on.”

“Bullshit.” Your voice was sharp, cutting through the rhythm of his hits. “You’re shutting me out, and I want to know why.”

He froze, his fist hovering mid-air, chest heaving. Slowly, he turned to face you, and the look in his eyes made your heart stutter, raw, unguarded, like he was carrying the weight of the world and it was crushing him.

“It’s not you,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s me.”

You stepped closer, undeterred. “That’s not an answer, Bucky. I’m not some fragile thing you have to protect. Whatever’s eating you, we can face it together.”

His laugh was bitter, hollow. “Together? You think you can fix this?” He gestured vaguely to himself, to the scars on his soul you couldn’t see but knew were there. “You deserve better, Y/N. Someone who’s not… broken.”

Your breath caught, the words slicing deeper than you’d expected. “Don’t do that,” you said, voice shaking. “Don’t decide what I deserve. I chose you, Bucky. You.”

He looked away, jaw clenching, and you saw the flicker of something, guilt, fear, maybe both. “You shouldn’t have,” he muttered, and before you could respond, he grabbed his towel and walked out, leaving you standing alone in the empty gym.

The team dinner that night was supposed to be a reset, a chance to reconnect after the mission’s chaos. The common room was warm, filled with the clink of glasses and Sam’s loud laughter as he recounted another story. You sat between Nat and Wanda, trying to focus on their conversation, but your eyes kept drifting to Bucky. He was at the far end of the table, picking at his food, his expression unreadable.

Steve, ever the leader, stood to make a toast, his glass raised. “To the team,” he said, his voice steady. “And to Y/N, who saved my ass out there today. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

The room erupted in cheers, and you forced a smile, your cheeks warming under the attention. Steve’s grin was genuine, proud, and you couldn’t help but return it, even as you felt Bucky’s gaze on you, heavy and piercing.

When you looked his way, he was already standing, his chair scraping against the floor. “I’m turning in,” he said curtly, not meeting your eyes. He left before anyone could protest, the door swinging shut behind him.

The room fell quiet for a moment, the air thick with unspoken tension. Nat raised an eyebrow at you, but you shook your head, not trusting your voice. Steve started to follow Bucky, but you grabbed his arm.

“Let me,” you said, your tone sharper than intended. Steve hesitated, then nodded, his eyes full of concern.

You found Bucky outside, sitting on a bench overlooking the compound’s grounds. The night was cool, the stars sharp against the sky, and he looked so small, so unlike the soldier you knew. You sat beside him, close but not touching, waiting for him to speak.

“You and Steve,” he said finally, his voice low, almost lost in the breeze. “You looked happy tonight.”

Your heart sank, realization dawning. “Bucky, it’s not like that. Steve’s my friend. You know that.”

He didn’t look at you, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. “He’s everything I’m not. Hero. Leader. Whole. You deserve that, Y/N. Not… this.” He gestured to himself, the metal arm glinting in the moonlight.

Anger flared in your chest, hot and sharp. “Stop it,” you snapped. “You don’t get to tell me what I deserve. I’m here, Bucky. With you. Why can’t you see that?”

He turned to you then, his eyes raw, haunted. “Because every time I look at you with him, I see the life you could have. No blood on his hands, no ghosts in his head. I’m holding you back.”

You reached for him, but he stood, stepping out of reach. “Bucky, please—”

“I need time,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry.” He walked away, leaving you on the bench, your hands trembling as you fought the urge to scream, to chase him, to make him see.

You didn’t notice Steve watching from the doorway, his expression heavy with guilt. He’d seen the whole thing, and for the first time, he wondered if his presence was doing more harm than good.

The Avengers compound felt colder after that night, like the air itself had absorbed Bucky’s absence. You sat on the bench outside long after he walked away, his dog tags heavy in your pocket, a habit you’d picked up, carrying them like a talisman against the growing distance between you. The stars above mocked you with their stillness, indifferent to the ache in your chest. You wanted to scream, to shake Bucky until he saw himself the way you did, not a monster, not broken, but a man worth fighting for. But his words, “I’m holding you back,” echoed like a curse, and you couldn’t unhear them.

Steve found you later, his silhouette looming in the doorway. “Y/N,” he said softly, his voice carrying that familiar weight of concern. “You okay?”

You laughed, sharp and bitter, wiping at your eyes. “Do I look okay, Rogers?” Your sarcasm was a shield, but it felt flimsy tonight. “He thinks I’m better off with you. You believe that?”

Steve’s jaw tightened, and he sat beside you, keeping a careful distance. “He’s wrong,” he said firmly. “Bucky’s got a lot of demons, but he’s not thinking straight. You’re the best thing in his life, Y/N.”

“Then why’s he running from me?” Your voice cracked, and you hated it, hated the vulnerability that spilled out. Steve reached out, then stopped, his hand hovering like he wasn’t sure you’d welcome it.

“He’s scared,” Steve said finally. “Scared he’ll hurt you, scared he’s not enough. I’ve seen it before, back in the war. He’d push people away when he thought he didn’t deserve them.”

You shook your head, fingers curling around the dog tags. “I’m not giving up on him, Steve. But I don’t know how to make him see.”

Steve’s eyes softened, but there was guilt there too, a shadow you hadn’t noticed before. “Just… don’t let him push you too far,” he said. “You deserve to be happy too.”

You didn’t respond, the weight of his words settling uneasily. Steve’s support was a lifeline, but it stung, knowing his presence was part of why Bucky was pulling away. You stood, brushing off your jeans. “I need to find him,” you said, more to yourself than to Steve, and headed back inside, the night air biting at your heels.

The next week was a slow bleed. Bucky was a phantom, slipping through the compound like he was made of smoke. You’d catch glimpses, his shadow in the gym, his laugh muffled through a wall, but he avoided you with a precision that hurt more than any fight. You threw yourself into training, hoping the physical strain would dull the ache. It didn’t. Every punch you threw at the bag felt like a plea, every dodge in sparring a dodge from the truth: Bucky was slipping away, and you didn’t know how to stop it.

You found him in the training room one evening, the air thick with the scent of sweat and rubber mats. He was alone, his fists pummeling a heavy bag with a rhythm that bordered on frantic. The metal arm moved like a machine, precise and relentless, but his face—God, his face, was a storm of pain, eyes dark and distant. You stood in the doorway, watching, your heart twisting at the sight of him unraveling.

“Bucky,” you said, stepping forward. Your voice was steady, but inside, you were shaking. “We need to talk.”

He didn’t stop, his fists hitting harder, the bag swaying. “Not now, Y/N.”

“Yes, now.” You crossed the room, planting yourself between him and the bag, forcing him to pause. His chest heaved, sweat dripping from his brow, and his eyes met yours, raw and guarded.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, voice low, almost a growl. “I told you, I need time.”

“And I told you that’s not an answer.” Your sarcasm slipped out, sharp as a blade. “You’ve been dodging me for days, Bucky. You don’t get to just walk away and call it ‘time.’ What’s going on with you?”

He stepped back, wiping his face with a towel, his movements jerky. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.” You took a step closer, refusing to let him retreat. “You said I deserve better, that I’m better off with Steve. Is that what this is? You think I’m pining for Captain Perfect over there?”

His flinch was subtle, but you caught it, and it fueled your anger. “Don’t,” he said, his voice breaking. “Don’t make this about him.”

“Then what is it about?” you snapped, your hands balling into fists. “Because I’m standing here, telling you I want you, and you’re acting like I’m some damsel who needs saving from you. I’m not fragile, Bucky. I chose you.”

He laughed, a hollow, bitter sound that made your stomach lurch. “You chose wrong, doll.” He tossed the towel aside, his eyes blazing with something desperate. “You think you can handle this?” He gestured to himself, to the scars you couldn’t see but knew were there. “I’m a monster, Y/N. A broken machine. You deserve someone whole, someone like him.”

“Stop it!” Your voice echoed in the gym, sharp enough to make him freeze. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve. I’m not some prize to be handed off to Steve because you’re too scared to try. I love you, Bucky. You. Not him.”

His expression crumpled, just for a second, before the walls went back up. “You don’t get it,” he said, quieter now, almost defeated. “Every time I look at you with him, I see what you could have. A life without blood, without nightmares. I’m not enough.”

You reached for him, desperate to close the distance, but he stepped back, shaking his head. “I can’t do this,” he muttered, and before you could stop him, he grabbed his gear and left, the door slamming shut behind him.

You stood there, the silence deafening, your hands trembling as you fought the urge to scream. The dog tags in your pocket felt heavier, a reminder of what you were losing. You sank to the floor, pressing your palms to your eyes, willing the tears to stay down. You weren’t giving up, not yet, but God, it hurt.

Bucky’s absence became a physical thing, a void that followed you through the compound. He started taking solo missions, slipping out without warning, leaving only curt notes in the mission logs. “Recon. Back in 48 hours.” “Hydra lead. Don’t follow.” Each one was a knife, cutting deeper, and you hated how they echoed the notes he used to leave you, scribbled apologies, promises to talk later, always signed with a simple “B.” Once, you’d found a wild daisy tucked into one, a quiet gesture that made your heart ache. Now, there were no flowers, no softness, just cold efficiency.

You confided in Steve one night, sitting in the common room with a bottle of whiskey between you. The amber liquid burned your throat, loosening your tongue. “He’s killing himself out there,” you said, staring at the glass. “And he thinks he’s doing it for me.”

Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Buck’s always been stubborn. He thinks pushing you away keeps you safe. But he’s wrong.”

You snorted, the sarcasm slipping out. “Great, Captain Obvious. Got any advice that isn’t a fortune cookie?”

He gave you a half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll talk to him,” he said. “He listens to me, sometimes.”

“Don’t,” you said quickly, the whiskey making you bold. “You’ll make it worse. He already thinks I’m halfway in love with you.”

Steve’s face fell, guilt flickering across his features. “I never meant to—”

“I know,” you cut him off, softer now. “You’re his brother, Steve. I get it. But every time you’re around, he sees everything he’s not. And I don’t know how to fix that.”

Steve leaned back, his jaw tight. “I’ll back off,” he said quietly. “But you need to fight for him, Y/N. He’s worth it.”

You nodded, but the words felt hollow. You were fighting, but it was like punching water, every effort slipped through, leaving you exhausted.

You didn’t mean to overhear them. It was late, the compound quiet except for the hum of the air system. You were passing Steve’s office, heading to your room, when you heard Bucky’s voice, low and jagged.

“You don’t get to fix this, Steve.” He sounded angry, but there was a tremor beneath it, like he was holding himself together with fraying thread. “You’re the standard I’ll never meet. The hero. The one she should be with.”

You froze, your heart lurching. Steve’s voice came next, calm but firm. “You’re wrong, Buck. Y/N loves you. She’s fighting for you, and you’re pushing her away.”

“She deserves better,” Bucky snapped, and you could hear the clink of his metal arm, like he was gripping something too tight. “You saw her with you, laughing, happy. That’s what she needs, not… this.”

“Bucky, stop,” Steve said, his voice rising. “You’re not a monster. You’re my brother, and you’re enough. But you’ve got to let her in.”

There was a long silence, and you held your breath, waiting for Bucky’s response. When it came, it was barely a whisper, but it broke you all the same. “I can’t. Not when I’m like this.”

Footsteps echoed, and you ducked into a shadowed alcove, your pulse racing. Bucky stormed past, his face a mask of pain, and you pressed a hand to your mouth to stifle a sob. He didn’t see you, didn’t know you’d heard, but his words carved themselves into your heart: I can’t. Not when I’m like this.

You slid down the wall, the dog tags digging into your palm. Steve emerged a moment later, his expression heavy, and when he saw you, he froze. “Y/N…”

“Don’t,” you said, your voice shaking. “Just… don’t.”

He nodded, respecting your space, but the guilt in his eyes was unmistakable. You stayed there, alone in the dark, as the truth settled in: Bucky wasn’t just pulling away, he was letting you go, and you didn’t know if you could pull him back.

The compound was too quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against your eardrums like a warning. It had been days since you overheard Bucky’s words to Steve “I can’t. Not when I’m like this.” and they haunted you, looping in your mind like a broken record. You carried his dog tags in your pocket, their weight a constant reminder of the man slipping through your fingers. You’d tried to reach him, leaving notes by his door, texting him mission updates laced with pleas to talk, but Bucky was a ghost, disappearing into solo missions with nothing but curt log entries: “Hydra cell. 72 hours.” No flowers, no apologies, just absence.

You threw yourself into work, analyzing data, training until your muscles screamed, anything to drown out the ache. But every night, you’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if Bucky was right, maybe you were fighting for something already lost. Your sarcasm, usually a shield, felt brittle now, cracking under the weight of his silence.

Then came the call. A late-night alert from Sam: “Barnes is down. Med bay, now.” Your heart stopped, the world tilting as you ran, boots pounding against the cold tile. Sam met you outside the med bay, his face grim. “He went solo again,” he said, voice low. “Hydra trap. Got him pretty bad.”

“Is he—” You couldn’t finish, the words choking you.

“He’s stable,” Sam said, squeezing your shoulder. “But he’s not in a good place, Y/N. Not just the injuries.”

You nodded, pushing past him into the med bay. The sterile smell hit you first, sharp and clinical, followed by the sight of Bucky on a gurney. His shirt was torn, blood seeping through bandages on his chest and arm. His face was pale, eyes half-open, staring at nothing. The metal arm was scratched, glinting dully under the fluorescent lights. You wanted to scream, to shake him for being so reckless, but you swallowed it down, your hands trembling as you approached.

“Bucky,” you said, voice barely steady. “What the hell were you thinking?”

He blinked slowly, his gaze flickering to you, then away. “Had to be done,” he muttered, voice rough, like he’d swallowed glass. “Hydra doesn’t wait.”

“Neither do I,” you snapped, your sarcasm a thin veil over your fear. “You can’t keep doing this, running off alone like you’re some martyr. You’re not invincible, Bucky.”

He didn’t respond, just closed his eyes, and the silence cut deeper than any blade. You pulled a chair beside him, the metal scraping loudly, and sat, refusing to let him shut you out. “Talk to me,” you said, softer now, pleading. “You’re killing me with this. What’s going on?”

His jaw clenched, and when he spoke, his voice was low, raw. “You know what’s going on. I told you, Y/N. You deserve better than this.” He gestured weakly to himself, to the bandages, the scars, the weight of his past. “Every time I see you with Steve, I see it, a life without my baggage. No blood, no nightmares. Just… happiness.”

Your breath hitched, anger and heartbreak colliding. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” you said, voice shaking. “I’m not some naive girl chasing a fairy tale with Steve. He’s my friend, Bucky. You’re the one I love. Why can’t you see that?”

He looked at you then, his eyes stormy, haunted. “Because I’m not enough,” he said, each word a wound. “I see you laughing with him, and it’s like I’m back in the forties, watching Steve become the hero while I’m just… the guy who falls. I’m holding you back, Y/N. I can’t give you what he can.”

Tears burned your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “You’re tearing us apart by deciding for me,” you said, leaning closer, your voice fierce. “I don’t want Steve’s life. I want you, nightmares, scars, all of it. Why is that so hard for you to believe?”

He shook his head, a ghost of a smile flickering, sad and broken. “Because I love you too much to let you settle for this.” He reached out, his flesh hand brushing yours, but then he pulled back, wincing as he shifted. “I need to protect you, even if it’s from me.”

You grabbed his hand before he could retreat fully, holding tight. “Don’t you dare,” you said, voice cracking. “Don’t you dare walk away from me, Bucky Barnes. I’ve fought for you, bled for you. You don’t get to throw that away because you’re scared.”

His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought you’d reached him, thought the walls might crumble. But then he pulled his hand free, slow and deliberate, and the coldness in his gaze made your heart plummet. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and it sounded final, like a door slamming shut.

He turned his head away, and you stood, your chair scraping back, the sound echoing in the sterile room. “You’re a coward,” you said, voice low, venomous. “Not for your past, but for this. For giving up on us.”

You stormed out, the dog tags burning a hole in your pocket, your vision blurring with unshed tears. You didn’t see the way Bucky’s hand clenched into a fist, or the way his breath hitched, like he was fighting not to call you back.

You found yourself in the common room, the whiskey bottle from last week still on the table, half-empty. You poured a glass, the burn grounding you as you sank onto the couch. The dog tags were in your hand now, the metal warm from your grip. You traced his name, James B. Barnes, and wondered when it had all gone so wrong.

Steve found you there, his footsteps hesitant. “Y/N,” he said, pausing when he saw your face. “What happened?”

You laughed, sharp and bitter, the sarcasm slipping out. “Oh, you know, just another day of Bucky deciding I’m better off with Captain Perfect. He’s gone, Steve. Really gone this time.”

Steve sat beside you, his shoulders slumping. “He’s not thinking straight,” he said, but the words felt hollow, like he knew they wouldn’t fix this. “He’s trying to protect you.”

“From what?” you snapped, turning to face him. “From him? From love? I’m so tired of everyone trying to protect me by breaking my heart.” Your voice broke, and you hated it, hated the way Steve’s guilt mirrored your own pain.

“I should’ve stayed out of it,” Steve said quietly, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I saw how he looked at us, and I should’ve backed off. I didn’t mean to make him feel like this.”

You sighed, the fight draining out of you. “It’s not your fault, Steve. You’re his brother. He’s just… lost in his own head.” You held up the dog tags, the chain dangling. “He left these in the med bay. Like he’s cutting me out for good.”

Steve reached out, then stopped, his hand falling back. “He’ll come back,” he said, but it sounded more like a hope than a promise. “He always does.”

You didn’t respond, just stared at the tags, the weight of his absence crushing you. You wanted to believe Steve, wanted to believe Bucky would come back, but the finality in his voice “I’m sorry” echoed louder.

The next morning, you found the note. It was tucked under your door, folded neatly, Bucky’s familiar scrawl on the front: Y/N. Your heart leapt, then sank, as you opened it.

Y/N, I’m sorry for everything. You’re the best thing I ever had, but I’m no good for you. Not like this. Steve’s the kind of man you deserve, someone who can give you a life without shadows. I’m going where I can’t hurt you anymore. Don’t come after me. - B.

A single wild daisy was pressed inside, its petals fragile, a ghost of the gestures he used to make when things were simpler. You clutched the note, the flower crumbling in your shaking hands, and sank to the floor. The tears came now, hot and relentless, as the truth hit: Bucky was gone, and he’d taken your heart with him.

You didn’t know how long you sat there, the note crumpled in your fist, when Steve knocked softly. “Y/N?” His voice was cautious, like he knew what he’d find. He stepped inside, his eyes landing on the note, then the daisy, and his face fell.

“He left,” you said, voice hollow. “He really left.”

Steve knelt beside you, his hand hovering before settling on your shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and you could hear the guilt, the weight of his role in this mess. “I’ll find him, Y/N. I promise.”

You shook your head, the dog tags clinking in your pocket. “He doesn’t want to be found, Steve. Not by me.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue, just sat with you in the silence, the weight of Bucky’s absence filling the room. You wanted to scream, to blame Steve, to blame yourself, but all you could do was hold the note, the daisy’s broken petals a reminder of everything you’d lost.

The days after Bucky’s departure blurred into a haze of grief and defiance. His note “Don’t come after me” sat on your nightstand, the pressed daisy now brittle, its petals curling like a fading memory. You’d read the words so many times they’d burned into your mind, each one a fresh cut. The dog tags stayed in your pocket, a heavy anchor, and every time your fingers brushed them, you saw his face, stormy eyes, broken smile, the man who thought he was saving you by leaving. You wanted to hate him for it, but love was a stubborn thing, rooting deeper with every ache.

You threw yourself into missions, your sarcasm sharper than ever, a blade to keep the pain at bay. The Avengers noticed, Nat’s raised eyebrow, Sam’s gentle nudges, but you brushed them off, claiming you were fine. You weren’t. Every night, you wrote letters to Bucky, unsent, pouring your heart onto pages you’d never send. “You’re an idiot, Barnes,” one began, your pen digging into the paper. “Thinking I’d ever choose Steve over you. Come back, you stubborn bastard, so I can yell at you in person.” The words were half-joke, half-prayer, a way to keep him close when he was God-knows-where.

Steve hovered, his guilt a palpable thing. He’d promised to find Bucky, but you’d told him to stay out of it, your voice sharp: “You’ve done enough, Rogers.” You didn’t mean it, not really, but his presence—his perfect, heroic shadow—still stung, a reminder of why Bucky left. Still, Steve was there, a steady friend, helping you through missions with a quiet understanding that made you feel both grateful and resentful.

Bucky moved like a shadow, drifting through forgotten towns and safehouses, chasing Hydra’s ghosts to outrun his own. He’d left the compound to protect you, to free you from his darkness, but every step away felt like tearing out his own heart. He carried a worn journal, pages filled with unsent letters to you, each one a confession he couldn’t voice. “Thinking of you,” he wrote in one, the words smudged from his grip. “Found a field of daisies today. Picked one, then felt like a fool. You’d laugh at me.” He never sent them, but writing kept you alive in his mind, a light in the void.

He hunted Hydra remnants, taking down safehouses with brutal efficiency, his metal arm a weapon and a curse. In a derelict warehouse, a Hydra scientist sneered, “You’ll never outrun what you’ve done, Soldier.” The words hit like a blade, echoing his fear that he’d never be more than a killer. But then a civilian he’d saved, a young woman with your fire in her eyes, thanked him, her voice trembling. “You didn’t have to help us,” she said. “But you did.” It cracked something in him, a sliver of doubt in his self-loathing.

Wakanda called him back. He arrived under a starlit sky, the air warm and heavy with promise. Shuri scanned his mind, confirming no trigger words remained, but it was Ayo who cut deeper, her voice calm but piercing: “You’re not the Winter Soldier anymore, but you’re not free until you choose to live, James.” They sat by a lake, the water reflecting the stars, and Bucky remembered a night with you, rain-soaked, laughing under a storm, your hand in his. The memory hurt, but it also anchored him, a reminder of what he’d left behind.

One night, in a rundown motel, he found a photo of you tucked in his journal, one he’d stolen from the compound, a candid shot of you laughing, your eyes bright. Not with Steve, but with him, after a rare good day. He stared at it, his thumb tracing your smile, and realized his fear of losing you to Steve was his own demon, not your truth. He wrote another letter, shorter this time: “I was wrong. I’m trying to be better. Wait for me, doll. Please.” He didn’t send it, but he kept the photo close, a spark of hope in the dark.

You became a force on missions, leading with a fire that surprised even Natasha. “You’re scarier than me now,” she teased, but her eyes held respect. You saved a teammate during a raid, pulling them from a collapsing safehouse with seconds to spare, your heart pounding with a realization: you and Bucky were fighting the same demons, proving your worth through action. It made you miss him more, not less, the dog tags a constant reminder of the man you refused to let go.

Your unsent letters piled up, a stack of raw emotion. “You think Steve’s my type?” one read, your sarcasm dripping. “He’s all apple pie and righteousness. I’d rather have your brooding ass any day.” Another was softer, vulnerable: “I see you in every shadow, Bucky. I’m still here, waiting.” Writing was your catharsis, a way to scream into the void without breaking.

Steve was your rock, but it wasn’t easy. During a quiet moment after a mission, he patched a cut on your arm, his touch gentle but heavy with guilt. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, his blue eyes searching yours. You almost leaned into him, craving comfort, but pulled back, the dog tags clinking in your pocket. “You’re family, Steve,” you said, voice firm. “But Bucky’s my heart. Don’t blur that line.” He nodded, respecting the boundary, but the moment lingered, a reminder of Bucky’s fears.

One night, you found a mission report Bucky had filed remotely, a brief note in his scrawl: “Target neutralized. Safehouse clear.” Tucked into the digital file was a photo—a single wild daisy, uploaded without context. Your breath caught, recognizing the gesture from the note he’d left, from the flowers he used to leave when things were simpler. It was a sign, faint but real, that he was still thinking of you.

The turning point came during a briefing. Steve shared a story about Bucky from the 1940s, how he’d risked everything to save a squad, his jaw set with the same stubborn love you knew. “He’s always fought for the people he loves,” Steve said, his eyes meeting yours. “Even when it hurts him.” You realized then that Bucky wasn’t just running from you—he was running from himself, and you weren’t going to let him.

You tracked his last known location, a small town in Eastern Europe, using mission logs and Sam’s intel. “You sure about this?” Sam asked, his voice soft. You nodded, clutching the dog tags. “He doesn’t get to decide my future,” you said, your voice steady despite the fear. You wrote one last letter, not to keep but to carry: “I’m coming for you, Bucky. No more running.”

You stood outside the compound, a duffel bag slung over your shoulder, the night air sharp against your skin. Steve was there, his silhouette familiar but heavy with unspoken words. “You’re going after him,” he said, not a question.

“Yeah,” you said, your sarcasm softened by resolve. “Someone’s gotta knock sense into that thick skull of his.”

Steve’s smile was faint, tinged with guilt. “I’m sorry, Y/N. For making this harder.”

You shook your head, the dog tags warm in your hand. “You’re not the problem, Steve. You’re his brother, and I’m grateful for that. But this is between me and Bucky now.”

He nodded, stepping back. “Bring him home,” he said, his voice low. “Both of you.”

You turned, the horizon stretching before you, a mix of fear and hope churning in your chest. Bucky was out there, carrying his own scars, his own letters, and you were done waiting. You’d find him, not to save him, but to fight for the life you both deserved.

The small town in Eastern Europe was a speck on the map, all cobblestone streets and flickering streetlights, the kind of place that felt like it was holding its breath. You’d tracked Bucky here through Sam’s intel and a stubborn refusal to let him go, the dog tags in your pocket a constant pulse against your thigh. Your duffel bag was slung over your shoulder, heavy with the weight of unsent letters, pages of sarcasm, love, and desperation you’d written to keep him close. “I’m coming for you, Bucky,” the last one read, tucked in your jacket, a vow you meant to keep.

The diner was at the edge of town, its neon sign buzzing faintly, casting a warm glow over the dusk. You’d heard whispers, Bucky had been here, helping locals, fixing things quietly, like he could outrun his past by building something new. Your heart pounded as you pushed open the door, the bell jingling softly. The air smelled of coffee and fried onions, and there he was, in a corner booth, his back to the wall, eyes scanning the room like a soldier who never stopped watching.

Bucky looked different, yet achingly the same. His hair was longer, tucked behind his ears, and his jacket was worn, patched at the elbows. The metal arm was hidden under a glove, but his eyes, those stormy blue eyes, were still haunted, though softer now, like the edge of a storm breaking. He froze when he saw you, his coffee mug pausing mid-air, and for a moment, the world stopped, just you and him in a diner at the end of the world.

“Y/N,” he breathed, voice rough, like he hadn’t spoken your name in months. Maybe he hadn’t.

You slid into the booth across from him, dropping your bag with a thud. “You’re a hard man to find, Barnes,” you said, your sarcasm a familiar shield, though your voice trembled. “Thought I’d have to fight a Hydra army to get to you.”

He didn’t smile, but his eyes softened, a flicker of the Bucky you loved. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, but there was no conviction, just a tired echo of his old refrain.

“Too bad,” you shot back, leaning forward. “You don’t get to tell me where I belong. Not anymore.” You pulled the stack of letters from your bag, dropping them on the table with a soft slap. “These are for you. Been writing them since you left. Figured you’d want to know I’m still pissed.”

His gaze fell to the letters, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for them but didn’t trust himself. “Y/N, I—”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice sharp but cracking. “You don’t get to apologize yet. You left, Bucky. You left a damn note and a daisy, like that was enough. Do you know what that did to me?” You pulled the dog tags from your pocket, setting them beside the letters, the metal glinting in the dim light. “I carried these every day, hoping you’d come back. Hoping I wasn’t fighting for nothing.”

His face crumpled, the walls he’d built trembling. “I thought I was protecting you,” he said, voice low, raw. “Every time I saw you with Steve, I saw the life you could have. No blood on his hands, no nightmares waking him up. I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing.”

You laughed, bitter and broken. “Protecting me? By breaking my heart? Real heroic, Bucky.” You pushed the letters closer, your fingers brushing his. “Read them. See what you left behind.”

He hesitated, then opened the top letter, his eyes scanning your words. “You’re an idiot if you think Steve’s my type,” he read silently, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I’d rather have your brooding ass any day.” His breath hitched, and he looked up, eyes glassy. “You wrote this?”

“Every night,” you said, softer now, the sarcasm fading. “Kept me sane. Kept you close.”

He reached into his jacket, pulling out a worn journal, its pages dog-eared. “I wrote to you too,” he admitted, sliding it across the table. “Never sent them. Didn’t think I had the right.” He opened it to a page, his handwriting jagged but careful. “Found a field of daisies today. Picked one, then felt like a fool. You’d laugh at me.” A pressed daisy fell out, its petals faded but whole, and your heart clenched, remembering the one he’d left with his note.

“You kept daisies,” you said, voice barely a whisper, picking up the fragile flower. “Even after you ran.”

“Couldn’t help it,” he said, his voice breaking. “You’re in everything, Y/N. Every damn thing.”

You leaned forward, your hands shaking. “Then why did you leave? Why’d you let Steve’s shadow make you think you weren’t enough?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his eyes dropping to the table. “Because I see him, and I see everything I’m not. He’s the hero, the guy who always does right. I’m the one with blood on my hands, with a past I can’t erase. I thought you deserved that, someone whole.”

You reached across, grabbing his hand, metal and flesh, holding tight. “I don’t want whole, Bucky. I want you. Scars, nightmares, all of it. I’ve been fighting for you since the day we met, and I’m not stopping now.”

His eyes met yours, raw and searching, and for the first time, you saw the walls crack. “I was wrong,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “I thought I was saving you, but I was just… scared. Scared I’d ruin you.”

“You didn’t,” you said, tears spilling now. “But you hurt me, Bucky. You hurt us.”

He stood, moving to your side of the booth, and before you could protest, he pulled you into his arms, his embrace tight, desperate. “I’m done running,” he whispered against your hair, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, doll. I’m here now.”

You clung to him, the dog tags pressed between you, the letters scattered on the table. “You better be,” you mumbled into his chest, your sarcasm a faint spark through the tears. “Because I’m not chasing you across the world again.”

He laughed, a shaky, broken sound, and pulled back to look at you, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “I don’t deserve you,” he said, but there was no self-loathing now, just awe.

“You don’t get to decide that,” you said, echoing your words from the med bay, but softer, a promise. “We’re in this together, Bucky. No more running.”

He nodded, his forehead resting against yours, and for the first time in months, you felt whole. The diner faded, the world narrowing to his warmth, his breath, the steady beat of his heart under your hand.

You didn’t see Steve until you were back at the compound, days later, your hand clasped in Bucky’s as you stepped off the quinjet. The journey back had been quiet, filled with small gestures, his thumb tracing circles on your hand, your head on his shoulder, the unsent letters now shared, read aloud in a motel room as you both laughed and cried. The daisy was tucked into your bag, a symbol of what you’d fought for.

Steve was waiting on the tarmac, his silhouette familiar, his expression unreadable until he saw you both. His eyes softened, a faint smile breaking through the guilt that had shadowed him for months. “You found him,” he said, his voice low, warm.

“Damn right I did,” you said, your sarcasm lighter now, a grin tugging at your lips. “Took a whole continent, but I’m stubborn like that.”

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours, and he stepped forward, facing Steve. “I owe you an apology,” he said, his voice steady. “I let my head mess me up, made you the bad guy. You’re my brother, Steve. Always will be.”

Steve’s smile widened, and he clapped Bucky on the shoulder, careful not to linger too long. “You’re enough, Buck,” he said simply. “Always were.”

You felt Bucky’s tension ease, the weight of Steve’s shadow lifting, and you squeezed his hand, a silent reminder: You’re my home. Steve stepped back, his gaze flickering to you, a nod of respect and gratitude. “Take care of each other,” he said, then turned, walking away, his role in your story finally at peace.

Under a starlit sky, you and Bucky stood outside the compound, the air cool, the world quiet. He pulled you close, his lips brushing your forehead, a gesture so soft it made your chest ache. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, his voice a vow. “Not without you.”

You smirked, leaning into him. “Good, because I’m not signing up for another world tour to find you.” But your arms wrapped around him, holding tight, and the dog tags in your pocket felt lighter, like they’d finally found their place.

The future wasn’t certain, Bucky’s nightmares wouldn’t vanish, and your scars, both seen and unseen, would linger. But as you stood there, hand in hand, the stars above felt like witnesses to a promise: you’d face it all together, no more running, no more shadows.

See my other stories here >>> Masterlist <<<

#bucky angst #bucky x you #winter soldier x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #the winter soldier #winter soldier #james buchanan barnes #james barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes angst

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ducksido · 2 months ago

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OH MY GOSH I'M SO SO SORRY??? I THINK I TOTALLY FORGOT TO ADD WHO I WANTED IN MY LAST REQUEST (I was So Tired) But could I possibly get Ace, Leona, Ruggie and Jamil? You can totally add others if you'd like or just totally ignore this also. So sorry for any inconvenience!

(Btw the pups are doing fine now! They're with their mama who absolutely adores them. They're all cuddled up together rn and I'm still making sure she has enough food and water!)

(I love puppies + a pic of my dog at the end)

Ace Trappola

Ace had swung by Ramshackle intending to hang out, tease you a little, maybe steal some snacks—but the moment you cracked the door open, his mouth dropped.

"...Is that a box of actual puppies?"

You look half-dead and fully sleep-deprived, hair disheveled, a towel slung over your shoulder, and a little smudge of mud on your cheek. You blink slowly.

"Yeah. I pulled them out from under a shed at 1am."

"...Damn," he mutters, stunned. "Did you get bit or like, rabies or something? You look like someone dropped you into a swamp."

“I was in a swamp, practically.”

He hesitates, then crouches next to the box of tiny squirming puppies and murmurs, “Okay but like... this one’s got huge ears. He’s just like Deuce.”

Before long, he’s sitting on the floor with you, helping you towel off one of the pups while sneaking little sideways glances at you. And when he sees you carefully spoon-feeding the mama dog, whispering encouragement like a soft lullaby?

Ace gets weirdly quiet.

"...You’re kinda cool, y’know that?"

“What, because I wrestled puppies in the rain?”

"Nah. Because you cared enough to do it."

He won’t say it, but the sight of you mothering a bunch of helpless creatures does something to his heart.

And when you catch him trying to take a selfie with the box of puppies later, he swears it's just for Deuce. (It’s not.)

Leona Kingscholar

Leona did not come to Ramshackle expecting to see this. He was grumbling something about Grim being loud over the Magestone, but then the door opened—and you were on the floor, in pajamas, with a weak-looking dog nursing a litter of tiny babies at your side.

"...What in the Great Scar happened to you?"

“I pulled four puppies out of a ditch and then hand-fed their mom to keep her alive. Want some tea?”

He stares.

Then he sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and drops down beside you.

"Of course you did something crazy like that. Don’t even ask, herbivore—I’m staying."

He grabs the bowl of water and gently brings it to the mama dog’s snout, coaxing her to drink. You blink, stunned.

"...You’re good with dogs?"

"Read books about them when I was younger. Gotta keep ‘em warm. Quiet. Fed."

He’s silent for a while, absently stroking one of the fuzzy little pups dozing on your lap.

"You do all this alone?"

You nod slowly.

"...Tch. Idiot," he mutters, flicking your forehead. "Should’ve called me."

But he doesn’t leave. Not for hours. And when you doze off, slumped beside the box of pups, Leona covers you with his coat and sits cross-legged beside the mother dog, keeping guard like a proper lion.

Ruggie Bucchi

He shows up with snacks and leaves with an existential crisis.

“Yuuuuu, I brought donuts—HOLY MOTHER OF MUSHROOM—"

You’re surrounded by puppies. There’s towels everywhere. You look exhausted. And the smell of wet dog is strong.

"Are you runnin' a kennel now?! What the heck happened?!"

“Long story. I live here now. With them.”

He gawks, blinking as one of the puppies squeaks and rolls over. Then another. Then the mama dog lets out a soft whuff of warning, and Ruggie instinctively kneels and clicks his tongue in sympathy.

"Aww, poor girl... Bet she's real tired, huh?"

He gets sucked in immediately.

Next thing you know, he’s warming up goat’s milk on your stove, helping swaddle a shivering pup in one of his old shirts, and muttering something about "baby bonuses" under his breath.

"You’re somethin’ else, Yuu. Crawlin’ under a shed? In the rain? You okay?"

You nod, too tired to answer properly. He smiles, soft and lopsided.

"I’ll stay the night. Someone’s gotta make sure you eat too."

Later that evening, you find a new soft blanket spread in the corner with a sleepy Ruggie curled up around a pair of squeaky puppies on his stomach. He doesn’t even flinch when one of them pees on him.

Jamil Viper

When he came by to bring leftovers from Scarabia, he didn’t expect to be thrust into crisis mode.

You answer the door with a puppy in your arms and bags under your eyes deeper than NRC’s budget cuts.

"Jamil. I need help."

He doesn’t even ask. He pushes past you, takes in the scene—the soaked towels, the weak mama dog, the squealing pups—and sighs.

"Of course."

He sets the food aside, rolls up his sleeves, and immediately gets to work: reheating broth, preparing a sugar-water mix for the dog, adjusting the heating pad under the puppy box, and checking her paw pads for injuries.

“Did you... crawl somewhere to get them?” he asks quietly, dabbing your scraped hands with antiseptic.

“Yeah.”

He pauses, breath caught in his throat.

“You could’ve gotten hurt. Badly.”

“I know.”

"...But you still did it."

You nod.

His hand lingers for a second before he speaks again—quieter.

"You have a bad habit of putting everyone else first."

You blink at him. Then smile faintly. “You stayed.”

He doesn’t respond. But when you go to check the pups, you hear him mutter behind you, barely audible:

"Of course I did."

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threeacttragedy · 7 months ago

Text

Entry 16: The One About That Time I Shot an Arrow into the Air

“…It fell to earth, I knew not where; for so swiftly it flew, the sight; could not follow it in its flight.”

Archery has always been one of my fortes in life. I have absolutely no idea why, but I’m strangely quite good at it. My father, of course, attributes it to my ancestors; something passed down to me in my genes. So, I’m not sure that any arrow I shot into the air wouldn’t naturally find itself in the direction of its intended target. Today, that target would almost certainly be in the jugular of a Cerberus-like creature. Ah, yes, that mythical hellhound with three heads that guards the entrance to the Underworld. Not only does it dictate who can enter the realm of Hades, but also who can leave. And I’m not fond of creatures that would rather devour you alive than let you leave of your own freewill. Plus, could you imagine having three heads with three different personalities? Ugh, that would get confusing quickly. And, even worse, could you imagine all the in-fighting? I mean, an arrow to the throat – if it didn’t dismantle the beast – would almost certainly silence it. Luckily, we don’t have any three-headed dogs in this fandom…

Where am I going with this? Well – besides down a long and winding path that draws attention to the fact I enjoy poetry and archery – actually, I chose today’s poem for a specific purpose. If you haven’t figured it out from my previous cracks about the Kraken, I also like Greek mythology. In fact, learning about Greek mythology at around the age of 11 – yes, that defiant age where we’re no longer interested in Barbie (not that I was ever interested in Barbie) but we’re also not cool enough to be considered teenagers – was the first time I remember finding myself “thinking outside of the box.” And by that, I mean asking the question that I probably should not have said out loud: “If Zeus is a myth, does that mean God is fake, too?” That went down like a lead balloon (and, I hope, no one takes offense to reading that now; it is not meant with any disrespect). My mother was, of course, telephoned by the school and, when I returned home, she greeted me with (something along the lines of) a simple: “Did they answer your question? No? Then I suggest you find it for yourself.”

We all have our own truth, don’t we? Even in this fandom, we are each tasked with choosing our own path. Weeding out facts from speculation and speculation from rumor. Choosing what we want to believe over what is being pushed on us. Overcoming our willingness to follow blindly versus our refusal to be backed into corner. I suppose that’s why I’ve always liked Greek mythology (and, perhaps, storytelling in general) – because it helps us navigate life’s challenges by better understanding human nature. It’s also one of the reasons why my favorite story has always been the trials and tribulations of Eros and Psyche.

Ah-ha! See, I told you I had a purpose for bringing up those damn arrows!

Yes, Eros was the Greek equivalent of the Roman Cupid; that weird little dude who fired love arrows like a bouquet of flowers at a wedding. But Eros wasn’t some creepy little cherub in a cloth diaper; he was the devastatingly handsome God of Love. And he fell in love with the equally beautiful human Psyche. That part about her being human, however,managed to get Psyche some major side-eye from Eros’s mother, Aphrodite. In retaliation for humans worshiping Psyche’s beauty over her own, Aphrodite sent Eros down to earth to pierce Psyche with one of his love arrows so she would fall madly in love with a hideous monster (unfortunately for the Cerberus, it wasn’t them). But Eros defied his mother and, unbeknownst to Aphrodite, kept Psyche for himself hidden away in a castle. There, Psyche lived – mostly happily – with Eros visiting her every night. Eros promised Psyche she could live there indefinitely so long as she never looked upon his face (hence why he only visited her in darkness). But humans have this uncanny knack for being curious and, of course, Psyche peeked. Well, fuck! Haha, I won’t ruin the rest of the story for you except to say, yes, Eros was royally peeved at Psyche’s betrayal, fled their home, and sought refuge with his bitchy mother (because, of course, he did). Devastated, Psyche went clambering up to her pseudo-mother-in-law’s shrine to beg for forgiveness and Aphrodite, being a bit of a bitchy goddess, gave Psyche a series of impossible tasks to complete to prove her worthiness. Amazingly Psyche did in fact complete each of these four tasks but only because she managed to get a little help from some fantastical friends. Well, except for that final task for which Psyche was warned – don’t look in the fucking box. Damn humans.

Like all stories passed down from generation to generation, there are multiple versions of this myth, particularly when it comes to who helped Psyche complete her four tasks. Sometimes it’s one god(dess), other times it’s multiple; sometimes it’s earth’s creatures (the ants, the plants, and the flying things). But my favorite version is the one where Eros was the one pulling those invisible strings – or, at the very least, keeping an eye on Psyche from the shadows – because no matter how angry he was with her, Eros still loved Psyche and wanted to protect her.

Why do I bring this story up? Well, for starters, if you didn’t notice (because you were too focused on carriages and mirrors), Bridgerton Season 3 made quite a few parallels between Colin and Penelope and Eros and Psyche, even referring to the latter by name at the end of the fourth episode. The show also brushed on the importance of trust, the consequences of betrayal, and the idea that love can conquer all. Funny thing is I never thought Colin to be much of an Eros; he made a better Psyche, in my opinion. I mean, he was the one to peek into Penelope’s secret life!

But Colin’s real-life counterpart, Luke, makes a rather entertaining Eros.

On December 16, when Luke reposted to his Instagram stories a link to Nicola’s “Part 1” of her 2024 Year, the fandom went wild. And I’m not talking about just the Lukolas going insane with excitement; the Jakolas were having a field day, too – but not in a good way. The unease they’d almost certainly felt with those coordinated airplane and “Polin” posts from October returned with a vengeance when Luke resurfaced in support of Nicola – the woman for whom he consistently comes out hiding. I realized then that the one person who could simultaneously make the Lukolas’ hearts flutter and the Adjacents’ blood boil was Luke (i.e., our Eros could make Psyche rejoice while making Aphrodite lash out in anger).

If you really think about it, Luke has pulled us out of the black waters of the River Styx multiple times, making him the perfect Eros to our Psyche. Yes, our Psyche. The fandom is absolutely the Psyche of this story. After all, the fandom was the one who betrayed Luke with our collective reaction to Papsmear (but, in the fandom’s defense, that was a shitty fucking day). And, of course, that wench Aphrodite is collectively all the side story bullshit, from the Adjacent narratives to rag-mags sticking their ever-growing noses into places they don't belong.

As we finish out the year, I thought it would be fun to give Luke some credit where credit is due. In other words, I thought I’d highlight four times Luke “Eros-ed” (i.e., “rescued”) us from some mucky ass shit. This is not every moment Luke came out of hiding to do something wonderful; these are simply my top four moments where I believe Luke single-handedly resuscitated the fandom. You’re welcome to share your best Luke moments in the comments.

No. 1 - That Post-Papsmear Thing That Everyone Ignored:

Fuck, yes.

I am starting with the most overlooked event in the Lukola-verse – Luke’s post-Papsmear Cressida story. This is the taproot that keeps my faith in Lukola from falling over during a storm – Luke taking one for Team Lukola by promoting Season 3 using the scene from Ep. 6 where Cressida entered the Mondrich Ball and Colin pulled Penelope aside and told her he wouldn’t let Cressida ruin their evening. Yeah, yeah, Luke totally missed the target with that post but – again, in the fandom’s defense – everyone was still reeling from the sudden-but-not-so-sudden materialization of Antonia at the London premiere. In hindsight, though, you know you want to give him an “atta boy” for basically throwing shade at the Lutonia narrative while using a massive social media platform to do so. It was jaw-dropping, brilliant, and ballsy as fuck.

If you’re totally lost about how entertaining this Cressida story was, go read Entry 1 to be my blog. But, seriously, how have you not read it already?

No. 2 – Delivering the Cake:

Alright, fast forward three months (yes, three goddamn months!) to September 7 when Luke posted pictures from his stay at the Puente Romano resort.

No big deal, right?

Wrong!

It was a big fucking deal because, for starters, Antonia creeped in and posted random pictures of herself at roughly the same time Luke posted his resort pictures. And, of course, Luke had to like Antonia’s Instagram post. To make matters worse (gasp!) Luke’s had palm trees in his pictures which were oh, so reminiscent (but, not really) of palm trees posted by Antonia the previous day to her Instagram stories. Oh my God! And, then the real kicker? Luke’s slide deck included him eating a picture of himself from the London premiere sans Nicola! The horror! I mean, what probably started out as a cute post by Luke turned into a full-on Lukola heart attack within 30 minutes or less!

But then Luke pulled out a defibrillator and revived the fandom. Almost immediately.

After presumably hearing the cries from the Lukola fandom that he’d cut Nicola from the London premiere image, Luke demonstrated through his Instagram stories that (a) he was eating part of a cake (he was even darling enough to put the cake emoji with a smiley face), and (b) that the cake never had Nicola’s image on it to begin with (meaning, he didn’t remove her from it). Thank you for that clarification, Luke. Seriously, the fandom appreciated it.

After they recovered from their near-death experience, the Lukolas finally took the time to look at the images Luke posted. A not-so-random chaise lounge; a random white shirt; a restaurant called El Pimpi (which is a word used for the people who delivered messages to a ship’s crew and passengers); Luke throwing up the peace sign with his now infamous digits in – what appeared to be – the reflection of a glass table; and a reference to cake. It was Lukola- and/or Polin-coded shit. And, to make it just a smidge better, there was no visible reference to Antonia anywhere.

And, yes, I will cut in here to acknowledge that Antonia would, on October 25, include a lone picture of a balcony which was identical to the one Luke posted in his – what I like to call – “clarification stories” from September 7. Do I care about Antonia’s balcony? Not in the least. Could she have been at the resort? Sure. In fact, I’ve always found the idea of Antonia being present quite comical since Luke made it fairly obvious he omitted something (ahem, someone) from his Instagram post and instead filled it with random shit that seemed Lukola- and/or Polin-coded. Plus, if you want me to be perfectly honest, “insinuation” posts from Antonia stopped doing it for me months ago.

Back to what I saying… We must give Luke a round of applause for placating an entire fandom with something as simple as a cake emoji. Bravo, bravo!

No. 3 – Shutting Down the Mean Girls:

We closed out September with Antonia riling up the fandom by posting Instagram story after Instagram story, none of which were worth a second glance from a Lukola except for the “phone screen” one (see “Entry 7: The One Where the Queen Asked, ‘Did That Go the Way You Thought It Was Gonna Go?’” for reference). Oh, wait, there is another story – just for my own amusement – on October 1, Antonia reshared a story where she was labeled “Aphroditi.” Rather convenient for my story today, isn't it? Any ways, the Lukolas were a bit high-strung by October 2 when Nicola announced via Instagram that she had been named as part of the Time 100. Luke liked the post – but apparently to the haters on X he didn’t do it motherfucking fast enough. These weird-ass people do actually exist – the ones that genuinely believe Instagram likes (and the speed thereof) equate to true love.

Any ways, Luke apparently decided he was having none of that bullshit and stepped in on October 3 with his Polin-themed “Mean Girls” story. It was a throwback to a conversation he and Nicola had had in, I believe, 2022 on, haha, X.

“On October 3rd, he asked me what day it was.”

“It’s October 3rd.”

Luke captioned the story, “Xx.”

Not only did the fandom rejoice that Luke had returned to post something after nearly a month away, but the post included a throwback to Nicola, and it came on the heels of Halley Brisker’s now legendary “Nicola lately” post. Yeah, the one with Luke in the background (seriously, convince me it was someone else). Luke’s story also seemed to be one hell of a clapback to a rabid pack animal on X who faulted Luke for not leaving a comment on Nicola’s Time 100 post.

“Xx.”

No. 4 – The Littlest Things:

I debated over choosing Luke’s People magazine interview for the fourth moment, but that interview – although it made the fandom incredibly happy – didn’t pull our heads out of our own asses. So, I decided instead to go with the little things Luke has done over the past few months, namely, joining in on the Like Wars but in his own oh, so subtle way.

Let’s start with Antonia’s September 21 post of – honestly, who the hell cares? She posted and we knew Luke’s obligatory like was coming. It just took 10 ½ hours for Luke to get to it and it was only given after Nicola posted to her Instagram stories pictures from a concert she had attended. Was the fandom a bit deflated Luke liked Antonia’s post? Of course! But it was also fun to see the like come hours after Luke had already been online and on the heels of Nicola popping up online.

On October 11, we had a similar event happen. Antonia posted to her grid and Luke seemingly ignored it for roughly five hours. But, while Luke was ignoring her post, Antonia was going hard at it with Instagram stories and TikTok videos (Nicola, for her part, seemed to be playing her own game on social media during this time). Luke finally liked Antonia’s post and Antonia went silent thereafter. Then, on October 12, Luke officially made it back from his October 4 “Brb” moment and posted “Somewhere in Mayfair” to his Instagram stories. Let the fandom rejoice!

But I’m not stopping there. Let’s not forget about Luke and Nicola’s coordinated “Polin” pictures on October 21 or that, while Antonia was “rolling pasta” on November 17, Luke made it a point to go back and like Nicola’s Dr. Who post from November 15. On December 6, when Luke coughed up a like to Antonia’s grid post, he also handed a like out to Nicola at the same time (and a few others). Do you see a pattern starting to form?

Honestly, I believe Luke is owed a standing ovation for the way he has taken control of his own narrative and managed to deflect from the so-called “importance” of these bullshit Instagram likes. Although Nicola has historically attempted to distract the fandom from Antonia, in my opinion, it was always Luke’s responsibility to diminish the importance of Antonia’s role in his story. And, for the past several months, he has been doing just that – in the quietest way possible.

I’ve decided Luke is a bit like a shadow. Inconspicuous – sometimes even completely invisible – but when the light hits just right, it’s impossible to ignore his immense presence.

When Luke posts, or when he coyly plays around with the Instagram likes – even when he likes Nicola’s posts – it somehow resonates differently with the fandom. Nicola could post her year-end stuff and the fandom would be, like, “Oh, that’s cool.” But, when Luke reshares her post to his stories? “Holy fuck, that’s awesome!” It's a "different energy on set." Somewhere in the middle of all the bullshit that goes on within the fandom, Luke found his own truth. The “Bad Guy” who was “on a break” during Hot Boy Summer somehow became our hero; the shadowy figure that pulls us out of the water and sets our heads back on straight. Over and over again. It's been so subtle, we've barely even noticed.

I’m going to end this entry with the Longfellow poem I quoted at the beginning, mainly because I like it, but also because it’s about something that cannot be easily seen once released into the world but, if found, can have an everlasting effect on us.

“I shot an arrow into the air; it fell to earth, I knew not where; for so swiftly it flew, the sight; could not follow it in its flight;

“I breathed a song into the air; it fell to earth, I knew not where; for who has sight so keen and strong; that it can follow the flight of song?

“Long, long afterward, in an oak; I found the arrow, still unbroke; and the song, from beginning to end; I found again in the heart of a friend.”

P.S. In the story, Psyche is rescued by Eros (hurray!) and is made the Goddess of the Soul.

#lukola #luke newton #nicola coughlan #my thoughts #my opinion #speculation only

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lamentationsofalonelypotato · 3 months ago

Text

Didn't Anyone Warn You?

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: When you're tasked with bringing pastries to Parent's Night at the local school, a guest appearance makes quite a stir. Takes place after Season 3 when Din and Grogu have been living in their cabin on Nevarro. This is the third fic in my Sugar, Spice, and Starlight Series!

Tropes: Fluff, Bakery AU, Grumpy vs. Sunshine, Protective!Reader

Word Count: 6.2K

Warnings: Judgement, Small Town Gossip, Uppity Teacher?, Reader protecting her man, Din finds it hot watching the reader with Grogu (but she doesn't know 🤭)?, One or two curse words, Parent's Night Gone Wrong, The reader is really soft and likes to bake? Din being a little bit self-deprecating to himself? Din might be a little bit OOC. It's mostly just fluff.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! I'm just starting to write for Din, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

A/N: I needed to write a small fic about the reader being the protective one. I do have a protective!Din in the works that I am very excited about!

Reader POV

The sun warmed the dirt street beneath your feet as you wove carefully through the crowded streets of Nevarro City basking in the light as it slid over your skin and soaked into your bones. Your dark blue skirt swished pleasantly around your ankles with each step you confidently took in the direction of the small children's school on the other side of town, while you mentally ticked things off your checklist, and tried your best not to drop the oversized white box you were holding.

Despite hiring another person to work the front of your shop, you didn't have enough money to hire someone to do deliveries, hence the large box of sweets balanced precariously in your arms as you made your way down the sun-kissed streets.

Ms. Cross, one of the two teachers employed at the small building on the end of the street, had come into your shop just yesterday to place a large order of pastries for the parent's night she was throwing at the school. She expected quite a turnout and you had spent the better part of last night and this morning working dough, icing cakes, and basking in the warmth and soothing smells that wafted through your small kitchen while Jax, the girl you hired, helped customers up front.

Jax had offered to deliver the pastries herself, but you'd waved her off. You didn't mind the walk.

It was another beautiful day on Nevarro and it wasn't often that you got to see the city at this time of day. The sun shone brightly as it dipped behind the buildings, beginning it's lazy descent into the horizon and sending a honeyed glow over the world around you.

It was Nevarro in shades of gold, the city seen through a cool glass of whiskey, a world bathed in amber light.

The city had begun to slow down. People meandered through the shops that lined the dirt road, filling the streets with a mishmash of individuals some old some young, but all moving at a gradual pace.

There was a dull thrum of energy from the electricity that buzzed in the lights that were fitted on the sides of the buildings, a wisp of chatter on the wind from the people passing by, and the low rumble of thunder in the distance over the rocky plain where a storm brewed just enough to bring a graying haze to the horizon.

It made the city seem more alive, a colorful backdrop to a wonderful day.

"Excuse me!" You say steering yourself around a woman wearing a large purple robe covered in bells that jingle happily, and toting a basket the size of you on her back.

"Sorry!" You say again to another as you push your away between two men walking so slow you wondered how many batches of dough would rise before they moved out of your way.

Unfortunately as you pass, your sandal catches on a loose rock and you lose your balance.

No, No, NO!

You think to yourself as you begin to fall backwards, hoping that the ground is softer than it looks, and also while trying to mentally calculate how you can land without ruining the oversized box of treats in your arms.

Remaking in such a short amount of time wasn't possible and you didn't think that someone named Ms. Cross would listen to any excuses, especially not someone who probably listened to little kids all day trying to say that a Rancor ate their homework.

But you never find out how to save the sweets.

Two large gloved hands find your shoulders, grabbing onto you from behind, and steadying you before you can begin your descent to the warm ground beneath your feet.

You gasp in surprise, the feeling of the stranger's touch sending a white hot jolt of electricity through your body as they hold fast to your shoulders.

"Are you okay?" Din's familiar voice brings a blush to your cheeks.

You half turn to look over your shoulder at him.

The silver of his Beskar glints in the sun, sending a flicker of sunlight over your face, and his helmet is turned down towards you, much closer than you anticipated, so close you can see the reflection of yourself in his armor and it’s enough to make you wonder what it would be like to hear the real rumble of his voice against the gentle curve of your ear. To feel the exhale of his breath on the back of your neck as he held you steady and closer to him than he ever had.

It was good to see Din again.

His visits to your bakery had gone from once a week to every few days and you found yourself looking forward to whenever he'd show up toting the cutest customer in the galaxy with him.

And each time he stopped by, you could feel Din becoming more comfortable around you, and noticed him opening up more and more.

Well, opening up as much as a man wrapped in a metal shell on an almost desolate planet could.

Basically it meant that Din was now saying more to you than one sentence and you were trying your best to coax more out from beneath the hardened exterior.

It worked… sometimes. Din had told you that he was spending his free time working on his cabin.

The image of Din working hard on his home, sanding down wood to make cabinets, installing light fixtures, building a kitchen, and fixing the plumbing was one that lived rent free in your mind.

You'd always thought that a man who could do things around the house, a man who had hands rubbed rough from hard work was attractive and the knowledge that Din could do all those things made your heartbeat stutter in your chest and your throat tight.

By now you knew that the way you felt about Din was far past "just friends." You didn't exactly know when it happened, only that it had happened. You hadn't thought it was possible to feel so strongly about someone who you'd never seen, but you did. You liked Din and maybe that was crazy, but he was kind, honest, a good listener, and sometimes a little bit awkward, but you thought it was cute.

But there was a problem.

You noticed that despite everything Din told you about his cabin, he was hesitant to talk about what he did for work. You knew that he was still a bounty hunter and that he did leave Nevarro occasionally on jobs, but whenever you'd ask him about it, he'd turn the subject of the conversation back to you.

You weren't sure why that was, but you were more than happy to focus on Din fixing up his cabin.

As soon as you'd realized that Din didn't have a fully functioning kitchen back where he lived, you'd started making more savory things for the shop just so that you had something other than sweets to give him. You were worried that he was starving himself in his home so far from town and each time he visited you'd send him on his way with a bag full of treats and a polite squeeze on the arm.

The first time you'd done it in the street, you'd thought that you were overstepping, that it made Din uncomfortable, but then you noticed the next time you did it how he leaned a little bit more towards you, and how his shoulders un-tensed with your touch. It made your cheeks warm to think that he liked it as much as you liked taking care of him.

And despite Din's continuous attempts to pay you for the food, you'd refused every cent. He was your friend and you didn't like the thought of him going back to his cabin alone in the middle of nowhere with nothing to eat or the thought of him going off into the cold reaches of space with nothing but junk to snack on.

"Yeah." You laugh, cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Lost my footing."

Din nods his head once and releases your shoulders while you try not to notice how your body responds to the loss of his touch.

The people around the two of you continue to walk past, but you notice they give Din a wide berth and out of the corner of your eye you see a woman pick up her child and skirt to the other side of the street away from Din with wide eyes.

It pricked your heart to think that so many people thought poorly of him, that they weren't willing to give him a chance, and that they were unwilling to get to know him before they made judgements about him.

You remember the rumors you'd heard of the Mandalorian that lived outside of town, the ones that made him out to be a villain and a murderer.

In all the time that you'd lived on Nevarro you had not seen the Mandalorian the town described one bit. Because the man in question standing in front of you who just saved the pastries from the fate of being smooshed beneath your body could not be the same one the people feared.

Din's helmet tilts downward in the direction of the oversized box balanced in your arms in a silent question.

"Ms. Cross, ordered some pastries for parent's night at the school. I was on my way to drop them off." You smile at him. "Until I decided to get better acquainted with the ground."

He doesn't laugh, but you imagine a smile pulling up on the end of his lips. By now you were used to not seeing his face, but it didn't quiet the small voice in your head that longed to see what he really looked like.

It kept you up at night sometimes, running through the usual combinations of the possibilities of what he could look like. There was a part of you that thought Din must be handsome, someone with a voice like his had to be. But there was another part of you that didn't care, not when your burgeoning crush was attached to Din's personality and the way he treated you.

"Thanks for not letting me fall. It took me all of last night and this morning to make these and I don't want to see the look on Ms. Cross' face if I couldn't deliver." You continue, still looking up into the black t-shaped visor of his helmet. "Someone named Ms. Cross has got to have a hell of a stink-eye."

The soft chuckle from Din's helmet makes you smile wider. Making Din laugh often made you feel as if you'd swallowed sunlight.

Din takes the box from you gently without explanation, the rough material of his gloves brushing against your skin and sending a zip of electricity tingling up your arms.

"Din what are you doing?" You ask as you try to reach for the box to take it back from him, but he only moves out of your reach.

"I'm heading that way to pick up Grogu. I'll walk with you." Din hesitates, clearing his throat. “If that’s okay?”

"I’d love that,” You answer honestly as your blush deepens and you drop your eyes away from his helmet. “But you don’t have to carry it!” You try again to reach for the box, but Din moves effortlessly away from your reach.

“It’s not heavy.” He pauses. “And it’s probably safer for the pastry.”

Your lips turn up in a smile.

Did he just make a joke?

“Keep laughing and I’ll make you my official delivery boy.” You threaten.

“Oh no anything but that.” The buzz and monotone of the helmet replies but you can hear just a trace of sarcasm.

It makes you laugh and again you imagine Din smiling back at you through the polished metal.

“Fine, you’re hired. I’ll make you a little apron to wear over your Beskar.” Your smile turns into a smirk as you lean in towards him to whisper, "A bright pink apron."

Even though Din is still wearing his helmet, when he laughs this time you feel a wave of heat travel through your body and you decide right there and then that you’re going to spend every waking moment making him laugh.

I wonder what it would sound like without the helmet.

You still hadn't been brave enough to ask Din why he didn't take it off. It felt too personal, and you didn't want to make him uncomfortable, not when you could see him starting to relax whenever he saw you.

"I'm sure it'll be very intimidating." You say with a giggle as you turn away and walk in the direction of the children's school. "I'm already making something for Grogu, but I'm always up for another project."

It was true. You were worried about the cold winters that would come to Nevarro in a few months and you were crocheting a hat to keep his little ears warm. There was a woman in town who sold imported Wampa fur in the market she stained with natural dyes, and it was a joy of yours to spend a few minutes in the early mornings when the city was just waking up seeing what was new in her shop.

You can hear Din’s heavy footfalls against the dirt as he catches up.

"What are you making for Grogu?" Din asks when falls into step beside you.

People part in front of the two of you so that you’re no longer stuttering polite excuses as you go, but you don't miss the wide eyes or the elderly women sitting on the sidelines that grasp at their necks watching the two of you in horror.

You hated that, hated that so many people were going to write off Din as some kind of monster, when he was one of the nicest men you'd met in your entire life. Not to mention you thought that he was sweet.

If you'd ever spoken that aloud people probably would think you were crazy, but Din was kind to you. You saw the way he cared for Grogu, how gentle he was with him, and how polite Din was to you whenever you saw him.

Right now was proof of that, Din was carrying a box for you without being asked because he saw you struggling!

"A hat." You stare down another man who you catch watching the two of you walking through town with an odd expression.

"A hat?" Din chuckles, adjusting the box in his arms.

"Yeah. He's got those big ears, and I know it doesn't snow here, but the wind sure does blow cold in the winter, so I thought he might need a little something to cover up. I'd make you something for your ears too, but you don't exactly need it. I'm sure they're plenty warm all the time."

"That's nice of you, but you've already given us so much food I don't think you need to-"

You don't let him finish. "I want to." You glance over at him and are surprised to see that Din' helmet is turned in your direction. You'd expecting him to be looking straight ahead at the path, not looking at you. "And I like giving the two of you food. There's nothing wrong with sharing what you have with your friends."

Din doesn't answer you, but you think your notice his hand flex where it rests against the side of the box.

"That's the way my grandmother was anyway." You look away from the man walking beside you, finding the heat of his gaze through the helmet a little too much for you. "She used to make extra of everything we had for our neighbors. Food, clothes, goods… It didn't matter that we didn't have a lot of money, my grandmother wanted to make sure that everyone was taken care of." You smile to yourself at the memories of afternoons you spent loaded down with boxes of food and handmade blankets that you helped your grandmother deliver to your neighbors. "And I've always liked doing that too. I think that everyone should have that kind of comfort, even if they're not used to it." That last part you hadn't expected to say, but it was true. You knew that Din wasn't used to that, and it was exactly why you liked doing that for him and Grogu.

You wanted Din to feel comforted, especially in a place where you were sure that he noticed the stares and heard the gossip about him. The last thing you wanted was for Din to move away because of the way people looked and spoke about him, the thought that you wouldn't see him anymore made an unwelcome feeling settle in the pit of your stomach.

And even if the two of you would be nothing more than friends, you still cared about Din and wanted him to be happy.

The outside of the school doesn't look like much, just a small stone building painted a fresh white, but the multicolored sign that says “welcome” hanging from the rafters above brings a pop of color to the plain building. The sound of chatter and children giggling floats out through the open door and you brace yourself for what’s inside.

When you walk into the building a hush falls over the small cluster of students and parents.

Heads turn in your direction, eyes skimming over your body before they flick upwards to where Din hovers at your elbow still holding the large white box printed with the sticker from your bakery.

Ms. Cross stands across the classroom crowded with small wooden desks, next to a young woman who bounces a small child on her hip, but even you notice the teacher's gaze flicker with something that looks a little bit like fear when she notices Din.

That welcome sign apparently came with fine print.

Your hand touches Din's forearm, feeling the cool smooth metal beneath your fingertips.

You were sure that Din had been in much worse situations than surrounded by judgmental parents and their children all staring at him like he was some kind of side-show, but there was something inside of you that wanted Din to know that you didn't care what other people said about him, and that you weren’t embarrassed to be there with him.

Din's helmet turns to stare at where your hand lays against his arm. If you could see under his helmet you would know that Din's eyes widen with the gesture, and that his heartbeat just stuttered a step with your touch as surprise threaded through his body.

"Come on. Let's see where Ms. Cross wants us to put these." You flash him another smile to soothe his nerves and earn a nod from Din who follows behind you in the still silence of the classroom, while you ignore the stares of the other parents.

There's a squealing noise that shatters through the terse quiet and you notice Grogu toddling towards to the two of you, hands outstretched opening and closing happily, oblivious to the shift of attitude in the room at his father's presence.

"Hey buddy!" You smile at Grogu as you pick him up, scratching one of his soft ears. "Did you miss me?"

He gurgles something and nuzzles his head into your arm which you take as a yes. Din still has his helmet turned in your direction, watching you with Grogu, a small smile hidden beneath his silver and leather.

"Hi Ms. Cross." You greet the teacher with a smile ignoring the way her eyes are still locked on Din’s formidable figure behind you.

Her graying black hair is pulled back in a tight bun, her body encased in a loose set of navy blue robes that make her look regal and deserving of attention. Her nose twitches once, twice, a nervous tick as her dark eyes survey the Mandalorian.

She obviously wasn't expecting him to come with you or really at all to parent’s night.

You wonder if she even invited him.

Probably not given her reaction.

"Hi-" She says your name through a tight lipped smile, twitching her nose once more. It's a little long for her face, coming to a rounded base that protrudes over her small mouth smeared with an awkward color of lipstick that smudges just barely at the left crease of her mouth. Her beady eyes shift up to Din again. "Hello Mando."

It was odd to hear people call him that when you knew his real name, but you'd noticed that he never seemed to tell anyone else that his name was Din. It made you feel special that he'd shared that with you.

"Hello.” Din's monotone crackles and buzzes through the silent classroom.

"He was nice enough to help me carry the pastry." You smile more to Din than you do to her. You didn't think that she deserved that, not when she was acting like Din was a stain on her perfectly pressed robes. "Where would you like them?"

"On the desk." She gestures behind her to the large desk at the front of the classroom where everything on top is stacked in neat piles and like her robes, nothing looks out of place.

"Okay. Do you have plates or-" You ask looking around the room. You hadn't thought to bring any, nor had she told you that she wanted any.

"Oh they're in the back. I'll show you." She offers, casting one more nervous glance at where Din stands holding the box.

The chatter in the room has begun to pick up again around you, the parents watching the Mandalorian who loiters by the teachers desk out of the corner of their eyes.

But as you walk away into the small back room that you hadn't noticed when you walked into the classroom, you can feel Din’s gaze following you.

He did that so often that by now you were used to it. Whether it be watching you sweep up your shop, knead dough for fresh bread, or you helping other customers, you could feel Din's eyes on you.

You didn’t hate it.

You got the impression that Din was curious about you and was still trying to figure you out. And you welcomed his curiosity and inquisitive gaze especially if it meant that Din was starting to see you as more than a friend.

Grogu is still in your arms, pulling at the strands of hair that have escaped where your tied your hair back that morning in a colorful scarf while you wait for Ms. Cross to reach up into the top cabinet for the plastic plates. But when she pulls out the package and you reach out with your free hand, she pauses half-way.

"Did anyone-" Ms. Cross hesitates, her nose twitches once more, beady eyes mapping your face. "Did anyone warn you?"

"Warn me?" You question, confused. Grogu coos in your arms babbling under the woman’s scrutiny.

Oh no I didn’t think about allergies for the pastry. She didn’t tell me about that!

It was the only thing you could think of that she was trying to warn you about.

Ms. Cross shifts her feet uncomfortably her lips pressing into a tight line. "Everyone has noticed that you've been spending time with that Mandalorian."

You frown at the way she says "that Mandalorian" as if Din is something unpleasant that has been brought down upon Nevarro, like a curse or incurable illness.

“Everyone?” You raise an eyebrow, confused.

“Everyone in town.” She amends.

Your body tenses with her words, trying to understand what she's implying the entire city has been saying behind your back.

Is she trying to warn me about Din?

"Um-“ You begin, but she interrupts you.

"Honey, don't you know anything about his past?" She whispers the word 'past' like a curse, her eyes widening as if she was present for the "past events" in question.

"What he's done?" She continues as if you couldn't understand the first part of her sentence. “Who he really is?”

Fear flashes in her gaze as her eyes flick upwards to the door behind you as if worried that Din is waiting to strike at any moment.

You feel your jaw clamp down so tightly that the sound of your teeth grinding together almost drowns out the roar of the anger that comes when you understand exactly what she was doing.

"I mean-" She continues in a tense whisper. " Everyone around him gets hurt or worse. Not to mention he kidnapped that kid and has been passing him off as his own. I mean he’s obviously not his father. Who knows what he's doing to him!” Her eyebrows pull together in concern looking at the child in your arms who coos softly and grasps at the tip of your finger happily.

"I'm sorry, I think I heard you wrong." You clear your throat, as you find your voice. Hoping that you did in fact hear her wrong and that this is just some kind of hallucination.

"Oh honey." She gives you a pitying look. "He's dangerous. And with you being new and all… I'm sorry that no one warned you.”

Ms. Cross has the audacity to smile and continues, oblivious to your rage. “But I’m happy that we can talk about this, because everyone has just been so worried about you. You spend so much time with him. And-"

Have they all been spying on us? Creeping around, gossiping about Din and me?

You hold up a free hand to cut her off. "I'm going to stop you right there."

It was difficult to keep your voice steady with the fury that had begun to burn under your skin, rivaling the fires in the stocked ovens back at the bakery.

Truthfully, you didn't like getting angry, didn't like to lose your temper. It reminded you far too much about the way your brother Ezekiel acted before he left you with your grandmother years ago, how quick to anger he was and how it didn’t take much for him to erupt before he was taken in by the Mandalorians and shown how to channel his rage.

That being said it took a lot for you to lose your composure, but when you did, it meant that there was hell to pay.

And right now, standing in this room with a woman who barely knew you and absolutely didn't know Din, your anger knew no bounds.

How dare she? Din hasn't done one thing worthy of this! He's not some crazy wild man who comes into town guns blazing! And how can she say those things about him not being Grogu's dad? He's been a perfectly acceptable father to Grogu!

"First of all, it is none of your or anyone else in this town’s business who I spend my time with nor do I care what any of you are saying of me or think of me for doing so! I do not have to justify my actions to you or any other nosy busybody on Nevarro!" You keep your voice in a low growl of a whisper. The last thing you wanted was for Din to hear what the two of you were talking about.

He doesn't deserve that.

Her mouth drops open in shock at your outburst, but you continue.

"Second of all, that Mandalorian, the one that everyone in this town is so afraid of, is one of the kindest, most caring people that I've met here on Nevarro, and I am honored to have him as a friend. Not to mention that he has been a wonderful father to Grogu. I have never met a father more caring and considerate to his son in my entire life. And you have no right to judge Din for adopting Grogu! And third, what he has done with his life is his business, he does not have to explain his life choices to you or anyone else on this planet. Or better yet, the whole galaxy!"

By now you were pointing an accusatory finger in her direction, eyes narrowed with your anger and frustration.

"So maybe instead of shoving your big nose into places that it doesn't belong, you should pull out the judgmental stick that you have shoved up your ass and worry more about your students!" You snap, eyes narrowing at the woman who blinks at you in surprise.

It obviously was not how she expected you to react to her “helpful advice.”

You push past her, plates forgotten, to make your way back into the classroom, but you hesitate and turn around to stare at her while forcing a false smile. "But thank you sooo much for your business. I hope that everything was made to your expectations and that you come again soon. Hopefully with a better attitude and a more welcoming outlook for my friend."

You stop back into the classroom with Grogu cuddling in your arms, but the anger you have is still bubbling up beneath the surface. All the parents turn to stare at you, but you huff out a breath and ignore them.

You didn't care if the entire town thought you were crazy, Din was your friend and a planet full of small-minded busybodies wasn't going to stop that.

Sure, maybe he was a bounty hunter, but that didn't make him a bad person. And as much as you wanted Din to tell you more about himself, you knew that he was shy and you didn't want to force him. You wanted Din to offer those things up because he wanted to tell you, not because you gave him an ultimatum.

Din is standing by the desk arms crossed over his chest. His helmet tilts in your direction and you hope again that he didn't hear what you whisper yelled at Ms. Cross.

You step confidently towards him, ignoring the cloying feel of the other people in the room watching you.

"Din can you walk me home, please? I'm kinda tired and Jax is closing up the shop for me." You smile, but it feels a little forced.

You were still buzzing with anger and you didn't want to stay here a moment longer to subject Din to the gossip and wide eyed stares of the other parents in the room.

He nods once and follows you out the door of the small building without looking back.

Grogu wriggles in your arms before resting his head on your shoulder as the final rays of sunshine warm his ears. He coos something softly, eyes opening and closing, until finally he begins to drift off. Put to sleep by the gentle rock of your arms with each step you take down the street.

You're trying to come up with something to say, but there's nothing in your head except the words of Ms. Cross that make the rage inside of you burn hotter.

There was no reason for her to say those things about Din! He's not some monster who preys on the weak people in town and enslaves them, he's a person! And all of those small minded people can just-

"Are you okay?" Din asks you, shattering through the silence between the two of you and breaking through your internal monologue.

"Huh?"

"You're quieter than usual."

"I think it's ironic that you're calling me quiet." It makes you smile a little bit. "Especially given that you have only one facial expression and if I were to look you up in a dictionary there would be a picture of you under 'strong and silent.'"

Din chuckles. "I'm sure there would be a picture of you under clumsy."

"Shut up." You snort hitting him on his muscular arm. "But yes there would be."

Under the word 'nosy' there would be a picture of Ms. Cross.

There were less people out now, most had gone home for the evening which meant that Din and you walked without feeling the curious eyes of the townsfolk around you. It was a welcome feeling after being jammed in that small classroom.

The twin moons had begun to rise from the horizon and the stars above spread across the open sky sending the silverly light over the buildings that lined the dirt street and reflecting off Din's armor.

Just as the sunlight had hardened the edges of the Beskar, something about the starlight smoothed the sharp lines of the formidable armor and made the metal look almost soft to the touch. It made the armor beautiful, like Din was washed in shades of silver and gray.

The silence grows again between the two of you the closer you come to your front door, and you can't think of anything to say without dwelling too hard on what Ms. Cross said to you.

"Thanks for walking me home." You offer a small smile, this one feels more genuine, and hold out Grogu so Din can take him.

He takes his son gently, who mumbles something in his sleep, but curls into his father's chest when Din cradles the small child in his arm. You watch as Din takes great care to make sure that Grogu doesn't wake and how Din adjusts him so Grogu's head is laying against the soft fabric of his father's cowl rather than the hard metal of his breastplate. It warmed your heart to see how Din cared for Grogu, and it only made you think about what Ms. Cross implied.

How could she say those things about Din if this is how he treats his son?

"You're welcome." Din's helmet tilts down to look at you, your reflection glinting in the brilliantly polished metal.

"I guess I'll see you around?" You ask hopefully.

He nods once.

You turn to your door, typing in the security code on the panel beside it, but you hear Din whisper your name. It comes out soft, the hiss of it through the helmet is just a buzz against your ear, but it still makes your cheeks warm. You turn back to look at him with wide eyes.

"You didn't have to say what you did." His voice comes out quiet, helmet still tilted down towards you.

Your heart sinks. You hadn't wanted him to hear what you’d said to Ms. Cross or what she'd said about him. You didn't want Din to believe for even a second that there was any truth to what she'd whispered to you.

"I did." You say firmly. "I don't care what other people are saying, Din you're my friend. And you don't deserve what they think of you. None of what they're saying is true."

"How do you know?"

His question makes you pause. It surprised you.

If anything you were expecting Din to nod his head and leave without another word, but he wasn't, he was waiting to hear what you had to say.

Before you can stop yourself, you reach out and touch his forearm, the one that he's holding the kid with and look up into his helm trying to catch a glimpse of the man you care for through the opaque visor.

"Because I know you and they don't. I see how you are with Grogu, how you care for him, how you always put him first-" Your mouth pulls into a shy smile, "And I also see how you are around me. You always do little things for me without being asked- like carrying that box today. And you're always so nice to me. You don't have to be, all I do is make pastry," You laugh a little awkwardly. "But it always makes me happy to see you, because you're kind and you go out of your way to make me feel comfortable around you."

Din doesn't reply and you're under the impression that he's speechless.

What you don’t know is that his cheeks have flushed beneath his Beskar and he's trying very hard to find the words that never seem to come easy to him. The ones he wishes to say to tell you that you don't just "make pastry" that you make him feel like he belongs for the first time in his life, but the words stick in the back of his throat.

"But I mean I-" You stutter, embarrassed. You weren't about to confess that you had a crush on him and you weren't sure if he'd ever feel that way about you, but you were afraid that Din's silence meant that you'd overstepped. “I don’t think someone who acts that way with Grogu and me is anything like what they assume you to be. And it's none of their business anyway.”

You start to pull your hand back from Din's arm, cheeks so warm you imagined that they could fry an egg, but Din's gloved hand comes down over where it rests on his forearm keeping your hand there for another few precious seconds.

"Thank you ner cyare." His voice modulator catches a little bit on that last word that you’re sure is Mando'a, and you had no idea what it meant, but the way he said it while holding on to your hand tugged at your heart.

"What does that mean?" You ask, curious.

He hesitates for a moment, before answering. "My friend."

"I thought Burc’ya meant 'friend?'" You question a little bit confused. You knew a handful of words in Mando'a from your brother and your friend Josh who took it upon themselves to teach you all the curse words, because they felt like that was important, but they had taught you a few simple words as well.

"It's another word for friend."

You weren’t really sure if you believed him because you didn’t think that there were that many words for friend in Mando’a.

But why would he lie about something like that?

"Oh." You nod, before flashing another wide smile at him. "You're welcome, Din. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

He releases your hand and waits patiently until you safely close the door behind you before he walks away down the darkened streets, disappearing into the night, with the thrum of your touch under his skin.

And you fall asleep that night hearing the soft sound of your name slipping through the helmet, and the buzz of his words in Mando'a sending you off into the sweet abyss.

Guide:

Burc'ya: Friend

Ner Cyare: My Beloved

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