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greengoblinswifey · 4 months ago

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Game of Fate—Hwang In-ho/Front Man x Fem!Reader

summary— After discovering that you, a girl he had a one night stand with entered the deadly games, the Front man disguised as a player 001, infiltrates the games under the guise of monitoring Gi-hun but his focus becomes protecting you at all costs. based on this request.

warnings— none! fluff undertones, slight angst, season 2 spoilers, usual squid game chaos, in-ho being protective and possessive(he has a heart) <3

In-ho sat in his private quarters, the screens in front of him displaying the death and desperation of the games. His attention drifted from one player to the next until his eyes fell on you. A bolt of recognition shot through him. It was you, his one night stand from years ago, someone who had left a mark on him in ways he hadn’t expected.

He remembered every detail about you, your wit, your boldness, and the way you made him feel alive, even if just for one night. It infuriated him to see other players whispering in your ear or lingering too long in your space. His possessiveness surprised even him. You had been the best fuck he ever had, and seeing you here now stirred something he couldn’t ignore.

That’s when he made a decision.

By the time you met “Young-il,” the newest player in the games, you couldn’t place why he seemed familiar. His face was shadowed by the chaos of your surroundings, and you had no time to dwell on it.

“You,” he said, approaching you during a moment of uneasy rest.

Your eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”

“You could say that,” have a sly smile, “Call me Young-il.”

You tilted your head, trying to recall where you might have met him. There was something about him, his confidence, his presence, that struck something. Still, you shrugged it off. “Okay, Young-il. Hope you know what you’re doing here.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage.”

You didn’t realize he was watching your every move.

During one of the more grueling games, you faltered. The sound of gunfire rang out as players dropped like flies, and your heart pounded. You’d made a critical mistake, one that should have cost you your life.

You braced yourself for the inevitable, but nothing happened. The guards moved past you, their guns silent. You stood frozen, confused, but grateful.

In-ho, hidden behind the mask of a player, allowed himself the briefest sigh of relief. His influence was subtle but effective, you were still alive, and he’d made sure of it.

Later, as the remaining players rested, he approached you again.

“You were lucky out there,” he said, sitting down next to you.

“Mhmm. Don’t know how I pulled that off,” you said as you glanced at him, still shaken from the day’s events.

“You��ve got more lives than a cat.”

“Or someone’s watching over me,” you joked.

He smiled faintly, hiding how true your words were.

As the games continued, his protectiveness grew. When another player made a sly comment about your appearance, he was quick to cut in.

“Keep your eyes on the prize,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The player backed off, muttering under his breath, while you arched an eyebrow.

“You don’t need to fight my battles,” you said sassily.

“I wasn’t fighting,” he said as he leaned closer.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the faint smile tugging at your lips.

In-ho found himself conflicted. He hadn’t planned to step into the games, let alone risk his identity. But seeing you here, vulnerable yet determined, pulled at something deep within him. And when you finally cornered him one night, your wary gaze demanding answers, he knew he couldn’t stay in the shadows forever.

“You’re not just another player, are you?” you asked, your voice steady but your eyes searching his.

He hesitated, then smiled. “What do you think?”

“I think you’ve got secrets. But shit, me too. Let’s survive this first.”

“Deal,” he said.

He couldn’t stop himself from watching you, protecting you, and falling deeper into the very thing he tried to avoid. The very thing he said he wasn’t there for. Wasn’t he there to target Gi-hun?

Young-il seamlessly integrated himself into the group with Gi-hun and the rest, his calm demeanor and quick thinking making him reliable. Despite his apparent calmness, his sharp gaze constantly flicked to you. He positioned himself strategically, always close enough to step in if anything went wrong.

Gi-hun often exchanged glances with Jung-bae, silently questioning why Young-il seemed more concerned about you than the games themselves. But they never voiced their suspicions, after all, his protectiveness benefited the group.

Young-il wasn’t subtle about his priorities. When Thanos, one of the annoying and aggressive players, approached you with a smirk and a comment about how “a pretty thing like you shouldn’t be here,” Young-il’s jaw tightened.

“Walk away,” he said, his voice cold.

“Relax, man. Just talking—” Thanos chuckled nervously.

“I said, walk away.”

Before Thanos could respond, Young-il took a step forward, fists clenched, his eyes dark. Thanos scrambled back, muttering curses under his breath.

You crossed your arms and shot him a look. “I didn’t need you to step in. I could’ve handled that.”

“I wasn’t going to let him near you.”

When the lights went out, the dormitory turned into chaos. You barely managed to sleep, anxiety gnawing at you. But Young-il stayed awake, his body perched against the wall near your makeshift bed. His eyes, though heavy with exhaustion, remained trained on the room, scanning for any sign of danger.

At one point, you stirred, catching his silhouette in the dim light. “You’re not sleeping?”

“Not tired,” he lied, his voice soft.

“You should rest. I’m fine.”

“I’ll rest when this is over. Someone has to make sure you’re safe,” he said as he shook his head.

His words lingered in the air, and you turned away, confused by his constant concern.

When food rations arrived, Young-il always ensured you had enough, sometimes splitting his share without you noticing. If you hesitated to eat, he nudged the portion toward you.

“Eat,” he insisted once, placing his biscuit in your hand.

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” you said. “I don’t need you to babysit me.”

“I’m not babysitting,” he replied. “I’m keeping you alive.”

In the third game, players had to quickly form groups based on the number the organizers called, and with each failed attempt, the penalty was being shot to death. Fear ran high, and each moment felt like it could be your last.

You were with Young-il, trying to keep calm as the guards shouted the numbers. The merry go round platform spun as everyone scrambled to form groups and find a room, but it quickly turned chaotic. Someone tried to push past you, their eyes wild with desperation, and before you could react, Young-il was already stepping in.

His face was hard, his eyes cold as he grabbed the man by the collar, dragging him to the back of the room. The man’s protests were cut short as Young-il raised his hands and broke his neck, ending his life. The room fell silent for a moment before the countdown ended.

You froze, shock creeping into your body as you realized what had just happened. You hadn’t expected him to kill so easily, even after all the brutality you’d witnessed in the games. His gaze softened when he turned to you, seeing the fear in your eyes. He stepped closer, his hand resting on your shoulder.

“I know this is hard,” he whispered, his voice gentle compared to the violence he had just shown. “But you need to understand, this place doesn’t have mercy.” He looked down at you, his hand reaching up to cup your face, brushing away the few tears that had fallen. “It’s gonna be okay, I’m here.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words as he pulled you into his chest. The harsh reality of the games had taken root in you, but with him, you knew, even if just for a minute, you wouldn’t have to do it alone. His feelings for you were clear, he wanted you to survive, to make it out of this, and he was determined to ensure that you would.

During the dark night when the O Team launched their attack, chaos erupted. Players were dragged from their beds, screams echoing through the dormitory. When someone lunged toward you with a fork, Young-il stopped them in an instant, knocking them to the ground with a brutality that left you stunned.

He positioned himself between you and the attackers, his stance firm. “Stay behind me,” he barked, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I can fight!” you shouted back, trying to step forward.

“Not tonight,” he said, shoving you back gently but firmly. “You’re staying behind me. That’s final.”

Despite your protests, he shielded you with everything he had, fighting off anyone who dared come near.

When the group decided to attack the guards and confront the ‘Front Man’, Young-il hesitated. His gaze flickered between you and Gi-hun, his usual resolve wavering.

“You’ll be okay,” he said finally, pressing a gun into your hand.

“I don’t even know how to use this,” you said, eyes widened.

“You don’t need to. Just point and shoot if you have to,” he said. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. “Why are you doing all this?”

“Because you’re mine,” he said quietly, his words slipping out before he could stop them.

Your breath hitched, but before you could respond, he turned to follow Gi-hun. Over his shoulder, he added, “You’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you with more questions than answers and a determination to survive—not just for yourself, but for the man who had somehow made you his priority in this death game.

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hoe4hotchner · 7 months ago

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False Security | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader CW: Angst, physical abuse, kidnapping, captivity, hospital, light use of Y/N, hotch is in love with you, r is only wearing underwear, chains, morphine. WC: 2.6k

The bullpen was eerily quiet for a late evening. Papers were scattered across desks, half-empty coffee cups forgotten in the rush of trying to piece together the puzzle of the case they were working on.

The tension in the conference room was palpable - each agent hunched over their work, mentally and emotionally drained from the brutal reality of the case. Every passing hour without a breakthrough weighed heavily on the team.

Garcia had moved from her tech cave to stay near the rest of the team. Something about this case, the brutality of it, had shaken her, she wasn't her usual cheerful self. Her fingers tapped anxiously against her keyboard, eyes darting between monitors, scanning data, hoping for a clue - anything that would help them find the unsub before another victim was claimed.

Hotch stood near the whiteboard, staring at the photos pinned up - the faces of victims staring back at him, haunting him. There was a pattern here; they all knew it. They could feel it. But none of them had been able to put the final piece together yet. Everyone was running on fumes.

"Garcia," Hotch’s voice broke the silence, low but with the familiar edge of urgency. "Pull up the financials again. There’s something we’re missing."

Garcia nodded, already typing, her colorful nails clicking rapidly against the keys. But even she seemed distracted, her brow furrowed in worry. She wasn’t just focused on the case anymore - she was thinking about you. About how you had been recently, about the relationship you had confided in her about a few weeks ago. A relationship that seemed to be bringing you joy, a brightness that Garcia had been happy to see. But now… something about this case was stirring up an unsettling feeling in her chest.

Reid was standing across from her, his eyes darting across the case files, muttering half-thoughts under his breath. Morgan was pacing, unable to sit still, his frustration growing with each dead end.

Then, it happened.

Garcia’s fingers stopped, hovering above the keyboard. The silence in the room grew thicker as everyone waited for her to speak. She was staring at her screen, but the bright color had drained from her face. Slowly, almost as if she didn’t believe it herself, she turned in her chair, wide eyes meeting Hotch’s.

"Sir," her voice was trembling. "You need to see this."

Hotch’s stomach dropped at her tone, something was off. He crossed the room in quick strides, looking over her shoulder at the screen. The room held its collective breath, all eyes now on them. Garcia was scrolling through the financials, linking transactions, showing a pattern of behavior that had gone unnoticed until now. At first, it seemed like nothing out of the ordinary. Just a name, a routine list of purchases. But then it hit him. A familiar name.

Hotch froze. His heart slammed against his ribs, dread flooding his veins.

“No,” he breathed, disbelief clouding his thoughts.

Garcia turned, biting her lip. Her fingers trembled as she pointed to the screen. “It’s him, Sir,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “It’s… it’s (Y/N)'s boyfriend.”

The words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating. Everyone stared, the weight of Garcia’s revelation hitting them like a freight train. Morgan stopped pacing, Reid’s muttering ceased, and Rossi’s eyes darkened as he stood from his desk.

"Are you sure?" Hotch’s voice was low, but the tension in his tone was unmistakable.

Garcia nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. “I cross-referenced his name with the locations. He fits every single one of the victim’s timelines, and… the patterns match. It’s him, Hotch.”

For a moment, no one moved. It was as if the very air in the room had thickened, weighing them all down. Hotch felt as though the ground had been pulled out from under him. His chest tightened painfully, his mind racing with fear and anger. How could they have missed this? How could he have missed this?

Morgan was the first to break the silence, his voice sharp and filled with disbelief. “Wait, (Y/N)’s dating this guy?” His eyes darted between Garcia and Hotch, trying to piece it together. “How long has this been going on?”

“A couple of months,” Garcia whispered, guilt washing over her at the mere fact that she knew about your relationship. “She… she didn’t want anyone to know. But… I thought he was just a regular guy.”

Rossi was already moving toward his phone. "Has anyone contacted her?"

Hotch’s blood ran cold. He reached for his phone, his fingers fiddling slightly as he dialed your number. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Straight to voicemail.

Panic settled in his chest like a stone.

“Garcia, try to ping her phone,” he ordered his voice tight, betraying the rising anxiety within him.

“I’m on it,” she replied, her fingers moving across the keyboard in a blur. The seconds dragged on like hours as she tried to locate your phone. When she finally spoke again, her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s off.”

Morgan swore under his breath, his fists clenched. “We have to find her. Now.”

Hotch felt a surge of terror, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. His thoughts were racing— Where were you? Were you okay? Did you even know what kind of danger you were in? The idea that the person you had trusted, had been intimate with, was the same monster they were hunting - it made his skin crawl. And now, they couldn’t reach you.

Garcia's voice broke through the haze. “I’ve got his phone,” she said, her voice shaking with urgency. “It’s pinging at a location near the docks - an old warehouse district.”

Hotch didn’t waste another second. He was out the door before anyone could speak, his mind focused on one thing - finding you. His heart pounded in his chest, each step toward the SUV filled with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid between you two. He couldn’t lose you. Not like this.

The warehouse loomed ahead, its shadowy silhouette stark against the faint glow of the city. Inside, the darkness was suffocating, every echo, every creak of the metal beams overhead seeming to mock the haste coursing through Hotch's veins. He moved quickly, his heart pounding in his chest as he led the team deeper into the labyrinth of hallways and empty rooms, desperate to find you before it was too late.

The dread that had been building since Garcia's revelation gnawed at him with every step. The idea that you, his agent, the person he trusted and admired, had been caught in the web of this monster - he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. It felt personal in a way that made his throat tighten, made his focus even sharper. This wasn’t just a case anymore; it was about you, about saving you from someone who had fooled them into a false security.

A soft, muffled whimper reached his ears, freezing him in place. It was faint but unmistakable. His breath hitched as he sprinted toward the sound, every part of him terrified of what he might find. He shoved open a rusted metal door, and the sight that greeted him ripped the air from his lungs.

There you were, barely recognizable, hanging limply by your wrists, your arms shackled high above your head. The light flickered, casting shadows over your bruised and battered body. You were gagged, your face pale and streaked with tears, your eyes barely open, glazed with pain and fear. Your skin was marred with fresh bruises, and all you were left wearing was your underwear - vulnerable, exposed, and utterly broken.

Hotch’s world tilted. He had faced horrors in his career, and seen things that haunted his dreams, but nothing compared to the sight of you, the person he had come to care for, reduced to this.

For a split second, all he could do was stand there, frozen by the crushing wave of guilt and anger crashing over him. How could he have let this happen? How had he not seen it, not realized who the unsub was?

“Morgan!” Hotch's voice was sharp. “Find him. Now.” He couldn't be far away Hotch thought to himself.

Without waiting for a reply, Hotch crossed the room to you, his hands trembling as he reached up to unchain your wrists. You collapsed into his arms, your body weak and trembling from the strain. He held you close, his jacket already off and wrapping around your shivering form. His chest tightened painfully as he felt just how cold you were, how fragile you felt in his arms.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “You’re safe now.”

You stirred, barely able to focus, but the sound of his voice - his voice - cut through the haze of terror that had clouded your mind. Your eyes fluttered open, a tear slipping down your cheek as you realized it was him. You tried to speak, but the gag choked you, the duct tape biting into your skin.

Hotch's fingers were delicate as he reached up to remove the tape. Every inch he peeled back felt agonizingly slow, each movement careful, as if he were terrified of causing you more pain. His eyes never left yours, the guilt and worry etched deep into his features.

When the gag finally came loose, you gasped, drawing in shaky breaths as your mouth was freed. Your voice came out in a weak rasp, “Aaron…”

“Shh,” he murmured, brushing the hair from your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

But you could see it in his eyes. The guilt. The anger. It radiated off him, a storm barely contained beneath the surface. He blamed himself, you knew that much. And though you wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t have known, your voice was too weak, your body too drained.

Hotch wrapped his arms tighter around you, his face buried in your hair as he whispered, “I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there sooner.”

His words broke something inside you, a sob tearing from your throat despite your exhaustion. You wanted to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that you didn’t blame him, but all you could do was cling to him, your body shaking against his.

You had been so close to losing everything - to never seeing him again. And now, in the safety of his arms, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving behind the raw emotion and terror that you had been holding back.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered again, his voice barely a rasp. He held you tighter as if he could shield you from the world, from the pain, from everything you had just endured.

He didn’t care about protocol, didn’t care that he was supposed to be in control, to remain objective. All he cared about was you, about getting you out of there and keeping you safe.

When the paramedics arrived, Hotch didn’t let go. He carried you to the ambulance himself, refusing to leave your side for even a moment. The other agents worked around him, searching for your captor, but Hotch didn’t care about anything else right now. He stayed by your side as you were lifted into the ambulance, sitting beside you, his hand holding yours as if it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

The soft, sterile lighting of the hospital room contrasted with the cold, harsh reality of what had just happened. The beeping machines were rhythmic and steady, peaceful, a constant reminder that you were alive, even though the events leading up to this moment had been anything but peaceful.

Hotch sat beside your bed, his hand wrapped protectively around yours, his thumb brushing back and forth along your knuckles in a soothing motion. He hadn’t left your side since they’d arrived at the hospital. The team had stayed behind to deal with the crime scene and the unsub, but Hotch had only one priority: you. His suit jacket now hung loosely on the back of his chair, as your bruised body had been hidden away by the hospital gown.

You shifted slightly in the bed, your eyes fluttering open but still hazy from the morphine coursing through your veins. The medication had dulled the pain but also left you in a dreamy, disoriented state. Everything felt far away, like you were underwater, and the world around you was muffled. But there was one constant, something anchoring you to reality - Hotch.

“Hotch…” your voice was barely above a whisper, the name slipping from your lips without much strength behind it. You tried to sit up, but your body protested, still sore and weak. Hotch’s grip on your hand tightened gently, his other hand pressing softly against your shoulder to keep you from moving too much.

“Shh, don’t try to move. The doctor said you need to rest,” he said, his voice low and calm, but underneath it was a storm of emotions - relief, fear, anger. He tried to keep it together for you, but seeing you like this - bruised, shaken, and vulnerable - it broke something inside him.

You blinked up at him, trying to focus. His face came into view, a mixture of exhaustion and concern etched into his features. “You... you came for me,” you mumbled, your words slightly slurred from the medication, but the gratitude in your tone was unmistakable.

Hotch’s heart clenched at the sound of your voice, so small and fragile. He brought your hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Of course I did,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll always come for you.”

You smiled faintly, the corners of your lips tugging upwards despite the pain and exhaustion. There was something about his presence that made everything feel just a little bit better, a little safer.

Your eyes flickered around the room before landing back on him, and with a sleepy giggle, you whispered, “You look so serious, Hotch.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, the sound rare but welcome, especially given the circumstances. “Someone has to be,” he teased, though his voice was still gentle. He brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face, his touch feather-light. “You’ve been through a lot.”

You hummed, your eyelids growing heavy again, but you fought to stay awake, to stay in this moment with him. “Feel so... floaty,” you mumbled, your words trailing off slightly. The medication was pulling you back under again.

Hotch smiled softly, watching as you struggled to keep your eyes open. “That’s the morphine. It’s okay to rest, you’re safe now.”

For a moment, you simply stared up at him, your eyes glazed but full of warmth. “You’re always so... good to me,” you slurred, your voice thick with drowsiness. “Don’t know what I’d do without you…”

His heart ached at your words. He couldn’t imagine what you had gone through, only what he already knew the unsub usually would have done, but the thought of you feeling alone or scared crushed him. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You gave him a sleepy nod, your head lolling slightly to the side. “I know,” you mumbled, your voice fading as sleep finally began to pull you under.

Hotch leaned forward, brushing a gentle kiss against your forehead. He didn’t care that the hospital staff had insisted he take a break or go home and get some rest. He wasn’t leaving your side, not tonight. Not until he was absolutely sure you were okay.

As your breathing evened out and your body relaxed into the bed, he sat back, watching you with a mix of compassion and sadness. Seeing you like this, so vulnerable and hurt, made him feel more helpless than he ever had before.

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luveline · 3 months ago

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omg post prison Spencer and concussed!shy girl….I would go feral I fear

“I’m gonna be sick again,” you whine, covering your eyes with both of your hands. The nausea roils and the pain in your head reaches a new crescendo. You moan without thinking about it, worse when someone grabs a hold of you from behind.

“Don’t bend!” he says, not shouting but not happy with you either. “You aren’t going to be sick again if you stay sat up. I know it hurts, but you’re making it worse.”

Spencer’s strict voice isn’t one you’re used to. An embarrassed flush rushes over you, quick to cry ‘cos you’ve wanted to for hours.

“Sorry,” you mumble tearily, slouching back into your seat with a wince.

“Oh, angel, please don’t cry again.”

“I’m not.”

“I’m not angry with you, I just need you to listen, because being sick like this isn’t good for you, and you’re gonna feel sick again if you bend over. It’s your head, angel. It’s the inertia.”

You shuffle across the couch to flop against his chest. It’s a desperate move; if he doesn’t hug you, you’re going to start crying for sure, so you’re begging him to hold you without having the courage to say it out loud. “Sorry,” you say.

“It’s okay.” Hands wrap around you immediately. “Don’t be sorry. Just stay like this for a bit, until the nausea stops. Please.”

You’d love to stay there. You can smell the black coconut soap he uses on his skin, rubbing your nose into his neck and taking obvious breaths.

Spencer pats your back, saying, “Good, take a breather.” He sounds surprised, but when you glance up at him he isn’t panicking or moving. He’s closed his eyes. His hand is on the small of your back.

You hit your head so hard the very first thing that happened was the wave of vomiting. It just… didn’t end. And for a while all you could think about was nothing, just being sick and crying and a hand on your back, eventually traded for colder ones, bright white lights and strangers asking how you were feeling. You couldn’t not defer to Spencer, not really sure if he was Spencer in a permanent sense but aware intrinsically that he was to be trusted to answer for you.

Your brain is shaken, then stirred.

“If I give you a pill, do you think you can keep it down? It’s okay if you can’t. Honest answer,” Spencer murmurs.

“I don’t know.”

“An anti nausea pill you need to swallow isn’t exactly mankind’s best invention.” He cradles the nape of your neck, then, sounding more on your side than anyone ever has. “I wish I could fix it.”

“You should’ve put your brain to work for science,” you say agreeably, “you can fix anything. Big pharma are lucky you chose to catch the bad guys instead.”

“I meant your concussion.” You can barely hear him, and at the same time, it’s like he’s speaking into your marrow.

“You did fix that,” you say, tipping your head back to see him. “You took me to the doctor.”

He smiles. “Yeah, I did, but you’re still sick and hurting.”

It’s not that bad in Spencer’s arms. You had dreams like this, daydreams and sleeping, where he’d wrap you up and comfort you after some hurt, but you’re struggling to remember what made it feel as painful as it did at the time. Spencer felt far away. Now he’s right here. You curl your arm behind his neck to be squished together, tight tight tight. Spencer actually groans.

“Sorry,” you say.

“No, m’not in pain. I can’t remember the last time I got to hold you like this for so long.”

“I don’t know why.”

“I do, and it’s okay. I know why you get freaked out. I’ll never rush you. I don’t mind. But I feel guilty ‘cos I’m enjoying this and you’re in pain.”

It’s a dull throb in the skull. You can barely feel it.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“I’m confused.”

“That’s a common theme tonight.”

“You feel guilty ‘cos I’m hugging you?”

He covers your eyes with his hand. You laugh at first, but it’s oddly nice. Warm, dark. The throbbing pain ebbs a bit.

Spencer can feel you relaxing against him. He’s all warmth and smell and sound under your ear. Exhaling, humming, the sound imbued with a fondness you don’t understand. His chest is solid under you, his hair begging to be touched where it flirts with his shoulders, the slopes and lines of him a tactile wonderland for your greedy hands: you want to feel everything. You haven’t the faintest clue as to why you weren’t allowing yourself the privilege before.

“I just need you to get better fast,” he says, breathless. “That’s all.”

“I am trying my best.”

Spencer rubs a thumb over one of your eyebrows, start to end. “And you’re so, so good at it,” he says.

You aren’t concussed enough to miss the lightly mocking coo of it. But you don’t care. Your nose drags up the line of his neck clumsily, in what you hope says tease me more, but more likely says concussive brain injury, second degree.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic

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kawhh · 2 months ago

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I was once again bullied with Jack thoughts until all hours. Already considering a part 2 lmao.

Jack Hughes x Reader

Warnings: cum play, pathetic Jack, whiny behaviour, tit worship, biting, tit job, rubbing his cum into your skin., praise.

1.3k words

"Baby.. baby wake up.."

You're stirring awake at your shoulders being shaken, the sounds of desperate whines reaching your ears, soft broken teary sounding whimpers being scattered in.

The feeling of soft hair nuzzling against the side of your jaw as he buries his neck into your head, rubbing against your skin like a damn cat. He's mouthing against your skin like he's trying to taste you, fully rousing you from your sleep.

Sliding your hands gently into his hair, tugging just enough to yank his head back even as he fights your grip to stay buried against your skin, moaning as the slight pain makes pre-cum already leak out of his head, feeling like the world will end if he can't have you.

"Waited so long to wake you up.. wanted to be good.."

Your shorts are soaked, the fur at the edges of the waistband brushing against your bare skin is matted. He's clearly been grinding against you for a while, leaking all over you. He's trying to be discreet, but it's not working. His hips jerking against you harshly when he loses his mind.

His hands pawing against the fabric of your shirt and shorts, grabbing and pulling the material, wanting you undressed but too obsessed with your skin to take them off. Sliding his hands against any inch of skin he can reveal, scratching your skin slightly in his need.

Licking stripes down your skin devouring the taste of your sweat and your skin, digging his teeth in when the head of his cock catches on your waistband.

Running his tongue under the edge of your shirt, reaching blindly up to try and drag the sleeves down, whining when he struggles, resting his cheek against your tits to look up at you with his puppy dog eyes.

"Baby.. need it off. Please. Please take it off. Lemme see..."

You take pity on him, softly stroking the side of his face, watching as he leans into your touch as you let the sleeves fall off your shoulder, his eyes lighting up, biting the material to drag it down your body, needing to free more of your skin.

His movements pausing as your cleavage is exposed, tilting his head down to run his tongue down, planting open mouth kisses on each mound, not wanting either of them to feel neglected. Lapping at your skin like a cat with cream, painting your skin with his tongue and mouth.

Dragging your shirt down further with his chin, not wanting to leave your tits, his hands trembling as your perfect tits get fully exposed to the air and his view, nipples hardening from the shock of the cold.

"M'perfect tits.. all mine.."

He's indecisive about which one he wants to love first, feeling guilty for not being able to worship each one at the same time, whining as the decision making slows him down further, keeping him away from your tits for longer.

Guiding his head to your left tit to take the pressure off of him, feeling his praise vibrate against your skin.

"S'good for me.."

He's not soft about how he attacks your breast, biting down on the soft flesh, moaning around the mouthful, running his tongue around your nipple, watching it harden further under his attention, his eyes laser focused.

He's like a man possessed, saliva escaping his mouth, watching as it glistens on your skin, running his tongue across his lip before he's diving in, giving you direct worship.

Every bump, every ridge. He wants his tongue on them. Every detail that makes your tits perfect, how he can hear your quiet moans, how the praise sends shocks directly to his cock. He can't get enough. You're so stunning. So delicious. Every inch of you is his. Every inch of him is yours to use.

His tongue wrapping around your nipple, opening his mouth as wide as he can, tugging it slightly with his tongue, needing you further in his mouth.

Reaching his spare hand over to soothe your other nipple, brutally pinching and tugging, a promise that he's coming soon. He won't neglect any part of you.

He could stay buried against your tits for the rest of his life. He can't get bored of you. You're so hot in his mouth.

He's pulling back, gasping for breath, spit covering his chin from his actions. Mesmerized by how perfectly pink your nipple is, resisting the urge to bury his head back in, needing to love your other one.

He's squeezing your tit as he lowers his head slowly, needing to make up for the delay. Hypnotized by how it presents you for him, running his thumb over your nipple, pressing it down slightly, feeling the texture beneath his thumb.

He's wrapping his mouth around as much tit and nipple as he can get, wanting even more of this one in his mouth. He wishes he could make a real mess of you. He'd give his life to lick anything off your body. Wants to run ice cubes around your pretty nipples, wants to see how they perk up, how you'd push your tits into his face.

They're his favourite things. Swears they're his reason for living. All he needs to be happy. All he'd ever ask for. Wishes he didn't ever have to leave them, to leave you.

He's pulling back to catch his breath again, firmly pushing your breasts together as he pulls back fully, watching as they squish together, how soft they are in his hands. How his saliva has pooled between the two, how pretty they look all after all his attention.

You're breathing fast, he can see how they're rising up and down, calling to him.

A soft plush tunnel.. perfect for his cock.

"M'sorry baby.. I gotta.. I gotta fuck.."

Crawling up your body, straddling your chest, his thick thighs squeezing your sides, keeping you still. His perfect body standing proud, the mess on his face from the saliva, the way his mouth parts, his lips slick. His hair falling perfectly over his wrecked face, looking like a fucked mess.

His leaking cock resting between your tits, looking so incredibly red and angry. His head almost looks swollen, your eyes fixated on the drips from his hole, watching as they cover your tits drop by drop.

"Gotta be good for you angel.. please lemme cum. Please. I need to.. to cover you."

He's squeezing your tits around his cock, his head thrown back as they welcome him, feeling like there's soft pillows smothering his cock.

Every gentle thrust makes him whimper, the pleasure overwhelming. You're so perfect for him. He can't believe he can have this, can have you. He doesn't want to rush it, but he's not gonna last long. He can't speed up. He can't control his hips, they're thrusting without his control.

He's lost in your tits, his brain empty. He's so thankful you're letting him do this, falling deeper in love with you every single time his head breaches through and pops out, precum leaking out more and more every single time.

Rutting faster, the saliva and precum making the perfect slide for his cock, clenching his ass as he feels the telltale throb, shaking his head in panic as he tries to control himself, fully losing control of his body.

He can't stop the tears of relief as he cums, watching his cum spurt out of his head, watching as it shoots up your chest, slowly dripping down to your tits, covering them and his cock. He's still holding your tits around him, too exhausted to move.

His cum looks so pretty covering your loved nipples, pooling around them, his mouth salivating again as it looks like icing covering his perfect meal.

Sliding his hands over to the outside of your tits, needing to feel them while still keeping them against him. Swirling the cum around with his thumb, swiping them over your nipples, making even more of a mess with his cum.

Every squeeze, every pinch, every little movement covers you further in his cum.

He doesn't want a single inch of you uncovered.

#jack hughes #jh86 #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes x you #jack hughes blurb #jack hughes fic #jack hughes fanfic #jack hughes fanfiction #jack hughes smut #jack hughes imagine

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chloeangelbaby · 5 months ago

Text

Bad dreams

Crybaby! reader x Rafe Cameron

———————————-˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊————————————

The night was unusually quiet, save for the soft hum of the ceiling fan in Rafe’s bedroom. The moonlight seeped through the curtains, casting faint silver lines across the bed where you lay next to him. His arm was loosely draped over your waist, his deep, steady breaths evidence of just how tired he was.

Rafe had been working himself to the bone lately. Long hours at the office, late-night calls, and stress so palpable you could feel it radiating from him every time he walked through the door. You hated seeing him like that, and tonight, you were especially careful not to disturb him. He needed sleep.

But you couldn’t settle.

The dream had been vivid, cruel, and relentless, leaving you shaken and trembling. It wasn’t even clear in your mind anymore—just flashes of panic, confusion, and that heavy weight in your chest. Your eyes blinked open, your breathing erratic, and tears slipped silently down your cheeks.

You lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, willing yourself to calm down. But the room felt too dark, the shadows too menacing, and the lump in your throat only grew. A hiccup escaped before you could stifle it, and your hand shot up to cover your mouth.

Rafe stirred next to you, and your heart dropped.

You turned your face away from him, biting your lip to hold back another hiccup. You couldn’t wake him—not tonight. He had enough on his plate already, and the last thing you wanted was for him to get annoyed.

But your body betrayed you. The tremble in your shoulders gave way to a quiet sob, and no matter how much you tried to stay still, the bed shifted ever so slightly.

“Dolly?” His voice was groggy, rough from sleep, but instantly alert. His hand moved from your waist to your shoulder, his palm warm against your chilled skin. “What’s wrong?”

You froze, guilt washing over you. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

His brows furrowed in confusion, though you couldn’t see it in the dark. He sat up slightly, leaning on his elbow to get a better look at you. “Why are you crying?”

You shook your head, trying to brush it off. “It’s nothing,” you lied, though the hiccup that followed gave you away. “I just… had a bad dream. But it’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

Rafe sighed, the sound soft and tired but not annoyed. “Dolly, stop.” He shifted closer, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you against his chest. “You’re crying. It’s not nothing.”

His embrace was warm and solid, and the moment you were in it, the dam broke. The quiet tears turned into sobs as you buried your face in his chest, gripping his t-shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “I-I didn’t want to wake you,” you choked out between sobs. “You’ve been so stressed, and I didn’t want you to be mad at me.”

His hold on you tightened immediately, his hand moving to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “Mad at you?” he repeated, his voice incredulous. “Baby, I’d never be mad at you for this. Never.”

“But you’re so tired,” you sniffled, still trembling.

“I don’t care how tired I am,” he said firmly, tipping your chin up so you’d look at him. Even in the dim light, his eyes were soft, filled with concern. “If you’re upset, you wake me up. No matter what. Got it?”

You nodded weakly, the tears still slipping down your cheeks.

“Good,” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Now, what happened in the dream?”

“I don’t even remember,” you admitted, your voice small. “It just… felt so real. And I woke up feeling scared.”

“Hey,” he said softly, rubbing slow circles on your back. “It was just a dream, okay? You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

The way he said it, so calm and steady, made the tension in your chest ease just a little. You let out a shaky breath, leaning further into him as his fingers continued to stroke your hair.

“Do you want me to stay up with you for a bit?” he asked after a moment.

You shook your head. “No, I don’t want you to lose more sleep.”

“Dolly,” he said with a small chuckle, the sound low and comforting. “I’ll be fine. Just tell me what you need.”

“Just hold me,” you whispered, closing your eyes.

“Always,” he replied, pulling you even closer.

You drifted off again not long after, lulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the soft strokes of his hand against your back. And Rafe stayed awake a little longer, just to make sure you were okay, watching over you with a quiet devotion that he never hesitated to give

———————————˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊————————————

Please send me some requests babies I appreciate you all so much for showing all the love and support thank you so so much

Love Chloe

xxxx

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rejiun · 3 months ago

Text

"I thought I lost you"

Paring: Enhypen x Reader

Summary: Nightmare Panic

Genre: Fluffy comfort, angst-to-fluff, established relationship, soft protective Enhypen!

Warnings: mentions of death and crying

---

Heeseung

Heeseung jolts awake, his heart racing. The image of you slipping away from him, your hand going cold in his, plays over and over in his mind. His chest feels tight as he turns, expecting the warmth of your body beside him—only to find the bed empty.

"Y/N?" His voice is hoarse with panic as he throws off the covers and stumbles into the hallway.

He finds you in the kitchen, making tea, completely unaware of his distress. When you turn and see his shaken expression, you rush over.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

Without a word, he pulls you into a desperate hug, burying his face in your neck. "I thought I lost you," he whispers.

You rub his back soothingly. "It was just a bad dream, love. I'm here."

And as your steady heartbeat grounds him, he finally breathes easier.

---

Jay

Jay wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping for air. The nightmare was too real—your voice crying out, your hand slipping from his grasp.

"Y/N?" He reaches for you, but his hand meets empty sheets.

His heart pounds. He rushes out of the bedroom, checking every room with growing panic.

Then, he hears soft humming from the balcony. He steps outside to find you, wrapped in a blanket, watching the city lights.

You turn at the sound of the door, smiling sleepily. "Jay? What are you doing up?"

Instead of answering, he pulls you into his arms, holding you tight.

"You scared me," he mutters.

You stroke his hair, letting him breathe you in. "I'm right here, Jay."

And that's all he needs to hear.

---

Jake

Jake wakes up with tears in his eyes. His nightmare was cruel, leaving behind the suffocating weight of loss. His instinct is to reach for you, to feel your warmth—

But you’re not there.

Panic floods him. "Y/N?"

He jumps out of bed, rushing to find you. His breathing is erratic as he checks the bathroom, the living room—

Then he spots you, curled up on the couch, peacefully asleep. His knees nearly give out from relief.

He kneels beside you, brushing your hair back. As if sensing him, you stir awake.

"Jake? Why are you—"

Before you can finish, he crushes you into a hug. "Don't do that again," he murmurs. "I need you next to me."

Smiling softly, you guide him back to bed. "Come on, let's sleep."

And with your hand in his, he finally finds peace.

---

Sunghoon

Sunghoon wakes up with a sharp gasp, his entire body trembling. His dream had been a nightmare he never wants to relive. Losing you—watching you disappear—it felt so real.

His hand shoots out to hold yours—only to find cold sheets.

His blood runs cold. "Y/N?"

He stumbles out of bed, his usual composure completely gone. His mind is racing with horrible possibilities until—

He sees you by the window, scrolling through your phone.

The moment you look up, concern crosses your face. "Hoon, what’s wrong?"

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls you into a tight embrace, his hand clutching your back as if you might vanish.

"You weren’t in bed," he mutters, voice small.

You stroke his back soothingly. "I’m here, love. I’m not going anywhere."

And only then does he finally relax.

---

Sunoo

Sunoo wakes up crying. He doesn’t even care how messy or desperate it looks—his nightmare shattered him.

He turns to you for comfort—only to find an empty space beside him.

His heart drops. "Y/N?"

Throwing the blanket off, he rushes out of the room, his vision blurry with panic. "Y/N!"

"Sunoo?"

Your voice snaps him out of his downward spiral. You peek out from the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. "What's wrong?"

His breath stutters as he runs to you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"I thought—" He swallows hard. "I had a bad dream. A really bad one."

You hug him tightly, swaying gently. "It was just a dream, Sunoo. I’m right here."

And with your arms around him, he finally believes it.

---

Jungwon

Jungwon wakes up with a choked gasp, his entire body shaking. The nightmare still lingers—your absence, the unbearable pain of losing you.

He turns to you, desperate for reassurance, only to find the bed empty.

"Y/N?" His voice is barely above a whisper, but the fear in his chest grows.

He stumbles out of bed, searching the apartment in growing panic. He nearly collapses in relief when he finds you by the bookshelf, searching for a late-night read.

"Wonnie?" You blink at him, confused. "Why are you—"

But he doesn’t let you finish. He pulls you against his chest, his arms tightening around you.

"You scared me," he whispers.

Realizing what happened, you gently stroke his hair. "I'm sorry. It was just a dream, my love."

He sighs, holding you even closer. "Stay with me?"

"Always."

---

Ni-ki

Ni-ki bolts upright, gasping for air. His hands shake as the nightmare replays in his head—the feeling of helplessness, the gut-wrenching loss.

He turns to you, instinctively reaching out—only to find the bed empty.

"Y/N?" His voice cracks.

He scrambles out of bed, his heart pounding as he searches the apartment. "Y/N?"

Then, he finds you—sitting on the floor with headphones on, watching a video. Completely unaware of his panic.

You look up in surprise as he kneels beside you, pulling you into a crushing hug. "Ni-ki? What's wrong?"

"I—" He swallows hard. "I had a nightmare. You were gone."

Understanding dawns in your eyes, and you hug him tighter. "I’m not going anywhere, I promise."

He breathes out shakily. "Can we go back to bed?"

"Of course."

And as he holds onto you, sleep comes much easier.

---

-i loved writing this, it's so cuteee

#enhypen scenarios #enhypen fluff #enhypen imagines #enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen headcanons #niki x reader #enha fluff #enhypen drabbles #niki headcanons #heeseung imagines #yang jungwon x reader #jake imagines #sunghoon x reader #sunoo x reader #jay x reader

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love44lew · 3 months ago

Text

Day 3: ‘you’re gonna be a mom’

彡drivers lewis hamilton x pregnant!reader 🪼

彡genre intense fluff

彡summary you find a special way to reveal to your husband that you’re gonna be parents

၊၊||၊ i kind of made a part two for this because i wanted it to be a series originally but i kinda thought it was just fine to leave it here ;-; anyways feedback is always appreciated, enjoy!! ၊၊||၊

彡warnings cuteness overload

Lewis has ALWAYSS wanted kids. his natural connection and love for kids is so beautiful and every time you see him with his niece and nephew your heart just explodes into a million pieces. he is SO CUTE ♡︎!! so to your not-so-much surprise when you found out you were pregnant, you knew this would skyrocket him to space. fathers day is up in coming so you knew it was the perfect timing.

you glanced out the window of your bedroom to see your husband carrying the last of the bags into the trunk of your suv as you were inside finishing wrapping the little present you have for him and make your way to the kitchen where you await for him to enter back into the house.

“baby!? you ready to go?” he calls from the front door. “yeah, can you come here real quick?” you call back. lewis makes his way towards the kitchen to find with a little present box in front of you on the island.

“whats this~?” he leans back a little trying to look suspecting with a big smile creeping on his face at the same time. your heart is beating through your chest but you manage to keep your composure as you shakily slide the box towards him.

“for me? thank you.” he leans over and gives you a loving peck on the cheek before unraveling the ribbon tying the mini gift closed.

you can feel your heart beating in your damn ears and you feel like you’re about to throw up like you have been doing for the last 3 days—the mixtures of fear and excitement stirring up within you. it feels like time is moving in .3x with your eyes glued to his hands as he discards your carefully tied ribbon to the side and pulls the top off the box, which lifts the whole box it and a little with a pop as the air trapped within releases as the top drops off the rest of the box. he carefully pulls back the colorful paper and confetti covering the goods within and he slowly takes out a mini diaper followed by a positive pregnancy test. his shoulders drop and he stares at it for a couple seconds. you swore your heart stopped for a moment and your breathing paused as you stood by impatiently for a response. lewis trails his gaze towards you, his eyes pink and glossy. unexpectedly, he carefully places the stuff onto the counter and takes a step toward you, closing the gap between as he pulls you into a warm embrace.

he didn’t say anything but over your own heartbeat you could hear his as your head lay rested on his shoulder, your bodies enveloping in each others warmth. a few moments pass by and lewis breaks the silence with shaken whispers of “thank you”’s and “i love you”’s muffled into the crook of your neck. you rub your hands up his back and neck, you can feel little warm droplets kiss your cheeks, your eyes spilling sweet tears. its not the reaction you expected, but its the reaction you needed. you’ve always wanted kids of your own, its a shared desire between you and your husband.

now, this dream is true and you’re more than ecstatic not that your fulfilling a dream of your own, but now a dream of the one you love the most. his short lived silence spoke volumes. it wasn’t just happiness, it was relief. lewis slightly pulled away to face you, taking in your beauty lovingly. he leaves a series of soft kisses across your face. lewis takes your hand and shifts his lips over to your fingers and palms and then guiding it to his face. you caress his cheek with your thumb, wiping away a light tear that dared to travel further down his smooth glass skin.

“you’re gonna be a mom” he slightly squeezes your hand as he says that. every doubt and nervousness immediately drops from your body as you fall into a small giggle fit. some tears leaving your eyes as you conclude with a sniffle.

“yea..” you roll your eyes playfully “i guess i am”. he dips his arms down below your bum and picks you up into an embrace, continuing his series of kisses on your neck and chest.

your heart flutters and jumps with positivity as you throw your head back in laughter. he places you down on the island and cups your face taking you lips into his for a passionate but loving kiss. his large hands run up your sides, taking a moment to pass them over your stomach feeling over a baby bump that doesn’t quite exist yet but his imagination going wild knowing everything you both achieved up until this point, your love, patience, and hope, has now taken human form. his little miracle. oh how much they need to catch up on when they’re born. he has so much to tell them, he wont even know where to start. he pressed his forehead against yours, his palms ending their path on your shoulders.

“everything feels so right, you feel right baby..” lewis cups the sides of your neck in his hands.

“i love you. words will never be enough to tell, but i hope you know i do and i’m so glad its you, its always been you.” his lips collide with yours once again.

slow and sweet, but feels like electricity every time. your hand rests on his bicep giving it a little squeeze. he pulls away, his kind doe eyes gazing down at you. your eyes dart to each one of his, a pause before your lips clash once again, wherever you were supposed to go long forgotten by now. bodies intertwined as emotions consumed the two of you. your legs swing around his back, forcing his hand to leave your neck and slap down on the counter trying to keep his balance as you pulled him down, deepening the kiss. his other hand slid its way down your body and back to your lower stomach, caressing with his thumb. before things could go any further, lewis’s phone starts to ring. you attempt to ignore but when they called again, its probably important. with a sigh and a final kiss lewis answered the phone with his sister on the other line. “hello?” lewis spoke into the phone.

you can faintly hear the other line and you recognize the voice. “are you guys on the way?” his sister asked. lewis glanced at you and you both exchanged a quiet chuckle.

“yeah, yeah.. you can say that” you heard some “huh? what does that supposed to—“ before the other side of the line went silent as he hung up you and your husbands clips colided with yours again, continuing your interrupted kiss.

“as much as i love kissing you like this, we do have somewhere to be..” he sighed out in between final pecks between you two before pulling away from your lips completely.

“as much as i love kissing you like this, we do have somewhere to be..” he sighed out in between final pecks between you two before pulling away from your lips completely. you whined, the taste of his lips still lingering on yours. lewis helped you down from the table and walked you all the way to the car.

“hehe I’m not disabled yet” you giggled as he helped you down the porch stairs. “i know, just getting into the habit.” he smiled, kissing your knuckles as he assisted you entering the car. your whole life, you’ve always wanted kids. the only problem was, what if its with the wrong person? what if he leaves mid trimester or isn’t the father that her baby needs? what if she fails as a mother? all these doubts have now flown out the window with the wind. since the day you met your husband, you’ve known it was going to be him. he takes any of those doubts and squashes them like annoying bugs. even if your love story comes to an end (which you hope it doesn’t) you will be sure co parenting with him will be an easy feat.

you couldn’t ask for anything more. “woo hooo im gonna be a dad!” your silly husband screams out the car window to the unsuspecting oncoming cars. all you can do is wipe away your tears of happiness and laughter at his goofiness.

—-🐚-—

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 4 months ago

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Shaken and Stirred.

I was really inspired by this fan art and was plagued by thoughts of a pathetic whiny lil meow meow 🥺 I don't drink myself, but I love the mature aesthetic of it and wanted to... write a drunken confession... to close off 2024...

… DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT OTL wait no please J WORD I CAN EXPLAIN

***Content warning: Alcohol consumption, though Leona is the only one drinking. (The legal age is 20 in Japan; I’m going to assume this for Twisted Wonderland.) Everyone else is having sparkling juice :v***

Imagine this…

"Feel like joining us for dinner? For old time's sake.”

The invitation had come so casually, the same way a housecat might drop a mangled rat or bird at your feet. To them, an easy, everyday act. To you, a surprise you weren’t quite certain how to feel about.

You didn't have plans for the evening, nor a reason to refuse, and while you were busy weighing the pros and cons, you found yourself strung along in their outing. Muscular arms wrangling you into the herd, boisterous yells welcoming you back. An honorary member, the Savanaclaw students had branded you, recognized by their king.

Now you sit in a barstool, fingers on the rim of a cup clouded with condensation, absentmindedly swirling its contents. Juice, its sweetness stifled by melted ice.

Some would call you a lamb willingly waltzing into a lion's den. They're wrong. You are no beast, but a curious observer of them. This is a prime opportunity for that.

It’s dim, the glowing jellyfish set low, faint lights swimming overhead. The music is loud, a departure from the Mostro Lounge’s usual soft jazz. The bass is even louder, rattling your bones like a set of steel drums. Rowdy patrons clink cups, chant at their friends to chug, belt out laughter straight from the bellies. You can barely hear your own heartbeat. The sounds of nightlife drown it out.

Jack lurks in a quiet, shadowed corner, his back against the wall. Muscled arms folded, he has assumed a stern stance but wears a small, fond smile in spite of himself. Ruggie has climbed onto a table, raising a jet-black card to the waiting mob. It’s their golden meal ticket.

“All-you-can-eat food and drinks on Leona-san! Long live the king!!” he roars, and the others echo his excitement.

“LONG LIVE THE KING!!”

You chuckle to yourself. First he rents out the entire lounge, then he decides to feed everyone for the day? How generous of him. Guess the big guy’s going all out.

You scan the restaurant in search of him, seeking out his familiar visage. Long, wild tresses. Sharp eyes, emerald flecked with golden flakes, like the sunlight shining through verdant leaves. The scar that speared his left side. A noble aura, his lazy feline grace.

Leona Kingscholar always sticks out in a crowd, commands too much attention with his mere existence. “That man is only good for his face,” Vil would bitterly hawk, “his only redeeming feature.” And he was right, to some extent. Tall, dark, and handsome are all apt descriptors for Savanaclaw’s dorm leader. Leona is all that and more.

Your pulse quickens.

His shape—you can’t discern it from the myriad of bodies collected in the lounge. A puzzle piece missing from the box of your most treasured memories.

“Looking for someone?”

The question is low and nonchalant, almost musical in its own right, yet you can so clearly hear it rising above the bumping bass. Your blood hums in anticipation, already knowing who the voice belongs to.

Leona has slipped into the open seat beside you, nursing an Old-Fashioned filled halfway with a strongly scented amber liquid. An orb of ice chills it, so clear cut you can see through to the other side. He sits with an effortless confidence upon his throne, as though he—not Azul—owns the damn place. You'd believe it too, from how the patrons are shouting his name like a mantra.

There’s no greetings to exchange. No need to.

"I think I've found what I was looking for," you tell him teasingly. “Nice of you to throw this little get-together. What’s the occasion? Don’t think I remember when you were in this good of a mood.”

“Who said I was in a good mood?” he grumbles, leaning onto the counter. “Didn't feel like being left alone with my thoughts tonight is all.”

“You, brooding? Never."

He makes a sound as if repressing a dry laugh. “You think yourself clever for an herbivore, don’t you?”

“Maybe. Not as clever as you, though.”

“Hmph. You really know how to stroke a guy’s ego."

It’s comfortable, this trading of quips. Safe. The conversation flowing so easily, like wine poured. It is the only true way you can stand on the same level as him.

Leona lifts the glass and downs the rest of his drink. From the way he winces, it must burn on the way down. You wrinkle your nose at the sharp smell that meets it. Earth spiced with hypnotic smoke and the acrid pang of sorrow.

“They serve alcohol here? I thought those jars on the shelves were full of tea blends.”

Leona scoffs. “If you know the right people and the right strings to pull. The cephalopunk said his establishment was more than happy to provide for me as long as I shelled out and signed some liability waiver.”

“… Does the headmaster know about this?”

“He doesn’t need to know.” Leona smirks, placing his newly drained drink down. Immediately, a staff member appears and replaces it with a fresh glass. “What’s he gonna do, anyway? Sue me? I’m of legal drinking age, and ‘s not like I’m passing out alcohol to minors”

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head in disbelief. “You’re so bad.”

“The worst,” he agrees sarcastically. “And you choose to keep me as company.”

“I’m but your humble accomplice, sir.” You jokingly salute to him. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret. Rough day?”

He sighs in a way that gives the impression of saying, Like you wouldn't believe. But that tail of his swings back and forth like a patient pendulum, refusing to reveal his secrets. “This isn’t about me.”

“It literally is.” You pass a not-so-subtle glance at his second helping of whisky.

"I'm the host. It wouldn't do to bring down the festive atmosphere of this celebration with my feelings, now would it?"

You don't miss how he proceeds to take a swig right after his claim, how readily he consumes poison, even when it hurts him. Alcohol, insults. Pain, self-inflicted.

He has an arsenal of tricks and techniques to deflect—partaking in vices, one of them. Leona's magic rendered fortresses to sand, but he is an expert at building his own structures just the same. Studier, even. Imperious.

Attempting to scale the walls directly, you know, won't get you very far. Not when he has gone to such great lengths to guard his heart. There's a moat with leering crocodiles, barbed wire decorating the gates, a drawbridge firmly closed.

You attempt to breach the subject, toeing the line between testing his patience and challenging it. “What is it that you want then, Leona?”

He falls quiet, staring at the remains of his beverage. It’s like the sphere of ice the whisky swims with is a crystal ball, and he’s peering into it, seeking answers. His verdant eyes shift a shade deeper, darker.

When he’s solemnly silent like this, he’s contemplating. His next move in a game of chess, his next words in a debate. Plotting, scheming.

"A distraction," he declares at last, in that resolute tone he uses when he’s set on capturing a prize.

"A... distraction."

He nods, angling his head toward the noisy lounge. Ruggie is rallying some of the guys for a round of root beer pong. Jack’s trapped in a headlock, the hyena urging him to join in. They’re rowdy and ruddy from the exhilaration that comes with competition.

“Get my mind off of things. Take me away from all of this for a spell."

“How, exactly…?”

Leona drains his second glass. The server slides him a third. "Let's start with your day. From there, ramble about whatever.”

Amuse me, he seems to say, even if his mouth doesn’t. The twinkle has returned to his eyes, brightening them like the stars do the milky way.

You gulp, feeling compelled to obey.

Gathering your thoughts and wetting your lips, you begin. "This morning..."

The story opens like a newborn finding its footing for the first time: clumsily. Granted the space to expand, you do. Slowly, the conventions come to you. Balance, coordination. Each sentence is like a step, taken one at a time.

You run through your daily schedule and, reciting it out loud, you realize how terribly mundane it is. Classes, chores, chums. The usual. Worry flickers through you—Will he be satisfied with this?��but he only gestures for you to continue.

“Ah, so I picked up this new hobby recently…”

Leona props his face up on one hand, curled fingers resting against a cheek. He watches you with a look that isn’t quite predator on prey but isn’t quite human to human either. It’s intimate in a way that makes you feel exposed even when you avert your gaze, calculating enough to make you feel like a complex equation he has yet to solve.

“When something’s hard to get, it makes you want it all the more,” he had once told you. The memory surfaces like bubbles in a flute of champagne. Then it pops, fizzling away in a fine mist, and it is gone.

Moments like this are magic, you think.

You slip into a cadence, a rhythm. You lose count of how many stories you tell, how many whiskies Leona slams down in the span of them.

And still, the glowing green of his irises never seems to stray far from you. Vibrant and pulsating, like plants with heartbeats of their own, swaying in time with a stray breeze. Seeking something.

You don’t know if that concerns or thrills you.

"Ahahah…” You allow yourself a chuckle as you stretch in your seat. “This is so strange, isn’t it? I never thought I'd be rubbing elbows with a prince this time last year.”

Leona responds with a noncommittal “Mmmmm.”

He lowers his gaze to his drink number who knows?, his honey-colored reflection gazing back. When he blinks, his lashes seem to fall and flutter in slow motion.

You wonder what he's thinking, why he's thinking.

You reach for him. Carefully, gently, as if approaching a wounded animal. He is wounded--in that frightening way that leaves no visible marks, no scars.

"Leona..."

You hear your name being called before you can tap his shoulder. You look--there's Jack, waving at you. Ruggie has his hands cupped over his mouth.

"Wanna participate in an arm-wrestling contest? Jack's the reigning champ!"

"Oh, um--" you try to respond, to explain that you're preoccupied. The blaring music washes you out.

Ruggie makes a face of confusion and shouts again: "What?!"

You start to rise from your stool and turn to him, raising your volume. "I said..."

You stop. Your wrist is ensnared in Leona's grasp, cuffing you to the spot.

“… Don’t go." His command cuts through the noise, startling you with its softness, its contrasting clarity.

"It'll only be a second. It's too hard to talk over the--"

"You must've not heard me the firs'time," he interrupts, his words slightly slurring together, one melting into the next. Leona pouts like a child. "I’m orderin' you to stay. Stay here, with me."

"You've been awfully bossy today."

"Cuz you keep bein' a pain in my tail. How'm I supposed to..." The more the man babbles, the more confidence drains from his voice. His proud lion's roar shrinking and shrinking to a kitten's mewl. Tiny, vulnerable. "Don't go. Don't... leave. Everyone else has. They always do."

Non-sarcastic pleading? From Leona?

You eye him in concern. "Being serious for a sec, are you okay?"

He winces, like speaking or touching you is a considerable effort. You're set free, his body slumping as he lays down at the bar. His mane spreads out around him like a pool of chocolate. Leona cradles himself against the cushion of an arm, groaning into it.

Definitely not okay.

You pass Ruggie a firm shake of the head--a no to his offer--then settle back into your seat, returning to Leona.

"I'm here," you reassure him with a soft push against the middle of his chest. "See? I'm not going anywhere." Then you poke him on his forehead. "What's up? You're thinking of something."

He peers at you from behind an arm and snorts. "Thinkin' about how you run your mouth a lot."

"You told me to. I'm just following orders--don't you like that? You're so hard to please."

"I have high standards," he says simply.

"Well..." You lift a brow expectantly. "Am I meeting them?"

This manages to draw out a bark of laughter from him, however strained it sounds. He fixates on you, the start of a scowl upon his searching expression.

Assessing you.

“… Why?” Leona asks suddenly. No proper answer. Instead, an inquiry thrown back in retaliation.

“Why what?”

“Why d’you bother stickin’ around? Why d’you…” A pause, as if the verb that comes next is capable of killing if not handled correctly. “Why do you care so much?”

You shrug. “You don’t really need a reason to care about someone. Anyone with a heart would, right? You’d do the same for me or any of your dorm members.”

“And what do you know about heart?” He fumbles for his drink, but you slyly slide it out of reach. A growl of frustration. “All I got’s a big black hole where my heart should be.”

“That’s not true,” you protest stubbornly. “Your students say so many good things about their dorm leader. They all really look up to you.”

“Hah, as if.” He lifts his head and slams it on the table. “I failed’m. What good’s a king if he can’t produce results? What good’s tryin’ if all there is at the end of the tunnel’s darkness? Can’t even dispatch the damn lizard or beat ‘m at his own game…

You frown. “Hey. hey! Don’t talk about yourself like that… and stop doing that, you’re going to injure yourself.”

Leona doesn’t seem to register anything you say. He continues deliriously mumbling to himself, the alcohol having wiped away his inhibitions and all the cards he so often kept close to his chest.

“I never get what I want,” he complains, dragging himself up—but he sways and is forced to hunch forward on his chair, elbows on the counter for support. “Never, ever. No matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I work… It all comes crumbling down eventually.”

His hair covers his face the same way the strands of a weeping willow do. You can’t see what kind of an expression is making. Do you want to see it?

He’s sinking, you realize. The same claws that struggle for a firm grip on the rocky ledge he dangles from, the same claws that render enemies to ashes—they don’t help him against crashing waves, the swamp that drags him down, down, down, into its murky depths. No sunlight, no air.

“The crown… the interdorm tournament... love, respect, admiration... Everything slips through m’fingers like sand. It’s some cruel, sick joke. Must be m’fate as the prince with naught.”

“Leona..."

Is this what haunts you every time you're alone in your room? The thoughts that you're scared of visiting you every night... What you needed a distraction from?

“Get my mind off of things," he had said. "Take me away from all of this for a spell."

There's an ache in your chest. The dull, throbbing pain that comes at the end of reading a sad story. His story.

But it's not the end of it, right? It can't be.

Your fingers tangle in his tresses and brush them aside. From behind the curtain, he peers at you like some stray cat having retreated into its cardboard box. And you meet him without hesitation.

"... Hey," you manage. "I think you've had enough. You're starting to say all this... unkind stuff about yourself, and you're not having fun anymore. Can you walk? Let's get you back to Savanaclaw and have you lie down."

Leona sways slightly. Even drunk, his tone is haughty and shreds into you like claws. "You can't tell me what t'do."

"You're the host," you insist with a smile. The words are his, borrowed, sharpened, and repurposed in your possession. "It wouldn't do to bring down the festive atmosphere of this celebration with your feelings, now would it?"

He stares at you, eyes blown wide. Then his lids lower, lashes shading his view of you.

"Why... Why d'you hafta be like thish? This would be sho much easier if y'didn’t look at me like that."

"L-Like what?"

Leona inches closer. He usually smells of sun and soil, but all of that has been smothered by the reek of booze. Heat radiates from his face, flushed from liquid courage, and hits yours.

"Like there's still a chance for me." He speaks clearly and concisely, each syllable a brick laid out and sandwiched with mortar to the next. Pouring all his energy into them. "Like you still believe in me."

"Because I do. Is that so wrong?" You're unsure of the answer--a part of you, dreading it.

Leona counters with another question. It is tinged with anger, irritation. "Why can’t you be like the others and just give up already? It'd save you a lot of trouble."

"I can't bring myself to leave you hanging on the edge of a cliff. We all want a hand sometimes to lift us up when we're down, so... I want to be that for you. And it seems like you could use that hand to get you out of your troubles right about now."

His lip trembles. Leona's voice comes out huskily. "I hate that dumb, wide-eyed look of yours. So full of hope. When you look at me like that… it makes me think I might still be able to have you.”

“You already have me, dummy. I’m right here, remember?”

“No.” His gaze is intense, almost pulsating. He has a way of scrutinizing that lays you bare before him, pinning you in place and making you inadvertently squirm. “Not in the way I want you t'be.”

Your heart stops, as if he has seized it in his grasp. One squeeze, and he can crush it. It's a mercy he doesn't, even as you erupt into a flurry of confusion, an inferno engulfing you.

"What?" you whisper, scarcely believing your ears. "Wh-What do you mean by that...?"

THUNK!

His balance caves. Leona keels over, the weight of his large body toppling onto yours like a domino crashing into the next one in a sequence.

His head lands on your shoulder, neatly nestling into the junction of your collarbone and neck. Arms loosely snake around your hips, hugging them, his tail wrapping around a leg like a ribbon decorating a pillar. A throaty groan escapes him.

Panic bolts through your muscle and bone.

Your immediate instinct is to shove him off—but he’s heavy and inebriated, and it’s hard for you to fend off the warmth pressed against you. He’s not playing fair. Is he doing this on purpose? You shouldn’t be surprised; he never does.

His low purr tickles you, his breath feathering across your bare skin. He sounds half asleep, caught in that magical twilight realm between the waking world and dreams. “Is it okay… for someone like me to fall in love with someone like you?”

Love?

Four letters, one simple word.

Your surroundings dullen, the chatter and the laughter and the music floating far away. You become acutely aware of all of the places where he touches you, of every spot where you connect. There are so many people gathered in the lounge, but all you can perceive is him: Leona, Leona Kingscholar.

Your mind races, set to a frantic pace like wildebeests rampaging.

Love, the thing with wings that soars high above the clouds. Love, the golden light that brings life to the lands. Love, the wellspring so many drink from.

He feels all of that for you?

It feels like I'm dreaming. Am I dreaming?

"D-Do you really mean that, Leona?" You need to know. You must confirm it. "That you... love me?"

Silence.

“L-Leona…?” you stutter, lightly tapping his back. It rises and falls, rises and falls, like the tides lapping the seashore. Soft, at ease.

But not a response.

One, two, three.

Three seconds. Three seconds is all it takes for Leona Kingscholar to knock out--and he is out like a light.

The party and its twisted beat carry on, the bass blasting in your bloodstream, uncaring. And you remain, cradling a snoozing cat in your arms.

... Ah, seriously. How did it turn out like this?

Upset, annoyance--you think that these are, perhaps, what you're meant to be feeling in the moment. They are missing, not so much as a phantom present. Instead, there's an excitable fluttering that doesn't have a name to it yet.

You swallow, still slightly shaken. The confession, raw and revealing, stirring emotions you didn't think possible before. Emotions that burned red hot, with serrated teeth and talons.

A hand goes to the back of his head, stroking his mane and smoothing it out. It's comforting to him, you imagine, but it's comforting to you as well. Grounding.

You're here. He's here. The both of you are here, together.

There is it again, that unnamed, excitable fluttering kicking up back up. It fans out from your core, from your head to the tips of your toes. You feel like you're lighter than air, flying to the moon and playing among the stars.

He loves you.

Leona Kingscholar loves you.

The fingers trapped in his hair stiffen.

You draw out a sigh. It mingles with the music and stretches thin, a string of fabric pulled from a spool.

Until the clock strikes midnight… Let’s just stay like this for a little longer. That much would be okay, wouldn’t it? We can figure out the rest of the story once the sleepy prince wakes from his slumber.

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evie-sturns · 1 year ago

Text

Friends - Chris Sturniolo

summary: you and chris are friends with benefits until you notice a change in his behaviour, he starts to get angry about how clingy you are.

contains: fwb!chris, arguing, angst, yelling, crying, making out.

--------------------└── •✧• ──┘---------------—-

chris and i have known each other since we were barely able to speak, i've known him my whole life and we've always just. been. friends. until around 8 months ago. i don't even remember how it happened but suddenly his hands were roaming over me, and we fucked.

we both decided after that experience that would be friends with benifets, how could we not after getting a feel for eachother? it was so convinent because i'm always over at their house with nick and matt, they're also my closest friends.

7:39pm

i lay on the sturniolos couch in my small shorts and a tank top, nicks laying beside me as we talk about absolute bullshit.

"nick, you're seriously yapping now" i laugh, "no but tell me thats not the best wednesday video ever, i'm getting matt." he declares, heaving himself up and running out the room, he comes back with matt.

"i will happily cook salmon tomorrow for the wednesday video." matt says with a deadpan face, he speaks like he's being held at gunpoint.

nick claps, "let's go get the shit now" he says with a know it all smile on his face, "dickhead." i scoff to nick, he shrugs with a wide grin.

"you wanna come get the stuff from the grocery store with us?" matt asks, i shake my head "i'm not dressed for the occasion" i joke.

he laughs before grabbing the keys which are attached to his jeans loop, he walks with nick outside, shutting the front door behind him.

i put my phone down on the pillow beside me before standing up, aimlessly walking upstairs.

i open the door to chris's room, "chriss" i say with a smile before entering the room.

"why aren't you with nick and matt." he says, sitting up against his headboard. "hello to you too." i say sarcastically, jumping into bed beside him.

i lay my leg over chris's thigh, my hand reaching out and tracing random shapes on his arm, he pushes me off casually, an awkward silence filling the room.

“can i not touch you now or something.” i say jokingly, chris snaps.

“can you fuck off for once?” he raises his voice, i sit up in bed as my heart thumps. “what?” i say, slightly shaken up.

“all you do is touch me and be around me,” he starts, my mouth falls open slightly.

“we are FRIENDS with benefits, i don’t know why the fuck you act like we’re together?” he says, emphasising the ‘friends’.

“so for fucks sake, act like it, act like we are normal friends because the only thing different about us is we fuck, nothing. else.” chris finishes before standing up off his bed, walking out of his room and slamming the door behind him.

tears pool in my eyes, first of all he knows i can’t take being yelled at, he also knows that i’ve always been insecure about how clingy i can get.

i didn’t have any friends other than the triplets when i was growing up, they were all i really needed. so i’ve stuck to them majorly,

i always ask nick if i’m coming over too much, and if they want me to stay at my apartment i can, but nicks always shut down that, telling me that he will literally lock all doors so i can’t leave.

but that was just nick, nick wanted me to stay, did chris like me round?

i sit alone on chris’s bed, replaying each word than came out of his mouth over and over in my head.

“i don’t know why the fuck you act like we’re together”

“can you fuck off for once?”

i let out a small sob, tears starting to paint my cheeks. i bring my knees up to my chest as i bury my face in his pillows

i let out shaky breathes, having a poor attempt to calm myself down.

7:46am

i don’t know when i fell asleep, all i know is that i’m slowly starting to wake up in chris’s bed.

his arms are wrapped around me, spooning me as he snores lightly into the back of my neck, i stir as i look down.

i sit up in bed, chris’s arms still on me as he lets out a tired groan. all events of what happened last night start coming back to me. i instantly try to get out of bed but chris has a firm grip around my waist,

“chris, let me go.” i whisper yell, he shakes his head.

i place two hands on his wrists and try to pry them off of me. chris is slowly waking up, i feel tears start to form again, knowing that he most likely had to sleep next to me cause i fell asleep in his bed.

i let in trembling breathes, chris sits up. “sh shh.” he says, pulling me down onto his lap as he sits up against his headboard.

“can i please talk to you.” chris says, his voice hoarse.

“chris.” i say, small droplets of tears rolling down my cheeks as i fight his grip.

“i’m going home now.” i say again, “no you’re not.” chris starts.

“i am so sorry.” chris says, grabbing my face and making me look at him.

“i am so sorry.” he repeats, rubbing my arm with his free hand lightly

“i am so sorry for opening my mouth last night , i am so sorry for making you cry, i am so sorry for walking out of the room, i am so sorry for yelling.”

“i love you so much, more than you understand and there is actually no excuse for what i said, i don’t know why i said it. i have never felt truly loved by someone other than my family so it’s really throwing me off that you want to touch me, you want to be near me.”

“i think i’m so scared of getting to attached to you and then you leaving, because i can’t handle that, i don’t want you to leave, ever.”

he finishes, my tears came to a halt as soon as the words ‘i love you’ left his mouth.

“do you mean it..?” i ask, looking up at chris.

he grabs my jaw staring at my lips,

“chris, i have morning breath.” i laugh slightly

“i do not care at all.” he says, slamming his lips onto mine,

his arms holding me tighter than ever, he doesn’t let me go for the rest of the morning no matter how much i protest.

—————-

#sturniolo #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x reader #sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo headcanon #chris sturniolo edit #chris sturniolo fic #chris sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo smut

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thebarneschronicles · 3 days ago

Text

Steady (Closer To Home)

A Closer To Home side-story

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 6.7k

You and Bucky have been dancing around a fragile intimacy for months—close to comitting, but never crossing the line. Despite being somewhat settled, Bucky still has his bad nights—haunted by dreams that tear him out of sleep and away from your arms. But this time, when he returns home shaken and silent, the rhythm between you shifts.

What begins with coffee and warmth turns into a conversation that redefines everything—labels, love, and the future you're building together. From a phone background to a blushing soldier, to a question that changes it all, this is what it means to choose each other, every day.

Trigger Warnings: Bucky Barnes (he needs a warning of his own); nightmares and implied PTSD; references to emotional trauma and past violence; fear of loss and emotional vulnerability; intimacy; light sexual content (implied foreplay, heated kissing, groping, innuendo); mild possessiveness, dominance, and suggestive dialogue; mentions of bruising from prior sex; discussions of romantic labels and commitment anxiety.

Closer To Home Masterlist

Author’s Note: Surprise, surprise: I have returned after an insane few months. I am so sorry it took me this long, but genuinely, life took over in a way I couldn't even comprehend. I missed these two so badly though and hopefully you have too. Give me your thoughts! Love, B xx

It was too early. That strange, in-between hour where the world was still waking, where the sun barely stretched past the horizon, and where the warmth of your bed felt impossible to leave.

And yet, here you were—blinking sleep from your eyes, drawn from the comfort of your blankets by the faint sounds coming from the kitchen. The quiet clatter of pans. The slow scrape of metal against a skillet. The low hum of something that might have been a sigh, or just the house settling.

You knew the real reason you were awake.

Bucky had a rough night.

You felt it before you even opened your eyes—the restless way his body tensed behind you, the sharp, ragged breaths fanning against the back of your neck. When the tremors had started, you didn’t hesitate. You turned into him, wrapped yourself around him, grounding him with your warmth, your steady hands, your quiet presence. For twenty minutes, you held him, whispering soft reassurances into the space between you, running your fingers through his damp hair, waiting for his breathing to slow.

And then, just like that—he was gone.

Slipping from your arms. Pulling on sweatpants and a hoodie with that blank, withdrawn look that made your chest ache.

You didn’t stop him.

Because sometimes, Bucky just needed to go—to run, to move, to fight against something only he could see. It was still dark when he left, and though part of you wanted to stay awake and wait for him, sleep eventually pulled you back under.

Now, the smell of coffee and the quiet rhythm of him moving through the kitchen had pulled you back into wakefulness.

Bucky was already making breakfast by the time you dragged yourself into the living room, still swaddled in one of his old sweaters, your feet tucked beneath you as you curled up on the couch. He hadn’t noticed you yet.

He was lost in thought, stirring scrambled eggs absently, his vibranium fingers tapping against the handle of the pan in an absent rhythm. His hair was damp from the shower he must have taken when he got back, a lone strand falling across his forehead. His shoulders, broad and still faintly pink from the heat of the water, flexed slightly as he worked. He was shirtless, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, and the soft winter light streaming through the window caught on the metal of his arm, making it gleam in the quiet morning air.

You watched him in silence.

It was rare—these quiet, introspective moments where he wasn’t a soldier, wasn’t fighting, wasn’t running from something unseen. Just Bucky. Barefoot in your kitchen. Lost in a world of thoughts you weren’t sure you could pull him from.

If he needed you, he’d come to you.

If he wanted to talk, he would.

And if he didn’t? You’d sit here, offering him the kind of company that asked for nothing in return.

But God, he was beautiful like this.

You reached for your phone without thinking, lifting it just enough to snap a photo. He still hadn’t noticed you, the faraway look in his eyes making it easy to capture a few more. The quiet intimacy of the moment was too much to resist—the way the golden morning light softened the sharp edges of him, the way the steam curled from his coffee, how utterly real he looked, standing there.

But then—his gaze flicked up.

He caught the movement, blinking like he was just now registering that he wasn’t alone.

"What you doing up?" he mumbled, voice rough with sleep, still thick with whatever weight sat heavy in his chest.

You grinned, tucking the phone away. "Missed you," you admitted easily, offering him a lazy, sleepy smile from your spot on the couch. "Was worried."

Bucky huffed softly, shaking his head as he grabbed another mug from the counter. "You didn’t have to be," he said, pouring a second cup before making his way over.

You took the coffee from his outstretched hand, watching as he sank down next to you, his arm draped along the back of the couch, close but not yet touching. He smelled like soap and fresh air, a little like the night still clinging to his skin.

You turned slightly, pressing a kiss to the crease of his elbow, your free hand wrapping around his bicep, thumb skimming the underside of it where smooth skin ran over hard muscle. Bucky let you, saying nothing, but his fingers found the back of your hair and flexed slightly, just once.

You hesitated, debating whether to push, before deciding against it. Instead, you just said what you already knew.

"You had a nightmare."

It wasn’t a question.

Bucky sighed, nodding reluctantly before tipping his coffee to his lips. Vibranium fingers gripped the mug, and you didn’t miss the way he used the motion to shield the slight downturn of his mouth.

You caught it anyway.

"Yeah."

Your voice softened. "Hydra?"

"No."

That made you pause.

Most of his worst nights—the ones that left him trembling, breathless, drowning in memories he couldn’t control—were tangled up in his past. But if it wasn’t Hydra…

Your grip tightened slightly around his bicep, thumb brushing gently against smooth skin over strong muscle. "Should I ask what it was, or should I leave it be?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His gaze flickered to yours, and for a second, you weren’t sure if he was going to answer.

Then, quietly—"It was you."

You stilled.

"Me?"

Bucky exhaled sharply, his vibranium fingers tracing along the rim of his mug, eyes fixed on a point on the floor. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. "You were… gone."

Your heart clenched.

You swore you felt his words crack something inside you.

“I couldn’t— couldn’t help. Couldn’t bring you back." His throat bobbed, and when he spoke again, his voice was rougher, quieter, and you had a feeling he was sparing you whatever gory details had sent him running into the night. "I kept trying, I looked for help everywhere, but you—” Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut. “You were gone. It felt… real."

Your heart squeezed painfully in your chest.

Bucky had lived through nightmares most people couldn’t even imagine. He’d been broken, controlled, forced to be something he never wanted to be. But somehow, the thought of losing you was what sent him running into the cold morning air, like it was something he could outrun.

You set your coffee down on the table, shifting closer, tilting his chin toward you so he had no choice but to look at you. Fingers warm from the coffee, you scratched against his stubble, eyes locked on his.

"I’m right here, Buck."

He blinked slowly, eyes flickering over your face like he was memorizing every detail, every breath, every reassurance. His fingers found the nape of your neck, threading through your hair, and you let him pull you closer until your foreheads touched.

"I know," he murmured, but there was something fragile in the way he said it, like part of him wasn’t convinced.

You pressed a lingering kiss to the bridge of his nose, staying there for a beat, letting him feel it. "I need you to hear me," you whispered against his skin. "I am safe. I am healthy. No one will hurt me. And I’m not going anywhere. Not in your dreams, not in real life. You’re stuck with me, James."

The corner of his mouth twitched—just the faintest ghost of a smirk. You saw it. Felt it.

"Lucky me."

Your heart swelled with quiet relief, and you huffed, nuzzling against him, letting your nose brush his. "Damn right."

Finally, finally, his arm slipped from the back of the couch, wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you into his warmth. You tucked yourself against his side, letting your head rest against his chest, feeling the warmth of him, the solid weight of him against you.

Silence settled over the two of you, thick but no longer heavy. You traced absentminded circles against his chest, and slowly, you felt the tension in his body ease, the tight coil of anxiety unraveling bit by bit.

He was safe. He was here.

The quiet almost had you drifting back to sleep, but then his voice broke through it—low and rough, like gravel.

"I’m sorry I left the bed."

You shook your head, turning your face into the crook of his neck. "It’s okay. You came back."

And that was what mattered.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just tightened his hold on you, like he was testing the weight of those words—you came back—letting them settle over him like a blanket.

You waited until his breathing evened out before speaking again, this time with a teasing lilt. “But if you ever leave our bed at four in the morning again, I’m chaining you to me.”

You felt the shift before you heard it—the way his chest shook just slightly beneath you, the subtle way his lips pressed together like he was trying to contain it.

Then, a small huff of laughter.

Quiet. Barely there. But real.

“…Kinky,” he murmured.

“Bucky!” You gasped, swatting his side. “You’re hanging out with me too much… I’ve corrupted you.” He chuckled deeper this time, the sound low and warm against your skin, vibrating through you in a way that sent something heady curling in your stomach.

And this time, when he tipped your head up and kissed you—slow and deep, fingers threading into your hair—it wasn’t about grounding himself.

It was about you.

–

Weeks had passed since that quiet morning, but the warmth of it still lingered, wrapping itself around the two of you like an unspoken promise.

Things between you and Bucky had settled into a rhythm—soft, steady, something unspoken but deeply felt. He still had bad nights, but he came back to bed more often. When he needed space, he’d at least leave you with a kiss, a silent reassurance that he wasn’t running from you—just from the ghosts that still clung to him. And when he was ready, he’d let you pull him back, let you ground him in the safety of your arms.

Sometimes, you caught him staring—like he was trying to make sense of it all, trying to understand how he had ended up here, with you, with something so… real. Little did he know you wondered the same.

Life felt easier than it had in a long time—like the universe had finally pressed pause, giving you both a moment to breathe. The world, always so chaotic, had granted you this reprieve, a chance to settle into the simple, domestic routine of being together. Bucky continued to spend more time at your apartment, despite your attempts to make his feel more like home. He always had a counterargument—yours was better, cozier, you had a bed, and more importantly, you were there.

You couldn’t quite argue with that one.

And so, you let yourself fall into what it meant to be loved by Bucky Barnes. It wasn’t perfect. There were moments when you felt helpless, when his mind dragged him somewhere you couldn’t reach. There were nights you worried—worried that one day he’d wake up and decide he didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve you. But still, you held on. Because it was good. Because he needed good. It was calm. And he needed calm. It was loving. And god, did he need to be loved. It was passionate, and that—well, that was something you both needed in equal measure.

You felt, for the first time in a long time, like a teenager—caught in the all-consuming pull of something new, something that made the rest of the world feel distant, insignificant. He was everywhere. In your bed, in your arms, against your skin, in your thoughts. It didn’t help that he was also, technically, your boss—your sort-of, kind-of boss. But that didn’t stop the way your world seemed to orbit around him.

And somehow, without you realizing it, he had even claimed a place on your phone.

The picture you had taken of him that morning had slowly but surely become your favorite. It had started small—just something you’d pull up when he wasn’t around, a quiet reminder of the way he looked in the soft morning light, lost in thought but undeniably beautiful. But as the days passed, you found yourself reaching for it more and more, until finally, you caved and set it as your background.

It felt silly, juvenile even, but you let yourself have this one thing.

It never even crossed your mind that he’d see it.

It never even crossed your mind that you’d be the reason he’d see it.

You didn’t even think about it, leaving the phone on the bathroom counter after you got out of your shower. You were practically done getting dressed when you remembered, calling out to him from the bedroom.

“Buck? Baby, could you get me my phone? It’s on the bathroom counter!”

There was a pause, just long enough to make you wonder if he hadn’t heard you, before he answered. “Yeah, I got it,” Bucky called back.

You went back to pulling up your panties over your hips, dragging one of his hoodies over your head and dragging a hairbrush over your tangled locks while you heard the quiet scuff of his socked footsteps. It wasn’t until he crossed the threshold of your bedroom that you realized something was… off.

He had your phone in his hand, sure, but he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were locked on the screen, brow furrowed, lips just slightly parted like he was in the middle of trying to figure something out.

“Is this… me?” he asked, voice lower, slower, as he lifted the phone just enough to show the screen.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Heat rushed to your face and you scrambled for something, anything, to deflect. “Uh—no, it’s… uh—”

Bucky arched a brow, tilting the phone toward himself, as if double-checking. “It’s me,” he said again, this time with something different in his voice. Not teasing, not mocking—just curious. Maybe even a little surprised.

You hesitated, caught between embarrassment and the sudden, crushing realization that—honestly? This was a big deal. Or at least, it was starting to feel like one.

You sighed, crossing your arms, leveling him with a look. “Yeah, it’s you. Don’t make it weird.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, that barely-there almost-smirk that drove you insane, but his eyes told a different story. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t mocking. He was curious.

“I’m not making it weird,” he said slowly, his voice quieter now. “Just… didn’t expect it.”

That, you believed. Bucky wasn’t used to people holding onto him like this. Keeping pieces of him close. He wasn’t used to the idea that he was something someone wanted to look at, to remember.

Your chest ached a little at the thought, but you brushed past it, rolling your eyes to cover the sudden rush of warmth in your face.

“Well,” you muttered, turning away, “I like the picture.”

Bucky hummed, glancing down at your phone again before lifting it slightly. “When’d you take it?”

You kept your back to him, rifling through your dresser for socks as if this was the most important task in the world. “A few weeks ago.”

“When?”

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the fabric in your hands. “...After you had a nightmare.”

The room went still.

You could feel his gaze on you, heavier than before, as if he were working through something in that head of his. When you finally turned back, your stomach gave a sharp twist—he had stepped fully into the bedroom now, standing in the doorway like a force of nature. Unshakable. Unstoppable. Your phone was still firm in his grasp, but he wasn’t looking at it anymore.

He was looking at you.

“Why’d you put it on your screen?” His voice was closer, softer—but no less insistent.

Your pulse jumped.

Jesus, what was this? An interrogation?

“What’s with the Spanish Inquisition?” you scoffed, laughing a little too nervously. You turned back to your socks—because if you kept looking at him, you knew you were going to combust—clumsily yanking them on before you darted past him, making a beeline for the door.

You almost made it. Almost.

But before you could slip away, before you could pretend this conversation had never happened, his hands were on you.

Large palms gripped your hips, pulling you back into the solid heat of him. You yelped, your momentum halted so suddenly that you barely had time to catch your breath before he was right there, pressed against your back, his voice low and teasing in your ear.

“Hey, now—wait a second.” His fingers tightened slightly, grounding, steadying. “I have questions.”

“Oh my God—”

“Let’s talk about this.”

“No, let’s not—”

“Let’s definitely talk about this.”

You grunted, trying to wiggle free, but it was useless. His grip was firm, unrelenting, the sheer strength in his arms making any escape attempt laughable at best.

“God, you’re so—annoying!” you groaned, shoving at his forearm, but there was no real heat behind it. You were just embarrassed. Embarrassed that he caught you being soft, caught you simping, caught you—

Bucky chuckled, breath warm against your neck. “Annoying, huh?”

“Yes!” You twisted in his grip, but that only made things worse, because suddenly, your ass was pressing back against his front, and—

Oh.

A sharp inhale left you, and Bucky—that bastard—must’ve noticed, because his grip on your hips tightened.

You cursed under your breath. “What do you want me to say?”

Bucky was quiet, waiting. Watching.

You exhaled sharply, closing your eyes for a brief moment, before finally turning your head slightly to glance at him. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those damn eyes—were burning.

You swallowed. Hard.

“That you’re handsome?” you muttered, voice quieter now, a little breathless. “That I like looking at you? That I miss you when you’re not around?”

Bucky’s fingers flexed against your hips.

“That I wanted something of yours to keep?” Your voice dropped even lower. “That I need a visual for when I—”

You caught yourself just in time, slamming your mouth shut, but it was too late.

Bucky stilled.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you, thick and charged.

Then—

“When you what?” His voice was deeper now, slower. Smug.

You gasped, immediately trying to pull away, but his arms caged you in.

“Oh, no, no, no—”

“None of your business, Barnes!”

Bucky laughed, actually laughed, and the sound of it sent a rush of warmth flooding through you.

“You absolute menace—let me go!” You struggled, bent forward in a desperate attempt to pry his hands off you, but in doing so, your ass pressed firmly into him again, and—

Oh, fuck.

There was definitely something there.

Bucky let out a low grunt, grip tightening, and—shit. That was not helping.

“You were saying?” His voice was rougher now, the teasing edge still there but undercut with something else. Something darker.

You clenched your jaw, mortified. “Fucking super soldier serum,” you grumbled under your breath.

Bucky grinned. You felt it against your skin.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips brushing just below your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Just tell me.”

Your resolve wavered. God, he was so unfair.

“I cannot have this conversation before I’ve even had my coffee,” you argued, exhaling dramatically as you gave up and went limp against his arms. If he was going to hold you hostage like this, you might as well get comfortable. Your eyes fluttered closed as you felt him—solid, warm, inescapable.

Bucky chuckled, arms tightening around you, pressing you more firmly against him until you were practically weightless in his hold. “I’ll let you have your coffee…” he promised, voice dripping with amusement. “But we’re discussing this while you drink it.”

He huffed, shifting his grip, turning you around and before you could blink, he was lifting you. You gasped as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, arms locking around his neck as he carried you with frustrating ease.

“That was nice,” you sighed, unable to help the giggle that slipped out when he effortlessly adjusted his hold. You nuzzled into his neck, voice muffled against his skin. “Remember when you weren’t a menace?”

“What do you mean weren’t?” He pulled back just enough to shoot you an indignant look. “I’ve always been a menace.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight your smile. “Yeah, but it was more of a brooding, dangerous menace before. This?” You gestured vaguely between the two of you, still wrapped around him. “This is a smug, cocky menace and I don’t know if I like it.”

Bucky smirked. Smirked. “I think you do.”

You scoffed, burying your face into his shoulder, squeezing your arms around him tighter—not just to shut him up, but because you could.

And because… you needed a second.

Because there was something in the air between you now—something shifting, stretching, growing. Something unspoken but suddenly very loud.

Bucky was looking for something. Waiting for something. You could feel it. The careful weight of his gaze, the way his arms settled so securely around you, like he wasn’t just holding you but keeping you. And the realization that he had been thinking about this—about you, about where the two of you stood, where you were going—it shook you.

You knew this wasn’t casual. It never had been. Not after everything in D.C., not after what you both admitted—what he admitted. Not after the way he loved you.

And now? Now he wanted to talk about it.

Shit.

You barely realized he had walked you both into the kitchen until he set you down on the cold surface of the island. The moment your bare thighs made contact with the freezing countertop, you yelped, clinging to him instinctively.

“Could’ve warned me!” you cried out, squeezing your arms around his neck in retaliation.

Bucky laughed. Full-on, unabashed laughter. The warmth of it curled through you, but you refused to acknowledge it, choosing instead to scowl at him as he pulled back slightly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” He didn’t sound sorry at all.

“You’re pushing your luck, Barnes,” you grumbled, reluctantly releasing him as he stepped back, heading toward the coffee maker.

“I’ll take my chances,” he sighed, shooting you a smirk over his shoulder.

You huffed, watching him move around your kitchen like he owned the place. Which, honestly, at this point? He practically did.

No matter how much effort you’d put into making his apartment feel like a home, he spent more time here—left his boots by your door, tossed his jacket over your chair, claimed half of your closet without even trying. And you let him. Because no matter how much you pretended to be exasperated by it, the truth was, you loved it.

“Here.” Bucky’s voice was warm as he handed you a steaming mug, his fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. “Drink up.”

You accepted it with a grateful murmur, curling your fingers around the ceramic, letting the heat sink into your skin. You took a sip. Then another. Then a third.

He didn’t move.

You frowned, glancing up at him over the rim of your cup. He stood right there, hands planted on either side of your hips, his body caging you in—not in a way that made you feel trapped, but in a way that made you feel… held.

His blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, steady. Waiting.

Your stomach flipped.

“So…” His voice was casual, but there was nothing casual about the way he was watching you. “The picture.”

Your fingers tensed around your mug.

God, he was relentless.

“You are insufferable,” you muttered, taking another sip, as if coffee could save you from this conversation.

Bucky tilted his head, lips twitching. “And you’re stalling.”

You groaned, setting your mug down beside you. “I told you—I like the picture.”

He nodded slowly, gaze unwavering. “And?”

You frowned. “And what?”

Bucky let out a soft huff, stepping closer, the warmth of him pressing against your knees. His hands found your thighs, rubbing slow, lazy circles into your skin. The touch was grounding, familiar, dangerous.

“And why’s it your background?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“I—”

“Just tell me the truth, sweetheart.” His voice dropped, softer now, rougher. “Let me hear it.”

Your heart pounded.

He wasn’t teasing anymore. There was something in his voice—something careful, something raw.

Your breath hitched as you exhaled slowly.

“Because you’re handsome. And I miss you when you’re not here,” you admitted, voice quiet but unwavering. “Because I like looking at you. Because it makes me feel… close to you.”

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just listened.

You swallowed, suddenly so aware of the weight of the moment.

“It’s… the 21st century equivalent of having a picture of your girl on your wallet. It’s just… something romantic partners do.” The words were out before you could stop them, and your stomach plummeted as realization crashed over you.

The air between you shifted.

Bucky’s fingers flexed against your thighs.

“What’s this about romantic partners?” His voice was careful, cautious.

Your grip on the coffee mug tightened.

You hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t meant to throw it out there like it was nothing when it was actually… everything.

You cleared your throat. “You’d catch on to that, wouldn’t you?” you muttered, eyes darting anywhere but him. “It’s not like we’ve, uh, talked… about labels.”

Bucky studied you, pulling back, arms crossing over his chest, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he worked something out in his head.

“Should we?”

Your breath stalled.

“Bucky—”

“It’s a genuine question,” he cut in, his voice lower now, almost grumbly, like he was bracing himself.

You exhaled slowly, rubbing your temple with your free hand. “We don’t have to,” you said, finally setting your mug down. “It’s not a requirement. And I wouldn’t want to do it if it’s something you’re not comfortable with.”

Bucky shifted, leaning in a little, closing the distance between you, fingers curling along the edge of the counter like he needed something to anchor himself. His voice was even, but his eyes—God, his eyes—were so intense you felt like you were drowning in them.

“But it is something people do nowadays?”

You squinted at him, trying to pinpoint exactly what about this had him all twisted up. His expression was blank—frustratingly so, that careful, calculated mask he wore when he wasn’t sure how much of himself to show, but it was clear his mind was working through it.

“It’s something people have always done,” you pointed out, tilting your head. “Didn’t you ever discuss going steady with your dates back in the day?”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Doll, back then, if you went on three dates, you were practically engaged.”

You blinked.

“Excuse me?”

He smirked, leaning in just a little. “You heard me.”

��That’s insane.”

“That’s the ‘40s, sweetheart.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “Were you ever engaged?”

His smirk softened, turning into something smaller, something almost shy.

“I never got to the third date,” he admitted, and you couldn’t stop yourself—you pinched his waist.

Bucky jerked slightly, laughing, his hand grabbing yours to stop you from doing it again.

“That’s ridiculous,” you muttered, shaking your head.

“What?” He grinned. “The ‘three dates’ rule or me never getting to the third date?”

“Both.”

His fingers grazed the curve of your hip, slow, thoughtful.

“So,” you drawled, narrowing your eyes at him. “By your standards, I should already have a ring on my finger?”

The second the words left your mouth, you saw it.

The way he looked at you—how something flickered across his face. His throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed, the tips of his ears going pink.

Oh my God, he’s blushing.

Your breath hitched.

And fuck.

There it was again.

That shift.

That unspoken thing hanging between you, thick and undeniable, inevitable, something you hadn’t named but had been building, piece by piece, since the moment he walked into your life.

Bucky wet his lips, fingers still tracing slow, absentminded strokes against your hip. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter.

“Would that be the worst thing?”

Your stomach dropped.

The air changed, the teasing burned away in an instant, leaving something raw and exposed in its place. You could feel your pulse in your throat, a heavy, thudding thing, your heart hammering against your ribs.

His fingers flexed against you, just slightly.

You hesitated, inhaling sharply. “New… relationship rule,” you muttered, heat crawling up your neck as you lifted a finger and poked the center of his chest.

Bucky barely moved, but his eyes flashed.

“You don’t get to joke about marriage,” you told him, voice firm despite the warmth in your face.

His lips tugged, but there was something else there now—something dark and interested.

“Who said I was joking?”

Your stomach flipped.

“James, I swear to God—”

He was looking at you, watching, like he was working something out in his head. Like he was measuring the weight of this moment, testing the limits of what could be said.

And then—

“Do you wanna go steady with me?”

Your lips parted.

Your brain stalled.

Bucky Barnes just asked if you wanted to go steady.

It should have been funny.

It should have been outdated.

But the way he said it—so serious, so low and real—made your entire body go up in flames.

He must have caught the way your breath stuttered because he pulled you forward, closer, his grip tightening just a little around your thighs, grounding you, steadying you.

You swallowed thickly, fingers curling into the fabric of his henley.

“You’re serious,” you murmured.

Bucky nodded, his gaze unwavering. “Yeah, sweetheart. I am.”

Your heart thundered.

It wasn’t just the words—it was everything behind them.

It was the months of falling asleep next to each other, the mornings making coffee, the way he always grabbed your hand in a crowd like it was second nature. It was the fact that he already had half his shirts living in your drawers, the way he kissed you like he was memorizing you every damn time.

The truth was, you’d already been his.

This was just the part where he made it official.

Bucky, the menace, pressed again, voice quieter now, more certain—like saying it one more time would make it real:

“Do you wanna go steady with me?”

Your head was spinning.

Not just from the question, but from him. From the way he stood there, broad and unshaken, all squared shoulders and tension, like he was gearing up for a no. Like he’d been so damn sure before, teasing and smug, but now—now, he was nervous.

Even after everything.

After the nights tangled together, after whispered confessions in the dark, after the I love you’s that had slipped from your lips more times than you could count now.

Even after that ridiculous jealous fit you’d thrown over Sharon Carter in D.C., after all the ways you’d reassured him that you weren’t going anywhere.

He still had doubts.

Your heart clenched.

You wanted to press yourself against his chest and tell him a thousand times over that yes, of course, yes. That there had never been a moment where you weren’t his.

But instead…

You decided to tease him.

Because why not?

You shifted slightly, arms wrapping around his neck as you tilted your head, feigning deep thought.

“What does ‘going steady’ mean exactly?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, the blue suddenly sharper.

“You know what it means.” His voice was gruff, but there was a flicker of amusement in his gaze, something that said he knew exactly what you were doing.

Still, he indulged you.

His hands gripped your thighs and spread them further, stepping between them like he owned the space, pressing himself against you.

Heat licked at your spine, curled low in your belly, but you forced yourself to keep your composure, lips twitching.

“Hm, do I?” You cocked your head, your fingers toying with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. “I’ve never dated an old man before. I don’t know what that entails.”

Bucky’s hands tightened on your thighs.

“Why don’t you give me some examples?”

He exhaled sharply, and you could see the moment he decided to play your game.

“Alright, doll,” he rasped, tilting his head, his lips brushing dangerously close to your ear. “Going steady means I get to hold your hand whenever I damn well please. Even if it’s just to steal your warmth. Even if it’s just to feel you.”

His fingers traced down your arm before intertwining with yours, squeezing gently, like he never wanted to let go.

“It means I walk you home, make sure you get there safe, even if you swear you don’t need me to.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “It means I take you dancing—if we make it out the door. And when we inevitably don’t, it means I’ll just have to sway you around the living room instead. Press you against the wall. Whisper things in your ear that’ll make you blush.”

Heat flickered low in your belly, sharp and insistent. Your breath hitched as he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression suddenly raw.

“It means I’m the guy who shows up when your shower isn’t working, who carries your bags even when you argue you can do it yourself, who remembers how you take your coffee…” His thumb brushed against your cheek, voice dipping lower, more certain. “It means I’m the guy who gets to kiss you whenever I want. Wherever I want. It means I get to have you under me, above me, wrapped around me, moaning my name like it’s the only one you know.”

A shiver skated down your spine. Your thighs squeezed around his hips instinctively, and he smirked, eyes dark, amused.

His voice was a husky promise when he leaned in closer, lips barely brushing yours. “It means I’m yours, and you’re mine. No second-guessing. No wondering. No what-ifs.”

His gaze burned into you, steady, unshaken. “It means you never have to doubt where I stand, 'cause it’s always right here—with you.”

Your teasing resolve cracked, shattered under the weight of him—his words, his presence, the way he was always so damn steady.

Your throat felt tight.

“Oh,” you whispered.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah,” he murmured, dropping his forehead to yours, breathing you in. “Oh.”

Your fingers curled around the front of his shirt, clinging. He was so close, so warm, so Bucky that you couldn’t remember what life was like before him, and you didn’t want to.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he murmured, his voice lower now, almost testing.

“What was your question again?” You breathed out, shaky.

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose. His patience was running out, and still… “Do you wanna go steady with me?”

This time, his voice was different. Lower. Rougher. The kind of voice that sent heat curling down your spine, settling deep in your stomach.

You bit your lip, letting your nose brush against the rough stubble of his jaw before pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the pulse point in his neck.

“James Buchanan Barnes...” you murmured, your voice teasing but thick with emotion. “Are we boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Bucky inhaled sharply, chest rising against yours, his breath hot as it left him in a slow exhale. His hands on your hips twitched slightly, fingers flexing as if he was resisting the urge to pull you in even closer.

“Am I not too old to be a boyfriend?” His voice was low, edged with something rough.

You grinned against his skin, pressing another lingering kiss just below his jaw, loving the way his grip tightened instinctively at the contact. “Would you prefer manfriend? Would that fit you better?”

A low sound rumbled in his chest, a mixture of amusement and warning. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” you whispered, lips barely brushing his skin now, your breath warm against the column of his throat.

The teasing evaporated.

The air shifted.

Bucky wasn’t nervous anymore.

His blue eyes flickered over your face, your lips, your throat, dark and heavy with intent. His grip flexed at your waist, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your sleep shirt, a silent tease of what was to come.

“You didn’t answer me,” he murmured, his voice lower, deeper, dripping with quiet authority.

Your heart pounded.

He was right there. Close enough that all you had to do was lean in, tilt your chin, and—

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his Henley, fisting it tight as you pulled him in until there was nothing left between you but heat and the electric charge that hummed between your bodies.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice unsteady.

“Yes?” His gaze flickered to your lips, his thumb grazing your hip bone, slow and deliberate.

“Yes,” you repeated, softer this time. “I’ll go steady with you, Buck.”

His breath left him in a slow exhale, something shifting in his expression, in his body.

And then—

He kissed you.

Not slow. Not teasing. Fierce. Unrelenting. Like he’d been waiting forever and couldn’t hold back anymore.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer, and his hands tightened on your hips, tugging you flush against him. His lips were warm, insistent, like he was staking a claim—like he wanted to make damn sure you knew exactly what you’d just agreed to.

His lips were warm, insistent, claiming you in a way that made your stomach clench and your thighs tighten around his waist. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty—just Bucky pressing himself into every inch of you, as if trying to brand the moment into his skin.

And then his hands started moving.

Slow. Purposeful.

Dragging up the hem of your hoodie, rough palms mapping the soft skin beneath. A shiver rippled through you as his fingers teased higher, sweeping over your ribs, grazing the underside of your breasts in a way that made you gasp against his mouth.

Bucky groaned, low and deep, and you felt it everywhere.Your legs locked tight around his hips, drawing him in until there was no space left, no room for doubt—just the heavy, aching pressure of him, firm against the heat of your center. A shaky sound slipped from your lips, and Bucky swallowed it with a kiss that was nothing short of greedy.

His hands never stilled—one sliding slow beneath your hoodie, fingers memorizing the soft give of your waist, the curve of your ribs; the other gripped under your thigh like he needed to anchor himself to something before he came undone. He rocked into you with a controlled grind that had your head tipping back, your breath catching.

He chased the sound like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, his mouth trailing down your throat in open, possessive kisses that made your breath catch.

“Jesus, Buck,” you gasped, your voice hitching on a laugh that dissolved into a quiet moan. “Is this what claiming me looks like?”

You said it at his ear, half-teasing, half-breathless—just as his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your panties. He froze, just for a beat, then let out a short, rough laugh against your skin.

“You did just agree to date me,” he murmured, voice low and threaded with heat. “You really surprised I’m taking that seriously?”

You pulled back to look at him, a grin tugging at your lips as your fingers slid into his hair. His cheeks were flushed, his pupils blown wide—but behind all that intensity was a softness that made your chest tighten.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you whispered, nose brushing his, “I think you’re drunk on commitment.”

He let out another low laugh, one that sounded like it shook something loose in his chest. His lips curled into a smile before he pressed a kiss to your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet now, certain. “I think I am.”

Then he kissed you again—slower this time, no urgency, no second-guessing. Just a man who knew exactly where he belonged.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky x reader smut #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fanfic #sebastian stan

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mattsfavouritewhore · 5 months ago

Text

Just a dream - chris sturniolo

Summary: A bad dream opened your eyes to what could be a harsh wake up call.

The soft hum of the ceiling fan filled the quiet bedroom as you stirred under the covers. Chris's arm was draped loosely over your waist, his even breathing a comforting rhythm against the uncertainty brewing in your chest. You’d always told yourself you were fine with this—this undefined “situationship” where you acted like a couple without the label—but last night’s dream had shaken that fragile resolve.

The dream had felt so real. Chris, smiling in a photo with another girl, his arm slung casually over her shoulders. No warning, no explanation, just him moving on like what you two had meant nothing. The pit in your stomach deepened, bile rising to your throat as the memory of the dream replayed. Next to him, everything felt off, abnormal, like the balance had shifted.

You turned onto your side, careful not to wake him, and stared at his peaceful face. The sight of him—the small crinkle of his brows even in sleep, the way his lips parted slightly as he breathed—usually brought comfort. But now, it only made the ache in your chest worse.

Chris stirred beside you, his lashes fluttering open as he turned toward you. "Babe?" His voice was rough with sleep, but his eyes quickly sharpened when they landed on your tear-streaked face. "What’s wrong? Are you okay?"

You hesitated, swallowing hard, debating whether to tell him. But the dream had left its mark..

“I had a dream about you…It… it made me feel sick."

His face softened immediately, his brows knitting together in concern. "Hey, hey, come here." He reached out, pulling you into his chest, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“I know it was just a dream,” you replied, your voice trembling. “But it felt so real.. you got a girlfriend. You didn’t even tell me"

His eyes softened, but he looked taken aback. “Babe, it was just a dream... You know that, right?" almost as if he was making sure you knew.. even though you had just told him you knew it was a dream.

You nodded against him but couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on you. "But it… it felt real. Like it could happen..And the worst part is… it’s something you could do. We’re not even official, Chris. What if one day you just decide I’m not enough?” Your voice cracked, and you pulled away to look at him.

His face fell, guilt flashing in his eyes as he sat up. He ran a hand through his messy hair, clearly at a loss for words. “I didn’t realize you felt this way,” he said quietly.

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, feeling exposed. “I didn’t either, until last night... You’re scared of commitment, Chris, i get that.. but What if you just… decide one day that this isn’t enough for you?"

His eyes darkened, guilt flashing across his face. He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "I… I’m sorry I’ve made you feel that way. I’ve been so scared of putting a label on us because I didn’t want to mess things up. But I’m realizing now that not committing is hurting you more than I ever wanted."

The rest of the morning passed in a haze. Chris stayed by your side, but there was a heaviness in the air. When he eventually left, saying he needed to clear his head, you couldn’t shake the hollow feeling inside you. You spent the day replaying the dream and your conversation, The thought of losing him—of someone else taking your place- The thought of him slipping away felt unbearable. The words, they gave you a sliver of hope, but the anxiety lingered.

by the time evening rolled around, you were curled up on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. A soft knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. When you opened it, there he stood, a bouquet of your favourite flowers in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other. His face was earnest, nervous even.

“Hey,” he said softly, his expression a mix of nervousness and determination. “Can I come in?”

You nodded, stepping aside to let him in. He set the flowers and chocolates on the coffee table before turning to face you.

“I’ve been an idiot,” he began, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “I’ve been scared—scared of commitment, scared of messing things up. But losing you… the thought of you not being in my life is even scarier.... I… I’ve been thinking about what you said. About us. And I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re not enough or like I’d replace you. I’m terrified of screwing this up, but I’d rather try and fail than lose you because I was too scared to commit."

Your breath hitched as his words sank in. He took your hands in his, his grip firm and reassuring.

“I don’t want to be with anyone else,” he continued. “I want this—us. Officially.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, and you blinked back fresh tears. "Are you sure, Chris?"

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.” He stepped closer, gently cupping your face in his hands. "I’m sure about you. I’ve always been sure about you."

A watery laugh escaped your lips, and you nodded. "Okay." throwing your arms around him. He held you tightly, as if he never wanted to let go.

Chris grinned, relief flooding his face as he leaned down to press a tender kiss to your lips. In that moment, the dream melted away, replaced by the warmth of his touch and the promise of something real. The rest of the night was a blur of soft kisses, whispered promises, and the sweet realisation that you no longer had to wonder where you stood. Chris was yours, and you were his—no more doubts, no more fears. Just the two of you, together.

a/n: i feel like this sucks...

#chris sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #sturniolo #chris sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo smut #matt x reader #sturniolo fandom #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo smut

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revelboo · 8 months ago

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Everything is Alright Pt1

Starscream x Reader

18+ 🌶️

• Absolutely an accident. Scouting excursion gone wrong when he’s spotted and ambushed by quite possibly the two most obnoxious Autobots he’s ever had the displeasure to deal with, Jazz and Bumblebee. Damaged, he’s forced to fly low, darting down a far too narrow forested road in his alt mode with those persistent Autobots right on his aft.

• You’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time, taking a ride through the country in your little sedan. You just needed to get away, relax and destress from home and work. Music cranked as your mind wanders, you almost don’t hear the scream of the jet flying obscenely low, wingtips clipping and shattering tree limbs to rain down on the road.

• When you do notice, your eyes dart up to the rear view mirror and there’s a moment of just flat disbelief, because there’s no way. Then the jet screams over the top of your car so close you swear it scrapes the paint and you’re slamming on the brakes, hauling at the wheel as this bright yellow sports car tears past on your left, a white car right on its fender.

• You never were a fantastic driver, losing control and heading straight into the tree line, head bouncing off the wheel. There’s a sound of thunder, the pounding staccato drowning out the frantic drumming of your heart. No, not thunder. Weapons firing at the jet.

• It’s the saboteur not the scout that manages a direct hit, forcing Starscream to transform and hit the asphalt at a run, staggering and nearly pitching face first into the trees as he turns to return fire. Both Autobots already transformed and no doubt calling for backup.

• Outnumbered, but hardly out gunned. Still, this wasn’t how he had his day planned, baring his denta at the two Autobots and feeling energon dripping along his side. And once their backup showed?

• It’s almost serendipity when you stagger out of your car, concussed and shell shocked to blunder into the road. Between Starscream and the two nuisances. He’d seen the car go off the road, but hadn’t cared about whatever had been inside. Humans, ugh. But Jazz and Bumblebee both stop firing, staring in no small amount of shock at you.

• And there you are, staring up at him with wide eyes. Not screaming. Not running for your squishy, little life, because your brain is definitely shaken, not stirred. All you can do is gape up at the giant, alien robots with guns in dumb silence and wonder if you’re in fact still in the car bleeding out while your damaged brain spins sci-fi nonsense cotton candy in your last moments.

• And the Autobots are holding fire, because of you. To try and not accidentally kill your very unlucky self. Starscream only sees a get out of jail free card, lunging and closing his servos on you, arm extended to hold you out in front of him like a laughably pathetic shield. Except it works. Neither Autobot moves, weapons faltering.

• The panic kicks in, breaking through the pained fog and you struggle against his far too tight grip, but are ignored. Your heart’s hammering against your ribs, tangling with the pain pounding in your addled head. It’s too much, fear twisting inside you as he laughs. The other two alien robots still have their weapons drawn, but they’re pleading that you be let go.

• Starscream’s still laughing as he says, “No.” Injuries screaming at him, he grimaces as he tucks you to his chassis and transforms around you, trapping you inside while he tries very hard to not think about the fact that there’s a nasty, dripping little human inside him as he bolts.

• He keeps you trapped when he returns to base, pinned inside his canopy as he sneaks back to his quarters to dump you into an empty energon cube, because he has no idea what to do with you now. Squishing you to a paste is definitely an option, but as you stare dumbly up at him in shock, still not screaming, he wonders if he might keep you instead. Especially if you can be dangled in front of those idiot Autobots to save his own aft.

• Slowly self preservation shatters the numb terror, letting you look around and actually see your surroundings. You never were that athletic and there’s no climbing out of the clear box he’s dropped you in. But you’re alive. When the big alien that kidnapped you starts muttering and generally lamenting about you, the “Autobots,” and his life in general, you hesitantly agree with him in a hushed voice, because staying on his good side? Probably a good idea for your continued existence.

• He’s shocked, wings lifting slightly as he vents and stares. You… agreed with him? This mech craves validation and you offer it up freely and yes, he’s flustered, before straightening slightly. Because of course you agree, how could you not? So he rants, almost preening when you make little commiserating noises. You’re in turn shocked when he moves across the room to drop a polishing cloth as big as a queen sized sheet on top of you. You’re not sure if it’s an olive branch or not, but you seize upon it with both hands, wrapping the cloth around you to fight off the chill in the metal room and taking the time to run your fingers through your hair to catalog how badly beat up you are.

#idw starscream #starscream x reader #transformers #transformers x reader

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slutoru1207 · 2 months ago

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Mistaken Devotion – Part 5

Your Mark was losing.

For the first time since he got his powers, he wasn’t just fighting another version of himself—

He was fighting a version that had nothing left to lose.

Full-Mask Mark was relentless. Brutal.

And your Mark?

He was holding back.

You saw it. Felt it.

Every punch he threw wasn’t as ruthless as it should’ve been.

Every block wasn’t as calculated as it needed to be.

He was fighting like he still had something to come home to.

But Full-Mask Mark?

He was fighting like you were already his.

"You’re weak," the masked Mark snarled, driving his fist into your Mark’s ribs.

A sickening crack filled the room.

Your Mark choked, stumbling back—and that split-second hesitation was all it took.

In a flash, Full-Mask Mark had him by the throat, slamming him against the wall.

Your Mark gasped.

Your stomach dropped.

"You don’t deserve her," the masked Mark growled, voice low, dangerous, final. His grip tightened.

Your Mark gritted his teeth, struggling. His vision was blurring—his body aching—

And then—

His eyes flickered to you.

You.

Terrified. Frozen. Watching.

His entire world standing just feet away—

And another version of him trying to take it.

And in that moment—

Something snapped.

A rush of adrenaline exploded through his body.

With a snarl, your Mark grabbed Full-Mask Mark’s wrist—crushing it in his grip.

The masked Mark’s breath hitched.

But before he could react—

Your Mark moved.

His elbow rammed into his double’s ribs—hard.

The grip on his throat loosened.

And then—

He drove his knee into the imposter’s stomach.

A brutal, earth-shaking hit.

Full-Mask Mark **coughed—**staggering. His breath shuddered.

Your Mark didn’t let him recover.

He spun—fist slamming into his double’s jaw with enough force to send blood splattering across the floor.

The masked Mark’s head snapped to the side—his entire body reeling.

Your Mark stepped forward—relentless, furious, done.

"She’s mine."

The last punch was devastating.

The masked Mark crashed into the floor, gasping—dazed, disoriented, barely conscious.

Your Mark stood over him, panting, fists still clenched, body coiled with adrenaline and rage.

And then—

His eyes flicked to you.

Shaken. Wide-eyed. Safe.

His entire body softened.

A sharp inhale—then he was crossing the space between you.

"Are you okay?" he murmured, voice hoarse, worried, desperate.

You nodded—then threw yourself at him.

His arms wrapped around you instantly, holding you tight, pressing his face into your hair, like he was making sure—making sure—you were still here.

"I thought I lost you." His voice broke.

You shook your head, gripping him tighter.

"I’m right here."

His arms tightened.

But behind him—

The masked Mark stirred.

And this time—

He wasn’t alone.

A portal crackled open.

And more Marks stepped through.

#full masked mark #mark grayson invincible #invincible comic #mark x reader #invincible season 3 #mark grayson x reader #invincible x you #invincible #invincible smut #invincible fanfic #invincible x reader #sinister invincible x reader #sinister invincible #no goggles mark x reader #mohawk invincible #mustache mark

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theonottsbxtch · 1 month ago

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A LOYAL HEART | OP81

an: the longer i was writing redcoat the longer i was falling in love with this version of oscar and i was held at gunpoint to write something for our dear boy. i loved writing this little universe, come talk to me about it if you like it!

warnings: mentions of death and miscarriage

wc: 5.0k

summary: Following Lando's story in Redcoat, this follows Oscar, a former soldier adrift in the quiet after war. Burdened by loss and shaken faith, he finds unexpected solace in a sharp-tongued widow with wounds of her own. Through rainstorms, shared silences, and slow-blooming trust, they learn that even the most weathered hearts can find home again.

redcoat part one | redcoat part two

CHARLESTON, 1785

The war had ended, or so the papers claimed.

But the streets still bristled with the memory of it. With boots, with bruised pride, with banners torn down but not forgotten. Charleston stood like a house after a storm: upright, but no longer quite the same.

Oscar had been posted there six months now. Not as a soldier, they said, but a man of peace. He wore the same red coat, only now it felt thinner. Not in fabric, but in meaning. Where once it had shielded him with duty, now it hung from his shoulders like a story no one wanted to read again.

He still polished his boots each morning. Still folded his letters to Lando with precision. Still stood when women entered a room and removed his hat as if God Himself were watching.

It was routine that kept him breathing.

And routine that led him, one golden afternoon, into the old quarter, where homes leaned tiredly into one another and shops bore names not meant for British tongues.

There, nestled beneath the shadow of a drooping willow, was a small apothecary.

It was nothing grand. A bell that clattered like a cough when the door swung. Shelves lined with glass jars, some empty, some filled with dried herbs, some labelled with scrawl barely legible. A counter smoothed from the brushing of many elbows. And behind it was a woman.

She did not smile when he entered. Nor did she greet him. She simply looked up from her mortar and pestle and said, “You’re bleeding.”

Oscar blinked. Looked down. Sure enough, a thread-thin cut ran across the back of his knuckle, courtesy of a brass buckle and his own damn stubbornness.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said.

“No,” she replied, “you lot never do.”

And then she turned, muttering something about oak bark and stubborn fools, and disappeared into the back.

He should have left. Truly, he should’ve.

But Oscar stayed. Drawn by something he could not name—perhaps it was the way she had not flinched at the red of his coat. Or the way she’d looked at him not like a soldier, not like a symbol, but like a man too daft to clean a wound.

She returned moments later with a scrap of linen and something bitter-smelling in a chipped jar.

“This’ll sting,” she warned.

“Good,” he replied.

She arched a brow, and the corner of her mouth twitched, but did not smile.

“Sit.”

He obeyed, without question.

And for the first time since the war had ended, Oscar felt something stir in him that was not guilt, not weariness, not displacement.

It was... quiet.

And curious.

And very much alive.

He came back two days later.

No injury this time. Not even a scratch to excuse his presence. Only a chill to the morning air, and the slow, unsatisfying drag of time between dawn and noon. He told himself it was the sound of the apothecary bell that drew him. That odd, metallic cough. Something needed mending.

But it wasn’t the bell.

It was her.

She looked up as he entered. Still no smile. Still no formal greeting. Just that same flat stare, heavy with appraisal, as though weighing not his presence, but his purpose.

“You’re not bleeding,” she observed, arms crossed.

He cleared his throat. “I noticed the door hangs. Makes a racket when the wind kicks in. Thought I might fix it.”

“Do I strike you as someone helpless with a hinge?”

“No,” he said, meeting her gaze. “But I’ve spent so long fighting men, I thought I might try fixing something instead.”

There was silence. Then, with the softest exhale, something between disbelief and reluctant amusement, she gestured with her head.

“Toolbox’s under the stairs. Don’t break anything.”

He nodded once. Removed his coat, slowly, almost reverently, and hung it over the back of a nearby chair.

It struck her then, how deliberately he did everything. As though every action were a confession. As though the very act of folding, of lifting, of hammering quietly, was his penance.

She watched him work. Not openly, but from behind her shelves. Between tasks. A careful, covert study.

He didn’t hum, as some men did. Didn’t boast or explain or ask for praise. Just knelt, straightened, tightened, and tested. All in holy silence.

At one point, he murmured, “You’ve made something peaceful here.”

She paused. Dried her hands on a cloth. “Peace is expensive.”

He glanced up. “And who paid for yours?”

She didn’t answer. Only said, “If you’re after a confession, you’ll have to find a priest.”

Oscar smiled, not broadly, but in that quiet, stunned sort of way a man does when something warm touches a cold place he’d forgotten about.

“I stopped trusting priests when mine told me war was glorious.”

She looked at him then. Properly. And something unspoken passed between them, not flirtation, not fondness. Something older. Graver. A shared truth without the burden of speaking it aloud.

When he stood, the door no longer squeaked.

He gathered his coat, eyes still on her. “I’ll be by again,” he said.

She arched a brow. “More hinges?”

“Not if I can help it.”

It was the kind of storm that made you feel watched. Thunder low and rolling, like God pacing behind closed doors. Rain that struck the shutters with impatient fingers. Wind that howled not for entrance, but in warning.

She had just locked the shop when the knock came.

Not loud. Just three quick raps. Measured. Controlled. And yet somehow...desperate.

She opened the door to find him drenched. Hat forgotten. Red coat darkened by rain, hair plastered to his brow, shoulders hunched like the weight of silence had finally broken him.

“Oscar,” she said, blinking. “What in heaven’s name—”

“Our quarters flooded and I didn’t know where else to go,” he said, voice raw, like it had rubbed against something sharp.

She stepped aside without question.

Inside, the apothecary felt even smaller against the storm. Shelves cast long shadows by the hearth’s glow. The scent of dried lavender and damp wool clung thickly in the air. She handed him a towel without asking. He accepted it with a murmur of thanks.

They didn’t speak for a moment. Just the fire. The distant moan of wind. And the quiet thump of his heartbeat trying to calm itself.

She watched him as he stood by the hearth, drying his hands but not his eyes. He looked like a man who’d wandered too long in a wilderness of thoughts.

“What’s on your mind, soldier?” she asked, soft but steady.

He let out a laugh, bitter and hollow. “You ever sit so still the past catches up with you?”

She tilted her head, waiting.

“I’ve been... proud,” he said slowly. “Too proud to admit it. But the war didn’t just take lives, it took the map I lived by. God, country, command, all of it. Gone quiet. I watched boys younger than me fall with prayers still on their lips. And I kept waiting, for something. Some divine sign. Some reason.”

He swallowed.

“But it never came. Only more orders. More blood. And now... Lando is alive, and happy. And I’m glad. I truly am. But it makes the quiet louder, somehow. Like the war gave him purpose. And all it left me was... this.”

He gestured vaguely, to the coat, to the rain, to himself.

Silence fell again, thick and reverent.

She looked at him, not with pity, but understanding. A shared ache. A mirror held at an angle.

“It’s funny,” she said, “how quickly the world moves forward while we’re stuck in the past, isn’t it?”

Oscar turned to her, brow furrowed but not questioning.

She met his gaze. Unflinching. Voice softer now, almost lost to the crackle of fire. “I was married. Before the war.”

He said nothing, but his eyes said everything.

“He was a printer. Fingers always ink-stained. Used to read scripture aloud even when no one asked him to. Said it kept the walls holy.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched, as if holding something back.

“They sent his effects in a box smaller than a Bible,” she said. “Told me it was a noble death. As if nobility made the bed feel any less empty.”

A beat.

Then she smiled—not brightly, but with the grace of someone still alive despite everything.

“So no, you’re not the only one who’s lost his faith.”

Oscar breathed in. Something shaky. Sacred.

And then, after a long moment, he said, “May I stay? Just for a little while. I don’t wish to be alone tonight.”

She nodded once, and crossed the room to light a second candle.

Not for brightness.

But for company.

The storm pressed on, but the room had settled. Two souls made smaller by time, and yet somehow, just tonight, stretched wider than they’d dared in years.

Oscar sat in the chair closest to the fire, boots off, coat hung to dry, sleeves rolled just above his elbows. He looked… less like a soldier now. More like a man learning to breathe again.

She handed him a mug of something warm and when their fingers touched, just briefly, he didn’t flinch.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough from use.

“It’s nothing,” she replied, but there was something in her eyes that said it was.

A kind of silence grew between them. Comfortable. Earned.

“I used to love storms,” she said, glancing at the window where rain danced like it had secrets. “When I was a girl, I’d stand on the porch and count the seconds between thunder and lightning.”

“And now?”

“Now I just listen. There’s something honest about a storm, don’t you think? It doesn’t pretend.”

Oscar smiled faintly. “I used to think they were God’s way of shouting.”

“And now?”

“I think… maybe He’s just tired of whispers.”

That made her look at him. Really look. And for the first time, Oscar didn’t look away.

“I haven’t spoken to anyone like this in a long while,” he admitted.

“You mean a woman?” she teased, brows raised.

He chuckled, low and unguarded. “I mean anyone who doesn’t expect me to salute or bleed.”

That quiet fell again. Like a blanket. Like a church.

After a while, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze locked on the fire.

“Lando… he has a future,” he murmured. “He talks about land. About building things. You can hear it in his voice, hope, like he’s already halfway there.”

“And you?”

“I’ve only just stopped being angry. I don’t know what comes next.”

She moved to sit across from him, knees close, skirts brushing his boots.

“You don’t have to know,” she said. “Not tonight.”

Oscar looked up at her, something fragile in his expression.

Then, “Will you read to me?”

She blinked. “Read?”

“You said he used to read scripture aloud. Your husband.”

“I—yes. I did.”

“You don’t have to. But… I’d like to remember what it sounds like. Holy words in a quiet room.”

She hesitated, then reached for a small worn Bible that still lived on a shelf above the counter. She hadn’t opened it in some time.

Her fingers turned the pages until they found something old and comforting.

She read, voice soft but sure. “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest…”

The storm cracked loud outside, but Oscar closed his eyes.

And in that moment, with scripture on her lips and thunder in the heavens, something inside him, something angry and hard, bent ever so slightly toward peace.

When she finished, they said nothing.

But he stayed. All night.

On the floor beside the hearth, with a spare blanket and a pillow she brought without question. She watched him fall asleep, his brow soft in sleep, his shoulders less haunted.

And just before she climbed into her own bed, she looked up to the ceiling and whispered, “Maybe You haven’t gone quiet after all.”

He was up before her.

She found him standing in the kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled once more, hair sleep-ruffled, brow furrowed like the kettle had offended him personally. He held a spoon in one hand and stared at it, as though willing it to explain what, precisely, it was meant to stir.

“You look like a man attempting sorcery,” she said, leaning on the doorframe.

Oscar glanced up, utterly unbothered by the state of him. “I’ve faced battle with less confusion.”

“Did you… attempt tea?”

“I may have boiled it to death.”

She crossed to him, took the kettle gently from his hand and laughed, soft, lovely. “That’s not even tea, Oscar. That’s penance.”

He huffed through a smile. “Fitting.”

As she re-boiled the water properly and laid out two chipped cups, he leaned back against the counter, watching her. Something in him had quieted. Not dulled, but steadied.

“I haven’t had a morning like this in years,” he said at length.

“With poorly made tea and a storm-soaked floor?”

“With… kindness.”

She didn’t look at him, just poured the tea, steady hand and all. “It’s not kindness,” she said. “It’s tea.”

He took the cup she offered, holding it with both hands. “It’s more than that.”

She sipped her own, smirk tugging at her lips. “You always speak like you’re mid-sermon.”

“And you speak like you’ve no time for sermons.”

“Perhaps because I haven’t,” she replied, lifting her chin. “I’ve lived through war. Grief. Raising a child who never came.”

That silenced the room a little. Not heavy, but honest.

Oscar swallowed. “You never mentioned a child.”

“Because I didn’t get to know them. War doesn’t just steal men, Oscar. It takes the things they leave behind.”

He said nothing for a moment, just set down his cup and reached for hers. His hand touched hers when he took it, eyes holding hers with a gentleness that undid her for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I’m not asking for sorrow.”

“Then what would you ask?”

“Company. Real company. Not charity or pity or pride. Just… presence.”

A pause. He nodded. “That, I can offer.”

They stood there, the kettle between them, the storm long gone but its echo still on the windows.

After a moment, she sighed. “So. What now?”

He blinked. “Now?”

“Yes. Are we just two people in a kitchen, or are we friends?”

Oscar looked at her for a long, long moment. Then he stepped forward, ever so slightly.

“We’re two people,” he said. “But I think… I’d like us to be more.”

“And what does that look like?”

“A promise. Not grand. Not immediate. Just, if you’ll have it, a loyal heart. Mine.”

She smiled, the sort of smile she hadn’t dared since the world ended.

And as the clock ticked on the mantle and the morning sun peeled itself over the wet horizon, she reached for his hand and said, simply.

“I’ll have it.”

The storm passed. The roads dried. And Oscar didn’t leave.

He made excuses at first, something about checking the roof tiles, how the cellar door didn’t shut properly, how she oughtn’t be lifting crates that heavy. She scoffed, but never told him to go.

They fell into rhythm. Not of love, yet. But something gentler. She caught him humming once as he mended a broken latch. He caught her staring too long at his hands, then pretending she hadn’t.

They shared tea in the mornings. Supper in the evenings. Walks when the weather allowed. Silence when it didn’t.

It wasn’t rushed. There was no grand declaration, no clumsy grasping at passion to fill the empty space between them.

Just… space filled with something else.

One morning, she found him kneeling in the garden, sleeves rolled, palms in the soil like it might speak to him. A sprig of rosemary tucked behind one ear. She leaned against the doorway and called out, “If you’re going to start whispering to the vegetables, I’ll need warning.”

Oscar looked up, grinning. “They’ve heard worse confessions, I imagine.”

That evening, he brought her a handful of violets. Didn’t say a word about them. Just left them by the bread bin and pretended they weren’t there.

She noticed.

Later that week, he fixed the fence at the back and returned with a cut on his palm. She stitched it with a sure hand and said, “Try not to bleed on the sheets.”

He didn’t miss the ‘our’ she hadn’t said.

They went to market together on Saturday. She bought flour and honey. He bought a book of poetry he said he hated. She read from it at night, by the hearth, and he closed his eyes and listened like it was scripture.

One night, after too much wine and too little food, she leaned her head on his shoulder and murmured, “Do you believe in second chances, Oscar?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. Then—

“I think I’m living one.”

She nodded, quietly. “I think I am, too.”

One particular nice day, the bell above the apothecary door tinkled.

She looked up from the counter, apron dusted in dust, and saw a stranger with the air of a healing man. His coat was a little too fine, boots polished to an almost theatrical shine, and though his hair was longer than regulation, there was no mistaking the military in his past.

“Good morning,” he said, voice rich and warm like burnt toffee. A British accent. “Is this the apothecary that also stitches windows and fixes fences and lends books of poetry with dog-eared pages?”

She blinked. “Depends who’s asking.”

He smiled. “A friend. Hopefully still one.”

From the back room, Oscar’s voice called out, “I’ve got the ledger right—” and then it stopped. She turned just as he came into view, cloth in hand, and froze.

“Lando?”

The stranger grinned wider. “Hello, Osc.”

Oscar cleared his throat. “What… what are you doing here?”

“Went to your quarters. Your old bunkmate, Logan, was it? Said you’d vanished. Thought you’d gone back to sea. But no here you are, keeping house and hearth.” His eyes flicked between them. “Rather domestically.”

Oscar looked like he wished the floor might open up and swallow him.

She raised a brow. “Friend of yours?”

Lando turned to her, offering a hand with gentlemanly flourish. “Lando Norris. At your service, miss.”

She hesitated because the name meant nothing to her but took it politely. “Pleasure.”

He looked at Oscar again, smug now. “May we… walk? A moment?”

Oscar muttered something and shrugged on his coat.

They walked the back path into the tree-line, boots scuffing frost-hardened soil. Lando waited until they were far enough to be alone with the wind before elbowing him lightly.

“So, Osc,” he said, with mock gravity, “I think you’re not telling me something here.”

Oscar groaned. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“She’s lovely.”

Oscar stared ahead. “I know.”

“Sharp, too. Pretty sure she could kill me with a piece of cotton.”

“Probably.”

Lando chuckled. “You haven’t told her about me.”

Oscar shoved his hands in his pockets. “I have, just not much.”

“I’m hurt Oscar, I thought I was your best friend, you don’t even mention me.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “What’s there to say? That once upon a time I was a soldier, and now I’m not? That once I watched you get nearly drowned, and thought maybe I should’ve joined you?”

Lando was quiet. Then, gently, “She’s brought you back, hasn’t she?”

Oscar let the silence stretch. “I don’t know where I went, Lando. But yes. She did.”

Lando nodded. “Then you ought to tell her. Eventually.”

Oscar looked up at the grey sky. “Maybe. When it’s time.”

The sky had gone full pewter by the time they turned back for the house, quiet now but not awkward. Comfortable. Like an old coat dug from the chest, worn but warm.

Oscar spoke first, voice low. “So why’d you really come, Lando?”

Lando gave him a look, wry, gentle, just a shade too soft to be teasing.

“Because I wanted to see you,” he said. “And because my wife’s expecting.”

Oscar stopped walking.

Lando laughed, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “Aye. I know. I still feel like a boy some mornings, and now I’ve got a child on the way.”

Oscar didn’t know what to say. “Congratulations,” he managed, voice a bit raw.

“There’s more.”

He looked over.

“I want you to be godfather.”

Oscar’s breath caught. “Lando—”

“You saved my life, Osc. More than once. I want my child to know that kind of loyalty. That kind of love.”

Oscar looked down at the mud-spattered path, lips pressed together.

“You know I don’t go to church,” he muttered. “I barely know if I believe anymore.”

Lando just smiled. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll do it anyway.”

They didn’t speak again until they reached the shop. Lando kissed the woman’s hand with a bow that was both sincere and mischievous, then vanished into the dusk like a ghost in.

That night, the rain returned, soft against the windows.

Oscar lay awake on the bed, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The candle flickered low on the side table. He’d barely touched the stew she’d left him, too full of something else.

Not quite sorrow. Not quite joy. Just… time. The feeling of it passing. The knowing that he wasn’t young, not anymore. That his hands ached in the mornings and he no longer reached for his boots out of habit.

She knocked on the doorframe softly. “You still awake?”

He turned his head. She stepped inside, arms crossed.

“I saved you a roll. It’s got more butter than sense.”

He smiled faintly. “Thanks.”

She hesitated. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“In a way, I have.”

She perched beside him, folding her legs beneath her. “What did he want, the friend?”

Oscar stared at the candle. “He asked me to be godfather.”

Her brows lifted. “That’s—”

“I haven’t set foot in a church in three years,” he cut in, quiet. “And even when I did… I don’t know. I think somewhere between the dying and the silence, I stopped looking up.”

She didn’t answer straight away. Just reached over and placed a hand gently over his.

“That doesn’t mean you aren’t still good,” she said softly. “Still worthy.”

He looked at her then, and something in his chest shifted, like a stone being moved after years at rest.

A week passed and they never spoke of that conversation again, Oscar had mulled over the idea of being the Godfather to Lando’s child but he still held some hesitation. What if he wasn’t enough.

Oscar was sat near the hearth, polishing his boots though he had no real cause. They weren’t dirty, hadn’t been since the last rain, but the motion soothed him, gave his hands something to do while his mind wandered far from the worn leather.

She was sat across from him, her fingers moving deftly over wool and needles. The fire threw warm shadows across her knuckles, catching in the curl of her hair. He’d seen her like this more and more, half-turned from the world, busy with something gentle.

“What’s that going to be?” he asked finally.

She glanced up, smiling faintly. “A bonnet. And mittens, if I can manage it.”

“For...?”

“Lando’s wife. The baby.”

Oscar stilled.

She didn’t notice. Or maybe she did, and chose to pretend otherwise.

“Thought it might be nice,” she added, soft. “You said the other day you two went far back. And she, well. I imagine she’s nervous. I was, first time.”

He nodded slowly, the ache rising in him like water through floorboards. Not for her knitting. Not even for Lando.

But for the grace of her. The quiet, unspoken goodness that made her think of others while still mending her own shattered life. She had not just stitched wool, she had stitched him back together without even meaning to.

She stood to fetch more yarn from the corner basket, and as she passed, the firelight caught on her cheek in just the right way, and he saw her not as widow, nor war-bride, nor shopkeeper.

But as hope. As forgiveness.

He rose, as though pulled.

“Don’t move,” he said, low. His hand brushed hers before she turned fully, and she stilled beneath the touch.

“Oscar—”

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Too long, maybe. But I reckon now’s the time.”

“For what?”

“For this.”

He kissed her like a man afraid he’d wake from it. Not hurried, not forceful. Just quiet. Like a prayer whispered in the dark.

When they parted, she blinked up at him.

“About time,” she murmured.

He huffed a laugh. “Aye.”

The moment lingered between them like the softest of silences, one that spoke far more than either had ever expected to articulate aloud. His lips still tingled where they had pressed against hers, but the feeling was not rushed, not desperate, only a deep understanding. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was something else. Something neither of them had known they needed until the moment their hearts had silently declared it aloud.

Oscar pulled back just slightly, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against hers, eyes closed, as though he feared this was a dream he might wake from too soon. The air between them was thick with a thousand unspoken things, things that had been building, unravelling, stitching themselves together, even when they hadn’t noticed.

She, too, felt that tension easing from her chest, the weight of grief and doubt beginning to lift, replaced with something else. Something raw. Something tender.

“What was that sigh for?” she asked, her voice a little unsteady, as though she wasn’t sure if she was reading too much into every little everything.

Oscar’s hands lingered on her arms, his fingers tracing patterns, as though drawing her closer even in the stillness. “I think,” he said quietly, “it was one of relief, I should have done that long ago.”

Her breath caught, not in surprise, but in understanding.

“You’ve been broken,” she whispered, looking at him with eyes that had seen her own version of that same thing. “I know what it’s like to feel lost. Like you’ve reached a place where you can’t feel anything anymore. Where everything you thought you knew is... gone.”

He nodded slowly, his voice lower now, a confession of his own. “I’ve spent so long fighting the world. Fighting everything inside of me. For what? For who?” He paused, meeting her gaze, the vulnerability raw. “Then I met you. And you fixed me.”

Her eyes glistened, a soft laugh escaping her lips, though it was full of something deeper, something more complicated. “Oscar… you were never broken. Not to me. You just needed a little time. A little care. Maybe you needed someone who could see past all the pieces you thought were shattered. And all this time…” She inhaled, holding onto the truth of what she was saying. “All this time, I’ve needed you too.”

His heart raced with something that felt like relief, like the burden of years, of pain, of lost faith, lifting from his chest. "You make me believe, you know," he said softly, his voice barely more than a murmur. "You make me believe that maybe I’m worthy of something more than just being a soldier. More than a broken man."

She gave a small, trembling smile, her fingers brushing against the fabric of his coat. "I never thought I was worthy of more either. Not after... everything." Her voice cracked, and she steadied herself. "But you showed me that there could still be something good. Something to hold on to, even in the hardest parts of life."

Her eyes met his, and he could see the raw emotion there. The kind of emotion that had once been buried beneath layers of grief, now unspooling in front of him. “I never thought I’d trust anyone again. Not after everything I’ve lost. But you’ve been patient with me. You’ve never pushed. You’ve just been here. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that's the only thing I need to keep going.”

Oscar’s heart clenched at her words. She was giving him pieces of herself that she’d kept locked away for so long, pieces he didn’t deserve but would cherish with every fibre of his being.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder, of something he hadn’t felt in years: hope. “But I do know this. I don’t want to lose you. Not now. Not when you’ve made me feel like I’m not just a soldier anymore. Like I’m something more.”

She smiled through her tears, gently wiping them away, the softness of the gesture almost making his heart shatter. “You won’t lose me, Oscar. Not if you’re willing to try. Not if we’re willing to try.”

There was something deeply comforting about that promise. Not an empty one. Not a fairytale. But a promise of a shared struggle, of quiet companionship through the storms they both carried.

She reached for his hand, her fingers trembling as they intertwined with his. "I think, maybe for the first time in a long while," she said, her voice catching, "I’m not afraid of what comes next."

Oscar's breath hitched, a soft smile breaking across his face as he pulled her into his arms once again. This time, there was no hesitation. Only trust. Only the quiet certainty that they had both found something rare in each other, something worth fighting for, no matter what.

And as they stood there in the warmth of the firelight, with the rain still softly pattering outside, they realised that maybe they hadn’t just found each other. Maybe, just maybe, they had found the courage to begin again.

Extra:

Oscar’s letter to Lando with the bonnet and mittens:

Lando,

You’re a bastard, asking me to be godfather. But you knew I’d say yes. I’ve no cross hanging round my neck, no perfect prayers left in me but I’ll love that child like blood. I’ll teach them to read, to keep their chin up, to look after those smaller than them. I’ll tell them stories of their father both the soldier and the fool who once nearly drowned in a river.

Give my love to your lady. Tell her the wool’s from someone who knows what it’s like to start again.

Yours, Oscar

He sealed it with wax. Not a crest. Not a signet.

Just the simple stamp of a man beginning again.

the end.

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