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cutehoons02 · 1 day ago

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Ace Love (Preview)

pairing: pervy stepbrother Jay x tennis player Girl trope: grumpy girl x sunshine boy

synopsis: At twenty-one, you’re one of the most promising young tennis players in the world. But you were raised under the ruthless pressure of a mother-manager who turned your childhood into a battlefield—until she met Mr. Park, now your stepfather. Unfortunately, he came with a complication of his own: Jay Park, rebellious heir to a multi-billion-dollar empire and your stepbrother for the past five years. Jay is everything you're not: bold, brilliant, adored. Where you radiate discipline and precision, he’s chaos and music. Where you build walls, he tears them down—with a smile... and gestures that are anything but brotherly but Jay isn’t just the golden boy of the house. He’s the only one who truly sees you. The only one who’s always known how to push you past your limits, how to make you tremble with just a glance and now that he’s back in the Hamptons for the summer in that villa you both hate and crave in equal measure the rules begin to crack. Between sun-soaked training sessions, Ralph Lauren photoshoots, flaring jealousy, and whispered confessions among the dunes at sunset...you’ll have to choose: Stay loyal to the frozen world you've built or let yourself burn in the forbidden fire that Jay has always been.

word: 3.1k story word: 10/15k

Living with your stepbrother was, in short, a damn nightmare, not because he was mean, quite the opposite. Ever since you’d moved from New York to the Hamptons, where you didn’t know a soul, he’d introduced you to his whole gang of friends, taken you out for secret burger runs behind your mom’s back, gotten you to try surfing in the freezing ocean, and cheered for you at every tennis match. But deep down, you couldn’t stand him because he was everything you weren’t. Free, light, effortless, surrounded by people who adored him. For him, life was all about fun and passion first; everything else came second. You, on the other hand, were a walking cage. Trapped in a dream that felt more like your mother’s than yours. You only really started realizing it in your teenage years that tennis had stopped being a hobby and had become more like a drug. A habit forced on you at the tender age of three, when your mother placed a racket in your tiny hands, one that was bigger than you. You hadn’t even learned to read yet, but you already knew how to hit a slice serve. From that moment, your destiny was carved in stone, just like the greats: Serena Williams, Chris Evert, and Billie Jean King. Women who made history, and you were determined to be one of them. At any cost. The problem was, you used to love playing. As a kid, you ran around the court like it was a playground, laughing with the other children. But while all the others quit every six months because they got bored, you kept going. And now, at seventeen, every point you played felt like a burden, one that might get you into the most prestigious ranking in the world: the WTA top 10.

Your mom hadn’t let up since your first sponsor signed you. The training sessions had doubled along with the sponsors because you were starting to win junior tournaments, events, and matches and your forced smile had slowly become your signature look, along with your perfectionism.

If you won, it was: “Good, but you can do better.” If you lost, it was: “It’s your fault. You need to train harder.”

You always had something to prove to her, to the world, and most of all, to yourself, and then… There was Jay.

Jay, with his perfect jawline and that stupid birthmark, was it a heart? Or maybe a butterfly? Right above his collarbone. Just looking at him annoyed the hell out of you.

Son of one of the most powerful CEOs in both America and Asia, it felt like everything had been handed to him on a silver platter. He barely studied two hours a day in high school and still got Ivy League grades. He was the baseball team’s vice-captain, prom king, and every girl hung on his every word.

Everyone adored him, your mother included. And you... You hated him because, for him, just existing was enough to be celebrated. While you had to break yourself into pieces just to earn a crumb of approval. You thought his departure for Yale would be a blessing. Finally, all eyes would be on you. Finally, the house would be quiet. You’d be able to concentrate. Focus. Train. Prepare for the upcoming tournaments but deep down, way down, part of you wanted to grab his arm and say, “Don’t go.”

Because ever since he walked into your life with that too-loud laugh, those dumb jokes, and the way he called you “Little Miss Perfect” or “Tiny Thing,” you hadn’t been able to ignore him.

You wanted to kiss him and on your worst days, maybe punch him too. Or strangle him. Because he made you feel things no guy ever had: butterflies in your stomach, anxiety about looking pretty for him and not for yourself, jealousy when he talked to other girls. And at seventeen, you told yourself it was just a stupid crush. A waste of time.

You were cold. Calculated. A ranking machine. At seventeen, you were already in the world's top 50. You had ice in your eyes and your heart chained to a single, burning goal: to become number one and win a Slam, especially Wimbledon, as soon as humanly possible.

That evening, at the villa in the Hamptons, soft jazz music floated through the air from a small orchestra playing in the garden. The garden was strung with delicate warm lights, and countless tables were set with glasses of champagne and rosé, endless trays of fancy hors d'oeuvres, and a private chef was preparing lobster and seafood pasta on demand. The whole house looked like it had been plucked straight out of one of those high-end lifestyle magazines you'd find in a rich person’s dentist or beauty clinic, lit candles, wealthy people dressed like they were trying to be talked about for their outfits instead of their personalities, and a picture-perfect sunset melting slowly into the Atlantic Ocean. Everything looked flawless.

Too bad you felt like a puppet made of flesh and bones, barely holding it together next to your mother, her husband (aka your stepfather), and, of course, Jay, your stepbrother.

This was officially going to be his last night in the house, because the next morning, he’d be flying off to Yale, ready to become another golden clone of the elite, destined to sit in his father’s million-dollar chair and bark orders all day at underpaid employees.

You thought the whole thing was a waste of time, not the college part, because you knew Jay was smart and would probably get through Yale with decent grades. But this farewell party? Please. It was a family gathering in name only, more like a networking event disguised with designer napkins and overpriced wine, meant for business deals, not goodbyes.

Jay wasn’t going to the other side of the planet. He’d be in New York. You knew he’d be back for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, summer… and probably even random weekends to “unwind” in the arms of some model, listening to vintage records like a cliché. It wasn’t a farewell party, it was just another scene in the show, and you were expected to smile through it like always, while Jay pretended he loved these fake dinners.

So the moment the guests arrived, you did your polite wave, grabbed a couple of salmon canapés, mini sliders, and some salad, and slipped away to the farthest veranda, at a safe distance from the lounge music and the fake laughs of those overpolished people. You leaned against the wooden railing, the breeze from the ocean brushing your bare arms, tousling your golden hair, lifting your white skirt just slightly.

In front of you, the waves rolled slowly onto the wet sand, seagulls screamed as they glided low across the shore, and the fiery sun dipped into the water, turning the sky into a painting. It was the only real moment of the evening, the only peace you allowed yourself every night.

Then you heard footsteps behind you, and you rolled your eyes, already bracing for your mother’s voice:

"Go back to the party. You need to make a good impression—every investor could be useful for your career."

But no. That smell of leather, tobacco, and cherry belonged to only one person: Jay.

“Well, well... look who’s hiding.”

His voice was too bright for your taste, too full of himself. You turned toward him with a “not now” face, but he grinned and leaned casually on the railing next to you. His copper-colored eyes sparkled in the last sliver of sunlight, his tanned skin kissed by some Greek god in a rockstar mood and probably with a pervert's heart. Your eyes couldn’t help but drift to the heart-shaped birthmark on his collarbone. It was a trap. You’d wanted to press your lips against it since the first time you saw it.

“What’s Miss Perfect doing out here instead of bragging about her latest trophy?”

He tilted his head. “Or wait...are you too busy flirting with some finance mogul who’s promising you more massages, more private coaches, and more therapists?”

You sighed and turned slightly toward him, folding your arms.

“I don’t need any of that anymore. And anyway, this is your farewell party, not mine. For once, I’m not the center of attention... so enjoy it.”

You said it coldly, but not cold enough to kill his grin.

Jay chuckled and stepped right in front of you, rocking on his heels like he had all the time in the world. His Ralph Lauren shirt hung perfectly on his broad shoulders, his tailored pants framed his strong legs, and of course, those shoes. Old money to the core. Perfect. Annoying. Dangerously gorgeous for your already-struggling heart.

And that traitorous heart of yours? Skipped a couple of beats just from looking at him.

“I’m almost offended, you know?”

He stared right at your lips. “I thought you’d give me a more... personal goodbye.”

“Hugs and tears aren’t my thing,” you muttered, turning your gaze away. The breeze skimmed over the skin between your shoulder blades, and he was standing way too close for comfort.

“Not even a tiny ‘I’ll miss you, Jay’? Nothing?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re not going to the moon, Jay. You’re two hours away. The highway starts at the end of our driveway. You’re not enlisting in the Marines and heading to Afghanistan.”

You folded your arms again, and he pouted. An actual pout. Lower lip pushed out, puppy-eyed, and bastard-level aware of the effect.

“Oh, come on. You know you’re gonna miss me.”

You groaned because, of course, he needed to hear it out loud. That you’d miss him. But you were cynical. Emotionally constipated. Especially as a teenager.

“In your dreams, Jay.”

He ran a hand through his soft, floppy hair, ugh, always perfect like he’d just stepped out of a photoshoot and then suddenly pulled something out of his pocket. A black velvet box. The name on it: Cartier.

Your body stiffened. Your eyes jumped from the box to his face. Then back to the box.

“What’s that?” you asked, a little too brightly. You loved that brand and hated how obvious your voice sounded.

Jay handed you the box, placing it gently into your palm.

“Even if you pretend I don’t matter...” he said quietly, his eyes locked on yours, not like someone looking at a stepsister, but like someone feeling something real.

“...even if you keep acting like you won’t miss me, I wanted you to have a little goodbye gift.”

You stared at him, a little thrown off, maybe even amused, never in a million years would you have expected this from him. You arched an eyebrow and mumbled:

“If there’s an engagement ring in here, the answer is no.”

Jay burst out laughing, and you went full drama mode:

“One, I’m underage. Two, our zodiac signs don’t match. And three… you’re not my type.”

Jay clutched his chest and staggered back like you’d mortally wounded him.

“Oh god-fatal blow to the heart! You’re evil, Y/N. Bet you’re gonna break a ton of weak hearts.”

He flopped sideways like he was about to faint, clutching his chest.

“You broke mine, squirt. I knew it would happen eventually. Just didn’t think it’d be my stepsister who’d reject me first.”

You let out a quiet laugh, but your thumb was already brushing over the velvet box. Gently, you opened it.

Inside was a thin silver necklace, delicate and elegant, with a tiny white-gold tennis racket charm at the center. Your breath caught. It sparkled brighter than your future. You didn’t want to ask how much it cost. Or why he’d done this for you.

“It’s... beautiful.”

You said it under your breath, almost like you didn’t want him to hear, but Jay smiled. Not his usual cocky smirk. A real smile. Soft. A little shy.

“I knew you’d like it.” He paused. “I had it custom-made. It’s based on your first racket, the blue one with the worn grip. The one hanging in your room.”

That hit you like a punch to the chest. You traced the charm with your finger and smiled. And that smile for Jay was like a kiss. His biggest win: seeing you smile because of him.

“Want me to put it on you?”

His voice was quieter now, almost a whisper, like he didn’t want to ruin the moment. You looked at him for a second, then nodded.

He stepped behind you. You gathered your hair and tilted your neck. His fingers brushed your skin. The cool air hit your nape, but it was the cold touch of the necklace against your bare neck that made you suck in a quiet breath. The charm swayed slightly, catching the last golden rays of the sunset. It rested perfectly against your collarbone.

His hands lingered. Just a moment too long. Skimming your shoulder, tracing along your collarbone, and for a second, it felt like the world stopped breathing.

“All done,” he whispered behind you. You turned slightly. He looked down at your throat, then slowly back up to your eyes.

“It looks amazing on you,” he said, his voice soft. “Don’t ever take it off. I want to see you win a Slam wearing that necklace.”

You chuckled at his first serious comment about tennis in forever.

“Jay... that’s a bit ambitious.”

He stepped closer. Another step. Until the wooden railing was at your back and he was right there, warm breath brushing your cheek.

“I’m the first one who believes in you,” he whispered. “I know you’ll win. Not now... but in a few years, that trophy will be yours.”

You blinked. Surprised. There was something in his eyes—something burning beneath the golden surface.

“Where?” you murmured. “Where will I win it?”

He pouted again—his serious one. Then stroked his jaw, thinking.

“The US Open,” he whispered.

You raised a playful brow. “Really? Hard court? You know that’s not my Slam.”

Jay grinned and ran a hand through his hair.

“I know. But you won’t win Wimbledon right away. Your first will be in New York. The city that never sleeps like you. It’ll be unexpected. Even for you.”

You didn’t say anything. His eyes dropped to your lips. Slowly. Yours drifted to his—full, soft, sun-kissed pink. You swallowed.

The wind hummed. The sea roared behind you. It felt like a scene from an American drama. Then his hand rose and brushed your cheek, his thumb drawing tiny, almost invisible circles. The other hand rested firmly on your waist, like he didn’t want you to run.

And then... in a whisper that felt almost illegal, he asked:

“Can I kiss you?”

Your eyes widened, but you didn’t answer because his lips were already on yours.

Your eyes widened slightly, but you didn’t say a word, not because you didn’t want to, but because you didn’t have time.

His lips were already on yours.

They were soft, warm, sweet, and tasted unmistakably of expensive rosé and ripe red berries. Yours, by contrast, tasted of bergamot and sugar like a non-alcoholic aperitif sipped at sunset.

For one long, eternal second, you couldn’t tell if you were dreaming or living a nightmare. This was your first kiss, and you were sharing it with Jay: your stepbrother, at his farewell party, under a perfect sunset, surrounded by a house full of people. And if someone had been watching… what would they have thought?

Your body froze. You couldn’t move. It all felt so wrongmso impossibly, terribly wrongmand it was as if you were the only person frozen still in a party that kept spinning around you.

But Jay… he noticed.

His hand slid to your waist and gave you a light pinch—the same kind of playful poke he’d always used when you tried to ignore him. Your eyes flew open in surprise. You felt his soft hair brushing your cheek and forehead, his long lashes nearly touching yours.

And then, your lips parted. Just a little.

Jay took that as his cue.

Gently, slowly, as if this kiss had been building inside him for a lifetime, he deepened it. It was tender, respectful, but also confident. His tongue slid lightly against yours, seeking permission without asking for it in words because he already knew you wanted the same thing, and you let him.

Clumsy, curious, awkward, you gave in.

A soft sound escaped from your lips when he gently nipped at your lower lip, a mix of surprise and pleasure that vibrated against his mouth.

Jay smiled into the kiss. You could feel the curve of it against you, and it made the whole moment feel alive.

It was playful and yet deep. An exploration. As if he were trying to learn your entire map from that one first touch. His hands held you lightly at your waist, while yours, shaky, hesitant, came to rest on his broad shoulders.

Slowly, your mouths began to know each other. Every small movement of his tongue was careful, featherlight, patient. Like he was afraid he might break you. And you... You let him in. You gave him access to a world you’d never opened to anyone else.

Then, with a tiny gasp, you pulled away.

Your lips were swollen. Your heart was racing out of control. You lifted your trembling fingers to your mouth, as if to check if it had happened. Your eyes were glassy, your cheeks burning hot, and your hands shook with the sheer force of what you were feeling.

Jay said nothing. Just looked at you, entranced.

He took your hands, gently, lowering them, fingers intertwining with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. His eyes dropped again to your lips, now reddened and slightly swollen, his doing. A mark he would never forget.

“That was my first kiss,” you whispered.

Jay’s eyes widened slightly. He looked like he was about to say something, but your words had shaken him. Shaken him.

“Wait—” he started.

But you were already turning on your heel.

You bolted—darting across the quiet side of the garden where no one was watching, disappearing through a side door, racing along the edge of the house, away from the veranda, the ocean, and away from him.

Jay stayed where he was.

The ocean breeze messed up his dark hair. His fingers still carried the feel of your skin. And slowly, quietly, a smile curled across his lips.

Then, in a low voice, he murmured to himself:

“That kiss… wasn’t a goodbye, Squirt. It was just the beginning.”

Taglist is open🤍

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cassiemaebarnes · 1 month ago

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Dreaming of You

Bucky x reader

Summary: When Bucky has a good dream about you, he wakes up confused - and with the best sleep he's had in years. When he continues having these soft dreams, he begins to believe that maybe he does deserve comfort, despite his messed up past.

Word Count: 9,220

Bucky didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment he was staring blankly at the ceiling of his room in the compound, the next, there was quiet. A different quiet.

He was lying in a bed. Not his own.

The sheets weren’t a deep navy blue. They were soft and rumpled, a light gray that smelled faintly of vanilla and something else – something familiar. There was no hum of the compound’s lights, no distant clang of Tony’s tech or the low murmur of the common room TV. Just stillness.

He blinked slowly, turning his head, expecting to find an explanation. But what he saw made him freeze.

You were there. Curled against him like you belonged there – like you chose to be there. Head resting gently on his chest, breath even and slow, your hand lightly curled into the fabric of his t-shirt. Your leg was slung over his like you’d done this before. Like it was natural. Like it was safe.

For a moment, he just stared.

You didn’t talk to him much. Not in a bad way – you were just quiet, like he was. But when you did speak, it was soft and easy. You didn’t tiptoe around him or treat him like a project. You gave him space. And somehow, without trying, you’d found your way into the parts of his life that felt…normal.

But this – this wasn’t normal. This wasn’t real.

And then he saw it.

His stomach twisted violently.

The metal arm. Shining silver. Red star on the shoulder.

The Winter Soldier.

Panic crawled up his throat.

He tried to move – tried to pull away – but he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t obey. His left arm, the metal one, lay at his side like dead weight. His right arm, the flesh one, was wrapped around you, and he hadn’t even realized it. He wanted to pull it back, wanted to get away before he hurt you.

The pressure built in his chest, heart hammering like a warning bell. His mind raced. He was him again. That version of himself. Cold. Weaponized. Dangerous.

Why couldn’t he move?

Why wouldn’t the dream let him move?

But then – you shifted, softly. Your hand curled tighter into his shirt. Your cheek rubbed against his chest in your sleep like you were burrowing closer. And your lips curved into the faintest smile.

Like you were happy.

With him.

Bucky’s breath stilled. The panic dulled at the edges, like someone had taken the volume knob and slowly turned it down.

You sighed. A soft, content sound. One that said, I’m safe here.

He stared at you, everything inside him slowly cracking open. The metal arm stayed still and lifeless beside him, but it didn’t matter now. You weren’t afraid.

You were still here.

He let out a slow, shaky breath, letting it all go with the exhale. The fear. The guilt. The weight. The arm still didn’t move, but it wasn’t the threat he’d imagined. Not in this moment. Not with you beside him.

Peace wasn’t something he often found – even in dreams.

But now he let it wrap around him like the warmth of the bed, the quiet of the room, the gentle rhythm of your breathing. His eyes softened, chest rising and falling with yours.

And then the dream faded.

But the calm stayed with him.

Bucky stirred slowly, eyes blinking open to the soft morning light filtering through his window. For once, he wasn’t jolted awake. No nightmares. No cold sweat. No tremor in his hands.

Just…rest.

He frowned at the ceiling. That was new.

He stretched slightly, joints stiff from staying in one position too long, but his body felt lighter somehow. Not in the physical sense – he still had the same weight, the same scars – but the kind of lightness that comes after real sleep. The kind that doesn’t happen often for him. Almost never.

His brows furrowed. Why?

Then – slowly – it came back to him.

The dream.

The warmth. The quiet. The feel of a body pressed to his. Your body. Head on his chest, hand holding onto his shirt, your leg tangled over his. Like you belonged there. Like he belonged there.

And the arm.

The metal one. With the red star.

He sat up too quickly, rubbing a hand down his face. The image of it all clung to his mind now – your peaceful face, that little smile in your sleep, how close you were. How it should have terrified him but didn’t – not in the end.

He didn’t know what the hell it meant.

Why you?

Why that version of him?

Why now?

Bucky exhaled slowly, trying to shove the dream to the back of his mind. Dreams didn’t mean anything. Not for him. They were scrambled echoes of memory and fear, things buried and half-processed. This was no different.

Still, his chest ached in a way he couldn’t explain.

He got out of bed and moved through the motions of his morning routine, then headed down to the kitchen.

There were already a few people scattered around the room, mugs in hand, morning voices low and mumbled. Sam leaned against the counter scrolling through his phone. Nat was picking at a muffin. And you were at the table, sipping from a light blue mug, eyes on a book with one leg tucked under you.

You looked up when he walked in. “Morning,” you said softly, offering him a little smile.

His stomach flipped.

It hit him like a punch to the gut. That smile.

Exactly like the dream.

He didn’t say anything at first, caught off guard. Your eyes lingered on him for just a second, warm and casual, like it was no big deal.

“Morning,” he mumbled, voice gruff as he moved past you.

He busied himself with pouring his coffee, pretending he didn’t feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck. Pretending the dream wasn’t clawing its way to the surface again, vivid and disorienting and suddenly way too close to real.

He took a long sip of coffee, staring blankly at the counter.

Just a dream, he told himself again.

But the sound of your soft sigh behind him, the scrape of your mug against the table as you took another sip – it sounded exactly the same.

And he couldn’t shake it.

The office was quiet, just the soft ticking of the wall clock and the hum of distant city traffic outside the window. Bucky sat on the familiar worn-in couch, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Dr. Raynor was scribbling something in her notebook as she usually did before looking up at him.

“So,” she said, tone casual but watchful. “How many nightmares this past week?”

Bucky opened his mouth, the number already at the front of his mind. “Uh, I think…”

He trailed off, brows drawing together.

He thought the dream a couple nights ago. About waking up without a jolt, about how calm his body felt for the first time in…God, he didn’t even know how long. It wasn’t like the other dreams – not dark or violent. But he was the Winter Soldier in it. That arm. That red star. That helplessness. That fear.

But…

Then there was you. And peace. And warmth.

He hadn’t had that. Not even in dreams.

“Bucky?”

Dr. Raynor’s voice broke into his thoughts, cutting through the silence.

He blinked, snapping his attention back to her. “Uh, sorry. I think…three.”

She nodded, jotting it down. “That’s good. Fewer than last week. Progress.”

He gave a small, vague grunt in agreement, but she was already watching him a little too closely.

“What was the pause about?”

He hesitated. He could brush it off. Say he miscounted. Change the subject. But the dream had stuck with him. Still clung to the edges of his mind the past few mornings. He was curious – about what it meant, and about what she’d think of it.

So he exhaled slowly. “I…had a different kind of dream. A couple nights ago.”

Dr. Raynor leaned back slightly, folding her hands. “Different how?”

Bucky stared down at his hands for a second before answering. “I was lying in a bed. Just…quiet. And there was someone with me. A girl.” His voice stayed even, careful. “She was laying on me. Head on my chest, hand holding my shirt, leg over mine. We were just…there. Like it was normal.”

Raynor’s expression didn’t change, but he could tell she was paying full attention now.

“I looked down, and – my arm. It was the Winter Soldier version. Silver. Red star.” He swallowed. “I panicked. I couldn’t move it. Couldn’t move at all. Thought I was gonna hurt her. But then she moved closer in her sleep. Smiled.” He paused, voice softening. “It calmed me down. I felt…okay. Even with the arm.”

Dr. Raynor hummed thoughtfully. “Did you know the girl?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up to hers. There was a moment of hesitation, then a quiet, “No.”

She raised an eyebrow, the kind that said you’re lying and we both know it, but she didn’t press.

“Did you wake up after that?”

He shook his head. “No. Slept through the night. Woke up in the morning, and it was the best sleep I’ve had in…a long time.”

There was a pause. Then, to his surprise, Dr. Raynor smiled – a small, genuine smile.

“Well,” she said, “it sounds like your brain is trying to tell you something.”

Bucky frowned. “Like what?”

“That you deserve comfort like that. Even with your past.”

The words hit him harder than he expected – right in the chest. He sat a little straighter, caught off guard by the way those simple words landed. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

She continued gently. “You’ve spent years believing you’re not allowed to have peace. That you have to earn something you already should’ve had. And now, maybe your subconscious is finally pushing back on that.”

Bucky looked down again, lips pressed into a thin line.

“That dream wasn’t about danger. It wasn’t about control or violence or punishment. It was about being okay, even with the parts of you you’re still learning to accept.”

He didn’t respond, but something settled in him. Not quite relief. Not quite understanding. But something quieter than what he was used to.

Something like hope.

She scribbled something else down, then glanced up again. “Let it stay with you. The way that felt. Don’t dismiss it just because it didn’t scare you.”

He nodded, almost to himself.

He wouldn’t forget it.

Not the dream.

Not your smile.

And maybe, just maybe, not the feeling that – just for a moment – he was allowed to feel that safe.

Later that night, Bucky fell asleep without much effort – something that still felt strange, even after his conversation with Dr. Raynor earlier that day. Her words had echoed in his mind, quiet and persistent: You deserve comfort like that. Even with your past.

He didn’t quite believe it.

But somehow, his body did, because sleep pulled him under fast.

And the dream returned.

The same soft hush of a room that wasn’t his. The same tangled gray sheets. The same smell – vanilla and you.

He blinked slowly, just like last time.

Except…this time, everything was flipped.

You were still beside him – but now, on his left. Your body tucked perfectly into his side, your head nestled just below his shoulder, your hand curled into his shirt, your leg tangled with his.

But his metal arm – the Winter Soldier arm – was curled around you.

Touching you.

Holding you.

He froze.

Panic surged through him like a current.

No. No, no, no.

He looked down at the gleam of silver in the soft light, the red star glowing faintly like a warning. His mind screamed. What if it was pressing too hard? What if it locked up or jerked suddenly? What if it hurt you and he couldn’t stop it?

He tried to move it. Tried to pull away. But just like last time, the dream held him in place. The arm wouldn’t respond. It just was – still, locked in its place around you.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat.

This wasn’t okay.

He shouldn’t be allowed to hold someone like this. Not with that arm. Not with the weight of what it had done. Not when it could still do damage.

But then – you shifted, slowly again.

You sighed softly. Peacefully. A little smile tugged at your lips as you nuzzled your face further into his chest, like you wanted to be even closer.

Like you were safe.

His panic stuttered. He blinked again, heart thudding for a different reason now.

You weren’t afraid. You didn’t recoil. You didn’t treat that arm like a threat.

You embraced it. Him.

Every bit of him.

Slowly, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His jaw unclenched. His shoulders eased down. He didn’t try to move the arm again – he didn’t want to. It was holding you. You were breathing steady, face peaceful, lips still curved with that small, content smile.

And somehow, for the second time, so was he.

He watched you quietly, letting the warmth of the moment soak into him. Letting it settle somewhere deeper than it had before. You hadn’t just tolerated the arm.

You trusted it.

Trusted him.

The room faded again. Soft and slow.

But the feeling – the comfort, the calm, the way you smiled in your sleep – it stayed.

Just like before.

Bucky woke with a slow inhale, the weight of sleep still clinging to his body.

But this time, he didn’t need a moment to remember.

The dream was right there, vivid and whole, waiting for him like it never left.

You, curled up against his left side. His metal arm – that arm – wrapped around you. And not by accident. Not something he couldn’t control. It was holding you. Touching you. And you didn’t flinch. You didn’t fear it.

You smiled.

He blinked up at the ceiling, jaw slack with quiet disbelief. His heart wasn’t racing. His hands weren’t clenched. There was no cold sweat or lingering tension in his spine.

Just a steady breath. A strange calm.

He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled.

He slept better than he had in years.

Maybe Dr. Raynor was right. Maybe his brain was trying to tell him something. Something he hadn’t let himself believe for a long time. Something about softness. About comfort. About…deserving it.

Even now, lying there in the soft morning light, the feeling hadn’t left him. It buzzed quietly under his skin – warm, unfamiliar. Not something he trusted yet. But not something he wanted to shake off either.

With a grunt, he sat up and went through the motions of his morning routine again and headed down to the kitchen, rubbing a hand over his face. The smell of coffee hit him as soon as he rounded the corner.

Voices filtered through the space – soft and half-awake.

Sam was at the counter again, talking to someone across the room. Natasha leaned over a bowl of cereal. And you were at the table, in the same seat as before, scrolling lazily through something on your phone. You wore a cozy sweater today, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, your mug cradled in one hand.

You looked up when you saw him, smile soft and casual.

“Morning,” you said, voice quiet but warm.

His stomach flipped.

Just like the other day.

He swallowed thickly, eyes catching on the curve of your smile. The exact one from his dream. That same relaxed expression. That same tiny upturn of your lips like you were happy to see him.

He forced his eyes away.

“Morning,” he mumbled, barely above a grumble, and headed straight to the coffee machine.

He busied himself with pouring his coffee, keeping his back to the others. But his mind wasn’t quiet.

All he could think about was that dream. The weight of your head on his shoulder. The feel of your hand against his chest. The way you smiled in your sleep like everything about that moment was safe.

He took a long sip of the coffee, letting the warmth ground him.

Bucky leaned against the counter, mug in hand, eyes fixed on absolutely nothing in particular. He was too aware of you. Of your presence. The sound of your laugh – soft and breathy – when Sam made some dumb comment. The way you sat, one leg tucked under you, like you were completely at ease here.

He wasn’t used to noticing this much.

Or rather…he wasn’t used to letting himself notice.

“Hey, Barnes,” Sam called across the kitchen, pointing a spoon at him. “You gonna just brood in the corner all morning or are you capable of eating like a normal human being?”

Bucky gave him a deadpan look over his mug. “I am eating. This is breakfast.” He raised the mug like proof.

“Coffee’s not breakfast, man,” Sam said, gesturing to the bowl of yogurt in front of him. “It’s a sad, bitter hug.”

You snorted into your drink, and Bucky’s eyes flicked over to you before he could stop himself. That sound – your laugh – was way better than whatever Sam thought was funny.

Natasha gave a dry smile, not looking up from her cereal. “Let him be. At least he’s not staring into the distance like he’s reliving war crimes again.”

“Pretty sure that’s just his face,” Sam muttered.

That earned a louder laugh from you.

Bucky took a long drink of coffee to hide the corner of his mouth twitching.

Then Steve walked in, holding a tablet. “Morning,” he greeted as he passed, setting the device on the counter. “There’s a meeting at ten. Just some info about the upcoming mission.”

“Who’s going?” Nat asked.

Steve tapped the screen. “Me, Sam, Nat, and y/n.”

You raised your brows, nodding slowly. “Cool. I haven’t had a field op in a week. I’m itching.”

Bucky’s eyes went to you again without thinking. That little grin, that spark in your eyes – it tugged at something low in his chest. You were so casual, so ready. Brave, smart, calm. Everything he felt like he had to force in himself just to function.

Then Sam, apparently unable to resist, added, “Don’t worry, Barnes. We’ll bring you back a souvenir.”

“I didn’t say I wanted one,” Bucky muttered.

“Your eyes say it. The haunted ones.”

Bucky rolled them.

You leaned a little toward Sam with a playful smile. “I think he just wants us out of the kitchen so he can mope in peace.”

Bucky looked at you, eyebrows raised, and – damn it – there was that same smile again. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just...soft. Familiar in a way that made his chest feel tight.

Like the dream again.

The red star flashed in his mind for just a second – how it had looked resting beside your head.

His grip on the mug tightened and he looked away.

“You’re all very funny,” he muttered.

Sam raised his hands in mock surrender. “We try.”

You slid out of your seat, passing close by him on your way to the sink. “Don’t worry, Bucky,” you said gently, voice just for him. “You’ll miss us when we’re gone.”

He didn't say anything. Couldn’t, really.

Because he was pretty sure he would.

A couple nights later, the world was green and gold.

Sunlight filtered through trees he didn’t recognize, casting dappled shadows on the path beneath his boots. A soft breeze tugged at the edge of his sleeves, carrying the scent of something fresh – flowers maybe.

It was quiet and peaceful.

Still, Bucky frowned.

He didn’t know this place.

The path curved ahead through a gentle park, benches spaced out along the edges, a few distant people walking dogs or pushing strollers. He glanced around, scanning like he always did – half instinct, half reflex.

Then he looked to his left.

And there you were.

Walking beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

No gear. No weapons. Just you, in casual clothes, looking comfortable and calm, your arms swinging gently at your sides. You didn’t say anything at first – just strolled, matching his pace, steps quiet on the pavement.

He stared, confused.

But before he could say anything, you looked up at him.

And smiled.

Not some bright, flashy grin. Just something quiet, warm, and familiar. Like you’d been here beside him the whole time and nothing about it was strange.

Then, without a word, you reached up and held his hand, lacing your fingers with his.

His metal hand. The Winter Soldier’s.

Bucky’s whole body went stiff.

His breath caught in his chest like someone had punched him.

The panic started the same way it always did – sharp, cold, immediate. That hand. That arm. He didn’t even like people walking on that side of him most of the time. Didn’t want them close to it.

But you…you hadn’t even hesitated.

You just laced your fingers through his like it was second nature.

Like it meant nothing.

Or maybe – everything.

He tried to pull away.

He couldn’t.

His feet kept walking. His body moved forward. But his hand – his metal hand – remained in yours.

And you didn’t look scared. You didn’t flinch or squeeze too tightly or act like it was anything other than his hand. Not a weapon. Not something dangerous.

Just…his.

You held it like you’d done it a hundred times before.

Like you wanted to.

And the whole time, that soft little smile stayed on your face.

He looked at you again, expecting to see some kind of shift – wariness, discomfort, anything. But all he saw was peace. Trust.

The panic in his chest twisted. Less sharp now. Still there, still curling at the edges of his thoughts, but quieter. Muffled under something heavier. Something warmer.

So he didn’t fight it.

He just…walked with you.

Fingers interlocked.

Sunlight dappling the path.

And when the dream began to fade, he didn’t want to let go.

Bucky woke up with the ghost of your hand still wrapped in his.

He lay there, eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers. But it didn’t. Just the same bland paint, same quiet hum of the AC, same everything. Except him.

He didn’t feel the same.

The dream hadn’t faded this time. It was sharp. Too sharp. The colors. The breeze. The way you looked at him. The weight of your fingers laced with his metal ones, swinging lightly between you as if you’d never thought twice about touching him like that. Holding him like that.

His left hand rested against his chest now, unmoving.

He stared at it, heart thudding a little too loud in his ears.

Usually, the panic hit him first.

Usually, there was cold sweat. A racing pulse. The instinct to get up, walk it off, ground himself.

But this time…it was different.

There was confusion, of course. Why that arm again? Why you? Why the park? Why did it feel so damn real?

But under the confusion, there was something else entirely, deeper and quieter.

Longing.

It sat in his chest like a weight, not painful, but persistent, like something had just barely brushed against a place inside him he didn’t even know was empty until it wasn’t.

You looked so happy in that dream. So peaceful. Like you wanted to be there with him. Like you didn’t care that it was that hand you were holding. Like it never mattered.

And for a moment…he let himself believe it.

He rubbed his face with his flesh hand, sighing deep into the quiet.

He wasn’t used to wanting anything like this.

Not comfort.

Not softness.

Not…you.

But now, he couldn’t un-feel it.

He stayed there for a while, lying in bed, trying to push it down – but the feeling clung stubbornly to the edges of his mind.

Eventually, he got up and got ready, heading downstairs.

The kitchen was quiet when he walked in. Just Sam, Steve, and Nat – already half-finished with breakfast, voices low, the occasional clink of spoons against bowls – the usual noise.

But you weren’t there.

And Bucky didn’t expect the disappointment that tugged at his chest.

He tried to ignore it. Shoved it down like everything else. You didn’t owe him your presence. It wasn’t like you should be here. Still, it hit harder than it should’ve.

He poured himself a cup of coffee, fingers tight around the handle, and sat at the island without saying a word. None of them pushed him. Nat gave him a polite nod. Steve offered a brief, “Morning, Buck.” Sam just nodded and kept eating.

Bucky sipped his coffee and stared at nothing, trying not to think about the park, or your hand in his, or the way it had felt like something he'd never known he needed.

Then he heard the sound of footsteps approaching the kitchen.

His spine stiffened.

Then he saw you.

Hair a little messy. Hoodie hanging over your frame. Sleep still soft around your eyes. You looked barely awake – but when your gaze found him, you smiled.

That same quiet smile.

His stomach flipped.

But this time…his chest fluttered too.

“Morning,” you said, voice a little hoarse from sleep.

“Morning,” he mumbled back, too fast, too quiet. Eyes dropping instantly to his coffee like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

You walked over to the coffee machine and poured yourself a cup of coffee in your favorite light blue mug. Then, you turned and walked over to the island and sat down. Not in your usual spot, which would put a chair in between you two.

Right next to him.

On his left side.

By his metal arm.

His entire body tensed. Not panicked – just frozen. Every cell aware. That old instinct to shift away, to hide the arm, to make sure no one accidentally brushed against it. But he didn’t move. You didn’t seem to notice the shift in him, the tension laced through his frame.

You just sipped your coffee, then turned a little toward him.

“How’d you sleep?” you asked, casual, soft.

He blinked. Swallowed.

“…Good,” he said, forcing his voice to sound even. Normal.

You smiled a little more. “Good.”

Then…nothing.

No follow-up. No chatter.

Just you, sitting beside him, quiet and easy and not even glancing at his arm.

Bucky stared into his coffee again, heart still thudding somewhere too close to his ribs. A part of him wanted to get up, walk out, hide like he always did when things got too close. But another part just wanted to stay.

Because sitting here, next to you, felt almost like the dream.

And for the first time, that didn’t scare him.

It made him feel like maybe – just maybe – it could be real.

Later that day, he was back in the familiar office sitting on the worn couch. Dr. Raynor glanced down at her notepad before looking up at Bucky, her tone casual but her gaze sharp.

“So, how many nightmares this week?”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. “None.”

She blinked. Her pen paused mid-word. “None?”

He nodded once, folding his arms across his chest but not defensively – more like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

Dr. Raynor leaned back slightly in her chair, eyes narrowing just a bit, surprised but clearly pleased. “Well…that’s really good, Bucky.”

He gave a small nod again but said nothing. She let the silence linger for a beat before continuing.

“Any more dreams like the last one?”

There was a flicker of something behind his eyes – something warmer than his usual stormcloud gaze. He looked at the floor, just for a second. “Yeah. Two more.”

Dr. Raynor smiled slightly. “Were they the same?”

“Kind of.”

“Tell me,” she said, leaning back in her chair.

Bucky shifted in his seat, arms still crossed, eyes distant like he was watching the scenes play in his head. “The first one…we were in bed again, the same one I didn’t recognize. Laying there. Only this time, she was on the other side of me. I had my left arm around her.”

Dr. Raynor’s brows lifted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

“It was still the metal one,” Bucky added, quieter. “The Winter Soldier one. But she didn’t mind. She was asleep against it like it was nothing.” He paused. “Like I was just...me.”

Dr. Raynor softened but stayed quiet, giving him room.

“The second dream…” he went on, “We were walking in some park. Not one I knew. Trees everywhere, real quiet. She was on my left side again.” He took a breath, like saying it out loud was harder than he thought it would be. “Then she reached up and held my hand. The metal one.” He glanced up at Dr. Raynor. “Still the old one.”

She nodded slowly, thoughtful. “And after those dreams...you still sleep well?”

“Yeah,” he said, more firmly this time. “I wake up feeling okay. Like I’m still there, kind of.”

“That’s a good thing, Bucky. That’s progress.”

He didn’t say anything, but his posture eased just slightly.

Dr. Raynor tapped her pen against the notepad. “Do you know the girl?”

“No,” he said quickly.

She raised an eyebrow at him, the same way she had the last time. No words – just that look, skeptical and patient and knowing.

Bucky sighed, his shoulders slumping just a little. “Yes.”

Dr. Raynor nodded, unsurprised. “Have you told her about the dreams?”

He shook his head.

“Who is she?”

“She’s…a teammate,” Bucky muttered, picking at a loose thread on the seam of his jacket. “New. Doesn’t talk much, but…she’s always nice.”

Dr. Raynor hummed, a thoughtful sound. She didn’t press, just let the silence stretch until it made Bucky glance up again.

“You should think about telling her,” she said gently. “See what she thinks.”

Bucky didn’t respond. He just stared down at his hands again, frowning.

He couldn’t tell her. He knew it. Because if she heard what he dreamed – if she knew she was part of this ideal version of his broken subconscious – she’d bolt. Or worse, she’d pity him. And either would be unbearable.

So he stayed silent. And Dr. Raynor didn’t push. But he could feel her eyes on him, reading everything he wasn’t saying.

The next dream started in a familiar place – the in the common room of the compound, the soft glow of a movie playing quietly on the TV.

He settled into the couch, feeling the familiar weight of his metal arm resting at his side, cold but steady.

Then, he became aware of you.

On his left side again.

You were sitting close, wrapped in a blanket, the fabric pooling softly over your legs.

You didn’t look up at him this time.

Instead, you shifted slowly, leaning over until your head came to rest on his metal shoulder.

Bucky froze for a moment, but the panic didn’t rise like before. It didn’t claw at him.

Instead, a quiet calm settled through him.

He felt…comfortable. Almost warm.

He looked down at you, watching the peaceful rise and fall of your breath.

After a moment, you tilted your head just enough to glance up at him, eyes soft, the same little smile curling your lips.

Then, without a word, you turned your gaze back to the movie.

Bucky settled back into the couch, heart steady, chest lighter.

He let himself enjoy the moment – the quiet closeness, the softness of the night, the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this was where he belonged.

And then the dream faded.

Bucky woke slowly, the edges of the dream still clinging to him like mist. For a moment, he stayed still, eyes half-closed, breathing even. The quiet hum of the compound in the early morning was a stark contrast to the gentle glow of the dream’s memory – the movie, the couch, the familiar weight of her head against his shoulder. He could almost still feel it.

He rubbed a hand down his face and stared at the ceiling, brow furrowed in thought.

He knew what it meant – at least, in the vague, half-therapeutic way that Dr. Raynor would explain it. His brain, reaching for peace. For softness. For something to hold onto when the world always felt like it was trying to push him away. It made sense, kind of. A subconscious reminder that he deserved comfort, despite everything.

But why her?

It could’ve been anyone. Some faceless, gentle figure. Or no face at all, just a blur that whispered kindness in silence. That’s what he would’ve expected. Not someone real. Not someone who existed within arm’s reach in his actual life.

Not a teammate.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and exhaling slowly. Maybe if he just kept moving, it’d fade. The thoughts, the dreams, the softness of it all.

He pulled on a hoodie and headed toward the kitchen.

The sounds of morning met him as he approached – soft laughter, clinking mugs, voices overlapping. Everyone was already there, it seemed. He hesitated in the hallway, only for a second, before stepping inside.

And then he saw her.

She was seated in her usual spot at the island, barefoot and cross-legged in her chair, talking to Steve about something.

His chest fluttered – sharp and uninvited.

Bucky looked away immediately, cursing silently under his breath as he made a beeline for the coffee pot.

“Morning,” she said, bright and easy, like it cost her nothing.

He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. “Morning,” he muttered, pouring himself a cup. His hand was steady, but his stomach wasn’t.

He considered sitting. There was space next to her. She’d sat next to him just the other day – plopped down like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t a walking museum of trauma and metal and things better left unsaid.

But he stayed standing, back leaning against the counter, eyes flickering in her direction despite himself.

She was laughing now – head tilted slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners, hands wrapped around her mug. She didn’t glance at him. Didn’t need to. She just kept being herself.

And he just kept watching her, silent and still, wondering when she’d started feeling more like home than his own bed did.

You’re sitting at the island, fingers curled around your warm mug, letting the easy flow of morning conversation wash over you. Sam says something that makes you chuckle, and you offer a quiet reply, but your eyes keep drifting.

You glance over toward Bucky. The moment your eyes meet, he looks away. Fast. Too fast for it to be casual.

Your smile falters, and your brows draw together just slightly.

It’s the third time this morning you’ve caught him doing that – avoiding eye contact, ducking away like the sight of you is something sharp. He hadn’t even looked at you when he walked in. Just a low, distracted “morning” with his eyes glued to the coffee pot.

And that isn’t like him. He usually at least looks at you.

Bucky's never exactly chatty, but he’ll usually give you something – an amused comment, a dry joke, even just a subtle glance that says yeah, I heard you, and that was funny. But the past week or so, it’s like a wall’s gone up. A quiet shift you can’t quite name, but you feel it all the same.

It’s in the way he keeps his distance, and how you catch him looking sometimes, only for him to immediately pretend he wasn’t.

You sip your coffee, trying not to let it get to you. Trying not to read too far into it.

Still, your mind turns over the possibility that maybe – somehow – you did something. Said something. Made him uncomfortable. You’ve gone over your recent conversations in your head more times than you’d like to admit, but there’s nothing obvious, no red flag.

And yet, the cold space between you now feels intentional.

You want to ask. You want to turn around right now and say ��Hey, did I do something?” but not here. Not in front of everyone. Not while Natasha’s discussing training schedules and Sam’s recounting whatever bizarre YouTube rabbit hole he fell down last night.

So you just stay quiet.

You bring your mug back to your lips and steal one more glance toward the counter.

He’s standing there with his coffee, back straight, face unreadable. Watching the room. Watching you, maybe. You can’t tell.

And so, for now, you let it go. But the worry still lingers, curling low in your stomach.

The run didn’t help.

Bucky had hoped it would – the steady rhythm of his feet on pavement, the wind slicing against his skin, the silence of early afternoon. But even with his heart racing and muscles burning, his mind never quieted.

He kept thinking about you.

About the way your head felt resting against his shoulder in the dream. About how you’d smiled without looking up. About how he’d woken up with that calm still in his chest, only for it to twist into knots the moment he saw you in the kitchen.

Why you? Why not some faceless person? Why not no one at all?

He didn’t have answers. Only questions that kept piling up and looping back on themselves. The only thing he was sure of was that avoiding you hadn’t done a damn thing to fix it.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding and he stepped out into the common room, sweat cooling on his skin. His shirt stuck to his back, and his dog tags shifted with each step as he moved toward the kitchen.

Then he saw you.

You were sitting at the island again, perched on the same stool, legs tucked up, scrolling casually through your phone. A half-eaten bag of pretzels sat in front of you, one hand idly reaching inside every so often. Your expression was relaxed and unaware, until you looked up and saw him.

“Hi,” you said, your voice light, but tinged with something that sounded almost...careful.

Bucky’s eyes met yours for the briefest second. “Hi,” he mumbled, already moving past her.

He went straight to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and twisting the cap off. Cold condensation dripped down his fingers. He turned around quickly, fully intending to walk right back out.

But then–

“Hey, wait.”

His feet stopped before his brain caught up. He turned slowly, water bottle still in hand.

You were watching him now, your phone resting face-down on the counter. Your brow was creased, concern etched subtly between your eyes.

“Did I...do something?” you asked.

Bucky blinked. “What?”

You hesitated, like you hated even asking. “It just feels like you’ve been avoiding me. You haven’t really talked to me lately. Not like before.” Your voice dropped a little. “If I said or did something wrong, I’d really like to know.”

The words hit him harder than he expected.

He hadn’t realized you’d noticed. Or that you cared.

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again, taking a breath. “No,” he said finally, his voice rough. “You didn’t do anything.”

He could see the tension in your shoulders ease slightly, but your eyes were still searching his. Not angry, just worried.

He thought of Dr. Raynor, and what she said. You should think about telling her. See what she thinks.

He looked down at the floor, then back at you. You were still waiting, quiet and patient.

You tilted your head slightly. “Then…is something going on?”

There was a pause. A long one.

And then, before he could stop himself – before he could talk himself out of it –

“I’ve been having dreams about you.”

The words were out. Heavy, real, and hanging between you like something fragile that could shatter with a single wrong move.

Bucky kept his gaze on you, waiting for you to laugh, to recoil, to look at him like you didn’t know what to say.

But right now, he couldn’t take it back.

“Oh,” you say after a beat, eyes wide. “Are they…good dreams or bad dreams?”

Bucky feels the corner of his mouth tug upward, just slightly. “Good,” he says, then pauses. “Really good, actually.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you blink. “Oh.”

There’s a shift in your tone – subtle, but unmistakable. And Bucky sees the flicker of realization behind your eyes. Your posture straightens ever so slightly.

His eyes widen, and he quickly holds up both hands. “No. No – not like that.” His voice jumps a little higher than he meant it to.

Your lips press together, a small, amused line forming as you clearly try not to laugh.

Bucky groans quietly, rubbing a hand down his face. “Great,” he mutters. “Now I sound like a creep.”

“No, you don’t,” you say gently, and somehow that only makes the heat rise higher in his face.

He exhales sharply, then walks over to the island and sets his water bottle down. He leans against the counter, arms folded loosely over his chest.

“I’m gonna sound crazy either way, so I might as well just say it.”

You nod, encouraging but quiet, waiting.

“The first dream…I was laying in bed. A bed I didn’t recognize. And you were there next to me, with your…head on my chest. And your hand was holding onto my shirt, and your leg was over mine.” He paused and took a breath before continuing. “My real arm was around you, but my metal arm…it was my arm when I was the Winter Soldier.”

He glanced up at you, looking for a reaction, but you were just listening intently. So he swallows and continues.

“I freaked out. Scared I was gonna hurt you with the arm, since I was…y’know, him. But I couldn’t move. The dream wouldn’t let me. But then…you just nuzzled closer. You smiled and sighed, like you were content. Like you were safe.”

He looked back up at you, and this time, there was a little smile on your face. The same one from the dreams, which made him relax a little bit.

“The second one was the exact same. Except this time, you were on my left side. And my metal arm was around you. Still the Winter Soldier one. I was even more scared, worried that it was crushing you or that I’d hurt you. But again, I couldn’t move. But you just…curled into me again, like it was natural.”

You don’t speak, but your expression softens – eyebrows raised just enough, lips parted slightly like you want to ask something but don’t want to stop him.

“The third one was in a park I didn’t recognize. You were walking beside me, on my left again. And then you just…reached up and held my hand. The metal one. Still the Winter Soldier one. You didn’t flinch or hesitate. You just did it. Like you had before.”

Your gaze flicks to his arm for a second, then back to his face. Still, you stay quiet.

“And the last one,” he says, more quietly now, “was here. In the common room. Movie playing on the TV. You were next to me, wrapped in a blanket. You leaned on my metal soldier. The Winter Soldier one again. And I just…let it happen. I wasn’t scared. I didn’t panic. I felt…calm.”

He exhales, steadying himself. You still haven’t said anything, and he’s not sure if that’s better or worse.

“I told my therapist about them,” he admits, avoiding your eyes now, fiddling with the cap of his water bottle. “She thinks it’s my brain’s way of telling me that I deserve comfort. That I’ve earned peace after everything. That it’s okay to want something soft.”

There’s a long pause. Then he finally meets your gaze again.

“But I don’t know why it’s you in them.”

He doesn’t say it accusingly. It’s not a complaint. It’s a quiet confession – equal parts wonder and confusion. Like he’s still trying to solve a riddle his heart already understands.

And you’re still looking at him, a little wide-eyed, clearly surprised…but you’re smiling.

Not laughing. Not running.

Just smiling.

You don’t say anything at first.

Mostly because you’re still trying to take it all in.

Bucky Barnes – quiet, guarded, “I-don’t-do-feelings” Bucky Barnes – just told you he’s been dreaming about you. Four different times. And not nightmares or weird memory-warped missions, but soft, good dreams. Ones where you’re cuddling or holding his hand or doing…couple-y stuff.

You’re not sure what shocks you more: the fact that you’re in them, or the fact that he actually told you.

But he’s just standing there now, clearly uncomfortable, his arms crossed tight over his chest like he wants to disappear into the counter. His eyes won’t quite meet yours.

Still, you smile.

“Well…that’s new,” you say first. “But…I’m glad it’s me in them,” you say softly, voice steady. “Because you do deserve comfort. And for the record, I’m not scared of you. Or your metal arm. I’m really glad you told me.”

His eyes finally lift to yours, and even though his face doesn’t fully relax, you see the subtle flicker of relief behind his features.

“Thanks,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh...still feel kinda stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” you say, then pause before teasing lightly, “Just very bad at not looking like you’re panicking.”

That earns you the smallest smile.

You tilt your head, thinking back through what he said. “You said you didn’t recognize the bed? In the first two dreams?.”

He looks a little confused but nods. “Yeah.”

“What did it look like?”

He blinks, then shrugs, thinking. “Uh…light gray sheets. And it smelled like…vanilla.”

You blink. And then you laugh.

He looks startled. “What?”

“My sheets are gray,” you say, grinning now. “And everything I use – body wash, lotion, perfume – is vanilla-scented. Like, obnoxiously so.”

His eyebrows lift, and he actually laughs – soft and a little shy, but real.

“Oh,” he says, then clears his throat. “So, either my brain’s really good at guessing, or I’ve subconsciously memorized what you smell like.”

You pretend to consider that. “Creepy either way.”

His smile widens a bit, and he ducks his head. “Great.”

You nudge the snack bag toward him as a peace offering. “Guess you’re gonna have to keep dreaming about me now.”

He huffs a soft laugh, looking up at you through his lashes. “Yeah,” he says, quieter this time. “Maybe I will.”

And even though there's still a little awkwardness between you, it doesn't feel heavy anymore.

It feels...kind of nice. Like something new is starting to settle between the two of you – gentle, tentative, but warm.

And maybe that’s worth leaning into.

Fresh from the shower, your skin still slightly warm, you smooth the last bit of vanilla-scented lotion into your arms, the familiar scent wrapping around you like a soft blanket. You tug on your sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt – one of your comfiest – and run a hand through your damp hair as you walk over to your bed.

But you don’t get in.

You stop at the edge, eyes drifting over the crumpled gray sheets, the soft pillows, the blanket still a little twisted from the night before.

And all you can think about is Bucky.

He dreamed about this bed.

Your bed. Light gray sheets. Vanilla.

You tell yourself not to read into it. That maybe it didn’t mean anything. That maybe his brain just filled in blanks using details it picked up around the compound without him realizing it.

But you can’t shake the thought.

Can’t stop imagining him lying there – his broad frame stretched out under your blanket, arm around you, soft breathing in the dark. Not in a dream. Not in his head.

In real life.

You blink, startled by yourself.

Your eyebrows raise slightly, arms crossing over your chest as you frown down at the bed, telling yourself it’s time to get in.

Still, you don’t move.

You sigh, grabbing the edge of the blanket and pulling it back.

But you don’t climb in.

You just…stand there. Staring.

And then, before you can talk yourself out of it – before your brain has a chance to spiral or question – you’re moving. Feet on autopilot.

Your hand closes around the doorknob, and the next thing you know, you’re stepping quietly into the hallway. The air is cooler out here, the compound quiet and still. You don’t even stop to think about what you’re going to say when you get there.

You just start walking. Down the hall.

Toward Bucky’s room.

Bucky lay in bed, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The room was dark and quiet, but his mind wouldn’t follow suit. Sleep hadn’t even crossed his mind yet – he was still replaying the conversation you two had in the kitchen, word for word. The way you smiled when he told you about the dreams. The surprise on your face. The way you’d said you were glad it was you. He could still hear your laugh when you told him his brain must be creepy or psychic.

It made something in his chest ache – in a good way, but still a little overwhelming.

So when a soft knock came at his door, he actually jumped. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Definitely not now, this late.

He swung his legs off the bed and crossed the room, cracking the door open.

And there you were.

Standing there with damp hair, dressed in sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt that hung loose over one shoulder. You looked like you were already halfway to bed – but your expression was uncertain, like you hadn’t fully thought this through.

“…Hi,” he said, confusion thick in his voice.

“Hi,” you echoed, a little hesitant.

He stared at you for a beat. “Uh…do you need something?”

You glanced up at him, then down again, then let out a small, anxious sigh. “Do you wanna sleep with me?”

Bucky’s eyes went wide.

His brain short-circuited.

You looked back up, saw his face, and your eyes went wide too, horror flooding your expression.

“No – no, not like that!” you blurted, already scrambling. “I didn’t – I mean I just thought maybe you’d…want to sleep in my room. Since you…y’know dreamed about my bed, I just thought maybe you’d want to do it.” Her eyes went even wider, which he didn’t think was possible. “Not do it, just – like – spend the night…in my room.”

You looked up at him again, face flushed with embarrassment, and honestly? You looked like you were about to turn and run.

But Bucky didn’t move. He blinked once. And then he laughed.

It started as a low chuckle, but it slipped out before he could stop it, shaking his head as he grinned down at the floor.

Your hand went to your forehead, covering your face as you laughed too, half in amusement, half in absolute mortification.

“Oh my God,” you groaned, voice muffled. “I should not have said any of that.”

But Bucky was still smiling.

You weren’t just asking for company. You were offering comfort. To him.

It was kind. And sweet. And, if he was being honest, a little brave.

“Yeah,” he said, cutting through your nervous laughter.

Your hand dropped from your forehead, eyes snapping up to meet his. “Really?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. I mean–” He scratched the back of his neck, still smiling. “If dreaming about it helps me sleep that good…I figure I might actually sleep even better if it’s real.”

You let out a soft breath – half-relief, half-surprise – and nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Cool.”

The two of you turned, heading down the hallway side by side in the quiet dim light.

After a beat, you glanced up at him. “I had no idea what I was gonna say when I knocked,” you admitted, still sounding a little breathless. “I completely butchered it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Nah, it was memorable.”

“I walked up to your door and said, do you wanna sleep with me like I was reading off a bad rom-com script,” you deadpanned.

He grinned. “Hey, could’ve been worse. You didn’t add finger guns or a wink.”

You snorted. “Don’t tempt me, Barnes.”

He chuckled again, the sound low and easy in his chest. And somehow, walking beside you in sleepwear, both of you still recovering from the awkwardness, it didn’t feel weird or tense. Just…light.

And for the first time all night, Bucky wasn’t overthinking. He wasn’t questioning the dreams or spiraling over what they meant.

He was just walking beside you. And it felt good.

When you stepped into your room, the soft scent of vanilla hit him immediately – just like he remembered from the dream.

You walked over to the bed without hesitation and crawled in, pulling the covers back and settling under them. Bucky hesitated just a second longer, then followed.

He climbed in next to you, lying on his back. The mattress dipped under his weight, the blanket settled lightly over his chest. There was still a space between you – enough that he could feel the distance – but not enough to make it feel cold.

He stared up at the ceiling, heart beating a little faster than it probably needed to.

“…Wow,” he said quietly.

You turned your head, voice low. “What?”

He smiled, almost to himself. “This is…exactly like my dream.”

You let out a soft laugh, and he joined in, both of you breaking the tension just a little.

When he turned his head to look at you, you were already looking at him.

There was a long, quiet beat – one of those moments where neither of you really knew what came next, but neither of you wanted to move too fast either.

Then you started scooting closer. He watched you, surprised but not resisting, and when you were close enough, he lifted his flesh arm slightly – just enough of an invitation.

You curled up against him, warm and soft, resting your hand gently on his chest, your leg sliding over his like it belonged there.

He let out a slow breath, wrapping his arm around you, holding you there. Like it was natural. Like it had always been this way.

“…What about now?” you asked softly, voice muffled slightly against his t-shirt.

He looked down at you, heart squeezing tight in his chest. A small smile pulled at his lips.

“This is perfect,” he said.

You looked up at him, returning the smile – sleepy and sweet, like you were already half-relaxed just lying beside him.

And somehow, that smile of yours made something inside him go quiet in the best way.

No tension. Just peace.

You nestled in again, eyelids already heavy. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

“Goodnight,” he murmured, voice low, arm tightening around you just a little.

He stared at the ceiling for a while longer, your body warm against his side, the scent of vanilla in the air.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t dread falling asleep.

When it came, it came easy. And he fell asleep happy.

Masterlist

Author's Note: sorry for like falling off the face of the earth for a second there, I got busy😭 Part 2 of Darling and I Noticed and Part 3 of The New Winter Soldier will be coming at some point, I promise! Just wanted to give you guys something while I continue working on those!!

Bucky Taglist: @winchestert101 @herejustforbuckybarnes @avengemepercy @buckyslove1917 @nelachu2423 @iyskgd @navs-bhat @starstruckfirecat @yes-ilovetowrite @bonnyclydecat @knowingnothingnoel @muchwita @hanniebee33 @awesompawsum @knoxic @miss-chuchu @writtenbydianna @rnurse-kole @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @beanzwritez @barnesandbouquets @buckysgirl-12 @butnotmontana

#bucky #bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x y/n #marvel #avengers #avengers compound #the winter soldier

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player042 · 6 months ago

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IN THE NIGHT | kang dae-ho

pairing: kang dae-ho (player 388) x reader

summary: you find yourself drawn to dae-ho, and it’s becoming harder and harder to hide it, even from yourself; especially during the quiet nights when it’s just the two of you keeping guard.

warning: mutual doting, lovesick but stubborn reader, mention of squid game themes such a death and despair, other than that it’s just fluff, this is my first post so feel free to give me feedback if you’d like to read more, and now please enjoy 🥹💖

word count: 1.7k

Dae-ho had a laugh that made your chest ache. Big, bright, and unrestrained, it echoed through the cold dormitory like sunlight breaking through cracks in a prison wall. It was absurd, really, how easily it pulled at the corners of your lips, how it made your heart feel too big for your ribcage.

He was an exception; you didn't know why, but he was. He was the opposite of death. Of fear. Of blood and betrayal. Quite the opposite of everything that reminded you of this hellish place. He didn't belong here. And you were confident, that even a blind person would see that for he was warmth and light, he radiated it, throughout each day you survived. You didn't know how he managed it, how he could smile, laugh, and joke even in the face of the horrors around you. It wasn't fake; you'd learned to recognize false optimism in this place, no, Dae-ho's joy was real, a stubborn defiance against the darkness threatening to swallow you all whole.

You sat across the room, waiting for the guards to let you out to the bathrooms once the other group returned. Your back rested against the wall as you watched him animatedly recount some ridiculous story from his military days to Jung-bae, with other players listening in. Mentally, you were already preparing for the night ahead, after all, you and Dae-ho were tasked with keeping watch together, a plan Gi-hun had devised in case any of the other players decided to attack. The group had agreed to take turns, so it was nothing out of the ordinary.

And yet, it was.

You and Dae-ho, all alone while the world slept? Why did the thought of that suddenly make you nervous?

Dae-ho's hands moved in exaggerated gestures, his grin wide enough to rival the cheshire cat's. Even in this pit of despair, his energy was magnetic, drawing people in like moths to a flame. And you weren't immune to it, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise.

His eyes caught yours mid-laugh, and for a split second, the world seemed to freeze. His smile softened, his gaze lingering on you just a little longer than it should have. Your stomach flipped, a sudden rush of butterflies that made you look away, feigning disinterest even as your pulse quickened.

You weren't used to this feeling, this fluttering in your chest, this heat that rose to your cheeks every time he said your name or brushed against you in passing. It was ridiculous. You weren't the kind of person who got swept up in someone else's orbit. You were guarded, careful, a fortress built from years of self-preservation. But Dae-ho... he was different. He didn't just knock on the gates, he scaled the walls with that infuriating smirk of his.

It wasn't just his smile or his laugh that drew you in. It was the way he saw people, not just as competitors or threats, but as humans. The way he helped were he could, even though it put himself at risk. The way he noticed when someone was on the verge of breaking and managed to say just the right thing to pull them back from the edge. The way he noticed you.

You hated how easily he could read you. You prided yourself on being unreadable, untouchable, but with Dae-ho, it was like he saw straight through every mask you wore. He never called you out on it, never pressed, but the way his gaze softened when you spoke or the way he offered you his rations without a word told you everything you needed to know.

It terrified you.

And yet, here you were, stealing glances like a lovesick teenager, your mind betraying you with thoughts of how his golden skin glowed under the dim lights, how his broad shoulders looked like they could carry the weight of the world, how his laugh felt like a secret you wanted to hoard, to keep for yourself.

He was the sunshine to your shadows, the golden retriever to your black cat. His warmth threatened to melt the ice you'd spent years cultivating around your heart, and you weren't sure if you wanted to stop him. But you'd never say any of this out loud. You barely allowed yourself to even think all of this. No, you weren't foolish enough to let yourself hope for something in a place like this.

Because no matter how sweet the what if's could be, your reality was cruel, always has been. So instead, you decided to watch him from afar, heart aching with the weight of unspoken words, as the seconds ticked closer to the night which would give way to the next day and the next game that might tear you apart.

Thirty minutes later, the dormitory was dim and quieter than usual, the faint hum of the fluorescent X and O on the ground and the transparent piggy bank full of blood-money above, the only sounds aside from the occasional snoring and shuffling of restless players. Most had fallen into an uneasy sleep, and here you were, being tasked with keeping watch.

You and Dae-ho were sitting across from each other near your group, shielded by spare mattresses. You sat on the cold metal floor, your back resting against a stack of unused bunk beds. Dae-ho was perched across from you, one leg bent, the other stretched out in front of him. His head was tilted back slightly, his eyes scanning the room, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips as though you weren't both surrounded by people who'd kill you without a second thought. You didn't know how he managed it, how he could find light in a place like this.

"You're staring," he said suddenly, his voice low but playful.

Your cheeks burned, and you looked away quickly, your arms crossing defensively over your chest. "I'm not."

He chuckled softly, the sound like a warm breeze cutting through the icy tension of the room. "Sure, you're not."

"Focus, Dae-ho," you muttered, trying to mask your embarrassment. "You're supposed to be watching for threats, not making jokes."

"I can multitask," he replied, his grin widening. "Besides, I'd argue you're more distracting than anyone sneaking around here."

You shot him a glare, but your heart fluttered at his words. "You're impossible."

"I've been called worse," he said, leaning back. His dark eyes softened as they met yours. "But you... you're something else."

You tried to ignore the way your pulse quickened, brushing his words off with a scoff. "Flattery isn't going to keep us alive, you know."

"No, but it's better than sitting in silence," he said. Then, after a pause, his voice turned quieter, more serious. "You don't talk much. Why is that?"

Your gaze flickered to him, surprised by the sudden change in his tone. "What's the point?" you asked after a moment. "It's not like anyone here is worth trusting."

He tilted his head, studying you. "Do you trust me?"

You hesitated, the weight of his question pressing down on you. The truth was, you didn't know. You wanted to, desperately, but trust was dangerous in a place like this.

"I don't know," you admitted finally. "Do you trust me?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. "I think I do," he said softly. "You've got this... thing about you. Like you're always a couple steps ahead of everyone else."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's a nice way of saying I'm paranoid."

"Smart," he corrected, his grin returning. "And I like smart."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't hide the small smile tugging at your lips. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're stubborn," he shot back, his tone light but affectionate. "But this just adds to the list of all the things I like about you. We make a good team, you know."

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. You glanced away, your cheeks warming despite the chill of the room. "You shouldn't say things like that," you muttered, your voice quieter now.

"Why not?" he asked, his tone teasing but curious. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"No," you shock your head quickly, though the butterflies in your stomach betrayed you. "It's just... we don't know how this is going to end. It's better not to-" You stopped yourself, unsure of how to finish.

"Not to what?" he pressed, his voice softer now. "Care?"

You looked at him then, meeting his gaze. His dark eyes were steady, searching, but not pushing. It was so unlike the Dae-ho you were used to, the loud, laughing sunshine of the group. This version of him, quiet and sincere, was harder to guard against.

"It's dangerous," you finally said, barely above a whisper.

His lips quirked into a small smile, but there was no teasing this time. "Everything here is dangerous. Doesn't mean it's not worth it."

For a moment, you didn't know what to say. The silence stretched between you, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It felt... warm, somehow. Safe.

"Why do you do that?" you asked quietly, breaking the silence.

"Do what?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Act like everything's fine," you said, gesturing vaguely to the room around you. "Like we're not all fighting for our lives."

His smile faltered, just for a second. "Because someone has to," he admitted. "If we all give in to the fear, what's left? I can't control what happens tomorrow, but I can try to make today a little less awful. Even if it's just for a moment."

Your chest tightened at his words. He said it so casually, like it wasn't the most selfless thing you'd ever heard.

"You should get some rest," you said, focusing on the shadows dancing across the floor, your voice quieter now, "I'll take it from here."

"And leave you all alone? Not a chance," he decided, stretching his arms behind his head. "Besides, I'm enjoying the company."

You didn't reply, but your heart betrayed you, beating a little faster at his words. As the night stretched on, you sat together in the dim light. And for the first time in days, you felt a faint sense of calm, not because you believed things would be okay, but because, for now, you weren't alone. Neither of you said it aloud, the weight of unspoken feelings heavy between you, but for now, it was enough.

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lazysoulwriter · 3 months ago

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you're safe here. - lando norris.

requested! hope you like it, like i did! - requested are open.

--- It starts with something small.

You’re curled up on Lando’s couch, one leg draped over his lap, your cheek pressed against his shoulder. A movie plays in the background—something warm, nostalgic, easy to follow. You’re not really paying attention, not when his thumb keeps drawing lazy circles into the back of your hand, not when his other arm is holding you like you’re made of something worth protecting.

On screen, a kid walks into a room full of balloons and hugs, a surprise birthday party waiting just for them. Their mom’s crying, the dad is beaming, and the whole thing is so full of love it makes your chest ache a little.

You laugh—soft, but not because it’s funny. More like a reflex.

“Surprise parties are weird,” you say, casual. “My mom used to forget my birthday half the time. One year she just said, ‘You’re getting older, you don’t need a cake.’”

You don’t even realize what you said until you feel Lando freeze beneath you.

It’s so subtle, anyone else would’ve missed it. But not you. You’re always scanning for shifts, changes in energy, things going suddenly cold.

“Wait—what?” he says after a beat, voice soft. Not judging. Just confused. Just Lando.

You shrug like it’s nothing. Because to you, it is.

“It’s fine. Just how it was.”

But he’s still looking at you, eyes soft and stunned. Like it’s physically painful for him to imagine someone not being celebrated, especially someone he loves.

You can feel it—his confusion, the way he’s trying to wrap his brain around the idea that someone could grow up like that. With birthdays forgotten and hugs withheld and love handed out like a transaction.

And you? You’ve already built the walls. You’ve spent years pretending it doesn’t matter. You learned to light your own candles. You learned not to expect softness from anyone.

But Lando—he doesn’t let it slide. Not in the heavy, dramatic way. Just the opposite.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple. Not rushed. Not fleeting. Like he wants you to remember the exact pressure of it. Like he’s saying I’m sorry, I’m here, I’ve got you—all without needing words.

“That’s not fine,” he murmurs against your skin. “You deserved a cake. You deserved the whole party.”

You laugh again, watery this time. “You gonna throw me one now?”

“Absolutely,” he says without missing a beat. “With balloons. And a stupid hat. And everyone has to sing.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart pulls in your chest in a way that’s unfamiliar. Soft. Unsafe. Safe.

Because here’s the thing: you’re used to doing everything on your own. You don’t like asking for help. You don’t like feeling like a burden. You were taught, early and often, that vulnerability is a luxury, not a right.

But Lando—he never makes you feel small for it. He doesn’t try to fix you, just... holds space. Gentle. Steady. Patient.

Sometimes you’ll drop a story without thinking—something offhanded about your childhood, a little crack in your armor—and his reaction is always the same. Not pity. Just quiet disbelief, followed by twice as much love.

And the more time you spend with him, the more you start to believe maybe you don’t have to carry it all alone.

Some nights, when the world feels heavy, you’ll wake up to find him already watching you. He’ll rub your back until the tightness in your chest loosens. He’ll hold you like he’s grounding you to the earth. He won’t ask questions you don’t want to answer.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time, you know,” he tells you one night, voice thick with sleep.

You want to believe him. You’re starting to.

Because with him, you’re not just surviving anymore. You’re living. You’re learning how to be—messy, stubborn, independent, complicated—you. And he doesn’t flinch. He just loves you harder.

And one day, when he walks into your apartment holding a stupid balloon and a single slice of cake—just because—it kind of breaks you.

“You said you never got one,” he says with a soft smile. “So... here.”

You kiss him like he’s air. Like he’s the first good thing to ever happen to you.

And maybe he is.

---

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris imagines #lando norris imagine #lando norris fanfic #lando norris fanfics #lando norris fics #lando norris fic #lando norris one shot #lando norris angst #angst #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 fanfic #ln

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holysmokesblog25 · 8 months ago

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Could it be real?

Vander x reader

Words: 0.5k

Warnings: -

Summary: You must face a fact that seems impossible, but it’s right there before your eyes—it’s just a matter of believing it.

Note: It's been over two years since the last time I posted something here. I hope you enjoy this piece, and that the translation is correct since I'm not very good at English. <3

He was there, just a few meters away, but he didn’t seem like himself. He didn’t look like him, didn’t sound like him, and didn’t even smell the same. He was simply unrecognizable.

Vi’s heavy hand rested on your shoulder, pulling you out of your thoughts. You looked at her, searching for answers, but she only stared at the massive creature lying on the ground.

“Are you sure it’s…”

“Completely.” Vi didn’t let you finish your question. She released your shoulder and approached the giant, who lay asleep a few meters away. She gently touched its back. The beast stirred uncomfortably, but upon seeing the young woman, it relaxed. “I have no doubt.”

You stepped closer, slowly, afraid your approach might alert the massive being, but it kept its back turned.

“Just look at him, and you’ll understand.”

The creature hunched over, trying to appear smaller (an impossible feat), and took a cautious step forward. You stepped back, which made him freeze in place.

Finally, the immense creature turned, and you saw him. He wasn’t how you remembered. He didn’t look like the man you’d fallen in love with in the Lanes, the one you’d shared most of your life with, built a family with. But without a doubt, it was him.

“Vander?”

Your mind raced, struggling to comprehend everything that was happening—how your husband, the man who had died years ago, was now back in a body that wasn’t his own.

You remained silent, unable to respond. Your brain kept trying to process everything, but no answer came. Vi, still enraged, was about to say something else when a loud snort stopped her.

Seeing that you wouldn’t come closer, Vi stepped in again.

“I know he looks different, but I swear, this is Vander. He remembers us.”

“How is this possible?”

“We’re not sure, but you have to trust me.”

“I searched for his body for months. I didn’t… I didn’t find anything—”

“That doesn’t matter anymore!” Vi snapped, furious. “He’s here now. We can help him; we can bring Vander back! How can you not be happy?”

The massive creature that had once been your husband took another step in your direction, but this time, you didn’t back away, so he kept advancing. Panic gripped your chest with every step he took, the fear that touching him would wake you up in your apartment, drenched in tears.

When he finally reached you, he lifted one of his enormous hands and gently brushed your cheek, wiping away the tears that had begun to stream uncontrollably.

“Is this real?” You looked into his eyes. “Please,” you begged. “I don’t want to wake up.”

Vander didn’t dare touch you again, fearing you might run away, but you couldn’t stand it any longer. You buried yourself in his chest. He hesitated for a moment but finally wrapped one massive arm around you, lowering his face to your head and inhaling deeply.

“You’re real,” you murmured through your sobs, unable to believe it.

“I’m here,” he said in a deep voice, squeezing you gently with the arm that held you close.

#vander arcane #arcane x reader #arcane league of legends #arcane series #arcane netflix #arcane #vander x reader #vander and vi #warwick #arcane season 2 #arcane x #arcane s2 #vander s2

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justatypicalwizard · 11 months ago

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Virgin Bakugo x reader, suggestive

Imagine Katsuki who’s a total and complete virgin. His brash and aggressive exterior fooled others into deeming him a playboy. Handsome, successful and proud, what else would he need to perfectly abide the stereotype. Except, ever since he started UA, ever since he dreamed about becoming a pro-hero, ever since he laid his eyes on All Might, Bakugo had nothing else in mind except hard work. He bent his neck over homework, he cracked his knuckles before training and he broke his bones during missions, everything for the sake of greatness. Love didn’t exactly fit into his schedule.

It started when he was a kid. Other boys kept weird magazines under their beds and looked at girls wishing they got a lock of silky hair to keep. Katsuki didn’t understand. Girls in his class at school were weird and annoying. They always had to move in a group, went together into toilet stalls and whispered as if they couldn’t talk like normal people - loud and straightforward. What did his friends see in them?

Later, in middle school Katsuki finally discovered a few throughgoing differences between him and a set of new girls in class. His friends’ magazines turned into online videos that Katsuki despised. They felt unnatural and shameful. So he cut the topic short, deeming the girls in class boring and stupid. And honestly, that’s how he felt about them.

When a particular shortie with deep black hair, cut a few inches above her chin, stopped him in the middle of the track field, Katsuki sighed. What now? The girl confessed her crush, digging a small hole in the dirt with the heel of her shoe, and Katsuki felt almost nothing, maybe slightly uncomfortable with a tiny pinch of pity. She teared up but mumbled a sorry, to which he responded with a grunt and a ‘better not talk to me again, this is awkward’. Until the end of middle-school, no other girl built up the guts to confess to him.

UA made Katsuki feel like home. He was a cog, awfully clattering one, nonetheless a well working. When he moved into the dorms he was closer to girls than ever before, and once again it changed nothing. The blonde felt satisfied with himself, able to satisfy himself, with no need for another person turning his perfectly working plan upside down. He listened to his friends stories about kisses and, later, first times without much regret. When he gets to the top women will throw themselves to his feet, like Hawks or Endeavour. No need to stress about it, it’s not like he likes back any of the girls that lay eyes on him when he flexes and bends during workout.

This was the biggest lie Katsuki made himself believe. Time flew by and suddenly his friends were no longer making fun of each others’ stories about awkward first kisses or boob touching. They were no longer excited about relationships, they no longer made a big fuss out of every glance that lasted a second too long. It became events of the every day for them, and Katsuki felt left out.

When asked he turned a blind eye, he built a thick wall around his love life that no one was allowed to cross. Friends and family accepted the distance, deeming it yet another Katsuki thing. Given how handsome and successful he is, the man had to have a girlfriend or two, or three. They were simply kept a secret, nothing new for a pro-hero.

And so it went. Fear crept up Katsuki’s bones every time he imagined a botched relationship, an awkward one-night-stand, an adult-virgin first kiss. Girls were no longer girls, they were women, all grown up and knowing what they want. All expecting experience or mastery even from someone like him. All making him freeze, his body betraying, retreating in a defeated manner masked as brashness. ‘Dream on’ he used to say when an intern or a model from a small company approached during hero-themed parties.

Showing someone how utterly inexperienced Katsuki was, letting someone open up this new and fragile part of himself started to merge with the feeling of defeat. Quickly, the blonde decided that if anyone ever learned about his weakness, it would be the end of him. He saw, with the eye of his imagination, the headlines honking about Virgin Dynamite! Is it possible for the top handsome ranking pro-hero to be a virgin? Who stole Dynamite’s first kiss? And so on.

Out of options, Katsuki decided to let it go, unsure what to do, fed up with trying to find a solution.

That was until he found himself, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, on this painfully tiny couch, with you. There was a party, a fancy tuxedo one. There were people and drinks and perfectly glossed lips. There was music and vodka on rocks. And then suddenly there was none, only you and him, in a room forgotten by the ever-moving crowd.

Did the party end? Were there limousines lined up in front of the gold-dripping hotel, waiting patiently for their pro-heroes? Was there a villain attack and everyone went to the rescue? Was there a natural disaster happening? Where did these damn people go when Katsuki needed them? Where could he vanish when you were so close and so warm?

The blonde wanted to get up and walk away, spitting some bullshit in your face but his body froze. There it was, his secrets in danger. Despite not having much romantic experience himself, Katsuki was not stupid, he knew when lust filled his veins, he knew when someone wanted him. Right now you both felt the same way and while in fear of losing his pride, Katsuki couldn’t move away.

He couldn’t budge when you laid your palm on his thigh, he kept still as stone when you turned to face him fully, he stopped breathing when you moved close enough to let him feel your breath on his cheek. All the while he dug his fingernails into your knee.

Was it the uneven breathing that gave him away? Was it his hand that felt so lost on your skin? Or maybe it were his eyes that fought a battle between looking away and straight into your bust. The blonde wasn’t sure but when you glanced at him, with this frisky look in your eyes, he knew he was doomed. Katsuki nearly started waiting for a laugh when you tugged at his tie letting him fall over and cage you on the couch that was still painfully tiny.

“First time?” You breathed into the skin of his neck, climbing higher, pawing at his back and chest for support. Before he could answer your lips were on his in a hasteful and eager kiss. It was messy and all over your lips and cheeks and necks, all over the place. It was over in a blink of an eye.

Is this how a first kiss feels like? His friends told him stories about long, sweet and innocent pecks. This was nothing like the blackening memories at the back of his head. This felt like him, felt like his first kiss. Angry, bursting and forceful. Katsuki loved it.

“So it is.” Your voice, so close to his ear, tore him out of his head. You were still awaiting a response, one that would make him crumble, one that would destroy this perfectly unbalanced moment of lustful chaos.

Later Katsuki will wonder whether experience meant knowing what to say and do in the right moment, because you certainly knew how to do just that.

Gripping the collar of his shirt you tore the highest button, letting it fall down between your breasts for the blonde to find later. It were hands and knees everywhere for Katsuki, hotness and short breaths.

“You know what.” You asked, making him hum deeply into your skin. “If this is your first time then I cannot wait to see what you’ve got. After all an animal is the most aggressive, the most carnal when it’s starving.”

The little giggle that followed your smart remark made Katsuki grin widely. Fuck cliche stories about awkward frist times, fuck shy kissess and fuck confessions spoken with trembling lips. Katsuki will have to live with the fact that someone, that you, took away his virginity and you knew damn well about it. He will have to get over the loss of his mysteriousness (if you two are to date officially). Katsuki will gladly accept that. How could he not when once again he came out of a battle victoriously.Maybe it was his first time but it was his first time, his rules, his game and his girl.

#bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha bakugou #bakugou #katsuki bakugou #mha #bakugo #bakugou katsuki #bakugo x reader

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pretentious-blonde · 5 months ago

Text

aftermath

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve is wrecked, haunted by the thought that he’d lost you for good. but when he finally braced himself for the worst, your answer shattered him in a way he never saw coming

warnings: 18+ emotional distress, angst, depression, major self-hatred, crying, smut, but like make up smut, minor bruising/scratches during intimacy (consensual), this is heavy guys

a/n: i hope this makes up for the cliff hanger. you do need to read this to fully understand what is going on. hope i did the make up justice!

series masterlist

You’ve been living in your pajamas since Friday, the same ratty jumper and threadbare bottoms you’ve slept in for days. The curtains in your living room are half-drawn, letting in just enough gray light to remind you it’s daytime—though you’re not quite sure which day it is anymore.

Tuesday, probably.

You’d asked for the whole week off, a near-unheard-of request, but you couldn’t face the world after what transpired. Your hoarse voice must have been enough to convince your boss of your current state, though he most likely believed it was a result of a bug or the flu. You were grateful he didn’t press further.

Everything in your flat reminds you of him. The bookshelf he painstakingly built and shoved into the corner. The stupid T-shirts he left behind, folded on your desk. The toothbrush tucked in next to yours in the bathroom. You’ve cried more than you ever thought possible, especially as day after day passes with no call, no communication. Nothing.

That’s why you’ve barely left, lying low in your own sorrow. You should be out celebrating your first ever published article—yes, that finally got the green light—but even that feels tainted now. Steve had helped you with the idea, reading every paragraph you placed in front of him for inspection. Thinking about it only reopens the wound.

By late afternoon, you’re in a numb haze, scrolling absentmindedly through the same TV channels, when a sudden knock on your door makes you freeze. Your pulse spikes with pure dread. You beg some higher power as you take a few tentative steps toward the entrance, pleading for it to be anyone else but him.

“Who—who is it?”

A boy’s voice answers.

“It’s Dustin.”

Surprise fills you, but you tug the door open anyway, still half-hidden behind the frame. The teenager stands there, head tipped back to look at you with wide eyes. He takes in your rumpled clothes, your blotchy cheeks, the dark circles under your eyes—and his face softens with genuine concern.

“Hi,” he says quietly.

“Hi?” You can’t hide your confusion. You’ve met him enough times to be friendly—even invited you to his birthday party—but this is definitely not the level of closeness where you expect him on your doorstep.

“Can I come in?” he asks, his tone polite.

“Uh—yeah,” you say, stepping aside. You’re mortified at the state of your living room—blankets and tissues strewn around, half-eaten toast on the coffee table. But Dustin doesn’t so much as blink. He just walks in, glances at the chaos, and settles himself on the couch.

“Have you heard from Steve?” he asks gently, but the question punches you right in the gut. Your breath catches, tears immediately threatening to spill. He sees the way your eyes go misty and holds up both hands in alarm. “Whoa, hey. No, wait, why are you crying?”

“Sorry,” you manage, swiping at your face with the edge of your sleeve. “I just—I don’t think me and Steve are… together anymore.”

“Alright.” The boy exhales, like the missing piece just slid into place. “Well, that… would explain a few things.”

“Explain what?” you ask, voice shaky.

He glances around, looking conflicted. Then he pats the space next to him on the couch.

“I think you need to sit down.”

Something about his earnest, grown-up tone makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time, but you sink down anyway. You stare at your own hands, picking at a loose thread on your jumper.

“Do you want something to drink? Tea?”

“Um… yeah.” You blink, surprised by the shift. “Top cupboard in the kitchen.”

“Okay… You stay there.”

He heads into the kitchen and starts rummaging through your cupboards like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You watch him, baffled as to how this kid is behaving.

He returns, balancing two mismatched mugs in his hands. He places one gently on the coffee table in front of you and then settles next to you on the couch. You notice the way he glances around at the mess once again, but he doesn’t comment on any of it—just holds his own mug close, like it’s offering him a little comfort.

“Um,” he begins, voice hesitant, “I need to ask you… about Steve.”

Your grip tightens on your mug.

“Have you…have you spoken to him?” you try not to let your voice crack.

“Sort of.” Dustin exhales. “That’s why I’m here. He didn’t show up on Sunday when he was supposed to, and when I tried talking to Robin, she just told me to stay out of it.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking troubled. “I’m worried. Robin says he’s gonna quit—his job, I mean—and I haven’t been able to get ahold of him since Thursday. I was hoping maybe you knew what was going on.”

You let out a shaky breath, tears pressing at the corners of your eyes again. The puzzle just kept getting more complicated, first his outburst, and now he’s quitting? None of it made any sense to you.

“Dustin, I wish I fucking knew what was going on,” you admit, voice trembling. “But I don’t. Steve made it very clear how he felt about me.”

Confusion crosses his face. “He…made it clear?”

“More or less.” You manage a bitter laugh, though it hurts. “Let’s just say…there’s no chance of me diving back in to figure out what’s wrong, okay?”

“You won’t?” he presses, leaning forward, his mug clutched between both hands. “I know it’s a lot. But the only time I’ve seen him act like this was when…” He hesitates, almost like he’s afraid to say something more.

You speak before he has the chance to elaborate.

“Yeah, well…” You suck in a breath, blinking away fresh tears. “I’m pretty sure it’s over between us.”

He sets his mug down so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t spill and scans your face, as if trying to analyse the best approach to this situation.

“I wouldn’t be asking, except… I’m scared.” His lower lip trembles, and suddenly you realise how much this is hurting him, too. “He never talks to anyone about how he’s feeling. Not really. You were my last option.” He swallows, looking away. “Whenever I call and he hears it’s me, he hangs up. He’s shutting me out. And Robin. And—everyone.”

Something tightens in your chest. You see Dustin’s fear written all over his face, and it hits you how much he looks up to Steve—how much he cares.

Without thinking, you set your own mug aside and pull him into a hug. At first, he’s stiff with surprise, but then he slumps against you, like the weight of this worry is too heavy for him to carry alone. You press your lips together, forcing the tears back as you hold him.

“Okay,” you murmur, stroking his back. “I’ll try. I’m not making any promises, but…I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” he says, relieved. “Thank you so much. I just—I don’t know how else to reach him.”

You nod, your throat still thick.

“I’m not making any promises,” you repeat, needing him to understand that you’re as shaken as he is. “But I’ll figure something out.”

He offers you a small smile, picking up his mug again. You both take a few moments to sip your tea—hot and soothing, but not nearly enough to un-knot the anxiety in your stomach. Still, Dustin’s presence is oddly comforting; it’s nice not to be alone in this, even if it’s a teenager by your side.

“So…” You clear your throat, stealing a glance at him, gaining the courage to lighten the sullen mood. “Are you gonna tell me how you know where I live?”

“I’ve seen Steve practically sprint here a bunch of times.” A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Took me about three tries before I got the right door.”

You let out a laugh, but then something clicks.

“Wait—three tries?”

Steve had never felt so low in his life. Five days holed up in his room, only sneaking out to the ensuite to splash water on his face or raid the kitchen for whatever snack he could grab—mostly stale crisps and soda—before retreating back inside.

The place was still a wreck, remnants of that explosive outburst he couldn’t even remember starting. Not that it mattered, really; he’d be getting kicked out in a few months, so why bother cleaning up?

He’d turned off the ringer a while ago, but the calls still came, filtering distantly through his phone on his bedside. Sometimes he picked up the receiver out of some faint, mechanical impulse, but he never spoke. Except once, to Robin.

’M not feeling so good… might quit, but I dunno.

He’d mumbled it out, half-delirious, knowing she’d recognise the alarm in his voice. She’d shown up at the door not long after—he could feel her worried presence behind the wood—but he couldn’t make himself stand, couldn’t find the will to undo the lock and let her in. Plus, he’d moved the key.

She had her own life anyway, right?

Her own happiness, her own girlfriend.

His body ached from lying in bed so long, muscles protesting every slight movement. His mind felt worse, drifting in a haze of guilt and regret so heavy that sometimes he wondered if he could even take another breath.

He had no more tears left to cry, not after everything that went down—especially with you. The memory of your face—that hurt, that fear—was seared into his brain. Even when his eyes closed, he saw it.

Part of him wished you had stayed, just so he could apologise or explain or… something. But another part felt a grim sort of pride that you walked out. You deserved more than the pathetic shell he’d become, and he knew it. He’d flung the ugliest parts of himself at you and he couldn’t even figure out why.

It felt like some twisted reflex, lashing out the moment he’d felt cornered.

It stung especially hard because he remembered every time you’d cried into his arms about your job or life in general, how he’d held you close and never once used your own aspirations against you. He’d admired your drive—even if it sometimes left him feeling insecure.

So how had he ended up painting you as the villain for doing what you love?

Now, it all felt rotten inside him. He could see exactly how cruel his words had been—every insult sharpened by his own self-loathing. And there was no taking them back. He’d never understood before what it meant to watch someone you love crumble right in front of you and realise it was your own damn fault.

It hollowed him out, left him lying in stale sheets, counting the cracks in the ceiling, wishing for the strength to rewind time.

But it was too late. And with each hour that passed in that cramped, messy room, he felt himself caring less about fixing anything—less about everything. Because when he closed his eyes, you were always there, the memory of your wounded gaze burning behind his eyelids.

And he didn’t think he deserved a way out of it.

The moment you pull into the driveway, your hands grip the steering wheel with white-knuckles. You can’t shake the memory of your last conversation—if it even counts as a conversation.

Part of you wants to slam your car into reverse and leave Steve to his own devices. He hurt you, humiliated you, and you haven’t forgiven him. But you made a promise, if not to him, then to Dustin. The kid all but worships him, and someone has to check on Steve.

Seems like you were the logical option here.

So you climb out and make your way to the front porch, heart pounding with each step. The absence of his parents’ car in the driveway tells you they’re gone; the Harrington house is eerily still. You knock, loud and firm, each rap echoing in the silence.

No answer.

A chill snakes up your spine as you bend down to lift the mat—nothing. You bite down on your lip, anxiety churning. But then you notice the pot beside the door. You reach in, fingertips brushing over cold metal, and pull out the key. You feel bitter that this is the thing he decides to listen to.

Stepping inside feels like walking into a tomb. The air is dank, a smell of something musty that makes your nose wrinkle. You notice the coffee table, still shoved askew from wherever he’d kicked it last time.

A glimpse of the kitchen stops you in your tracks. The muffins he must have finished are perched on the counter, days old now, untouched. They look sad, deflated. You can’t decide if you’re more confused or hurt by that. Mail lies in a messy pile on the table, corners curled, unopened envelopes scattered. It’s like the whole house has been abandoned.

Each step up the staircase feels heavier. Despite the countless hours you’ve spent here—movie nights, lazy mornings, heated make-out sessions on the couch—it all feels foreign now. Wrong. The hallway is silent, the lights dim. The air clings to your skin, intensifying the sense that you shouldn’t be here.

You notice his bedroom door, slightly ajar. You pause, trying to calm the growing panic in your chest.

You didn’t come to intrude. You just needed to make sure he’s alive.

But a quick glance through the gap reveals a sight that stops your breath short. Clothes strewn everywhere, books and tapes littering the floor, a desk chair toppled on its side. The place looks destroyed.

Not in a casual, messy way—this is carnage.

You push the door open, and the state of the room hits you like a punch to the gut. This isn’t just sloppy. It’s the aftermath of something far darker. A breakdown. And there, at the center of the chaos, is Steve—sprawled on his bed like a shadow of the person you once knew.

He stirs at the creak of the door, blinking groggily. When his gaze lands on you, his face pales even more, if that’s possible. He looks so different, like a ghost wearing his skin. His cheeks are hollow, hair unkempt, eyes ringed with shadows.

He doesn’t speak—just stares, wide-eyed and stricken, as if he can’t believe you’re really standing there.

Anger simmers beneath your ribs, fighting with a rush of pity so strong it nearly chokes you. You’re furious with him, furious for how he treated you, but the sight of him like this—broken, listless—makes your stomach lurch.

No one deserves this.

You snap into problem-solving mode. No words, just action.

You stride to the window and yank it open, letting a sharp gust of air sweep into the stale room. Behind you, Steve finally rouses enough to realise what is happening, but you cut him off by walking past him, heading into the bathroom.

The pipes groan as you turn the faucet. Steam fills the air, and you test the temperature with your fingers. Your mind runs on autopilot:

Get him up.

Get him clean.

Breathe some life back into him.

When you return, he’s half-upright in bed, blinking in confusion. You hold out a hand, expression set in stone. For a moment, he just stares.

“Come on,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended, but firm. He looks at your outstretched hand like he isn’t sure what it means.

You try again, gentler.

“Steve… let’s go.”

Slowly, he sets his feet on the floor, wincing at the effort. You guide him toward the bathroom, every step feeling like treading on eggshells—somehow both intimately familiar and gut-wrenchingly new.

You still hate what he said, what he did—but seeing him like this, you hate the situation more.

No words pass between you as you ease him toward the tub, your body moving on memory. Your gaze flicks over his clothes—so easy to remove in moments of warmth and laughter, but now the act feels unnatural.

You pause, fingertips brushing the edge of his shirt, and look up into his sunken eyes for permission. His nod is barely there, just the smallest tilt of his head, but you accept it.

Stripping off his clothes feels like undressing a corpse; his limbs move sluggishly, offering no resistance. You gather his T-shirt and jeans, tossing them aside on the sink, your stomach twisting at how distant he feels in your presence. By the time he’s left in nothing but his underwear, you can hardly meet his gaze.

“You got it from here?” you ask unsure.

He nods again, a weak gesture that does nothing to reassure you. You scoop up the discarded clothes, slip out of the bathroom, and softly shut the door behind you.

Outside, his room looks just as you left it—an absolute wreck, the fallout of some internal war. Despite the roil of anger and pain under your skin, something in you is set on fixing whatever can be fixed.

So, you get to work.

You gather wrappers and empty bottles, muttering under your breath as you fling them into the bin. Next, you scoop up the random VHS tapes littering the floor, shoving them onto the shelf in a messy row.

He can reorganise later if he wants to. Not your problem.

The clothes get tossed into a laundry basket, clean or not—it doesn’t matter anymore. You strip the bed, sheets and blankets in one swoop, hauling it all downstairs and stuffing it into the washing machine along with the rubbish.

You don’t even know why you’re doing this, not when your own place is a disaster. But each step feels necessary in a house that’s clearly falling apart from the inside out.

In just under half an hour, you’ve turned the carnage into something that resembles a house again—no longer a battlefield. Even got rid of the stale baked goods in the kitchen.

Your heart thumps in your chest as you head back upstairs, nerves jangling when you hear water draining from the tub. You catch sight of his half-open drawers and rummage for something soft—a pair of old joggers, an oversized sweatshirt.

At the bathroom door, you knock lightly before pushing it open just enough to slip inside. Steam clings to the tiled walls, but the sight of him makes your chest tighten. The towel wrapped around his waist might hide him as he brushes his teeth, but you can see the exhaustion carved into every line of his shoulders.

Even clean, he looks terrible. Empty.

He notices the clothes in your arms, glances between them and your face, then finally takes them from you without a word, toothbrush hanging awkwardly out his mouth.

“I’ll be outside when you’re ready,” you say softly.

It’s the only explanation you can offer before turning on your heel, escaping the suffocating press of sadness that fills the bathroom.

He emerges, hair damp and curling at the ends, wearing the sweats you picked out. He looks like he’s expecting a lecture—or worse—and some part of you can’t help but want to give it to him.

After all, he hurt you. Yet the sight of him, freshly washed but still sunken-eyed, strips away most of your anger, leaving something more complicated in its place.

He glances at the newly cleaned space.

“You… you didn’t have to do that,” he mutters, voice scratchy. He won’t meet your eyes.

“I know,” you shrug, your tone clipped. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

He swallows, nodding once.

“Okay.”

Silence.

He moves to sit on the far edge of the mattress, opposite you, as if he’s afraid to cross an invisible boundary. You can feel the tension stretching between you—a chasm carved out by wounded pride.

“Are you seriously not going to talk?” you finally bite out, the frustration tightening your chest.

He flinches, as though your voice itself is too sharp.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” he admits.

“A ‘sorry’ would be nice,” you snap, though your anger is already warring with pity. He looks so frail.

“I’m… sorry.” He ducks his head, hair falling into his eyes.

A beat passes, and you feel your patience fray.

“Great.” You swing your legs off the bed. “If that’s all I’m getting, I’m leaving.”

“Wait.” His voice cuts through the air, urgent and tremulous. “No—please. Don’t. Just—”

You pause, catch a glimpse of his face, and see raw panic etched into every line of it. With a sigh, you sink back onto the bed, crossing your arms.

His relief is almost palpable, but it’s quickly replaced by shaky breaths. His hands tremble, and he can’t seem to keep them still on his knees. Panic floods his features, twisting them into something agonised.

“Steve,” you say quietly. He’s on the verge of hyperventilating, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

“I—I can’t—” he stammers, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. “I just—fuck, I’m sorry, I—”

You shift toward him without thinking, placing a hand on his quaking shoulder.

“Shhh, hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, gentling your voice. “Just breathe. Start from the beginning, okay? We’ll work from there.”

His eyes flicker up to yours, haunted and glassy. The weight of everything unspoken hangs between you: all the damage he’s done, all the nights you spent upset and alone, all the ways you once trusted him.

You can’t forgive him—not yet. But you can’t leave him like this either.

“Please?” you add, your own voice betraying a shaky undercurrent of worry. “Just… talk to me.”

Like you once did.

He takes a ragged breath and nods, swallowing hard. His hands cling to the bare duvet as though it’s a lifeline.

You wait as he struggles to form the right words. And he tries—is trying—lips parting and closing in fits and starts, heart pounding so loud you can almost hear it.

“I’m—I’m so sorry,” he says, voice ragged. “Never should’ve spoken to you like that. I—I don’t even know where it came from.”

“It clearly came from somewhere, Steve. But we’re not talking about us right now.” You quietly shake your head, eyes fixed on him. “We’re talking about you.”

He exhales, shoulders slumping as he stares down at his unsteady hands.

“Okay,” he whispers, “yeah. Okay.” A deep breath. A hesitant glance at your face. Then, almost in a flood, the words come out once more.

“My dad… my dad got in my head. T-told me I was nothing, a disappointment—couldn’t even bear the thought of me.” His voice quivers, and he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s trying to block out the memory. “I just—I don’t know how—don’t even know who I am anymore. He just—just looked at me, like I wasn’t even worth the conversation.”

Your heart twists, but you don’t speak—just let him continue.

He scrubs his hand over his face, eyes flicking to the doorway as though someone might burst in at any moment.

“I was going to come see you on Friday, I swear—you have to believe me, angel—I really was. But he caught me on the way out, and…” His breath hitches, panic threading through his words. “He was just confirming what I already thought—what’s already true. That I’m a fucking failure.”

He presses a palm to his chest, as if trying to steady his heartbeat.

“And I know that,” he says, voice shaky. “I know I’m nothing special. And in that moment, I just— I wanted someone to feel what I felt—even…even you.”

You swallow, stunned by how raw and desperate he sounds. Even in your worst nightmares, you never imagined him this broken.

“I know it’s not fair—but I’ve seen this story before. You’ll get bored of me—I know you will.” He glances up at you, eyes pleading for understanding. “You say you won’t, but you will. And I’m sorry—so fucking sorry. You have to believe me. I never meant to be mean to you or—or scare you.” His mouth twists in self-disgust. “God—I can’t believe I made you feel that way… Like you were ever unsafe with me.”

You reach out, gently placing your hand on his arm, and he flinches—more out of self-loathing than fear.

“Hey,” you say, your voice soft, but firm, “Breathe for me, okay?”

A shuddering exhale racks him, and he bows his head, eyes squeezed shut. For a moment, you think he might push you away—tell you not to touch him, that he doesn’t deserve it. But the words never come.

Instead, he stands there, quietly shaking under your hand, a broken boy who’s convinced himself he can’t be saved.

Your chest feels like it’s caving in at the sight of him—at the guilt, at the rawness, at how he’s clinging to these warped ideas of his own worthlessness.

“I don’t know how to fix this.” He keeps going, voice splintering as he tries to get it all out before he loses his nerve. “There’s no fixing this—I’ve got three months.”

“Three months?”

“He’s kicking me out… basically—my dad. If I don’t get my shit together, I’m done here.” His breath comes in ragged gulps, the admission shaking him. “And I know—God, I know this is so unfair. So fucking unfair on you, sweetheart. I’m sorry you got caught in the crossfire. I never should’ve—” His voice breaks, and he drags a hand across his mouth. “Never should’ve asked you out that day you came into the store—never should’ve done this to you.”

You want to protest, to tell him he’s talking nonsense—but your words get stuck behind the wave of memories that crash over you from all those months ago.

That first day, his dorky smile lighting up the entire shop. The way he nearly jumped out of his skin when you said yes to hanging out. Building that bookshelf together in your living room, both of you laughing as he insisted he didn’t need your assistance.

The time he showed up at your door unannounced because he just sensed something was wrong. Showing you off to all of his friends. All that progress, all those private jokes, all that slow, deliberate peeling back of each other’s layers—cut to ribbons by a single night’s outburst.

Now, here he is. Tears still clinging to his lashes, voice choked with regrets. The ache in your chest flares hot—hurt and a fierce tenderness all mingled into one.

You couldn’t bear it any longer.

You slide closer without a word, pulling him into your arms, and he clings to you. Trembling so violently it’s like he might shatter if you let go. His breaths come in spurts, each exhale sending a tremor through his body. You press your forehead to his shoulder, eyes burning.

“Steve?” you ask softly after a minute, voice muffled against his sweatshirt.

His head lifts, eyes rimmed in red. “Yeah?”

You hesitate, brushing the hair off his clammy forehead.

“Have you eaten?”

“Uh, no?” His brow furrows. “That’s not really—why are you asking?”

You pull back just enough to fully meet his gaze, then lean in, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips. He freezes, almost like he doesn’t believe what you’ve done is real.

He doesn’t question it, just grateful that it means you’re not leaving him alone. He won’t read too much into it now, doesn’t want to assume that you’re here for good.

“Because,” you say, “we’re gonna go downstairs and make something to eat.” Your voice is calm, like talking to a scared child. “And then we’re going to figure out what to do.”

“You’re staying?” He stares at you, confusion and hope warring in his eyes. “But—why?”

“Because, Steve,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth twitching in a sad smile. “You said it yourself. I’m independent.” You pause as you cup his jaw, running a thumb over his cheek as you gaze up at him. “And you’re going to learn how to be, too.”

He sits at the kitchen table, eyes fixed on the way you move around in front of the stove. If he blinks just right, he can almost pretend it’s a normal day—just you and him, making an impromptu meal after a long shift.

He watches you crack eggs into a pan, stifling a sigh when you scrape the shells into the trash. You’d hoped for something more elaborate, but the fridge was nearly empty—most of the produce spoiled. He curses himself silently for not taking care of it.

A pang of guilt floods him, prompting him to stand, to do something. He goes to the cupboard, rummages around until he finds the familiar box of tea bags you keep here for yourself. He lifts a mug, glances back at you.

“Tea alright?”

You shoot him a quick look over your shoulder and nod.

“Yeah. Tea’s good.”

So he gets to work, carefully measuring out just enough hot water, placing a teabag in each mug. He adds a bit of sugar and a splash of milk to yours.

Just how you like it.

When he turns back around, you’re already plating the eggs—fried sunny side up, edges crisp and a little burned around the rim—along with a couple of slices of toast.

Just how he likes it.

The two of you sit down across from each other at the table. The clink of cutlery against plates sounds almost unbearably loud in the silence. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You watch him push at the meal with his fork, taking tentative bites at first. Then something shifts. He goes from nibbling to devouring the entire plate in a matter of moments, like a man who hasn’t seen food in days.

A pang grips your stomach. Clearly, he hasn’t had anything decent to eat in a while. You slide your plate toward him. He gives a shaky protest.

“No, I’m good.”

But you shake your head.

“I already ate,” you tell him gently. “Not really hungry. Please, eat.”

He studies your face, then seems to accept it, nodding slowly. Within seconds, he’s finishing off your portion, too. You sip your tea, quietly reeling at how hollow his cheeks look, the bones more pronounced than you remember.

When the food is gone, he rubs his hand over his face and slumps back in his seat.

“You’re not at work?” he asks, voice low.

You exhale a thin breath. “I… took the week off.”

“What?”

“Yeah, well,” you say, trying and failing to sound nonchalant, “I was kind of upset. Didn’t want to hide in the red room if I needed a cry.”

Remorse surges in his eyes, and he ducks his head.

“Sweetheart… I know it doesn’t make up for anything I did, but from the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry.”

“Steve,” you begin, voice trembling slightly, “it’s fine. We’re focusing on you right now—”

He shakes his head, cutting you off.

“I know, and that’s important. But there’s something I gotta ask...” He presses his palms to the table, steadying himself. “What I did was unforgivable. If we’re over—if you can’t do this anymore—tell me. I just—I need to know.”

Your heart lurches; the raw plea in his voice stabs at you.

“Steve—”

He lifts a hand, begging you to let him finish.

“I don’t care if you—if you need space, or if you don’t want to see me for a while. I get that. I just… I need to know that I still have a chance. That once I figure this shit out—I haven’t—haven’t lost you completely.”

You swallow hard. The weight of his gaze feels almost too much to bear, but there’s no hesitation in your reply.

“You haven’t lost me.” Your voice softens. “I....I love you too much.”

His face crumples with relief, a choked exhale leaving his lips. You reach out, tentatively resting your hand on his, and for a moment, the two of you stay like that—clinging to the thin thread of hope that still binds you together.

Finally, you clear your throat, pulling your hand away.

“So,” you say, steadying yourself, “we need to figure out what you’re going to do. Are you sure your dad will kick you out?”

“Yeah. He will.” His mouth twists into a grimace. “He’s an asshole, but he doesn’t lie. He cut me off already when I didn’t go to college—he follows through on every threat.”

“Okay. So what about renting? You make enough to cover it, right?”

“I’m pretty sure I do, but there’s hardly anything on the market. And what there is…” He trails off, leaving the rest unsaid.

You know all too well how soul-crushing it can be to search for a decent place in Hawkins. It took you months to find yours.

“Yeah,” you whisper, nodding, “I know.”

A hush settles between you, the quiet palpable, almost electric. He fiddles with his empty plate, pushing around the leftover crumbs with his fork, while you stare at him, mind churning over possibilities.

Then a single thought sparks—a ridiculous, terrifying idea that sets your heart pounding.

“Steve?” you say softly, and his eyes lock with yours. “I… I might have an idea.”

His eyes scan your face, searching for any hint of hesitation. And then, suddenly, it all clicks into place for him.

No.

There is no way you’re suggesting that. It’s absurd. It’s idiotic. It’s not even something he’d ever let himself consider.

“No,” he rasps almost immediately, shaking his head. “No, angel, I can’t—I can’t do that. Are you serious? That’s yours—not mine. I can’t just—whatever you’re—I mean, after what I said? After what I did to you?”

Finally, you see what you’ve been searching for all week—you see your Steve.

The Steve you’ve always known. The one who never wants to impose, who refuses to be a burden, who won’t ask for more even when he desperately needs it. The remorse in his eyes is painful, and it only solidifies your decision.

This is your boyfriend, Steve. And God, if it meant keeping this version of him—the one you cherish, the one you love—you’d let him stay with you forever.

“This is my offer,” you say. “I’m offering it to you. If you want to treat it like a last resort, that’s fine. But…” Your throat bobs with emotion as you draw in a shaky breath. “I really, really want to wake up with you every day. Split the rent. If your dad’s so concerned about your future, why don’t you make one? One you’re actually proud of... One with me.”

He blinks, tears shimmering in his eyes, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as he struggles to compute what you’re saying

You’re insane for doing this.

In his eyes, at least. You’re supposed to be the smart one—the one who thinks things through, who knows better. And this? This is the furthest thing from a smart move.

But he sees it—the way your eyes shine with conviction, how your expression doesn’t waver, how every fiber of your being is offering this to him, fully and completely.

You’re not lying.

He knows when you are. And this?

This is real.

“You… You really mean that?” His voice trembles, and the raw hope shining through makes your heart twist.

You nod, eyes glistening with your own tears.

“Yes. I really mean that. I’m ready to do this—seriously.”

A choked sound escapes him, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. His body aches with the need to have you near him.

“Come here,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Come over here, please?”

You push your chair back, crossing the short distance in two steps. The moment you’re within reach, he pulls you onto his lap, arms locking around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

His hands come up to brush the hair away from your face, the gentleness almost undoing you. Then his lips meet yours in a lingering kiss. It tastes like promises and second chances, and he pours every ounce of relief, every fragment of devotion into it.

“You’re not gonna regret this,” he murmurs between soft presses of his lips, voice thick with emotion. “Swear on my life, I’m gonna spend every single day showing you how much you mean to me. You’ll never—ever have to worry about anything again, long as I’m around. You know that?” He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your temple, like he can’t get enough. “You’re an angel—call you that all the time, I know, but you have to understand I mean it—fully. You’re a godsend—straight from fucking heaven.”

You feel your heart swell, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. A little laugh slips out—half joy, half disbelieving relief—while you bury your face in his neck, letting him cling to you as if letting go might shatter the fragile moment.

Eventually, you have to pull back, your lips still tingling from his.

He inhales shakily, a new determination igniting behind his tired eyes. A tear slips down his cheek, but he doesn’t look away.

He couldn’t.

Even if he wanted to.

Because this girl—this stupid, stubborn, impossibly insane girl in his lap—has just given him the one thing he never thought he’d have.

Salvation.

A way out. A chance to live his life—not the one dictated by his father, not the one shaped by expectations he could never meet, but his life. The way he’s dreamed about since leaving high school.

It’s been a few days since that heart-to-heart—since all the raw emotions and apologies spilled out and brought you two back together. You find yourself trudging up the stairs to your flat, a small duffle bag clenched in your hand.

It’s not your bag. It’s Steve’s.

He insisted on carrying the heavier stuff, so he’s right behind you with a large cardboard box balanced carefully in his arms. He keeps throwing concerned glances your way, reminding you not to overdo it, especially after the whirlwind you both survived these past few days.

When you offered him your place—opened the door to your home, and more importantly, to your future together. It felt cathartic at the time, but neither of you were naive enough to think it would be easy. Later that same day, the two of you ended up at his dining table, drafting a meticulous list: bills, rent, utilities, a hundred different phone calls you’d need to make to set everything up.

You were both determined to do it right. He kept emphasising that he’d pull his weight, that he’d take on more than his share if it meant showing you how committed he was. The idea of this new life with him thrilled and terrified you—but mostly, it filled your chest with a heat you could hardly articulate.

Hours passed, and by ten at night, you were rubbing at your eyes, complaining of a headache from all the numbers and paperwork. He looked at you, concern shadowing his features. He’d noticed your exhaustion well before you said anything and felt guilty for letting you push yourself so far. Relenting, he agreed that you both needed to step away and breathe.

That night, you slept at his place, and the sensation was immediately familiar—like returning home. Wearing his old Hawkins Phys Ed shirt, you crawled under the covers and felt his arms circle around you. He held you so gently, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers. You could feel his shaky exhale against your hair as he tried not to tear up, clearly thinking about how damn lucky he was.

Even after you drifted off, he found he couldn’t sleep. Not with the guilt still gnawing at him, not when the knowledge of how he’d hurt you weighed on his mind.

Call it self-inflicted punishment or penance, but he carefully slipped out from under your arm, doing his best not to stir you.

With measured steps, he made his way back downstairs, returning to the scattered papers on the table. He picked up the old calculator he thought he’d never use again, muttering every sum under his breath. Even though it was late, the methodical tap of buttons and scribble of pencil across paper soothed him.

Each calculation that confirmed a real, shared future gave him the momentum to keep going, no matter how sleep-deprived he felt. Some of the equations he did twice, not wanting any part of this to be left up to chance.

When you woke up sometime later, you realised the bed was still cold on his side. Anxiety prickled through you as you called his name into the darkness, flipping on the lamp to peer through the dimly lit bedroom. The quiet of the house led you downstairs, where you found him hunched over the table, eyes rimmed red from strain, pencil in hand.

He didn’t even notice you right away, so lost in thought—tallying numbers, crossing them out, re-checking them. Your heart melted at the sight of his serious expression, that little line between his brows telling you just how deep in concentration he was.

Padding across the floor, you stepped into his line of vision. He glanced up at you, and the softness in his eyes nearly made your breath catch. Leaning back in the chair, he waited—almost timid—until you climbed right into his lap. His arms came around you instantly, hugging you like he was grounding himself in your warmth.

“Should be sleeping, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice husky with fatigue. “S’almost two.”

“You’re not in bed.” You told him in a drowsy mumble as you burrowed yourself further into his chest.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted softly. “Thought I’d finish what we started. Want to make sure all of this works out.”

“It’s not going anywhere,” you gave a small shake of your head.

It was true. All these papers and logistics would still be there tomorrow. There was a movement in his eyes but he still wasn’t quite ready to give it up. Wanted to be absolutely sure he wasn’t going to lose this too.

“Please?” You pleaded, brushing your fingers against his cheek. “Wanted to sleep with you... Haven’t had the chance all week.”

At that, he broke. His expression gentled as he brushed a few stray hairs out of your face.

“Okay,” he whispered, like he was surrendering to something bigger than both of you. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”

You led him quietly back upstairs, exhaustion weighing down both your limbs. The moment you slipped under the blankets and into his arms, you felt a warmth settle through your bones. He held you close, and you could sense his heart thudding in his chest as he finally let himself relax.

Within minutes, he was drifting off.

That was four days ago. Now, everything’s official—all the logistics sorted, all the phone calls made. You stand in your bedroom, setting his duffle bag in the corner of your room. Behind you, he carefully places a large box on top of the dresser. When you turn, he meets you with a soft, lopsided grin that crinkles the edges of his eyes.

“Is that it?” he asks.

You cross your arms over your chest and nod slowly, taking in the modest stacks of his belongings that are now scattered around your bedroom.

“Thought you had more stuff than this,” you say, frowning.

“I decided to get rid of a few things.” He shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “New start and all that.”

“You threw them away?” You scowl in mock indignation. “Instead of giving them to me?”

He chuckles, stepping closer to hook an arm around your waist.

“Sweetheart,” he lets out a low chuckle, nudging your chin with a gentle finger. “You now have full access to my entire wardrobe, and you’re complaining?”

“Hmmm.” You pout as he leans in, you let him kiss you—warm and tender. When you finally break away, you clear your throat. “Did you call Keith?”

“Yeah,” he replies, running a hand through his hair. “Got my job back—already squared things away about my time off. Robin forgave me for being a complete idiot, and Dustin too.”

He’s got a second chance, and he’s not going to blow it.

When you told him how Dustin had turned to you for help, you saw the panic ignite in his eyes again—fear that he’d let everyone down, especially the kid who looked up to him like a brother.

So you’d forced him into the passenger seat, driven to Dustin’s house, and watched from the window as Steve hesitated on the porch before finally knocking.

You weren’t sure what was said in that living room—he spent an hour in there. You do know that, by the time you joined them, Dustin had tears in his eyes, but they were happy tears. And Steve looked lighter. Like he’d scraped the burden off his shoulders and left it on the welcome mat.

The three of you ended up sprawled in Dustin’s living room, eating too many slices of pizza, and watching a random comedy on TV. By the time you left, your heart felt a little sturdier.

No more tantrums. No more breakdowns.

You’d believed him too, especially with how his eyes shone with fresh resolve.

“I, uh, moved some of my stuff around in the bedroom,” you tell him. “Had a few spare drawers or whatever—you’ve got the bottom two, and there’s some free hangers in the wardrobe.”

His eyes flick to the space you’ve made for him, you catch the gratefulness that softens his entire expression. He looks at you like he still can’t believe this is real—that he’s here, that you made room for him. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you in for a slow kiss, his lips lingering on yours.

When it ends, he presses his forehead to yours, murmuring a playful “thank you.” But before you can reply, the gentle press of his mouth becomes more insistent. His hands shift to cradle your jaw, and you melt into him as the kiss deepens—hungry, a little desperate.

“Steve,” you mumble, pulling back just enough to speak, though his lips still ghost over yours. “We need to unpack…”

He hums, not letting you stray far.

“We can unpack later,” he murmurs. “Got all the time in the world.”

You want to roll your eyes at the cheesy line, but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the universe that matters—makes your heart ache. When he dips his head to nip gently at your neck, you let out a breathy laugh, your hands coming up to clutch his shoulders. In one swift move, he lifts you onto the bed, settling you against the pillows.

Your pulse skitters in your chest as he looms over you, his warm, steady gaze sweeping across your face.

“Can I?” he asks, voice hushed. “Wanna say thank you properly—wanna make you feel good.”

A little huff slips past your lips, your cheeks hot. He’s ridiculously sweet, and he knows it. He sees you hesitate for half a second, so he leans in, pressing a series of gentle, coaxing kisses along your jaw, his hands finding purchase at your hips.

“Please?” he murmurs, breath fanning against your skin. “Wanna take care of you. You gonna let me, angel?”

His thumbs begin to knead soft circles into your sides, and you feel your heart skipping a beat—or maybe five. You tug him closer, inhaling the comforting scent of his shirt as your arms loop around his shoulders, deciding then and there you’ll never get enough of him.

You blink up at him, heat already flushing across your cheeks. The second you mumble your agreement—“Yeah, all right. Okay.”—his face lights up with a grin so bright it makes your stomach flip.

He leans in, giving you a quick kiss before pulling back to yank off his shirt. The muscles in his arms and chest shift, and you can’t help the way your eyes trail over his skin. Your own shirt follows suit as well as your bra, stripped away and tossed onto the floor, and then he’s on you again—breath warm and urgent against your mouth, hands skimming over your bare sides.

He’s nipping gently at your bottom lip, then your jaw, and you feel that fevered press of his body. Each touch says he needs this. Each breathless kiss says he’s missed you.

“Wanted to do this all week,” he murmurs, voice raw with relief. “Can’t believe you chose me, sweetheart—I mean—could’ve had anyone.”

Your heart clenches at the genuine wonder in his tone. You cradle the back of his neck, pulling him down for another firm kiss.

“I want you,” you say, voice catching on the words. “Only you.”

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes falling shut as though your confession alone is enough to undo him.

“Oh yeah?” he breathes, the corners of his mouth curving into a smirk. “Well, I gotta show you how grateful I am, then. Gonna make you see stars, baby. You deserve it—so fucking beautiful.”

Heat crawls up your face, and you instinctively try to duck your head, flustered by his praise. He catches the motion, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“Oh? You getting shy on me?”

“N-no…” you protest, but it comes out smaller than you intended.

“That sounds like a ‘yes.’” His voice is teasing as his fingers hook into the waistband of your pants. Before you can work up a witty retort, your trousers and underwear are slipped down and off, leaving you bare. His gaze darkens appreciatively. “You don’t like it when I say nice things?”

You shake your head, but the denial dissolves the moment his hand slides between your thighs. Calloused fingertips brush against your slick skin, and the breath escapes you in a shaky exhale. His responding chuckle warms your ear.

“Oh, baby, I think you're lying—just look at you.”

A mortified whimper bubbles out—though your body clearly isn’t complaining. It’s a mess of conflicting emotions: the embarrassment of his unabashed words and the molten desire pooling low in your belly.

“It’s—it’s embarrassing when you talk like that,” you manage to squeak, squirming under his touch.

“Embarrassing?” he echoes, sounding far too amused. He presses his hand more firmly, and a moan slips out of you, your thighs quivering at the sensation. “Can’t have that,” he murmurs, dipping his head to kiss down your neck. “Was so mean to you, angel—don’t deserve you.” Another slow swirl of his fingers has you arching up. “Gotta make it right—s’only fair.”

You part your lips to respond, but all that comes out is a broken, breathy sound. The rhythmic press of his hand is driving coherent thought right out of your head. He watches you, clearly reveling in how easily he can undo you.

“You’re dripping, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice dropping to a low hum. “You sure you don’t like it when I tell you how pretty you are? How perfect you are for me?”

You give a pitiful whine, your cheeks practically on fire. It only seems to spur him on, his fingertips slick as they work you open. Each thrust of his hand feels so sinfully good that you can’t tell if you want him to keep talking or just shut up and kiss you senseless.

Steve was always all sweet words and gentle smiles in bed, but this was different. He was savouring you, getting off on calling you names—not the degrading kind, but the ones that made your stomach twist and your throat tighten.

His cocky little grin flashes again.

“Aw, baby, you’re so sensitive.” He leans in, brushing his mouth against your ear.

You let your eyes fall shut, surrendering to the flurry of sensation he’s stirring inside you. The desperate tingle in your stomach builds with each curl of his fingers, and just when you think you might be careening toward the edge, he pulls away. You open your mouth to protest, only to watch him stand up and strip out of his jeans and boxers.

He shifts back onto the bed, bracing himself over you, and a sharp bolt of arousal lances through your core when you feel him—hot and hard—rubbing insistently against your clit.

“Gonna fuck you, baby,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “Gonna show you how much you mean to me—how good you are to me—”

He guides himself to your entrance and pushes in, inch by inch, until he’s fully sheathed inside you. Your jaw goes slack at the delicious stretch. Both of you gasp at the same time—like you’ve just remembered how good this can feel when all the walls are down, when you’re both so desperately in need of one another.

A shudder runs through him.

“God, I missed this,” he groans, beginning a slow, steady pace. “Missed you.” He leans in, mouthing at your neck, your collarbone, anywhere he can get his lips. “Gonna do this every day—after every shift—hell, before every shift. Want you on my cock anytime I can have you.”

The rhythmic drag of him thrusting deeper and deeper has you arching your back. Your nails instinctively rake down his shoulders in an attempt to ground yourself. The sting must register because he lets out a rough moan.

“You gonna scratch me up, huh?” he rasps, his pace growing more determined. “Gonna leave a mark on me?”

“S-sorry.” You freeze for half a second, peering up at him through hazy, pleasure-blurred eyes. “Don’t wanna hurt you—”

“Could never hurt me—not after what I did.” He shakes his head, eyes burning with intensity. “I—I want it, baby. Wanna feel you tomorrow—everytime I move—wanna remember who’s at home waiting for me. Our home.”

Something about that—our home—sends sparks of electricity tearing through your veins.

“Steve,” you breathe. Your voice cracks with urgency. “Shit, I’m gonna—”

He knows what you mean before you even said the words. Bearing down, he snaps his hips a bit faster, and his words become even more ragged and desperate, tumbling from his lips in quick succession.

“So fucking smart—so fucking pretty,” he manages between thrusts. “Always so sweet for me—God”

His chest is heaving, damp with sweat, and he’s pounding into you like he can’t hold anything back. He feels you squeezing around him, and it only drives him further—spurs him on like he has something to prove. He can’t give you much, but what he can offer, he gives tenfold.

This is what he can give you, and fuck, he wants to give you so much more. He’d give anything to make you happy—to make you feel even a fraction of what you’ve given him. He needs you to understand. Needs you to feel it.

“Always working so hard—taking such good care of me—making me feel so fucking good—aren’t you, angel?” he mumbles brokenly, delirious. He’s teetering on the edge, and you feel it in the way his strokes start to falter. “Need you to know how much I—Fuck—need you to cum on my cock, baby. Won’t stop ’til I feel it—please.”

You’re too strung out to do anything but obey that fierce longing in his voice. With one more thrust, you tumble into release, your body seizing beneath him. The rush has you clawing at his shoulders, your head thrown back as waves of ecstasy roll through you. You vaguely register him letting out a guttural moan as he follows you over the edge, the tension in his body snapping as he spills into you.

For a few seconds, you both just hover there—lost in the throbbing aftermath that feels electric and tender. Your vision spots with warm, dizzy bliss, and you’re semi-aware of him collapsing onto you, his lips brushing your temple in a dazed kiss.

You pull away from him, chest still heaving, and the giggle that slips from your lips sounds almost delirious in the quiet that’s settled around you both. his flushed cheeks crease into a satisfied grin as he tilts his head, studying you.

“What is it?” he asks, brushing his fingers through his damp hair.

You push at his chest—just enough to make him tumble to the side—and roll your eyes.

“You talk too much.”

“Me?” He gives an exaggerated gasp. “That’s weird. Usually you love my mouth.”

Heat crawls up your cheeks as you huff, trying to will away the memories of just how much you do love his mouth.

“Yeah,” you grumble, “but when you talk like that…makes my head all scrambled.”

“Oh, I know, baby. I’m so mean, aren’t I?” He pouts exaggeratedly.

Another huff leaves you, though you can’t hide the corner of your mouth twitching in amusement. He leans over the side of the bed to grab his discarded shirt and jeans, and you start to do the same—only to freeze when you catch sight of his back in the low light.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe out, eyes going wide.

“What is it?” He whips around, alarmed by your tone.

“I, uh…I actually did leave marks on your back.” You grimace a little, shifting your weight to your knees. The faint, reddened lines stand out against his skin—four vivid stripes that trace the path of your nails from earlier.

He glances over his shoulder with a casual shrug, though the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth betrays his real reaction.

“Oh yeah?” His voice dips lower, interest obvious.

“I’m really sorry,” you say, feeling a hint of guilt.

“I wanted you to,” he replies without hesitation, and you notice the flicker of heat in his eyes. “Shows I was doing a good job.”

“Still feel bad,” you mumble, cheeks burning. You move closer, fingers ghosting over his shoulder blades.

“You know…” His grin widens. “Could always kiss ‘em better. Hear that helps.”

You scoff but lean in, pressing soft kisses to each mark, and he practically melts under your touch.

“Better?” you ask softly, lips brushing the raised skin.

“Much,” he murmurs, letting out a shaky sigh. There’s a definite pink tinge staining his cheeks now—you’ve managed to fluster him now.

"Aw, you getting shy on me?" You tease as a giggle bubbles up your throat.

"Shut up." He huffs as he leans down to pull on his boxers, holding out his shirt for you to slip on. "Shower?"

You nod as you pull on your clothes, letting him guide you to the bathroom, his touch gentle.

He doesn’t let you lift a finger—cleaning you up was his job tonight, just like making dinner, just like everything else.

He promised you wouldn’t have to worry about a damn thing ever again, and Steve keeps his promises.

Any stress?

That’s his job now. Not yours.

Because you’ve already given him the greatest gift anyone could ask for. You. Your trust, your future. And he’s going to spend the rest of his life making sure you never regret it.

He didn’t tell his dad he was leaving. Didn't see the point.

If the old man wanted to find him, he could, but it wouldn’t change anything. He had made his choice, and for the first time in his life, it wasn’t about living up to someone else’s expectations.

He blocked out the past, because the only thing that matters now is you—safe, warm, cared for, loved. He would spend every day proving that you’d never have to doubt that again.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #stranger things x reader #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things imagine #steve harrington angst #stranger things smut #steve harrington smut #stranger things fic #stranger things x you

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writeriguess · 5 months ago

Note

hi sweetie, I hope you are well ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡). I came to request katsuki Bakugou x female reader. They are married but due to Bakugou hero's busy schedule they have few moments together, I would like the plot to be based on the reader discovering Bakugou's infidelity (I want to suffer) (˃ ⌑ ˂ഃ ) following the appearance of a pregnant woman (or some crazy stuff like that?) If it's too much, don't worry! I just want that kind of anguish. tysm .ᐟ.ᐟ

author's note: Thank you, I am well <3 The upcoming work trip stresses me out a little though! I'm likely on it when this publishes.

A House Built on Ashes

The apartment is silent when you wake up, the other side of the bed cold. Again.

You stare at the ceiling, blinking away the sleep that threatens to pull you back under. Katsuki’s been working late. Too late. Always too late. Your hands glide across the empty sheets, searching for warmth that hasn’t been there in weeks. The clock on your nightstand reads 3:14 AM. A part of you wonders if he’ll even come home tonight.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you wrap his hoodie around your frame and pad barefoot into the kitchen. Your heart sinks when you see the untouched dinner, still wrapped and waiting for him. The weight in your chest grows heavier as you unwrap the food, staring at the cold meal you made hours ago. It’s stupid, really. You should be used to this by now.

The sound of the front door unlocking makes you flinch. You turn, breath caught in your throat, as Katsuki steps inside. His ash-blond hair is disheveled, his hero uniform half undone, revealing the black compression shirt underneath. He looks tired—exhausted even—but not in the way he should be. Not in the way of a man who’s just been fighting villains all day.

His crimson eyes meet yours, widening slightly as if he wasn’t expecting you to be awake.

“Yer still up?” His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming. Or lying.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Your fingers tighten around the edge of the counter. “Where were you?”

He hesitates. It’s barely a second, but it’s enough.

“Work ran late.”

A simple answer. A practiced one. But something is off. His uniform smells like detergent—freshly washed. His scent is there, but it’s muted. As if someone else’s perfume had been scrubbed away. A cold tendril of doubt coils around your heart.

“I called,” you say, watching his expression carefully. “Three times.”

His jaw tightens. “Phone died.”

Lies.

You want to believe him. Gods, you want to. You want to be the supportive wife, the one who understands that being the Number Two Pro Hero means sacrifices. But you know Katsuki. You know how meticulous he is about keeping his gear—and his phone—charged.

You know when he’s lying.

A week passes, and the distance between you both grows like a festering wound. He kisses you still, but there’s something different. Guilt, maybe. Or obligation. And then it happens. The moment everything unravels.

It’s a grocery run. A normal, mindless errand. Until you see her.

She’s beautiful. Dark hair pulled into a loose bun, wearing an oversized sweater that hides the curve of her stomach—almost. But you see it. The subtle swell of a life growing inside her. And more than that, you see the way her hands hover protectively over her belly.

You might have walked past her without a second glance if it weren’t for the conversation you overheard.

“Oh, please,” the woman scoffs, rolling her eyes as she adjusts the shopping basket on her arm. “Like she really thinks he’s still faithful to her? She’s pathetic.”

You freeze.

Her friend giggles, covering her mouth. “I mean, Y/N is stupidly naive if she thinks a man like Katsuki would actually stick around forever.”

Your blood turns to ice in your veins.

The woman—this stranger—laughs, a bitter, knowing sound. “Right? He knocked me up, and she’s still playing house like nothing’s wrong. I mean, come on, he spends more nights with me than her at this point.”

Your stomach churns. It feels like the ground is swallowing you whole.

Her friend nudges her playfully. “So, when’s Bakugou finally ditching her and stepping up?”

The woman sighs, rubbing a hand over her stomach. “Soon, hopefully. I mean, we all know he’s just staying out of guilt. But once this baby’s here?” She grins. “She’ll just be the embarrassing ex-wife.”

You don’t remember walking out of the store. You don’t remember the drive home. You don’t remember anything except the way your heart beats so violently against your ribs that it hurts.

By the time Katsuki comes home that night, you’re sitting on the couch, his hoodie pulled tight around you, your hands clenched into fists in your lap.

He doesn’t get the chance to speak before you ask, voice hollow—“Do you love her?”

The silence that follows is the worst part. Because it’s not immediate denial. It’s not outrage at the accusation. It’s nothing. Just quiet, suffocating nothingness.

Your whole world burns.

The silence stretches between you like a yawning abyss. Your heart pounds so violently that you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. Katsuki stares at you, crimson eyes unreadable, but his lips part like he’s searching for something to say—an excuse, a reason, a lie that will make this all go away.

But nothing comes.

Nothing.

And that is the final straw.

Your hands tremble as you push yourself to your feet, and suddenly, all the pain that’s been simmering inside you—festering, growing, poisoning every quiet moment you spent waiting for him—boils over.

“You bastard,” you whisper, but it’s more than that. It’s not just an insult. It’s a curse, a condemnation, a blade forged from every night you spent staring at the ceiling, wondering why you weren’t enough.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t try to defend himself.

Coward.

“Say something, Katsuki!” you shout, and your voice cracks on his name. His name—the one you’ve whispered in love, in devotion, in trust. Now it tastes like ash on your tongue.

But he doesn’t say anything.

The quiet shatters something inside you. You shove past the coffee table, hands shaking as you grab the untouched dinner you left wrapped for him hours ago. The plate crashes into the sink with a sharp, ringing clatter, the sound echoing through the suffocating apartment. “You could’ve just told me,” you say, voice shaking. “You could’ve told me that you didn’t love me anymore instead of—”

Instead of this.

Instead of letting you rot away in this lie.

Instead of making you look like a fucking fool.

You press a hand against your forehead, breathing hard, fighting against the sob that threatens to rip itself from your chest. Your vision is blurry with unshed tears, but you refuse to let them fall—not yet. Not in front of him.

Katsuki finally moves, stepping forward, hands raised as if he can fix this—as if he has the right to touch you after everything. “Y/N—”

“Don’t,” you snap, voice like glass shards. He flinches, and good. Let him feel just a fraction of what you feel. Let it fucking hurt.

You let out a bitter laugh, though it tastes more like grief than amusement. “I cooked for you. I waited up for you. I defended you every single time someone said you wouldn’t settle down. And you—” You shake your head, chest heaving. “You weren’t even fucking careful. You didn’t even have the decency to make sure I didn’t find out like this.”

His eyes darken, but there’s shame there, too. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “Oh, sure. You just tripped and fell into another woman? And now she’s having your kid?”

His lips press into a thin line, and for the first time, you see it. The guilt. The regret. But it’s too late for that now. Too fucking late.

Your hands curl into fists, nails digging into your palms until you’re sure they’ll leave crescent-shaped marks. You’re shaking, your whole body vibrating with rage, with devastation, with betrayal so deep it makes you sick to your stomach.

“You don’t get to do this to me,” you whisper, voice raw. “You don’t get to make me love you, to promise me forever, and then throw me away like I meant nothing.”

His hands tighten at his sides. “You didn’t mean nothing.”

But it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

Your breath catches, the dam finally breaking as a sob rips through your throat. “Then why wasn’t I enough?”

And for the first time, Katsuki has no answer.

You nod, wiping at your face furiously before turning on your heel, heading straight for the bedroom. Your mind is racing, already thinking about packing, about leaving, about never looking back. About how much it’s going to hurt.

He calls your name—soft, desperate.

But you don’t stop.

You don’t look back.

Because if you do, you might break completely.

#bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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secretlysamcro · 2 months ago

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Till It’s Gone ask…

How would have Jax handled a pregnancy scare?

"You good?" he asks, frowning "You're quiet"

"Just tired" you mutter back.

He nods slowly. Walks into the kitchen, opens your cupboard like he owns the place, like he's done a hundred times before. Grabs his Jameson and a glass before sitting down on the edge of the couch near your feet, nudging you lightly with his knee.

"You mad at me or somethin?" he asks, a flicker of something genuine behind it.

You shake your head looking up towards the ceiling, barely paying attention to him

"You ain't even gonna look at me?" he mutters, half offended, spreading his legs wider like he needs the whole damn couch.

"I'm late" the words fall free from your mouth

"Late for what?" he says, confusion slowly taking over his face.

"My period" you finally turn to him now.

The words hit him like a fucking brick and his hand freezes mid air, the whiskey glass hovering inches from his mouth before he lowers it back onto the table. His fingers tightening around it like the glass might shatter if he lets go.

His face drains of colour "No" he says, hoarse as he drags one hand down his face, now standing with the other landing on his hip "Don't say that"

He's pacing now. Your living room suddenly feeling too small for all his panic. He runs a hand through his hair. His jaw locked so tight that it almost looks painful.

"Don't say what Jax?..." you fire back, the bitterness bleeding into your tone before you can stop it "...the consequences of coming inside someone who's not your wife?" It's colder than you meant, but you know now isn't the time to start another fight even though the words are out there now, sharp and unforgiving.

He stops, turning to face you slowly. You can see the rage simmering just beneath the surface, but he doesn't blow over, not yet. Just looks at you, his eyes piercing.

"I'm sorry" you say quickly, softer even "I didn't mean..."

"You take a test?" he cuts in, voice flat and controlled

You shake your head "Not yet, I didn't wanna do it alone"

Without waiting for permission, he follows you down the short hallway towards the bathroom. You grab the brown paper bag from under the sink, pulling out the box with the Clearblue logo. He watches you with something unreadable in his eyes. Maybe its panic, maybe its realisation. Or maybe, its grief. Grief for a version of this situation that could have felt like joy if this whole thing was different. If you weren't just his dirty little secret. If he hadn't already built a life with someone else. Maybe in another life, he'd be excited to see that test turn positive.

But that's not how this shit works.

"You wanna watch me pee on it or what?" you mumble snapping him out of whatever spiral he was sinking into.

He stutters "I...uh, do you want me to?"

"Just turn around" you say, too tired to be sarcastic now.

And so he does, slowly. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed with his back to you staring blankly at the drink he left on your coffee table. His mind racing. What if you are? what does he do? how does he look Tara in the face and tell her the truth?

He already knows what he'd do. He wouldn't run, he wouldn't ask you to fix it or make it go away. He'd do what you wanted to do, and if that meant keeping the baby, then he'd figure out what the fuck to say afterwards.

"You done it ye..." He stops when he hears the sound of you peeing. And despite everything, a tiny breath of laughter slips out through his nose.

You finish up and place the test on the side of the sink. His eyes finally meeting yours, and that's when he sees it. The fear, the same fucking fear he's feeling mirrored in your expression.

"Come here" he says, his arms open wide. You fall into them without hesitation, letting him pull you against his chest, your cheek resting comfortably against the leather of his Kutte as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"I'm sorry" he murmurs "For yelling, for acting like I was mad at you, Im not, I'm fuckin' mad at the situation. At myself."

You nod into him, your eyes beginning to sting. His continued apology interrupted by the beep of the test. He lets you go slowly, squeezing your hand once before you turn round to check. Your hands tremble slightly as you pick it up.

You inhale deeply "Negative" you share the news.

You don't know what you expected to feel. But the feeling you have right now, its hollow, the quiet ache of ‘what if’ flowing through your body.

The colour slowly begins to creep back into his cheeks, the ghost of his panic lifting. Because this whole time, all he could think about was how the fuck he was going to tell his wife he got another woman pregnant, but also how part of him had already started accepting it. TILL IT'S GONE SERIES MASTERLIST

#secretlysamcro #till it’s gone #jax teller x reader #jax teller #samcro #sons of anarchy imagine #sons of anarchy fanfiction #charlie hunnam #jax teller imagine #jax teller one shot #soa #secretly samcro #sons of anarchy

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gf2bellamy · 3 months ago

Text

part three: prophetic synchronicity

— ★ in a dream shaped like a library, spencer finally sees that love was never sudden—instead it was breadcrumbed in the form of coffee dates, late-night chess games, and the scent of citrus on a borrowed sweater.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mention of serial killers and working in the field

masterlist - part one ✦ part two ✦ part four

Time became measured in stolen touches and suppressed confessions.

Spencer had always been protective of you—perhaps to a fault—but now it bordered on obsession. Every field assignment left his nerves frayed, his focus splintered between the case and you. He hovered like a shadow, positioning himself between you and potential threats.

It escalated until Hotch pulled him aside, that familiar stern crease between his brows. "Reid, you’re distracted. More than usual."

The words were professional, but the look in his eyes said everything else: I know. And you need to get it together.

Spencer couldn’t even argue. He just nodded, guilty.

But even paperwork became an exercise in restraint.

He dragged out reports well past necessary, lingering in coffee shops just to watch you scribble notes with your tongue peeking between your teeth. He took you to Drip Drop Brew three times in one week, each visit punctuated by your delighted grip on his arm, your gasp of discovery as you scanned the menu. The way your entire face lit up could've powered entire cities.

Spencer would’ve built you ten coffee shops if it meant seeing that expression again.

Then came the legs.

It started innocently enough—a brush of knees beneath the conference table, fleeting and accidental. But then he did it deliberately, hooking his ankle around yours during a briefing, pressing his calf to yours as if tethered by an invisible string.

You'd looked at him then, really looked, your pen freezing mid-sentence. But Spencer just kept working, his face the picture of academic detachment even as his pulse roared in his ears.

The need was unbearable.

To touch. To confirm. To claim.

Every casual contact burned like a brand, every moment apart felt like withdrawal. He was drowning in you, and the worst part? He didn't want to come up for air.

But the universe wasn't subtle tonight.

You'd fallen asleep somewhere between the opening credits and the first act of the movie, your head sliding onto his shoulder. Spencer froze, the remote clutched in his hand as your breathing evened out against his collarbone.

Carefully—so carefully—he paused the movie. The sudden silence made your sigh louder, your warmth more palpable.

His fingers moved on their own accord, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his thumb tracing the arch of your cheekbone. When he tucked the strand behind your ear, you nuzzled closer in your sleep, your nose pressing into the hollow of his throat.

That's when he saw it.

Frozen on the screen, the subtitles screamed at him in stark white letters:

"Sometimes you don't see that the best thing that's ever happened to you is sitting there, right under your nose."

The irony wasn't lost on him.

Not when your shampoo—something vanilla and citrus—filled every breath. Not when your hair tickled his actual nose. Not when your heartbeat thrummed against his ribs like a second pulse.

Spencer's lips parted on a silent gasp before he pressed them into a firm line.

The universe had a cruel sense of humor.

But then—because he was only human, because he was so desperately in love—he let his head fall back against yours, his cheek resting against the crown of your hair. The subtitles blurred as his eyes stung.

He fell asleep like that: nose buried in your hair, the words burning behind his eyelids.

Dreams were rare for Spencer Reid.

When sleep came, it usually brought nightmares—his mother's fractured voice, crime scene photos that bled into each other, visions of you hurt in some alleyway he couldn't reach.

But tonight, curled around your warmth on the couch, his subconscious offered him something extraordinary.

A library materialized around him, the scent of old paper and lemon oil thick in the air. Mahogany shelves stretched endlessly in every direction, their contents glowing under soft golden light.

Spencer turned in his armchair, the leather creaking beneath him—

—just as you peeked around a shelf, grinning.

"You like it?" You were exactly you, yet not.

You were wearing a soft pink sweater, the kind that he immediately recognized—because it was his. Well, sort of. It was like one of his favorite cardigans, but in a pale shade of pink.

The sight sent something warm and possessive curling through his chest.

"Like what?" He rose slowly, a little confused as he glanced around the library, taking in the shelves, the stacks of books.

The air hummed with static, the way it did before rain.

"The library." You gestured broadly, your nail polish chipped exactly as it had been yesterday. When he didn't respond, you pouted—that pout—and nudged a book toward him. "Check them out."

The volume had no title. When he opened it, the pages moved.And immediately, his breath caught. The pages weren’t filled with words.

They were filled with memories.

The first memory Spencer saw was of when you and he met. He recognized it instantly. It was so vivid, like it was happening all over again.

There you were: frozen in the BAU bullpen on your first day, all nervous energy and bright eyes, that ridiculous ladybug hairclip holding back your hair. He'd nearly knocked you over while muttering about fractal patterns, too distracted to notice the new profiler standing awkwardly with a box of files.

"You're... not Hotch," you'd said, and something in his chest had gone click.

In the dream, his throat tightened. He remembered everything: the way your laugh lines appeared before the sound left your lips, how you'd bitten your bottom raw that first month from stress, the shy smile that formed on your face when Garcia complimented your shoes.

The book trembled in his hands.

The You in the dream leaned against the shelf, watching him with tender amusement. "Keep going," you murmured. "The next one's better."

The book’s pages fluttered like a living thing, revealing another memory—the first case you’d worked together.

There you were on the jet, tucked into a corner with your bottom lip caught between your teeth, fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against your thigh. Younger Spencer had slid into the seat across from you without a word, unfolding his travel chess set.

“Do you know how to play?”

"Not even a little," you'd admitted with that self-deprecating laugh he'd later learn meant you were overwhelmed.

For two hours, he taught you—the way knights moved in L-shapes, how pawns could become queens, why the Sicilian Defense was his favorite opening. He remembered the exact moment your frown of concentration melted into triumph when you captured his bishop (he’d sacrificed it on purpose, though he’d never admit it). The way your laughter had bounced off the jet’s walls when you realized too late that he’d cornered your king.

Checkmate.

The memory shimmered as the pages turned again, this time to something more intimate—a museum date disguised as a casual outing. You’d researched every painting in advance, scribbling notes in the margins of the exhibit pamphlet like you were preparing for an exam.

His exam.

He remembered how he had looked at you when you added something to what he’d just rambled on about—how proud he felt, how surprised he was that you not only listened but also wanted to engage with him.

Page after page, the memories unfolded—each one a revelation.

The late-night work sessions where you’d fallen asleep on his couch, your cheek smushed against his copy of Atonement. The way you always saved him the last bite of your dessert, even when it was your favorite. That time in New Orleans when you’d traded your umbrella for his soaked-through jacket because “You’ll get sick faster than I will, genius.”

The realization struck him like a physical blow:

There was no single moment he’d fallen in love with you.

It was every moment.

Every shared glance, every inside joke, every time you’d looked at him like he’d hung the moon—they were all threads in the same tapestry, woven so seamlessly he hadn’t noticed the pattern until now.

The warmth in his chest wasn’t new. It was just you—constant as gravity, steady as sunrise. And it had been there all along.

He turned another page, but this one was blank.

Spencer frowned, flipping faster—empty, empty, empty. The fancy pages mocked him, their whiteness glaring under the library's golden light.

"You have to fill those."

Your voice, sudden and close, made him startle. You'd been watching him the whole time, leaning against the shelves with that knowing smile he'd never been able to decipher—until now.

You plucked the book from his trembling hands, your fingers brushing his as you traced the pages he had just looked at.

"These are the moments you liked me," you said, tapping a memory where his younger self stared at your ladybug hairclip. "And now that you've finally realized you're in love with me—"

Spencer choked on air.

"—these pages," you continued, pointing at the blank pages. "will be filled with all the ways you love me." You snapped the book shut and slid it back onto the shelf with care, your pink sweater riding up just enough to reveal the dip of your waist.

Before he could protest, you pressed a new volume into his hands, this one heavier, its cover embossed with golden gilded letters he couldn't quite read. You nestled against his arm, your cheek warm against his sweater sleeve as he opened it.

Blank again.

"This one," you murmured, your breath ghosting over his wrist, "gets filled once you admit it to me. Out loud."

Spencer's pulse roared in his ears. "Admit it to you?"

You tilted your head up, so close he could count your lashes. "Yeah," you said, like it was the simplest truth in the world. "That you love me."

The library held its breath.

Your voice was soft, but the words struck him like a lightning bolt—crackling through his ribs, scorching his lungs. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to ignore the fantasies his brain already started forming. The idea of this volume being filled with memories of you waking up in his arms, of you holding hands on actual dates, of you—

Spencer blinked down at the book in his hands.

Blank cover, blank pages, yet it weighed more than any tomb in the Library of Congress. It thrummed against his palms, a living thing starving for the confession lodged in his throat.

"I..." His voice cracked. For once, his brilliant mind offered no equations, no statistics—just static.

You smiled that smile—the one reserved for his darkest moments, the one that had pulled him back from countless edges.

"It's okay," you murmured, leaning forward to brush a stray curl from his forehead. Your fingers lingered, warm against his temple. "I know it's scary." you grimaced slightly, as if speaking from experience.

Spencer closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky laugh. The book creaked slightly under his tightening grip. "This is the weirdest dream I've ever had," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

You grinned, all mischief and moonlight. "But it feels real, doesn't it?"

He couldn't answer.

Because it did.

The way your thumb traced absent circles against his skin. The way your lashes caught the golden library light. The way you smelled like home—like worn paper and that citrus shampoo you'd accidentally left at his apartment months ago and never reclaimed.

It felt more real than the waking world ever had.

"You can take your time," you said, pressing a kiss to his cheek—so casual, so certain. "I'm always going to be here."

And for the first time in his life, Spencer Reid believed something without evidence.

He believed you.

#spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #criminal minds x you #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic

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airybcby · 3 months ago

Text

જ⁀♡⊹｡° make me feel like someone else

( shidou ryusei x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — part 5 in my seven petals, all poison series!! ( masterlist )

♡ word count — 1.3k

♡ content — shidou ryusei x fem! reader, lol i swear this one has a happy ending, suggestive content ( not explicit ), all characters are 18+!!, set it where shidou still plays for Paris X Gen (PXG), forbidden relationship, unrequited love, secret relationship, not proofread!

♡ synopsis — when shidou finds himself under the care of the team’s new personal trainer—you—what starts as a dangerous game of lust turns into something far more complicated. Shidou begins to question if all-consuming want can slowly turn into love—and what it means when the one thing he never believed in starts to feel real.

── .✦ feelin' your lips on my cold neck , magnetic everything about you

You're used to athletes. The rigid discipline. The sweat and soreness and endless repetition.

You're not used to him.

Not used to Shidou Ryusei.

The first time you meet, you’re crouched beside Karasu, checking the strain in his hamstring, when Shidou’s voice cuts through the gym.

“Yo, sweetheart,” he calls. “Think you could give me a little hands-on attention when you’re done with crow boy over there?”

Karasu sighs, already too used to it. “Ignore him. It’s how he says hello.”

You do. For the first week. Maybe two. But Shidou is persistent. Not in the sweet, slow-burn kind of way. He’s all jagged edges and reckless heat. He likes to flirt like he plays—aggressively, unapologetically, like there’s nothing off-limits.

But you’re his trainer. That should make you off-limits.

And yet—

It starts small. Too small to even notice at first.

A cocky smirk when you correct his form during a lift. The way he groans during stretches, a little too deliberately. “You tryna kill me, babe? Or just like having me under you like this?”

You roll your eyes, but the worst part is… your hands linger. Just a second longer than they should.

It’s supposed to be routine. You’ve worked on plenty of players before—wrapped ankles, iced shoulders, reset joints. But Shidou comes in one afternoon with a low groan and a wince that doesn’t look entirely exaggerated.

"Quad’s tight," he grunts, hopping up onto the table. "Probably from carrying the team all morning."

You raise a brow but say nothing, reaching for the massage oil and gloves. Your focus is automatic, almost detached—thumbs working along the inner thigh, then outward, across the line of tension built up from too many sprints.

“You gonna talk to me, or just keep pretending I’m a mannequin?” he mutters, voice low, half-laughing.

You don’t answer, just press deeper.

Then—

He breathes out hard. A sharp inhale, not pained. Something else.

You mean to move on. Your hand should leave his thigh.

But it doesn’t.

Not immediately.

Your fingers hover, press again—just barely. You don’t look up, but you can feel his gaze burn into you. Your thumb traces the same spot, once, twice, and then you pull back. Flustered. Disoriented.

Shidou doesn’t say anything. Not at first. But when he finally speaks, his voice is different.

Low. Almost amused. Almost reverent.

“…You feel that too, huh?”

You freeze. Your heart kicks up. And you lie.

“No. I don’t know what you mean.”

But it’s already happened.

You both know

The line is gone.

The worst part is the way he looks at you—like he knows something you don’t.

Like he sees past your professionalism and into something hungrier.

Something you’re trying to ignore.

The moment everything shifts is quiet. Stupidly so.

It’s late. The facility’s almost empty. Shidou’s the only one still around, half-sweaty from his extra reps, bruised and breathing heavy. You should go home. You tell yourself that.

“Don’t suppose I could get a massage,” he says, smirking. “Got this knot in my back that’s been killing me. Might need your magic hands, doc.”

You sigh. “Fine. Shirt off. Face down.”

You try to stay clinical. Professional. But his muscles are tense under your palms, and his breath hitches every time you press too deep. And then—

“You’re good at this,” he murmurs, voice low. “Like, really good. No wonder the team keeps you around.”

Your hands still. He lifts his head to look at you, and there’s something in his eyes—soft, curious, dangerous.

“You ever get tired of playing by the rules?”

“Shidou—”

He sits up, sudden. Inches from you.

“Say my name like that again,” he says, voice rough, “and I’m gonna forget you’re technically not allowed to fuck me.”

You should walk away.

Instead, you kiss him.

It’s fire. All-consuming. All teeth and want and months of suppressed tension snapping free. His hands are rough, desperate, dragging you into his lap. Yours grip his shoulders, nails digging in, anchoring yourself to him.

You shouldn’t. You do.

You don’t talk about it. You pretend it didn’t happen.

Until it does again. And again.

It’s always behind closed doors—your office, the locker room, his apartment. You tell yourself it’s just physical. Just lust.

But he remembers the things you say in passing. Brings you snacks when you forget to eat. Slows down during sets because he knows you’ve had a long day.

It’s not love. Not yet. But it’s not just sex anymore.

He touches you like he wants to claim something.

He kisses you like he’s starving.

And you—stupid, soft, already too far gone—you let him.

It sneaks up on Shidou.

Not during sex—never during that. It’s always too heated, too consuming.

Lust is easy. It’s natural for him, primal and wild.

But love? That’s foreign. Love is quiet. Love doesn’t punch you in the face.

It happens on a random Thursday.

You’re sitting beside him in the recovery lounge, hair tied up, scribbling on a clipboard. There’s an energy bar between your lips, forgotten as you focus, your brow furrowed in that way you do when you’re double-checking reps and schedules.

He watches you. Not because you’re hot. (You are. That’s a given.)

He watches because you look tired. And you’re still here. Still helping him, even after a fight the night before—words exchanged too sharp, boundaries blurred too far. You’re still here, in his space. Looking after him like he’s more than just your job.

You glance over, catch him staring.

“What?” you ask, frowning. “Did I mess something up?”

He shakes his head slowly. Something stirs in his chest—ugly and soft.

“No,” he says. “You just… look good. Being all smart and shit.”

You roll your eyes, biting the bar between your teeth. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “But I think I’m in love with you.”

You freeze.

He hadn’t planned to say it. It slips out like a truth that’s been dying to breathe.

You look at him slowly, wide-eyed, mouth half open.

“…What?”

Shidou scratches the back of his neck, then shrugs. A small, crooked smile.

“I’m serious. You make me wanna be… not better, but like—less shit. You know?”

There’s no poetry to it. No flowers. Just Shidou, stripped bare.

He thinks you’ll laugh. Or worse—leave.

Instead, you reach out, touch his knee, gentle.

“…That might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He grabs your wrist, tugs you into his lap with a grin. Kisses your temple like it’s his first time doing anything carefully.

“You’re mine,” he mumbles, breath warm against your skin. “And not just in that filthy way.”

You kiss him slow.

Maybe lust brought you to this place.

But love is what’s going to keep you there.

Rumors start.

Whispers in the halls. The captain gives you a long look one afternoon after practice. Teammates make jokes that hit too close to home.

“You spending a little too much time stretching out our striker, huh?”

Shidou brushes it off. Winks. Grins.

But you’re not smiling.

“This isn’t sustainable,” you tell him one night, your hands against his chest. “If anyone finds out—”

“So what?” he shrugs. “They do. Let ’em.”

“You don’t get it. I could lose my job.”

“Then quit.”

You blink. “What?”

“Quit PXG. Come with me. Wherever I go next.”

“Shidou…” You can’t even breathe.

But he just looks at you—calm, steady, real. The first time he’s ever looked like that.

“I want you,” he says, quiet. “Not just for this. Not just behind closed doors. I want you. All of you.”

You don’t say yes. Not right away.

It takes weeks. Time apart. Time to realize what life looks like without him in it. You miss the chaos. The fire. But mostly, you miss him—his laugh, his heat, the way he’d always meet your eyes across the gym like he was just waiting for an excuse to touch you.

Eventually, you reach out.

It’s raining. You find him at his place, hair wet, mouth curled into that same wicked grin you’ve always hated loving.

“You said you wanted me,” you whisper, voice low. “I want you too.”

He doesn’t ask if you’re sure.

He just kisses you. Long. Deep. Gentle for once.

And this time, it’s not just attraction.

It’s everything.

am i insane for making shidou have the only happy ending in this series ( so far ) ? perhaps. do i regret it? hell no.

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

❀ tags: ❀ @kenyuukissme ❀ @irethepotato ❀ @kiyy0mei ❀ @x3nafix ❀ @sugacor3 ❀ @ohagiyo ❀ @reigensuperstar ❀ @nevvynevnev ❀ join the taglist here !

❀ tags for this series: ❀ @silverwings920 ❀ comment to be added to this series taglist!

#★ · airybcbyy #airy posts #blue lock #bllk x reader #bllk #blue lock x reader #shidou ryusei x reader #ryusei shidou #shidou x reader #ryusei x reader #bllk shidou #bllk shidou ryusei #blue lock shidou #blue lock shidou ryusei #airy's series!#airys series: seven petals all poison

197 notes · View notes

nhmkhnh · 2 months ago

Text

too close to home.

pairings: vi x fem!reader

preface: your best friend’s mom shouldn’t look at you like that — and you shouldn’t like it. but you do.

author's note: mom's best friend? now we got best friend's mom!

wrn: lowercase, suggestive at some part. list: flirty!vi ;; age gap (v: 39 ;; r: 19)

next part / navigation.

the first time you meet vi, it’s by accident. you were supposed to hang out with your best friend, but she texted you last minute that she’d be late. you didn’t expect anyone else to be home, let alone her.

the door swings open before you can knock twice. and there she is.

tall. built like someone who could crush you with a look. messy rose-pink hair pulled into a low ponytail. sweatpants hanging low on her hips, white tank top clinging to her figure. there’s a half-finished tattoo sleeve on one arm, a scar peeking out from her collarbone.

she leans against the doorframe with one hand and tilts her head.

“well hey, sweetheart. you her new little friend?”

you stammer something close to “yes,” but she’s already turning around, leaving the door open behind her like an invitation.

vi walks barefoot back into the kitchen, grabbing something from the fridge. “c’mon in, baby. she’ll be back soon. you want anything? water? juice? you look like you might pass out.”

you sit awkwardly on the couch while she moves around, calling you baby like it's normal, like it's not making your stomach twist in ways it shouldn’t. she’s so casual, like she doesn’t even notice the way your eyes keep flicking to her tattoos. her hips. her voice.

but then she catches your stare. smirks over her shoulder. walks a little slower as she brings you the glass.

“eyes up here, sweetheart.”

and fuck. you think you're in trouble.

it’s supposed to be another hangout with your best friend. just a movie night. but she bails again, something about practice running late.

vi opens the door this time with a beer in one hand and a little smile on her lips like she knew you were coming.

“well hey again, baby,” she says, like it’s an inside joke now. “your girl’s not home yet. you gonna ditch me again or… stay for dinner?”

you hesitate. you should leave.

but vi’s wearing a loose, cropped hoodie that barely touches the waistband of her joggers. her nails are painted black. there’s music playing softly from the kitchen—something old and sexy, like soul or r\&b. she tips her head toward the dining table where two plates are already out.

“you don’t look like the kinda girl who skips a home-cooked meal,” she murmurs, walking past you. “c’mon. sit. let mama vi take care of you.”

mama vi.

you try to laugh it off, but she notices—of course she does. she notices everything. the way you bite your lip. how you can’t meet her eyes when she sits across from you and props her elbow on the table, chin in her palm, watching you eat like you’re more interesting than her food.

she reaches over mid-meal to wipe a bit of sauce from the corner of your mouth with her thumb. her touch is gentle. too familiar. she doesn’t move right away.

“there we go, baby,” she murmurs, voice low. “can’t have you lookin’ messy.”

you don’t speak for a whole five seconds after that. not because you’re shy—because your heart is racing, and she knows it.

later, when your best friend finally gets home, she finds the two of you on the couch laughing about something dumb. you’re flushed. vi’s sitting too close. and your best friend narrows her eyes.

“… were you flirting with my mom?”

vi just chuckles low in her throat. “relax, sweetheart,” she says. “i’m old, not blind.”

but she doesn’t stop calling you baby.

it’s storming out when you show up this time. not planned—just instinct. you were nearby, rain caught you off-guard, and before you could think, you were on her porch, soaked to the skin and shivering.

vi opens the door, looks you over once, and immediately steps aside.

“jesus, baby, you’re freezing. get in here.”

you try to protest—you really do—but vi’s already tugging you inside and peeling off your wet jacket, hands grazing your arms like a slow burn. you can barely focus with her so close, warmth radiating off her body in waves.

“you’re shaking,” she mutters, voice lower now. “sit down.”

you obey without thinking. you always do with her. she disappears into her bedroom for a second and comes back holding one of her old hoodies—massive on you, soft and worn and smelling like her cologne.

“arms up,” she says.

you hesitate, but she’s already tugging your soaked shirt over your head like it’s nothing. her eyes flicker for a second—low and deliberate—before she drapes the hoodie over you and zips it up halfway. you’re drowning in it. she likes that.

“there we go,” she murmurs, voice thick. “my good girl.”

you don’t know what to say. you can’t say anything. your pulse is thundering in your ears, your mouth is dry, and vi knows. she watches you, like she can hear it too.

she kneels in front of you, hands braced on your thighs. not in a dirty way. just steady. present. too present.

“you gotta take better care of yourself, sweetheart,” she says softly, eyes locked on yours. “a pretty thing like you shouldn’t be runnin’ around in the cold.”

you nod dumbly. and she—fuck—she reaches up and tucks your hair behind your ear. thumb grazing your cheek, slow, like she wants you to feel it.

“you okay now?”

no.

but you nod again.

vi stands, eyes lingering a moment longer than they should.

“good,” she whispers. “stay awhile. i like the company.”

you come over wearing lip gloss and a tiny skirt. you weren’t trying to be noticed, not really… but vi sees you the second you walk through the door.

and she doesn’t look away.

“damn, baby,” she mutters under her breath, eyes dragging down your legs, slow. “where the hell were you dressed like that?”

you blink, a little stunned by the heat in her tone. “i had class.”

“uh-huh,” she hums, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “you flirt like that with your professors too, or just the boys?”

you laugh awkwardly, cheeks hot. “what boys?”

vi quirks an eyebrow. “mhm. don’t play dumb with me, sweetheart. that one kid—what’s his name? tall, always tries to ‘walk you home.’”

“oh, connor?”

“connor,” she echoes, like the name tastes bad in her mouth. “he touch you?”

you blink again. “wh—no?”

vi smiles. but it’s not nice. it’s something else. sharp. hot. possessive.

“good,” she murmurs. “i’d hate to think someone else got their hands on you first.”

you freeze.

she steps closer. her voice drops like a trap. “you ever let him call you baby?”

“n-no.”

“mm. that’s mine then.”

you forget how to breathe.

vi’s fingers graze your chin, turning your face just enough to look at her fully. her expression is unreadable. hungry, maybe. curious. dangerous.

“you look so fuckin’ pretty when you’re flustered,” she whispers. “you really don’t know what you’re doing to me, huh?”

you don’t answer. you can’t.

she smiles—slow, wicked—and taps your cheek twice with her fingers before stepping away, leaving you stunned.

and before she disappears into the kitchen again, she calls over her shoulder:

“skirt’s cute, baby. but next time? wear it for me.”

it’s late. your best friend’s knocked out upstairs after a movie marathon. you should be sleeping in her room too.

but vi finds you on the couch with a blanket wrapped around your legs and your eyes barely staying open.

“you not tired, baby?” she asks, leaning over the back of the couch, so close you can smell her shampoo. “it’s past midnight.”

you shrug, voice soft. “didn’t wanna wake her. she sleeps like a rock.”

vi chuckles, walking around and dropping onto the couch beside you. she's wearing a fitted black tee and gray sweats that hang low on her hips. her tattoos peek out under the fabric. her arm brushes yours—just barely—but it’s enough to spike your pulse.

she hands you a glass of water. watches you drink it.

then, out of nowhere: “you get nightmares?”

you blink. “what?”

vi doesn’t look at you. just stares ahead, thumb tracing the condensation on her beer bottle.

“i used to, when i was your age,” she says quietly. “didn’t sleep good unless someone was close by.”

you swallow. her voice is low, almost… vulnerable.

“i don’t really get nightmares,” you mumble. “just… i dunno. it gets lonely.”

vi finally turns to you. her gaze is soft this time, but no less intense.

“you don’t have to be lonely here, baby.”

a beat of silence. the air shifts.

then she pats her thigh gently and tilts her head. “c’mere.”

you hesitate. “wh-what?”

“you’re falling asleep anyway. i won’t bite. just rest your head, sweetheart.”

you try to protest, but your body moves on its own. you curl against her side, cheek resting on her thigh, blanket draped over your back. her fingers find your hair without asking. they scratch gently at your scalp, slow and rhythmic, and you melt before you can think.

“see?” she murmurs. “told you. you always sleep better when i’m close.”

you don’t remember falling asleep. but in the middle of the night, you stir for just a moment—and feel her fingertips brushing your cheek. barely there. tender.

and then her voice, so quiet it could’ve been a dream:

“my sweet girl.”

you’re helping vi cook. your best friend ran to the store for ice cream. it’s just you and her in the kitchen. music’s playing—low and sultry—and you’re cutting vegetables while vi leans against the counter drinking her beer, watching you like you’re the damn main course.

“careful, baby,” she says, eyes locked on your hands. “you’re holding that knife all wrong.”

you blink. “i’m fine—”

she’s behind you in a heartbeat. her hand wraps around your wrist, her other one lightly sliding over your waist. chest to your back. you freeze.

“like this,” she murmurs in your ear. “let me show you, pretty girl.”

her voice goes low and dangerous on “pretty girl,” like she knows exactly what it does to you.

she adjusts your grip slowly, her fingers curling around yours. her chest brushes your back, warm and firm, and you can feel her smile against your neck when your breath catches.

“there,” she whispers. “good girl.”

you drop the knife.

it clatters onto the counter, forgotten.

vi doesn’t move away.

instead, she gently turns you around, and suddenly your hips are against the edge of the counter and her arms are caging you in.

“you okay?” she asks, way too close, way too tender.

you nod. barely.

she studies you—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your chest rises like you’re running out of air.

and then she chuckles, soft and low. “you always look at me like that.”

“like what?” you whisper.

“like you want me to ruin you.”

you don’t deny it. can’t.

her fingers trail down the side of your neck, just once. “tell me to stop,” she says.

you don’t say a word.

so vi steps back—but not far. her eyes don’t leave you. not for a second.

“next time,” she murmurs, licking her lips. “we’ll see if you really mean it.”

and right then?

your best friend walks in, and everything snaps back to normal. but vi doesn’t look away.

neither do you.

it starts with a bruise.

just a stupid bump on your knee from tripping on a stair at uni — nothing serious. but vi notices the second you curl up on the couch, skirt tugged up too high, exposing the purpling mark on your thigh.

“what the hell is that?” her voice is low, sharp. controlled.

you glance down. “it’s nothing. i tripped.”

vi’s across the room before you blink. she kneels in front of you, her hands warm and strong as they gently tug your leg toward her.

“let me see.”

you stiffen. her palms are broad on your bare thigh, and she’s staring at the bruise like it personally offended her.

“i said it’s fine.”

“i didn’t ask if it was fine.”

you go quiet. her grip isn’t tight, but it’s steady — thumb brushing the tender skin around the bruise, touch reverent, like she wants to fix it with her hands.

“i don’t like seeing you hurt,” she murmurs, voice rough.

you swallow. “it’s not a big deal.”

“it is to me.”

you’re not sure what to say to that. and she must sense it, because suddenly her tone shifts — softer now, but laced with something dangerous.

“you shouldn’t wear skirts this short if you’re not careful, baby.”

your breath catches.

“you don’t like my skirt?” you ask, too brave, too quiet.

vi huffs a laugh, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. her hands slide just slightly higher. “i didn’t say that.”

“then what?”

she looks up at you — and you swear her pupils blow wide. there’s heat there. longing. and restraint hanging by a thread.

“i like it too much.”

the silence hangs like fog. her hands are still on your thighs. you don’t move. neither does she.

then her voice drops lower, dangerous and velvet-soft:

“you ever wear something like this for that boy? connor?”

you shake your head.

“good.” her thumb strokes slow circles into your skin. “only wear it for me.”

your heart slams against your ribs. “why?”

vi leans in, closer, lips ghosting your bare knee.

“because i’ll take better care of you than any boy ever could.”

and then she kisses the bruise.

soft. tender. like a fucking promise.

you nearly choke on your own breath.

she pulls back, eyes unreadable now. but her hands don’t leave you. and her voice? still like honey and thunder.

“you scared, baby?”

you shake your head, barely.

“didn’t think so.”

she stands, ruffles your hair, and walks away.

but she doesn’t go far.

just into the kitchen. watching.

waiting.

like a wolf with her favorite thing finally in reach.

it’s late. the house is quiet. you’re curled on the couch again, knees tucked up, hoodie drowning your frame.

vi’s hoodie.

she notices the second she walks in from her run. her hair’s damp, her tank clings to every sculpted line of her body, and she freezes in the doorway like she’s been punched.

“you raided my closet?” she teases, trying to sound light.

you peek up over the collar. “didn’t think you’d mind.”

her lips twitch. “i don’t.”

she walks past you into the kitchen, muscles flexing with every step. you’re watching her too closely. she knows. you know she knows. but neither of you say anything until you do.

“you always act like you care,” you say suddenly, voice softer than it should be. “like you’re… watching out for me.”

vi’s footsteps still. she half-turns, beer bottle in hand, sweat glistening at her collarbone.

“i do care.”

you smile—bittersweet. “but not enough, right?”

she stiffens.

you keep going, reckless now. “i’m not a kid. i see how you look at me. and i keep wondering… why don’t you ever do anything?”

vi moves slow. controlled. sets the bottle down. then steps back into the living room with a silence that feels loaded.

“you really want to ask me that, baby?”

your heart thunders. “maybe.”

she stops right in front of you.

“you think i don’t want to do something?” her voice is a whisper and a growl. “you think i haven’t already played out every way i could ruin you in my head?”

you freeze.

“i come home to you wrapped in my damn hoodie, legs tucked up like you’re mine. you fall asleep on my couch like you belong here. and you ask why i haven’t done anything?”

her eyes are fire now. barely leashed.

“you’re nineteen,” she says low. “you’re sweet. you smile at me like i built the fucking sky. if i touch you the way i want to, i won’t stop.”

you breathe, but it shakes.

“then don’t stop.”

silence.

then, a curse under her breath. her hand goes to her jaw, tense. she paces back once—twice—then spins around and growls:

“say that again.”

you meet her eyes. don’t flinch. “don’t stop.”

that’s when she loses it.

her palm finds the wall beside your head as she crowds you into the couch, her body all heat and muscle and years of restraint cracking open like thunder.

but she doesn’t kiss you.

not yet.

just stares, inches from your lips, voice wrecked.

“keep teasing me like that, sweet girl,” she whispers, “and i swear i won’t be able to hold back much longer.”

and then she pulls away.

you’re trembling.

so is she.

she disappears upstairs.

but that night? you hear her pacing. her door never closes.

and when you fall asleep? you’re still wearing her hoodie.

still wanting her hands.

it’s late again.

you’re in the kitchen in nothing but a tiny tank and loose sleep shorts — vi’s sleep shorts, oversized and slung low on your hips. the fridge light casts your figure in a soft blue glow as you bend down for a glass of water.

you don’t know she’s there.

you don’t hear her come in.

but you feel it.

the silence behind you. the electric pause. and then her voice, low and raspy:

“you’re not wearing a bra.”

you jolt upright. turn too fast. she’s leaning in the doorway, all shadow and heat, her arms crossed, eyes burning as they drag down your body slow — slow enough that your skin prickles.

you try to speak, but nothing comes.

vi tilts her head. “you always dress like this when you're alone in someone else’s kitchen?”

you swallow. “didn’t know anyone was up.”

“oh, i’m up,” she murmurs, voice like gravel. “very up.”

you freeze.

and she grins — slow, predatory, dangerous.

“you’ve been playing with me, baby. wearing my clothes. giving me those eyes. whispering things and walking away like i wouldn’t do something about it.”

she steps forward.

you take a breath. “i didn’t mean to—”

“bullshit.”

now she’s inches away, towering over you, breath brushing your lips.

“you know exactly what you’ve been doing. and i’ve been good, haven’t i? so fucking good.”

you nod — barely.

her hand comes up — hovers by your cheek — doesn’t touch.

“but tonight, sweet girl,” she whispers, “you’re wearing my boxers, no bra, in my house. you tell me what that means.”

your knees go weak.

she doesn’t wait. doesn’t blink.

just says:

“tell me to stop. right now. one word.”

silence.

she leans in.

“i said, baby… one word.”

you whisper, “don’t.”

and that’s it.

she has you pressed against the fridge in a second, one hand braced above your head, the other gripping your waist like she owns it.

she doesn’t kiss you.

she hovers.

lets your breath tangle.

lets your lips brush hers once—twice—before she pulls back and growls:

“next time, i’m not stopping at the fridge.”

and then?

she steps back. walks out barefoot, tank clinging to her back.

leaving you alone.

throbbing.

shaking.

and completely hers.

it starts at the party.

your best friend’s birthday — packed house, cheap drinks, music shaking the walls. you shouldn’t even be there this late. shouldn’t still be wearing that little backless dress that hugs your hips and clings like sin.

vi’s in the kitchen, talking to some guy you don’t know. laughing. smiling in that tight, polite way she always does when she’s bored.

you can’t look away.

and then she sees you.

her eyes drag up your legs, slow and burning. her smile dies.

you smirk.

you sip your drink.

you keep talking to the boy beside you — cute, college-age, hand resting just a little too high on your thigh.

vi’s across the room in seconds.

“hey.” her voice is low. controlled. too calm. “can i talk to you?”

you blink. “now?”

“now.”

you excuse yourself. follow her out to the empty hallway.

she doesn’t say anything at first. just stares.

then?

“you think this is a fucking game?” she growls.

you flinch — not in fear. in thrill.

“what—”

“that dress. that boy. sitting there all sweet like your thighs weren’t on display. i’ve been good. i’ve been so good. but you keep testing me, baby.”

you take a breath. “maybe i wanted you to fail.”

that does it.

she pins you to the wall before you can blink.

one hand on your waist, the other at your jaw, tilting your face up like you’re something delicate. but her eyes? they’re wild. burning. ravenous.

“you want me to ruin you that badly?” she whispers.

you don’t answer.

you can’t.

so she kisses you.

finally.

like a dam breaking. like lightning in your blood.

it’s not soft. it’s years of hunger. months of restraint cracked wide open. her mouth is hot, claiming, tongue licking into yours like she’s starved for your taste.

you moan against her. she swallows it whole.

her hand slips under your dress, resting on your bare thigh. “you wore this for me, didn’t you?”

“yes,” you gasp.

she bites your lower lip. pulls. “say it again.”

“i wore it for you.”

she presses closer, her hips against yours, grinding just enough to make your head spin.

“you’re mine now, baby,” she murmurs. “say it.”

you whisper it, eyes fluttering shut: “i’m yours.”

she kisses you again.

harder.

like you’ve just signed your soul over.

and maybe you have.

because when she finally pulls back, breathing hard, lips swollen, eyes dark?

you already know—

there’s no going back.

you’re not just her best friend’s daughter anymore.

you’re her girl now.

and god help anyone who tries to take you away.

#vi x reader #violet x reader #vi arcane #arcane

173 notes · View notes

jsbluu · 3 months ago

Text

truly, madly, deeply | r. hirota

➨ pairing: bf!maki x gn!reader (reader is implied to wear makeup)

➨ genre: fluff

➨ word count: 558

➨ warnings: none :>

perm taglist: @bococostree @ohmysion ★

i can’t believe that you are here and lying next to me

maki lays quietly next to you, watching as you sleep peacefully. he doesn’t know how it got to this, how he got to be in your bed, in your space, in your heart; but he did.

he shifts a little closer toward you, just enough for his shoulder to ghost against yours. his heart races like the first time he held your hand, and he wonders. if you were awake, would you feel the same?

but you're asleep, unaware as he watches you. he’s here, beside you, and it feels like the luckiest thing that’s ever happened to him.

like all those days and weeks and months i tried to steal a kiss

he remembers every moment. every time his heart raced when you were close. the near-kisses, when his lips hovered just inches from yours, or when his hand would brush against yours and he’d feel those butterflies in his stomach that made him rethink everything.

it was the waiting that made him crazy, the feeling of not knowing if you felt the same towards him. he’d catch you from across the room staring at him, looking away when your eyes finally met his, thinking maybe it wasn’t just in his head.

looking back, he feels stupid for taking so long to act on his feelings. it was so obvious how you felt, but all those hours he spent overthinking don’t matter now, because you’re next to him.

wish i could freeze this moment in a frame and stay like this, i’ll put this day back on replay and keep reliving it

he stares at you from across the table, completely mesmerized. you’re mid-ramble, going off about something probably insignificant as you stir a little too much sugar into your tea. but to him, you’ve never looked prettier.

he wishes he could freeze time, stay in this exact moment with you forever. the way the light from the window reflects off the glitter in your makeup, the way your hands move comically when you talk about something you’re excited about, how your smile is so bright even the sun would be jealous.

he’s not really listening to the story you’re telling. not because he doesn’t care, but because he’s too busy memorizing you. you seem to take a notice, and stop mid conversation to ask him,

“maki? you okay?”

he blinks, just now realizing how long he had been completely silent for.

“yeah” he says, smiling softly. “i’m perfect.”

truly madly deeply i am foolishly completely fallen, and somehow you broke all my walls in

maki’s always been confident, loud, funny, outgoing. he knows how to hold a conversation and is the type of person who loved to talk to strangers, much to his friends’ displeasure. but he never let anybody in too close, nobody ever got past the surface.

that was until you came around.

you didn’t even try, all it took was you showing up, soft and loving. before he knew it, you were somebody who he knew he couldn’t live without. you’d somehow broken down all the walls he built up around himself, and as scary and uncertain as it was, he knows he wouldn’t want it to be anybody else but you.

truly madly deeply, you’re the one he fell for.

#jsbluu #&team #&team maki #&team smut #&audition #&team x reader #maki #hirota riki #riki maus #&team hard thoughts #&team hard hours #maki x reader #maki x you #maki imagines

186 notes · View notes

itsswritten · 1 year ago

Text

Share your pain.

Request: From anon “Hiiii would you write reader saying something hurtful to az during an argument (established relationship btw)??? And az gets upset over it but they later make up and it ends in fluff? I'm sorry I'm obsessed with hurt/comfort 😔”

Pairing: azriel x reader

Word count: 2.3K

Warings: Angst, nightmares…I think that’s it. Let me know if I’ve missed anything.

Summary: In the wake of a heated argument, you and Azriel find yourselves adrift, the once unbreakable bond strained... :(

A/n: hi again, hope you enjoy this. First time I’ve written a bit of angst for Azriel. Let me know what you all think! <3 - L

The air in your bedroom hung heavy, the usual sanctuary of rest and reprieve now echoing with the bitter remnants of a lovers' quarrel. You hadn’t meant for things to get this tense, but as the moon cast long shadows across your bedroom, there was no denying the unresolved tension between Azriel and you.

The first six months of your mating had been a whirlwind of passion and frenzy, a time you fondly recalled. The initial intensity of the bond was like a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. You had known Azriel more intimately than anyone else, or so you thought.

Yet, as the months rolled on, the veneer of your relationship began to crack. Despite the depth of your bond, Azriel remained an enigma, his troubles hidden beneath layers you couldn't penetrate. Initially, this mystery was part of the intrigue you loved about him. But as the struggles of the war haunted him, manifesting in nightmares that would leave him thrashing in the solitude of his own battles, the barriers between you grew thicker.

This particular night had been no different. Azriel, caught in the clutches of a haunting dream, had awoken hot and thrashing.

"Az… let me help you" you whispered, reaching out with a tenderness only a mate could offer.

But he pulled away. Recoiling from your touch and standing by the side of the bed. He erected an invisible barrier, refusing the solace you offered and, as always, shutting you off from the bond.

The rejection hurt.

At times, he would freeze over, pulling a wall up so high to stop his feelings from spilling over to yours. Initially, you assumed it was to spare you the pain he felt, but with time, it began to feel like mistrust.

"Please, Azriel," you pleaded, the use of his full name an attempt to bridge the growing chasm between you. "Don't shut me out."

"Y/n…Don't" he bit back sharply, a flash of frustration in his eyes. The lump in your throat grew, emotions simmering beneath the surface. You were on your feet now too, flimsy night shorts and a vest hanging loosely on your frame, while the air around you turned cold. Any remaining shadows that had been soothing your skin fled to their master to comfort him.

"Is this how it's going to be, then?" you asked, your voice strained with the weight of unspoken grievances.

This was never how you imagined having a mate would be like.

Cold and lonely.

Your fingers played with the bottom hem of your sleep shorts while trying to muster through your feelings. Trying to keep calm, find the right words to soothe your partner, but no matter what you did or said, it never worked, and you began to doubt if you were the person he even wanted to find comfort in.

Your chest seized, a pang of hurt rolling through. You had hoped Azriel could feel the anguish he was putting you through, but of course, that ice wall was built up. It not only stopped you from seeing into him, but it rejected any connection from you too.

You had been suppressing your own needs and feelings for far too long, prioritising his pain over your own. You could feel the anger begging to spill over your edges.

“We might as well not be mates..” you choked out.

A gasp left Azriel’s lips as he said your name, disbelief clouding his expression at such a notion.

You knew it was a cruel thing to say.

Azriel had been waiting for this type of connection all his life. He had told you that you were worth the centuries of waiting. And even though you knew he loved you dearly, and his intentions were never malicious, he was hurting you.

Selfishly, you wanted to hurt him back.

“Maybe you’re better off alone with your shadows” you bit out spitefully.

His gaze shattered, a flicker of pain mirroring your own. As if the mere mention of his shadows had drained the strength from him, they slumped in a rare display of vulnerability. Before he could utter another word, unable to bear the weight of your words, you stormed out of your bedroom, and out of the House of Wind.

~~~

Days passed in an agonising blur, the weight of your words lingering in the air like a heavy stormcloud. That night, you had winnowed away to a friend's apartment in the city, seeking refuge far from the House of Wind. Leaving those walls behind offered a semblance of peace, though you remained unsure of how to navigate this situation under the prying eyes of the Inner Circle.

Your friends were always lovely, but it was hard to escape the fact that they were Azriel's friends first. Azriel’s family.

Lily, an old study companion, opened her home to you without hesitation, setting up her spare room and insisting you stay as long as needed. In moments like these, you regretted letting go of your own apartment. In the frenzy of the mating bond, you had moved in with Azriel, opting for proximity to his friends and his high lord's court.

The morning after the fight, Azriel had sent a ripple down the bond.

"Can we talk, love?"

You instantly rejected his call, erecting your own emotional barrier around the bond. The irony wasn't lost on you – you were now doing the very thing that hurt you, mirroring Azriel's tendency to shut you off.

Perhaps a taste of his own medicine was warranted?

You had been an open book for him, laying your wounds and traumas bare. Despite the difficulty of discussing certain matters, you wanted Azriel to know every part of you.

Yet, here you were, mimicking his defensive actions.

Azriel could probably find you if he wished. As the Spymaster of the Night Court, he likely knew your location without relying on the bond. Although he had never visited Lily's place, you were sure his shadows had scoured the city for you as soon as you left that night.

You missed them. His little minions, you would call them as a way to tease him. Always at his beck and call, and quick to caress you, much like his own touches

A pang of guilt washed over you as you recalled his expression before you left.

"Maybe you're better off alone with your shadows."

It had been a petty, low blow from you. Azriel had confided in the past that he once worried it would only ever be him and his shadows, that he was somehow cursed to not find love, companionship, a life partner.

A soft rap at the door interrupted your thoughts. You had secluded yourself in Lily's apartment for four days now, ignoring any attempts from Rhysand to contact you mentally.

“Y/n…It’s me” the soft female voice spoke behind the door. Feyre.

You invited your friend in. Quickly popping the kettle on and making you both tea. You sank into the plush sofa next to Feyre, bringing your teacups to the coffee table in front of you as you both idled in general chit chat.

“How is Rhys? …and everyone?” You asked. You hadn’t realised till not being there how much the inner circle had become integrated into your life. Your days often spent with laughter over meals, mornings spent sparring with Cassain and your afternoons filled with fun company of the girls.

And of course the nights, spent all consumed with your mate.

“Everyone is good” Feyre spoke, her smile dropping at the edges “Well not everyone” she spoke honestly. Feyre gently guided the conversation toward the true reason for her visit.

"I'm sure you know why I'm here," she said, her eyes filled with a mixture of understanding and concern.

"Did Azriel send you to check on me?" you asked, a hint of scepticism in your voice.

Feyre's hurt was palpable. "Y/N, I came here to check on you. I’ve been worried about you. We all have.” Your own gaze softened, embarrassed at the harsh assumption you had made.

“But I would be lying if I didn't say I didn't come partially because of Azriel. I'm worried about him too. He's not acting like himself, not sleeping, not eating, avoiding us all…even Rhys and Cassian."

Your heart hurt. The bond aching at the news of your mate suffering.

"I know you want to punish him," Feyre added gently.

"I don't want to punish him," you replied, though a part of you realised that, in a way, you were. Hurting him the exact same way he had hurt you.

Feyre sighed, her gaze never leaving yours. "I get it, trust me I do. But just come home, please" she pleaded.

You sat as you recalled what she had said. Perhaps it was time.

~~~

You waited for Rhysand to dispatch Azriel on a task before returning, unsure if you were ready to face him immediately. Feyre had kept you informed, grateful for her assistance in navigating this delicate situation.

Avoiding your shared bedroom, the space now haunted by the memories of your recent argument – you sought refuge on one of the balconies overlooking the city. The night had descended, casting the realm below into a humming sea of lights beneath the purple midnight sky.

Perched on a comfortable lounge chair, a blanket draped around you, you found solace in a book you had forgotten about. Left untouched when you departed, was laid waiting on the bedside table for you when you returned. In fact the entire bedroom looked untouched, the bedsheets had not been warmed for a while.

He’s not been sleeping. You remembered Feyre’s words from earlier, the realisation breaking you a little at your mates pain.

Deciding it was time to address the tension that lingered between you and Azriel, you closed the book and set it aside. Breaking down the emotional barrier hastily erected around the bond, you sent a gentle ripple through the thread – a subtle breath to signal your readiness to talk.

Hoping Azriel had concluded whatever task had taken him away, you pondered on the fact that, even without the ripple, he would likely sense your return. His keen senses, coupled with the vigilance of his shadows and network of spies, made you a detectable presence. You understood your mate well enough to know though that he wouldn't intrude if you needed space.

The ripple was your invitation, an indication that you were ready to see him.

The first sign of his return was the wind, a gentle breeze brushing across your face as Azriel's wings beat the air upon his descent. Looking up, you caught your breath at the sight of your godly partner. It took a conscious effort to regain your composure, resisting the urge to succumb to the overwhelming emotions stirred by his presence.

“My love…” he breathed. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes and a ruggedness that was unusual for him.

“Azriel,” you spoke his full name, tilting your head to encourage him to join you on the lounge chair. Instead, he stepped forward, dropping to his knees in front of you.

Cauldron give me strength; he was so painstakingly beautiful.

His large hands found your lap, yours naturally finding his fingers, tracing the harsh lines that covered them.

"I've been giving this a lot of thought," he began, his voice a low murmur. "I never meant to shut you out, Y/N. I’m so sorry”

You nodded, your eyes settling on his hazel gaze. Letting your mate speak his truth, his own self-reflections.

“It’s just always been me. Me and my shadows,” he smiled, glancing over to the little grey flurries that were now tangled up in your hair. “So when I finally met you, got you…I was scared,” he admitted. “Scared, my demons might repulse you, terrify you, make you leave me. It was... instinct. To protect myself."

Your gaze softened, the realisation settling in that the barrier Azriel erected wasn't out of a lack of trust, but rather a reflex born from deep-seated pain.

"Azriel," you spoke gently, "I don't want to dictate how you deal with your trauma.” Your hand moved to his face now, thumb rubbing his cheek gently. He breathed in at your touch, closing his eyes at the intimacy he had missed for days. “But I need you to trust in us, in me. Let me share the burden, even if it's just a fraction."

Azriel's shoulders sagged, a mixture of relief and regret evident in his eyes. "I want to, Y/N."

"I understand it won't happen overnight. I just need you to believe that I'm here, that you don't have to carry everything on your own."

The vulnerability in your words mirrored Azriel's, creating a fragile bridge between you. His shadows, attuned to the subtleties of emotion, responded by weaving gently around you.

"I'm sorry for the things I said," you admitted, humility colouring your voice. "I never should have pushed you like that. It's not my place to demand you share those things with me."

Azriel shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "No, you're right. I need to change, to let you in more. It's just hard, but I'm willing to try."

A shared understanding passed between you, a silent pact to navigate the complexities of healing together.

"Let's start fresh," he proposed, sincerity in his eyes.

You nodded with a gentle smile on your face. The mating bond buzzed. Azriel leaned over, his lips pressing against yours in a not-so-subtle, hungry kiss.

“Now come here” He growled with a teasing grin, you screamed lightly as he pulled you into his arms as he stood. He looked at you with a feral glint in his eyes.

We have some catching up to do, my love.

#acotar #angst #azriel fanfic #azriel x reader #azriel x you #acotar azriel #acotar series #acotar fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #azriel x y/n #acotar x reader

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galaxy-stardust · 4 months ago

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Time-out with the Task Force

Part 1

The cold air bit at your cheeks as you stood outside the cabin, bundled up in layers while snowflakes dusted your hair. The Task Force - or better Soap - had somehow convinced the team that a getaway in the mountains was just what they needed after their last mission. Though "getaway" mostly meant them finding new ways to mess with each other in the snow.

The cabin was beautiful, with a roaring fireplace and just enough space for the five of you to coexist without getting on each other’s nerves - at least for the first hour.

Because it took exactly one hour before all hell broke loose.

Soap had already faceplanted twice trying to start a snowball fight, Gaz built a barricade but was half-buried after a sneak attack anyways and Price was wisely staying on the porch with a hot drink, watching the chaos unfold.

Simon, of course, stood next to you, arms crossed, tried to ignore them, radiating I am not amused energy. His mask was swapped for a thick balaclava, but his eyes still held that familiar, exasperated look.

"You look like you're enjoying yourself," you teased, nudging him.

"Mm." His gaze flicked to you. "I would be, if someone wasn’t shivering like a bloody chihuahua."

"Excuse you," you huffed, pulling your scarf up higher. "I love snow."

"That why you're turnin’ blue?"

Before you could protest, he was already tugging you against him, wrapping his arms around you like a human heater. His body was a furnace, warmth sinking into your chilled limbs instantly.

"Better?" His voice was low, teasing, but the way his hands rubbed slow, comforting circles over your back made your stomach flip.

"Yeah…" You sighed, leaning into him. "You could just be nice and offer your jacket, y’know."

He huffed a laugh. "Sweetheart, you'd drown in my jacket. Don’t need you tripping over the hem like an idiot."

Before you could elbow him, a thunk sounded from behind.

Soap, grinning like an idiot, had just nailed Simon in the back of the head with a snowball.

Everything went silent.

You slowly stepped back as Simon turned, cracking his neck. "MacTavish-"

“Soap, run,” Gaz muttered.

"Oh, shite-" Soap took off, sprinting toward the trees.

But it was too late. Ghost moved fast, tackling Soap into a snowdrift.

"What are you doing?" you asked as Simon bent down.

"Ending him." He packed a disturbingly perfect snowball, testing its weight. "Dodge this, you Scottish bastard!"

And with that, Ghost launched the snowball at an alarming speed.

It hit Soap square in the back of the head, sending him sprawling into a snowbank.

For a moment, there was only stunned silence.

Then, Gaz burst out laughing, Price just shook his head, and you? You decided that this was your new favorite winter memory.

By the time Ghost emerged, triumphant and entirely unbothered by the cold, you were shivering.

“You’re frozen,” he muttered, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you inside before anyone else could argue.

You sighed in relief when the warmth of the cabin hit your face. “I told you this was a terrible idea.”

He smirked. “Not all of it was terrible.”

His hand rested at the small of your back as he guided you toward the fireplace. You felt the warmth of his palm even through the layers.

“You need to warm up,” he murmured, voice low, rough. The way he said it sent a different kind of shiver down your spine.

Something flickered in his gaze - calculated, dark, full of intent. You weren’t sure if it was the firelight or the way he was looking at you, but suddenly, you weren’t that cold anymore.

“Stay here,” he said, before disappearing down the hall.

A minute later, he returned with a thick blanket, throwing it over your shoulders. “And?” you teased, looking up at him.

He stepped closer, voice dropping to that tone that made your knees weak. “And I’m not about to let you freeze, love.”

You swallowed. The fire crackled. You weren’t sure if it was the heat from the flames or him, but warmth bloomed deep in your chest.

And then -

“OI, WHAT THE HELL, MAN?”

You turned just in time to see Soap burst in, soaked and covered in ice, dragging a very guilty-looking Gaz behind him.

Ghost sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. You stifled a laugh.

There would be no peace on this trip. But with Ghost beside you, you didn’t really mind.

Part 2

#cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #task force x reader #task force 141

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starkeymeow · 2 months ago

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❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT part eighteen, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, victor edition, rafe and reader meets finnick odair, headcanons and potential spoilers at the end

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous next

rafe and reader meet finnick for the 69th games

the victor’s lounge is a palace built on bones.

you don’t think anyone means to decorate it that way, but it feels like it. the ceilings stretch too high, the walls shine, and everything smells faintly of citrus and polished blood.

you lean against the glass balcony overlooking the tribute training center, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist, the other resting on the railing. below, the fresh batch of kids are training for this years games. somewhere behind you, rafe is talking with brutus and enobaria, staying close, but giving you space. he always does. he’s not far enough to feel distant. never far enough to miss if something goes wrong.

you hear the footsteps before you hear the voice. they’re slow, like someone who knows how much power he has and isn’t afraid to wear it like cologne.

“one of the infamous district two darlings,” a voice says just behind your shoulder. “you’re even prettier in person.”

you turn your head. it’s him.

finnick odair.

his reputation precedes him by several miles and a few million viewers. he looks at you for a moment too long.

“they really let you keep the scars, huh?”

you freeze.

you’ve seen him on screens, in his victory tour when you both were younger. you’ve seen him in capitol fashion spreads recently. you remember the way he won. you remember the cheer that shook the viewing hall when he was crowned victor at fourteen. but none of that prepares you for the fact that he looks almost exactly like—no.

no.

jj.

your mind stutters like a skipped heartbeat. something in his face, like his cheekbones, the easy grin, the eyes, is almost too familiar. it’s too wrong. he catches the way you look at him and, for a moment, actually glances behind him, as if to check if you’re staring at someone else.

“something wrong?” he asks, the words lilting like he’s already amused.

you blink hard and look away, regaining your footing.

you cross your arms, subtly tucking your hands under your elbows, and angle your body away from him. your voice comes out quieter than you mean.

“not sure why you’re so interested in my scars,” you mutter. “unless you’re a fan of nerve damage and government-sponsored bio-mods.”

he chuckles lowly, leans in just a little, and talks without really looking at you, his voice slipping into your ear. “relax,” he says. “just admiring the art the capitol made of you.”

your spine stiffens and your jaw tightens.

across the lounge, rafe looks up like he felt it in the air. his eyes find you instantly. he sees the tension, sees finnick standing too close, sees your face. your eyes meet. you shake your head softly. i’ve got this. rafe doesn’t move or blink. he just watches.

finnick hasn’t left your side. he’s still turned halfway toward the railing, still pretending to be interested in the tributes below, but you can tell he’s watching you.

you shift to face him and look at him with new eyes. you’re not offended anymore, not really. you’re curious.

“so you’re finnick odair,” you say, considering playing the who are you again? card. “won your games at thirteen, was it?”

“fourteen,” he corrects gently, eyes sliding toward you. “but i’ll take thirteen. makes the legend sound more dramatic.”

he smiles. “and you,” finnick continues, “the girl who fought off that mutt with her soulmate and outsmarted those cute little wolves just to get to him and drag him back from death.”

you blink. the memory flashes behind your eyes before you can stop it. all the blood, the pain, the sound of the mutt’s jaws, rafe’s limp body. even the terror in your chest.

“they still talk about it in the capitol, you know,” he adds, quieter now. “how you wouldn’t let the arena take him. how you barely made it, tried to make your cut deeper, just to keep him breathing.”

you stare at him. he doesn’t meet your eyes right away. he just gestures vaguely, softly, toward your side.

“do you still have it?” he asks.

the way he says it is almost gentle, not mocking or cruel. he’s just . . . curious. you hesitate.

you don’t like him very much right now. he’s too smooth, too close, too everything for your taste. but something about the way he’s looking at you makes it hard to lie. like maybe, for once, someone actually saw the whole thing. not just the blood, or the win, or the fame. but the choice.

you sigh, annoyed at yourself as much as him, then reach for the hem of your leggings. you hook your fingers into the waistband, tugging it down just enough on your left side to show him.

the scar’s healed now, but it’s still there. a thin, pale slice of memory etched just beneath your ribs.

finnick looks at it like it’s a painting. and then he does this quiet little laugh. it’s not in a mean way, nor is it loud. he’s just amused in a tired sort of way. a breath through a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“of course you do,” he murmurs, looking back up at you. you pull your hand back up.

“that’s the thing about us,” he says, stepping back just slightly. “they make us survive the impossible. and then they expect us to live with it.”

he taps two fingers against his temple, like it’s all up there, crowding his skull.

you don’t respond. you just cross your arms again and glance back at rafe. he’s still watching, hands clenched at his sides.

finnick follows your gaze.

“your boy’s protective,” he says. “smart.”

you don’t reply. just keep your eyes on rafe for a beat longer, but you almost curse under your breath when rafe excuses himself from your ex-mentors to start walking toward you. you look back at finnick who’s already watching him come over.

rafe steps beside you, and though he doesn’t touch you, he might as well have. his hand brushes yours as he comes to a stop.

“rafe,” you say, stepping slightly aside. “finnick odair.”

rafe extends a hand, polite but firm. “heard about you.”

finnick doesn’t take the hand. he hugs him instead. you blink.

finnick claps a hand on rafe’s back as he pulls him in, the gesture surprisingly warm for someone who was flirting with you three minutes ago. rafe stiffens for half a second, caught off guard, but he doesn’t shove him off.

“we’re in the same boat now,” finnick says to rafe. “might as well get used to each other.”

you look between them, brows furrowed. “boat?”

finnick only glances at you, but he doesn’t answer, not directly. rafe knows.

you can see it in the way his jaw ticks. he lowers his eyes for a second. and when he looks back up, the cold is back, but you know him too well not to notice how forced it is.

he doesn’t answer either.

“so,” finnick says, casual again, leaning against the railing between you both like nothing just passed between the three of you, “how are you liking the ‘mentor' life?”

he says it like a joke. like the word mentor is some kind of cruel punchline.

rafe shrugs, “we’re just observing this year.”

“ah,” finnick grins, flashing perfect teeth. “spying on the pros. smart again.”

rafe looks to you, “again?”

you ignore him. “we’re just trying to figure out how we’ll do it for next year. we’ll be taking over so district two’s current can just rest.”

“rest,” finnick echoes, like the word tastes wrong in his mouth. “if that’s what they call it.”

you glance at him. “what would you call it?”

he doesn’t answer right away. he shifts his weight to the other foot and looks off into the crowd. there are victors scattered around, some pretending to enjoy themselves, others trying to forget the cameras are always watching.

“a waiting room,” he says finally, mouth curling without humor. “a place to sit quietly while they figure out what else they can use you for.”

you go quiet at that. so does rafe.

collection: headcanons of finnick, rafe, & reader throughout the years

shared rooms during capitol trips

you’re placed in the same capitol wing year after year for the same event. your rooms are close enough that you sometimes just knock on finnick’s door at 2am when you can’t sleep. one night you end up knocking on his while rafe’s asleep. finnick lets you sit quietly on the balcony while he cleans blood off his knuckles from a “private client visit.” you guys don’t talk. he just hands you tea.

sparring together as routine

the three of you keep up a tradition to train in the old capitol gym on some quiet mornings. it’s not easy when he lives in four while you and rafe are in two, but you make do when you’re on mandatory trips together. you also don’t train because you need to, but because it keeps you guys grounded. rafe and finnick go too hard sometimes, and you always end up patching one of them up. finnick jokes it’s foreplay. rafe just shakes his head.

“you wish,” you probably mutter, slapping a bandage on his arm.

covering for each other

sometimes finnick is called away unexpectedly, or you’re too sick to attend an event. rafe or finnick lie for you. sometimes rafe disappears and comes back, eyes dark. you lie for him. it becomes habit. no questions asked, it’s just instinctual protection at this point.

holiday event traditions

every capitol holiday, you guys sneak away after the ceremony and get drunk in one of your suites. you toast to the tributes you couldn’t save, to the parts of yourselves that didn’t make it out. some nights end in tears, maybe others in laughter. once, you end up asleep on the couch with your legs over both of them.

finnick slides into your lives more often. he’s still “capitol property,” but with you two, he lets himself exist.

i imagine like a night in a capitol suite where you’re stitching a split on rafe’s eyebrow while finnick eats an entire tray of chocolate-covered fruit.

“you two always look like a storybook,” he says, mouth full.

“you always sound jealous,” rafe returns.

finnick just grins.

dynamics in strategy (author speaking atp)

the way i see them is all different, and each plays a role in every situation, ESPECIALLY the rebellion or the secret quell plan to save katniss.

finnick’s the manipulator, he’s like the charmer who buys them space. he’s still performing for the capitol and entertaining clients, but now he’s listening. he uses his charm as a weapon, but behind it, he’s def dead serious.

rafe’s the protector, it’s like a given LMAO. he’s one of the few victors with tactical training and a military mindset. less of a talker than finnick or y/n, but his presence makes people think twice before coming close.

y/n in my opinion is like the heart of the trio. keeps people sane, keeps them grounded. ironically more of the leader because when things fall apart i imagine they look to y/n first thing.

over the years, their social dynamics just become rafe and reader + finnick thirdwheeling. sometimes it even feels like a throuple, other days finnick’s like y/ns brother she never had. rafe and finnick would do anything for y/n.

which is why .. ! it leads me into my next little part.

DONT read any further if u dont want any quell spoilers at ALL (i give u guys ideas to vote but erm stay safe)

post-quell ideas

so the obvious escape plan is that it goes like halfway right. everyone’s like split up but!

option 1: rafe is captured

he buys y/n time, probably pushes her away and lets the capitol grab him instead. rafe’s tortured alongside peeta and johanna but he refuses to talk. he hallucinates y/n sometimes. never rly speaks her name out loud.

when he’s rescued, he doesn’t speak at first. he avoids y/n for a bit. he’s scared she’ll see the damage. ☹️

i also feel like in this situation its reasonable to kill him off by the end of the series LMAO

option 2: y/n is captured

she’s probably with johanna when the capitol finds them and takes them in. but snow uses her as a warning and broadcasts her injuries. keeps her just alive enough. finnick loses it, rafe loses it worse. they both want blood.

when they get her back, she doesn’t speak for weeks. she stares at the ceiling, flinching at sudden movement. rafe probably reads to her, bless his heart. finnick brushes her hair when she lets him.

she doesn’t say it, but she loves them for not walking away.

option 3 bc im a dick: they BOTH get captured 😍

probably get caught while trying to protect each other. snow uses their bond and probably makes rafe hear her screaming. makes y/n hear him beg.

when they’re rescued, they’re both unrecognizable. finnick literally sees them and breaks down. he thought he could handle anything but he was wrong.

it takes months to even recover. but eventually, they start walking outside again together, step by step.

what’s bound to happen

so ermm, i cannot revive finnick i fear. i also dont think i would anyway bc i like screaming at my phone while crying n screaming for finnick now that ive made them a canon sibling relationship LOL

if rafe and y/n are both alive by the end of the series, i feel like i imagine them never going back to district two. like maybe they live quietly in 13 for a while, like wherever katniss and peeta are, then maybe 4. for finnick. for kie and jj (even tho after all those years kie and jj were just like a paragraph in a whole book to them im ngl, but its nice to think about)

they visit annie a lot. they help rebuild.

but i also lowkey like the idea of killing at least one of them, hell im gna kill U GUYS OFF 😭😭 rafes gna be all alone crying it up with annie n the baby, only left with memories of the girl whos always put him before herself since the day they basically met.

ok sorry im gts 😭

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