#i wanted to pair it with this fic when I posted it but i wanted a colored version

[em1i2a3]

Spanish Sahara

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: After a rough week at the Thunderbolts Compound, the team goes out for some drinks to wind down and enjoy themselves.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and other characters from the movie are in here. Fluff, and Smut are the main warnings here, Bob and Reader have an established friendship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all), Praise/Worship Kink, Breast Play, …Something involving a mirror, Very light choking, Oral Sex (f! And m! receiving), Fingering, Swallowing, Bob is a frickin softie as usual because that’s hot but he definitely has his moments in this, Overstimulation, Teasing, Aftercare to the max because being taken care of after hot sex is…Wheew lol. I don’t think I missed anything

Author’s Note: I saw a lot of people requesting more smut and I thought as a nice little break from the super long fics that I’m working on (that request box has a lot of them and I’m chipping away at it as much as possible!) I’d write a nice little one-shot for y’all to celebrate a random Friday in May 😂 enjoy!! (Side note, I also had a funny little ask about how I name my posts lol, I literally just picture the songs in what I’m writing, the title changes like three times by the time I post it lol)

Word Count: 13,796

The bar was loud, crowded, and hazy with cheap smoke and too many conversations happening at once–but Bob was only paying attention to you, and attempting to look normal in his surroundings, which was always a complicated feat for him.

You sat across from him in the booth, your body framed in golden lamplight and neon beer signs like some half-lit portrait in an art museum. You looked too good to be real–flushed with warmth from your second tequila pineapple of the night, bare-legs crossed just enough to make his brain short-circuit, lips glossed a cherry red like you’d done it just to ruin him.

And maybe, somewhere deep down, he thought you had.

The others were scattered across the bar like background noise–Ava and Yelena flanking the bar with their usual chaotic grace, Walker and Alexei pounding back shots and shouting about God-knows-what, and Bucky leaning over the pool table, unknowingly feeding lines to a group of women who didn’t care if he could shoot or not.

But Bob hadn’t looked away from you in nearly half an hour.

Not when you uncrossed and re-crossed your legs beneath the table, the movements slow and fluid, like you wanted to give him something to look at. Bob’s eyes had followed the motion instinctively–drawn to the soft slide of skin, to the way your thighs shifted beneath the hem of your black tailored shorts. They were high-waisted and fitted, hugging the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips, cinched with a single gold button that glinted every time you moved.

You’d paired them with that wicked bodysuit–the one that clung to your body like second skin, high-cut at the hips and daringly low in the front, just enough to frame the soft curve of your cleavage without giving away too much. It was backless, sleeveless, and made of some silky, matte fabric that shimmered faintly in the bar light. You wore it like armor, like a challenge.

Your legs were bare, golden under the dim glow, crossed at the knee with one foot tucked behind the other–long, lean, and deliberate in how they were presented. Every detail about your look tonight felt curated–not in a fake way, but in the kind of way that said I know exactly what I’m doing to you. And Bob? Poor Bob looked like he was under your spell.

He couldn’t stop looking.

Every time your drink got dangerously low and you leaned forward–elbows resting on the table, cleavage pressing softly together–you dragged the last sip from your straw with a slow, teasing pull that made something in him twist. He watched the way your lips curled around it, how a single droplet of condensation slid down the side of the glass and clung to your fingers. He was transfixed.

You laughed at something the waitress said–he didn’t even register what–and it echoed in his chest like a bell. That sound always got to him.

And tonight, he wasn’t hiding it. Not well, anyway.

His eyes kept drifting–over your mouth, the curve of your collarbone, the smooth stretch of your exposed shoulders, down to the shadowed dip between your breasts. Then he’d catch himself and flick his gaze up like he could undo what he just saw. Like he was trying to remind himself that he respected you too much to stare, even though he’d been staring for months.

He was trying so hard to be polite. His hands were clenched in his lap, fingers tangled and twitching like they were holding back something much stronger than impulse. His posture was rigid, like his own body was betraying him one muscle at a time.

He was always like that around you–reserved, yes. But it wasn’t just shyness. It was respect. Fear. Like every thought he had about you was too big to name out loud. Like if he touched you, he’d never forgive himself for crossing that line.

But he’d already crossed it, hadn’t he? Not physically–but emotionally, because Bob Reynolds had been in love with you for a long, long time.

And you knew it.

You saw it in the way he always noticed when you were tired after a mission, the way he made you tea without asking, or stayed behind in training sessions he wasn’t even involved in just so you’d have someone to spot you. You saw it in the way he flinched when someone else made you laugh, or how his voice went into a cracked whisper only when he said your name.

He was putty in your hands. And you loved it. Not because it gave you power–but because he let you have it. Because he trusted you with it.

And as much as the friendship meant to you–deeply, intimately–you’d stopped lying to yourself months ago. Your brain was always a few steps ahead, mapping the timeline of how you’d get from here–from this bar booth and his helpless eyes–to there. To a place where Bob Reynolds was no longer just your best friend, but something closer. Something that meant yours.

So you didn’t say anything. You just watched him.

Watched how his breath caught every time you shifted. How he wet his lips nervously when you leaned forward. How the pulse in his neck jumped like he could feel your eyes on him.

His fingers twitched again, folded too tight in his lap. You followed the motion, noted the way his knuckles went white.

There was a sheen of sweat on his temple now–barely noticeable unless you were looking for it, which you were.

And poor Bob didn’t even realize how obvious he was.

So you decided to make it worse for him.

You slipped off your shoe under the table and slowly–very slowly–ran your foot up the length of his shin. A gentle drag, barely a touch, but intentional. Controlled. The kind of touch that said I see you. And I want you flustered.

Bob jolted like you’d zapped him with a live wire.

His leg knocked the underside of the table with a hollow thunk, and his hand shot out, sloshing his Coke Zero just short of the edge. His knuckles were white around the glass. His jaw dropped slightly like he meant to say something but forgot what language was.

His cheeks–already pink from the warmth of the room and the low buzz that he was getting from just being around you–flushed deeply, the color spreading up his neck and painting his ears red. You swore even his throat blushed. He pushed his light brown hair out of his face nervously, like he was afraid it would cloud his vision of you.

You tilted your head, smirking. “Cold in here?”

He blinked like he’d just come out of a trance. His lashes fluttered rapidly over wide blue eyes–those eyes, impossibly pale and clear, glassy with surprise and something raw beneath it. Want, maybe. Or fear.

“Y-Yeah,” He stammered, voice cracking slightly. “A–A little drafty.”

“Mmm.” You stretched in your seat, arms rising lazily above your head, making sure the movement pulled the neckline of your bodysuit lower. The fabric shifted with you, stretching softly across your chest, exposing a bit more of the delicate skin he’d been trying so hard not to look at.

His gaze dropped like he didn’t even mean to let it.

And then he swallowed–hard–his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat.

But Bob didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His breathing had gone shallow, his tongue caught against the roof of his mouth like he’d forgotten how to form words. He looked like he was choking on air.

You didn’t let up.

Your foot moved again–slow, deliberate, and this time it brushed higher, just right on the inside of his thigh, where the heat of his body was more noticeable. Where he was trembling.

His breath hitched instantly, and a soft, involuntary sound escaped him–a sharp exhale, half-panic, half-arousal. His fingers dug into the wooden edge of the booth like he was bracing for impact.

You leaned forward again, closing some of the distance between you, letting your arms rest on the table and your chest push together ever so slightly in the low light. He couldn’t look away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that all night, Bob,” You said, your voice velvet-soft, the tone curling up his spine.

His head snapped up like you’d struck him–eyes wide and wild with guilt, pupils dilated in the low light. His brows pinched upward with alarm, his mouth parting in a panicked breath.

“I… I didn’t mean to–” He rushed out, but it came out broken.

You reached across the space between you, wrapping your hand around his wrist before gently cutting him off

“I want you to look.”

He froze.

His whole body went still, like he was afraid to breathe. His eyes–so ocean-bright and boyishly soft–flicked over your face with disbelief, feeling your thumb run over the exposed skin of his wrist.

You smiled at him again, slower this time. Not to tease. But to reassure.

“I like that it’s you,” You said, your voice dipping into something quiet and unshakably sincere.

He blinked, slow and stunned. His lashes cast little shadows under the low-hung light, and you saw the exact moment something cracked in his chest.

“You’re the only one,” You continued, “Who’s never looked at me like I’m a game to win. Or a body to take. You look at me like I’m something you’re afraid to break. Like I’m something you cherish.”

His lips parted again–slightly dry, slightly trembling.

And you saw it. The shimmer in his eyes. That wide, overwhelmed expression he wore when you said something that hit too close to the truth. He looked like he might cry. Or faint. Or bolt. But instead…He stayed.

Frozen, but present.

You reached for your drink again with your free hand and took the last sip, dragging the straw into your mouth with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact.

Bob’s eyes tracked every inch of the motion. You could see the subtle twitch in his jaw, the little hitch in his shoulders, like he was physically holding himself back.

Then you licked a drop from your bottom lip.

And that did him in.

His breath faltered again, and his eyes–so blue, so open, so obviously in love with you–looked at you like he’d forgotten where he was. Like the world had narrowed down to just your lips, your voice, your body framed in shadow and gold light.

You tilted your head, gaze gentle now. That look you always gave him when he was spiraling. When he needed to know he was safe. That he was wanted.

He looked like he didn’t deserve it.

But you knew better.

And finally, after a long, shaky breath–his lashes fluttering like he was about to pass out—he leaned forward.

His voice barely rose above the din of the bar, cracked and breathless and close enough to touch.

“I…I think about y–you.”

The words came out like a confession. Like a sin.

He didn’t stop.

“More than I should,” He said, gaze darting to the table, then back up again like it physically hurt him to hold your eyes. “More than…What’s okay.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t interrupt. You let him say it.

“I just…” His throat worked again. “If I ever got to touch you–I don’t think I’d want to stop.”

Your chest ached at how sincerely he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about sex. Like it was everything, like it meant everything.

Your hand on his wrist slid down so your palm was over his, feeling the warmth of him–the quiet trembling, the softness of his skin.

“Bob,” You said softly. “What would you do if I didn’t want you to stop?”

His lashes fluttered at you–confused, hopeful, scared–but he didn’t pull away, not like he would normally. If anything, he leaned in like you had said something that brought him closer.

Your hand stayed where it was, palm against palm, but your fingers began to move–softly tracing the lines in his hand like you were reading him. Like you were studying a map only you had permission to follow. You let your fingertip trail along the length of his lifeline, then up the curve of his thumb, dipping gently between the web of his fingers. He flinched–barely–but you felt it. Saw the way his breath shuddered quietly through his nose, the way his fingers twitched like they wanted so badly to close around yours but didn’t quite dare.

He was holding himself back.

Even now, even here.

Your gaze lifted, meeting his–they were wide and glossy, pupils blown wide now, eating away at the blue, and there was something deeply aching in the way he looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize every second of this moment in case it vanished.

“Don’t look at me like that,” You murmured, your thumb ghosting over the calloused edge of his ring finger. “Like you’re not allowed to want this.” Bob swallowed hard–again. It was the only thing he could do that didn’t give him away. His breath stuttered. His fingers twitched. His mouth opened like he might say something, but no words came.

He looked at you like you were everything he’d ever prayed for and was terrified to touch.

You watched the war inside him–want versus restraint. It played out in the flicker of his lashes, the shake in his hand, the tension braced through his shoulders like he was trying to keep himself from combusting.

So you let go of his hand, and moved your foot away from his inner thigh.

For a heartbeat, his face dropped–just a flicker of devastation in his expression.

Until you stood up, and moved around the table.

Bob’s head turned like he couldn’t believe you were really coming to him, like some part of him had convinced himself this was all a hallucination brought on by too many Coke Zeros–cause he couldn’t drink–and too many nights thinking about your hands, your mouth, and your voice in his ear. But then you slid into the booth beside him, your thigh pressing flush to his. He was still frozen, spine straight, hands in his lap like they might betray him if he moved them. Your perfume radiated off of you, the one that you always modestly sprayed on yourself, the one that he loved sneaking in your room to smell when you weren’t at the compound or out on a mission–the one that smelled like sugar, berries, and ripe oranges, like a succulent dessert…Made just for him.

You leaned in slowly, brushing your arm against him. You didn’t have to look at him, you didn’t have to…You knew he was already looking at you, or trying to look at you.

When he was finally able to feel your hot breath curl over his cheek he could immediately smell the pineapple juice on your tongue. It made him want to lean in right then and there just to get a taste, just to suck the essence off of it, to drink from you, but he needed to hold himself back, to stay in control of himself before he did something prematurely.

Then–with the grace of an angel–you reached up and touched him.

Your fingers found the side of his jaw, the pads of them smoothing against his freshly shaven cheek, tilting his face gently toward you. He followed the motion like a man possessed–like you had pulled him by a leash tied to his soul. He closed his eyes at the sensation, parting his lips slightly to take in a small breath–a quiet plea.

Slowly, you leaned in, your mouth resting just close enough to graze his ear, and you whispered–low, and sultry:

”Every time I touch myself, I imagine it’s you…” Bob shattered. A noise escaped him–broken and breathless. A half-gasp, half-whimper that he couldn’t contain if he tried. His body went tense beside you, his thigh flexing under yours, his fingers twitching like they were about to snap.

But you didn’t stop there.

“I imagine your fingers,” You murmured, your lips brushing his ear, “Big and clumsy and desperate, the way they always look when you’re nervous. I imagine them moving inside me while I ride your hand, while I beg you to kiss me like you mean it.” Bob exhaled–hard. His jaw clenched under your touch, his breath fogging hot against your forearm. You could feel how close he was to breaking–how close he was to falling apart in front of a whole bar full of people he couldn’t even look at in the eyes. Your fingertips moved slowly across his cheek, your nails didn’t scratch–they ghosted, mapped, and worshipped. You traced the slope of his cheekbone, then slid down to the soft dip beside his mouth, like you were learning his face the way others learn scripture.

Bob was unraveling. Every word from your mouth was gasoline on the fire he’d been trying to smother for months. His breath caught in his chest like a prayer that didn’t know how to end, and he stared at you—lips parted, lashes trembling–like he couldn’t tell if this was heaven or the moment before he burned.

And then your other hand came to rest on his shoulder, grounding him–and pushing him closer to the edge all at once.

He was breathing too hard now. Too fast. His chest rising in shallow, shaking swells. And all he could do was sit there, hands fisted in his lap, as you leaned in and whispered into his ear again–closer this time, like you were whispering to his soul.

“I think about tasting you,” You said softly. “So achingly slow, until you lose your mind.”

Bob’s knees went weak beneath the table. He didn’t even know how he was still upright. The only thing keeping him tethered to the earth was the press of your thigh against his, the weight of your palm on his shoulder and face, and the sound of your voice curling into his bloodstream like silk-wrapped sin.

He tried to speak–tried to gather some string of thought that could resemble language–but all he managed was a broken, desperate breath. “I–” He rasped, his voice shredded at the edges.

But you didn’t let him finish.

You shushed him. Gently. Sweetly. Your thumb swept across his cheek.

“Don’t,” You murmured, so close your lips touched his ear, “Don’t talk. Just feel it.”

And God, he felt it.

Every molecule of you.

The heat of your breath melting against his skin. The sweetness of your perfume, dizzying and intimate. The way your hands touched him like he was more than a body. Like he was a secret. A sacred thing you’d been aching to unwrap.

His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to move, to reach for you, but he didn’t dare–not unless you asked for it. He’d give you anything, everything, but he didn’t want to take a single thing you didn’t offer first.

Still, he couldn’t help it–his head tilted toward your touch, his eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted in something so tender it almost hurt to witness. His throat flexed as he swallowed another breath that wouldn’t steady.

You moved even closer–until your mouth nearly brushed his. Until the distance between you was a lie.

“I want to make you lose control,” You whispered. “I want to feel how much you’ve been holding back.”

That did it.

Bob’s whole body trembled under your hands–his restraint hanging by a thread, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to whimper. He turned his head slowly, just enough to look at you, and his eyes–those soft, wrecked, worshipful eyes–were completely undone.

“Y-You don’t know what you’re d-doing to me,” He breathed, but you smiled, soft and knowing.

“Then maybe we should go back to the compound so you could show me.” You whispered back, your thumb stroking the corner of his mouth like you’d been dying to touch him there. Bob’s breath hitched.

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath your thumb like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to shape it into a sentence. His brow knit–tight, anxious–as if he were on the edge of a precipice and could already feel the wind pulling at his shirt.

“I…” His voice cracked. He turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing your palm, but his eyes–those trembling, desperate eyes–held yours like you were the only thing anchoring him to the floor. “I don’t… know w-what happens if I lose control…I h-haven’t had s-sex since before the S-Sentry serum…”

Your chest softened at the vulnerability in his tone–raw, boyish, torn straight from the deepest part of him.

“I’ve felt it before. The…Shift. T-That moment before it gets too much.” His throat worked hard around the next words. “The Sentry, he–he comes through w-when I feel too much. When I want too much. A-And I want you so badly it terrifies me.”

Your thumb stroked over his jaw again, slow and reverent, like you were trying to soothe the trembling just beneath his skin. He didn’t pull away.

“Bob,” You whispered, voice like velvet heat, “I’m not scared of him.”

His breath caught, but you didn’t stop.

“I don’t care if the Sentry shows up. I don’t care if he tries to carry me off into the sky or crack the moon in half because I kissed you too hard.” You smiled gently, your nose brushing his. “Because it’s still you. All of it. The fear, the ache, the power–none of it changes the fact that it’s your heart underneath. And I want all of it. I want all of you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, lashes wet. His chest heaved like he’d just exhaled something he’d been holding in for years. Like you’d opened a dam inside him and now he couldn’t stop it–he didn’t want to anyways.

“Y-You don’t know w–what that means to me,” He whispered, voice trembling like glass on the verge of breaking. “To not be t-the golden boy in your eyes…To just b-be me.”

You leaned in then–so close he could taste your breath, taste the sweetness of pineapple and something far more sacred.

“You were never a monster,” You said, lips brushing his. “You’re the kindest thing I’ve ever touched.”

And that broke something open in him.

His shoulders sagged forward, like a weight had slid off them, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his hands finally–finally–lifting from his lap to ghost up your sides, hesitant and aching. You felt the way they trembled as they settled on your waist, as if touching you too firmly might shatter the moment.

But you didn’t shatter. You melted. Right into him.

“Take me home,” You whispered, your hand curling around the back of his neck. “And let me be yours.”

Bob let out a shaky breath–half-sob, half-surrender–and nodded.

“O–Okay…”

—————————————

The moment the two of you stepped out of the elevator and the doors slid shut behind you, the weight of what was about to happen descended over you like dusk spilling into a quiet room–slow and golden and thick with gravity. It wrapped around your shoulders, soaked into your skin. Each step down the quiet hallway felt amplified, padded in the hush of possibility. The compound, usually so full of voices and footfalls, now felt sacred. Empty in a way that invited something tender to unfold.

You glanced over at Bob beside you–his hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff beneath his shirt like he didn’t know how to hold his own body anymore. His eyes flicked toward you, then away again. You could see it in the twitch of his fingers, in the slow rise and fall of his breath: he was fighting the urge to run and the urge to fall into you all at once.

“Whose room?” You asked softly, your voice barely more than a breath as you stopped just shy of your doors, which were across from one another.

Bob turned to face you, and for a moment he just looked at you. Really looked. As if the question was too big to answer all at once. But then he shook his head and murmured, without hesitation, “Yours.”

Your brows lifted a fraction, surprised by the immediacy of it.

His voice came again, quieter now, barely able to hold its own weight: “I want to be surrounded by everything that’s you.”

And God, he meant it. You could see it all over his face–that quiet, overwhelmed awe. That whisper of longing woven into his breath. Like being near you wasn’t just about want–it was about safety.

You opened your door with a hush of hinges and warmth poured out–soft and golden like it had been waiting for you both. Bob hesitated on the threshold just for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step into something so intimate. But you reached back and curled your fingers around his, pulling him through gently, and he followed without a sound.

Your room welcomed him like a heartbeat.

The lights were low, softened to a muted amber by the shade of your bedside lamp, and the shadows cast across the walls were familiar, worn-in. The kind of quiet you could only earn by living in a space long enough to leave parts of yourself tucked into the corners.

There were little signs of you everywhere.

A cardigan draped over the back of your chair, still shaped by your shoulders. A couple mismatched mugs on the windowsill, half-full of dried flowers and pens that had long since run out of ink. A battered paperback with your thumb pressed into the spine, abandoned on the edge of the bed. The faintest scent of that sugary sweet skin-warm perfume. He could taste it in the silence.

And then there was the window.

It stretched across nearly half the far wall, a wide mouth of glass looking out over the city, where the skyline pulsed like a living organism–silver and gold lights blinking in lazy succession, cars reflecting off the windows threading down the streets like blood through veins. Bob walked toward it like he was drawn by gravity itself, like it called to the aching part of him that had spent too long looking at the world from above and never this close.

His reflection caught in the tall mirror near the bed–a fractured echo of himself, backlit by the skyline, a man made of longing and light. If he laid down, he realized, he’d be able to see you both in that mirror. Your bodies. Your faces. The way you might look reaching for each other.

He swallowed hard.

Behind him, you closed the door.

The soft click of it sealing shut sent a shiver down his spine–final and quiet and full of promise. He turned toward you, and that’s when he saw you undoing your leather jacket, slow and unhurried. The matte black of it peeled away from your shoulders like a second skin, and the way you moved–fluid, unfazed, and sure–made the air around him feel charged, like static clinging to cotton.

You stood in front of him now, illuminated by citylight and the low lamplight behind you. The bodysuit clung to your frame, catching the warm glow across your collarbones, your throat, the tender curve of your chest. You shrugged the jacket the rest of the way off, and it hit the floor with the softest thud.

Bob was frozen in place. Watching you like a man watching lightning hit the ocean.

He looked around your room again, slower this time. You saw it in his eyes–how he drank in the soft mess of your sheets, the collection of little rings in a porcelain dish, the stack of notes taped to your wall with scribbled to-dos and song lyrics and scraps of thought. It was chaotic and real and you, and he loved every single thing about it.

You were standing so close now that he could feel the warmth radiating off of your skin. The glow of your room wrapped around the two of you like a whispered secret.

You tilted your head slightly and whispered, “You okay?”

And Bob–whose hands were clenched at his sides, whose chest was rising like a tide he couldn’t hold back–nodded, barely. His voice was a whisper scraped raw:

“I-I don’t think I’ve ever been t-this okay.”

Your smile broke like a sunrise, and you reached up for him, touching his face. Just your fingertips at first, featherlight against the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing along the corner of his mouth like it was something precious to you. Bob’s breath stilled at the contact, lips parting slightly, his chest fluttering with anticipation. He leaned into your palm like a man starved for warmth, even though he was burning up as he stood in front of you.

You pulled him gently toward you.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t desperate. It was something softer—something built from all the times you’d brushed hands in passing, or caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was built from every whispered laugh, every longing silence, every moment the world made you ache for one another without saying a thing.

And now it was here. Finally.

Bob bent to meet you, slow and hesitant, his breath brushing yours like a question. Your noses bumped slightly, awkward and tender, and he let out the smallest nervous laugh—one you swallowed as you tilted your chin and brought your lips to his.

The first kiss was a hum. A hush. A held breath.

His lips were soft, unsure at first, warm and slightly parted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to kiss you back–until he did. Until he melted into it. You felt the exact moment the tension in his shoulders unraveled, when he stopped hovering on the edge and let himself fall. His arms came around your waist–slowly, carefully–as if he was still afraid to hold too tightly.

But he did hold you.

God, did he hold you.

One hand splayed wide against the small of your back, the other settling higher, thumb grazing the edge of your exposed skin where your bodysuit dipped low. His palm was hot. Too hot. Like he was burning just from touching you, and yet couldn’t bring himself to pull away. The feel of your skin against his fingertips made his knees go weak.

You kissed him deeper.

Not rushed, not rough–just more. More pressure. More presence. You tilted your head and sighed softly into him, and Bob exhaled like you’d opened a door in his chest he didn’t know had been locked. His mouth was gentle but eager, tasting you in little swells, lips moving with hesitant gentleness as if trying to memorize the shape of you. He breathed you in like you were air after drowning.

You pulled back slightly–not apart, just enough to rest your forehead to his. The two of you stood there in that golden hush, breathing each other’s breath. Bob’s chest rose and fell against yours, and you felt it–every tremble. Every ounce of his restraint.

He looked at you with eyes half-lidded and dazed, lips flushed and glistening from your kiss–and from the remnants of your lip glass–the faintest tremor in his breath like he couldn’t quite believe it had happened.

Your voice was soft, just above a whisper. “Still okay?”

He let out a broken laugh–full of wonder, full of you–and nodded.

You leaned in again–gentler this time, slower–not because you were unsure, but because you wanted to savor the way his breath hitched when your lips brushed his. You wanted to draw it out. To feel every shiver he tried and failed to suppress.

Bob met you halfway with a soft, aching sound–something between a sigh and a whisper of your name. His hands flexed slightly at your waist, his fingers pressing just a little deeper into the curve of you. You felt how he trembled. Not because he didn’t want this. But because he wanted it so much he was afraid he might burst.

You kissed him again–deeper, slower this time, mouth parting just enough to taste him. His lips were warm and sweet with nerves, and he kissed like someone who had thought about this a thousand times but never believed it would happen. There was a reverence to it, a hush in the way he moved his mouth against yours, like he was still halfway convinced he might wake up at any moment.

Your hands left his face, drifting down–slow, steady, and full of quiet intention. You traced the slope of his neck, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse, then down the broad plane of his chest. You felt every breath he took, shallow and aching, beneath the soft cotton of his sweater.

Bob, always layered like he needed something between himself and the world, was wrapped in a slightly oversized charcoal crewneck, its fabric thinned from wear and faintly scented like detergent and something uniquely him. Beneath it, you could feel the ridges of another layer–a t-shirt, soft and well-worn, probably one he slept in or hid in on quiet mornings when the world was too loud.

You slid your hands beneath the hem of the sweater and pushed upward, your palms skimming the warm skin of his stomach as the fabric lifted. Bob made a quiet, broken sound into your kiss–like the feeling of your hands on his skin short-circuited something vital inside him. He froze for a moment, his breath catching like he wasn’t sure he could survive the sensation.

You pulled back just far enough to speak, your lips brushing his. “Can I?”

His nod was immediate. Frantic. “Y-Yeah. God, yeah.”

So you tugged the sweater up slowly, watching the way his arms lifted, watching the exposed inch of his abdomen rise with it–the pale skin dusted with soft little beauty marks, the gentle definition carved by years of holding tension. As the fabric cleared his chest, he flinched slightly, sucking in a breath like cold air had touched him, though your hands were warm.

He helped you the rest of the way, dragging the sweater and t-shirt off over his head with trembling fingers, slipping away like the last layer of armor. And then he was bare from the waist up, bathed in citylight and lamplight, all golden and blushing and unsure.

He stood there, chest bare and breathless, as if you’d peeled back the sky and found the sun trembling underneath.

Bob’s body wasn’t sculpted in the way of soldiers or statues. It was something softer, something more human. But there was strength in it, undeniable–earned. It was the kind of build that came from holding onto things that were out of his control. Broad shoulders that carried guilt and gentleness in equal measure. A solid chest dusted with faint hair and the occasional mark of time–tiny clusters of faded scars, blemishes, and bruises the world had forgotten but his skin remembered.

His collarbones were sharp under the golden lamplight, framed by muscle that swelled and dipped like lines in a poem you wanted to memorize. His arms, strong and thick, looked like they were made to hold someone through the storm–and right now, they twitched faintly at his sides like he didn’t know how to be held himself. There were scattered freckles on his biceps, a pale crescent scar on one rib that curved like the moon, and small, raised knots near the shoulder from training or trauma–you weren’t sure which. Maybe both.

He looked like a map of ache and effort and quiet resilience.

And you adored every inch of him.

You stepped forward slowly and pressed a kiss to the center of his chest–just over his sternum. His breath stuttered at the contact, sharp and startled, like he’d never been kissed there before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe no one had thought to.

You trailed your fingers down the plane of his stomach, the muscle there tense and trembling, then lower–toward the waistband of his pants. They were a pair of charcoal slacks, slightly loose around his waist, cinched just right at the hips, but soft and comfortable like he’d chosen them to blend in. Like he’d never expected to be undressed in them.

Your fingers hovered over the button, and you looked up at him. Bob nodded once–barely, but enough–and you slipped the button free. His breath hitched, and his hands flexed at his sides again like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You dragged the zipper down slowly, deliberately, your eyes never leaving his. He looked dazed–like he was being unwrapped for the very first time, and the air itself might sear him.

The fabric fell down his thighs with a soft whisper, pooling at his feet, before he moved out of them, kicking his shoes off in the process.

Bob stood in front of you in nothing but his black boxer-briefs, backlit by the shimmer of the skyline and the amber hum of your bedroom lamp. His chest rose and fell like the sea—steady, but stirred by undercurrent. His eyes hadn’t left you since you touched him. Not once.

And now, it was his turn.

He lifted his hands slowly, reverently, like he was reaching out to something holy. His palms hovered over your hips, not quite touching, until you gave him the smallest nod. That was all he needed.

His fingertips brushed the waistband of your shorts, undoing the golden button in the front of them.

You kicked off your shoes, one at a time, and let the silence stretch between you as he hooked his fingers through the belt loops–slow, hesitant, like he was afraid of doing too much too quickly. He eased them down your legs inch by inch, watching the fabric surrender to gravity. You stepped out of them delicately, and for a beat, he just stood there, looking at you like he didn’t know how to survive the sight of you standing in nothing but that black bodysuit and a pair of simple underwear.

He swallowed hard.

His hands returned to your sides, smoothing over the dip of your waist where the fabric clung tight. You watched his throat flex as his eyes flicked over you—your curves, your bare legs, the way your body caught the light like it had been painted for his gaze alone.

When he moved to the clasp of your bodysuit, his fingers trembled. You could feel it. The concentration in him. The hesitation. Like he was unhooking something precious, something secret.

You reached up and touched his jaw gently. “It’s okay,” You whispered.

And Bob, poor, wrecked Bob, nodded like he needed your permission to breathe.

The clasp gave with a soft snap. The bodysuit loosened instantly, slackening at your shoulders. His eyes met yours again, searching, silent, and then he helped ease the fabric down your arms, over your chest–slowly, like he was undressing a memory he wanted to savor for the rest of his life.

You stood there, bare from the waist up.

Bathed in citylight and lamplight. Breasts soft and exposed, skin flushed and dappled in gold. Your breath was steady, open, trusting.

And Bob… Bob stared like he’d never seen anything so sacred. His lips parted. His chest rose, shallow and quiet, as his eyes drifted over every inch of you—your collarbones, the curve of your sternum, the soft line of your stomach. His hands didn’t touch right away. He just looked. Like the act of looking was too intimate already.

But when he did touch you–finally, gently–his hands moved with such aching care. They rose to cradle your waist, thumbs brushing just below your ribs. You watched his pupils expand, the breath he tried to hold leaking out of him in slow, reverent exhales.

“You’re…” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he didn’t have to.

You stepped into him again, bringing your bodies closer, the warmth of his skin against yours. Your breasts brushed his chest and he nearly gasped, his head dipping low, lips brushing your shoulder like he needed a place to put all this overwhelming wonder.

Bob’s lips were trembling against your skin before you even realized he’d moved. Gentle, searching–he kissed the place where your shoulder curved into your neck, just beneath your collarbone. His mouth was warm and wet, like each kiss was a vow he didn’t know how to speak aloud. He moved slowly, dragging his lips along your skin like he was painting devotion in brushstrokes–across the dip of your clavicle, up the slope of your throat, back to your jaw.

You let out the softest sigh. A sound full of breath and want. It made him shudder.

Your hand slid into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck, guiding him until his lips found yours again. This time the kiss felt hungrier–not in haste, but in depth. In need. Like the space between you could never be close enough. He kissed you with a kind of desperation laced in awe, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. And maybe you felt the same way, because your heart was stammering against your ribs, and the heat blooming between your thighs was dizzying.

You pulled back slowly, just enough to look into his eyes–flushed and wide and soft around the edges, pupils blown so far they nearly swallowed the blue whole.

“Come here,” You whispered, voice like silk unraveling in candlelight.

You took his hand and led him gently around the side of your bed, the sheets still rumpled from a day that no longer mattered. The mirror caught both of your reflections in passing–your bare back, his bare chest, the golden curve of lamplight gilding the two of you like you were something from a dream neither of you dared name.

“Lay down,” You said, and Bob obeyed without a word. He eased himself back across the mattress, exhaling like the air had been caught in his lungs for hours. The sheets crinkled beneath him, warm with your scent, his chest rising in uneven waves as he stared up at the ceiling like it held some sort of answer for how to survive this moment without coming apart entirely.

You climbed onto the mattress after him—slow, certain, fluid like breath moving into lungs. Bob turned his head just in time to see you crawl toward him, and God, the look on his face—pure wonder, trembling with reverence—made your heartbeat skip off rhythm.

You straddled him gently, knees bracketing his hips, your hands finding their way to his chest again, palms splayed flat over the warmth of him. You felt the stutter of his breath beneath your touch, the tight coil of tension building under your thighs.

He looked up at you like you were everything.

You bent down and kissed him again—deeper this time. Your lips claimed him slow and full, your mouth parting just enough to taste his sigh as it melted into yours. One of his hands slid up your thigh, barely daring to grip, while the other cupped your hip like he was anchoring himself.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard and hot, nestled beneath you. The growing swell of him pressed against the soaked fabric of your underwear, separated from your heat only by the thin stretch of your panties and his boxers. He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound involuntary, and it made your whole body pulse with want.

You rolled your hips forward–just once, a slow grind–and Bob gasped. His head tipped back, throat arched, lips parted as his eyes fluttered shut. His fingers tightened on your waist as if bracing against the force of it.

You did it again–deliberately, letting your clothed center slide against the length of him. The friction was hot, barely enough, almost unbearable in its precision. You could feel the tremor in his thighs, the desperate way his breath stammered in his chest.

“O-Oh m-my,” He whispered, almost like a prayer. “You’re…Oh God–”

You smiled softly against his cheek, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “You feel that?”

He nodded, barely, eyes dazed.

“I’m soaked,” You whispered, dragging your hips once more, pressing down just enough to make him bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut, “And it’s all for you…” You kissed the line of his jaw And then you started to move down.

His hands twitched when you kissed his throat—soft, slow, trailing heat with your mouth as you shifted backward, kissing lower, following the pulse at his neck to the center of his chest. You paused there, pressed your lips to the spot where his heart beat fastest.

He stared down at you, dazed and helpless and holy.

You kept going.

Kissed his sternum. The soft dip beneath it. The slight rise of his stomach where the muscles tightened beneath your breath. Your mouth was tender, open, slow as silk. You licked a soft line down his abdomen and felt him shiver violently. His hands moved into your hair without thinking, not pulling–just holding.

Just needing something to hold.

You reached the waistband of his boxer-briefs, and looked up.

His lips were parted, his cheeks pink with heat, his pupils huge and swallowing. He nodded without needing to be asked, lifting his hips slightly as you hooked your fingers into the band and drew it down—inch by inch, like you were unwrapping a gift meant only for you.

Bob was flushed, hard, and trembling. His cock stood against the plane of his stomach, thick and aching and already leaking from the tip. You watched the way it twitched when the cool air touched it, watched how he tried to stifle a gasp and failed.

“O-Oh god,” He breathed, like it physically hurt. “I don’t–I don’t even k-know what to do with myself–”

“You don’t have to do anything,” You murmured, pressing a kiss to the sharp line of his hip. “Just let me take care of you.” His breath hitched–shallow and wild–and his hands gripped the sheets.

And then you bent your head.

And licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the length of him–base to tip.

Bob choked on a gasp, hips jolting before he stilled himself with sheer force of will. His hands flew to his forehead like he was trying to cover his eyes, but he couldn’t stop watching.

You flattened your tongue along the underside of him again slowly feeling the way he twitched under your touch, the way his breath hitched like it was caught in the delicate space between need and disbelief.

His hand found yours blindly–grasping, desperate for something to hold on to. You laced your fingers with his without hesitation, anchoring him as you opened your mouth and took him in.

The weight of him on your tongue was dizzying, intoxicating. He was warm and already leaking, the taste of him faintly salty as your lips sealed around him and began to move–slow, deliberate strokes of your mouth, your hand curled around the base of him in rhythm.

“Y-you’re…” His voice broke, breath catching, almost like a sob. “You’re really… Oh…”

The sound he made when you took him deeper went straight to your core. It was soft, wrecked–an overwhelmed whimper that made your thighs clench and heat spill low in your belly. You moaned around him, low and throaty, and he gasped your name like it physically stunned him.

You glanced up through your lashes and saw him–his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in disbelief. His free hand was fisted in the sheets now, his chest rising and falling in frantic waves.

You hollowed your cheeks and twisted your wrist just slightly, dragging your mouth back and then sliding down again, slower this time. You could feel every tremor in his thighs, the way his hips flexed involuntarily and then stilled, fighting the instinct to thrust. He was trying so hard to be good for you. To be still. To savor.

You let your hand drift lower, stroking him in time with your mouth, the slick sounds of your lips meeting his flushed skin only driving you further into the heat building between your own legs. You could feel how wet you were through your panties—soaked from the way he whispered your name, from the way he whimpered when you gave him just a little more.

“Oh,” Bob whispered again, breathless. “You feel so good. I don’t… I didn’t... I…” You moaned softly again, taking him deeper, loving the way his voice cracked, the way his fingers squeezed yours like he was hanging on by a thread.

And you didn’t stop.

You licked and sucked and worshipped him, letting the tension build, letting him teeter right there on the edge. His legs were shaking now. His hips stuttered once, and then again.

“I—I think I’m gonna…” He gasped. “I don’t know if I can…P-Please don’t stop—please—please—”

You didn’t.

You kept going. Swirling your tongue around the tip, easing him deeper again, moaning softly just to feel the way it made his whole body jolt.

He came with a sound like he was breaking—high and soft and breathless. A shattered gasp of your name, followed by a long, trembling whine as he spilled into your mouth.

You swallowed it all. Every last drop.

And even then–you didn’t stop.

You licked him gently, slowly, carefully–savoring him through the aftershocks. His body twitched beneath you, overstimulated and undone, his voice going quiet and airy.

“I-it’s too much,” He breathed, eyes wide and wet with disbelief. “Oh God—it’s so much…”

You finally pulled back, lips glistening, your breath ragged. You kissed the inside of his thigh tenderly, then wiped the corner of your mouth with your fingers and gave him the softest smile.

Bob looked at you like you’d just handed him a piece of the universe he never thought he deserved.

You crawled back up the bed and laid beside him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder, letting your hand fall to the center of his chest. His heart was pounding beneath your palm, like it had forgotten how to slow down.

He turned to face you.

And then he kissed you–without thinking, without pause.

His mouth was hungry, lips moving against yours like he wanted to pour his gratitude and longing into every stroke of your tongue. You let out a soft hum into the kiss, and his hand found your waist, curling around you like he needed you against him. All of you. Bob kissed you like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand tightened at your waist as he deepened the kiss, his mouth warm and earnest, his tongue slow against yours—like he was trying to memorize the taste of your breath and the taste of himself on your tongue. Then he shifted his weight just slightly, moving over you, and your body followed without hesitation.

He rolled smoothly, gently, so that your back met the mattress and his body hovered above yours. His thigh slid between yours, his chest flush to your own, and his face hovered just inches from yours–eyes wide and wild with something more than lust. Something closer to awe.

You let out a surprised giggle, breathless beneath him, one hand slipping up to brush back the messy strands of his light brown hair. It stuck up in every direction from your earlier touch, and now it framed his flushed face like a halo that couldn’t decide if it belonged to a saint or a sinner.

He gave a small, dazed laugh too, his lips curving in wonder as he looked down at you.

And then he murmured, soft as velvet:

“It’s your turn.”

His voice sent a shiver straight through you–because it wasn’t just desire in his tone. It was reverence. Like this was sacred. Like you were sacred.

He dipped his head and kissed your throat, slow and sweet, and you tilted your head to give him more. His hand slid up your side, warm and sure, until it cupped your breast. He paused there, looking at you–asking, even now. Even after everything.

You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

And Bob leaned down to worship.

His mouth wrapped around the swell of your breast, lips so soft, tongue teasing the peak until it pulled a soft sound from the back of your throat. He groaned at the noise, like it physically did something to him. He kissed across your chest–open, adoring–then sucked gently at the other nipple, swirling his tongue in slow circles until your fingers curled in his hair. You felt his teeth graze the sensitive skin just around your nipple–just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips twitch slightly beneath him.

You gasped, soft and surprised, and his mouth pulled back with a small, wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His breath was warm against your damp skin, and then he exhaled slowly–cool air brushing across the nipple he’d just teased, and your whole body shivered in response.

Bob chuckled under his breath–low and breathless. Not cocky. Amazed. Like your reactions lit up something inside him he never even knew he needed.

Then he kept going.

His lips traced a winding path down your body–each kiss like a benediction pressed into skin. The slope of your ribs. The softness of your belly. The place just beneath your navel where you felt everything coil tight with anticipation.

You shifted slightly, drawing your knees up, thighs falling open to make space for him as he reached the waistband of your underwear. The fabric was soaked with you–already clinging, already begging to be removed. Bob looked up once, eyes wide and full of silent question, fingers brushing your hips.

You nodded. Your breath was caught somewhere behind your teeth, but your legs were already parting further, your spine already arching to help him slide them down.

He pulled the underwear off slowly, taking his time with you, watching the way the fabric peeled away from your slick heat. Your body practically glistened in the amber light, folds swollen and flushed with need. He swallowed thickly, the sound audible even in the hush of your room, and let the underwear fall to the floor like a silk offering.

Bob settled between your thighs like he’d found the center of the universe.

His hands slid up the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin as he leaned forward, mouth trailing open kisses along the tender flesh–first one thigh, then the other. You twitched at the contact, gasping as his lips dragged up the curve of your leg, warm and wet and wanting. He paused just at the crease where thigh met hip, and then–without warning–bit gently, sucking until the skin flushed pink and bloomed with a bruise.

Bob smiled into your skin. “S–Sorry,” He murmured, clearly not sorry at all, his voice thick with breath and worship. “N–Needed to leave s-something to remember me b-by.”

And then–finally–he kissed your core.

His tongue swiped through your folds in one long, slow motion, and your whole body jolted like he’d reached inside your chest and rung out your soul. You felt the flat press of his tongue against your clit, the deliberate drag upward, the way his lips wrapped around you and sucked–soft, rhythmic, maddening.

Your back arched off the bed.

Your hand flew down and found his wrist–one of the hands bracing you open–and you held onto it like a lifeline, anchoring yourself to the feeling. His other hand splayed across your stomach, warm and grounding, fingers spread wide over trembling muscles.

He licked you again–deeper now. More intentional. His tongue moved like he was mapping you, learning every reaction, every twitch, every soft cry like it was sacred text. He flicked the tip of his tongue in slow, focused circles, then flattened it again, pressure building just right, just there–

“Fuck—Bob,” ¥ou breathed, voice high and frayed. “Jesus Christ…”

He moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your body and sending another jolt through your spine.

And then you tilted your head back.

The mirror caught everything.

Your body sprawled across the bed–glowing, undone, your knees spread wide and your hair wild pointing every which way. Bob’s shoulders bracketed your thighs, his face buried between them, dark hair mussed and damp with sweat and your slick. You saw the way your stomach rose and fell beneath his hand, how your hips bucked slightly with each flick of his tongue.

And then–God–

You looked down at him.

And he was looking up at you.

Eyes glassy and wide, pupils blown with hunger. His mouth was still moving, still lapping at you with slow swirls–but his gaze stayed locked on yours like it anchored him. His brow was pinched in concentration, his cheeks flushed, his lips glistening.

It was intimate in a way that felt deeper than skin. Like he was beholding you, not just touching you. Like the act of pleasuring you was its own kind of worship–and he couldn’t look away from the way your body bloomed beneath him.

You whimpered, your hand tightening around his wrist.

He groaned softly, and the sound reverberated through you.

And then–without breaking eye contact–he slid two thick fingers inside you.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent gasp, spine arching. The stretch was slow, sweet, perfect. He curled them just right, finding that place inside you that made your breath stutter and your thighs twitch.

“Y-Yeah,” he rasped against your core, voice hoarse, lips brushing your clit between licks. “There. T-That’s it, I–I feel you…”

You clenched around them while his tongue kept moving—never stopping. His fingers pumped slow and deep, curling with every pass, and your legs started to shake.

The sight in the mirror was unholy–your head thrown back, his mouth buried between your legs, fingers working you open while your body writhed beneath him.

“Bob—Bob I’m gonna—”

“I–I know,” He whispered. “I’ve got you..Y-Y/N.”

With a sharp cry and a desperate buck of your hips, you came–shattering like glass under floodlight. Your walls clamped down around his fingers, your thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hand crushing his wrist as you pulsed around him.

Bob didn’t stop until you whined, breathless and broken, hips twitching from oversensitivity. Even then, he pulled back slowly, mouth flushed, chin slick with you. He pressed one last kiss to your thigh, and looked up at you again.

Completely wrecked.

Completely in awe.

You let out a laugh of disbelief–shaky, breathless, still caught in the afterglow of everything Bob had just pulled from you. Your body was humming, twitching with sensitivity, your thighs trembling around nothing now as he lifted his head from between them.

Bob looked like he had just witnessed a modern day miracle, a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

Then he started to move slowly, crawling back up your body on his elbows, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses into your skin as he went. The curve of your hip. Your stomach, still fluttering beneath the aftershocks of your orgasm. Each kiss was a brushstroke of heat and devotion, like he wanted to taste every inch of what he’d done to you.

When he reached your chest, he paused, nuzzled into the soft swell of your breast and pressed the gentlest kiss there too. Then higher–your collarbone, your throat, the corner of your jaw. You turned your head slightly and met him as his mouth finally reached yours again.

The kiss was warm, a little messy, but full of affection. Your taste was still on his lips, and he didn’t hide it–he kissed you like he wanted you to know he’d savor every drop.

“Y-You’re unreal,” He mumbled against your cheek. And then he gave a shy, breathless laugh. “I think I–I forgot how to breathe.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through the soft mess of his hair, and he leaned into the touch like it grounded him.

“I’m already ready again,” He admitted sheepishly, pressing his forehead to yours. You felt it him hard and warm again between your thighs, flush against your soaked center. Your breath hitched.

But then Bob hesitated. You felt it in the shift of his weight, the tremor in his next breath.

“We could leave it at that for tonight,” He said softly. His voice was a whisper of restraint, even though his hips twitched against yours like his body was begging him not to stop. “If you don’t want to have sex—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You kissed him–deep and sure and full of heat.

When you pulled back, your voice was firm and breathless. “I want you.”

Bob’s eyes widened slightly, lips still parted in surprise. “S-Should I run and grab a condom?” You tilted your left arm back slightly, resting it behind your head on the mattress, and with your free hand, pointed to the small, barely visible scar just beneath the skin of your inner arm.

“Implant,” You said softly. “We’re good.” His breath caught audibly and his hand hovered near your arm for a second, then settled gently over it–thumb brushing once over your skin.

“Y-You’re sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, like he couldn’t bear to assume. Like he was terrified of doing the wrong thing when he finally had the chance to do this right. You nodded, soft but certain, caressing his cheek gently.

”I’m sure.” Bob exhaled like it physically knocked the air from his lungs. Then he kissed you again–and this time, it was different.

There was no hesitation. No soft buildup. Just need and wonder colliding all at once.

His mouth crushed against yours, urgent and hungry, and you met him just as fiercely. Tongues brushed and tangled in wet, open kisses, teeth grazing lips, breath caught between mouths like smoke. You could feel the way he breathed you in between every kiss–little shaky exhales pressed into your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth–as if you were the air keeping him alive.

“God, y-you taste like heaven,” He murmured hoarsely into your mouth, and then kissed you again, harder.

You moaned against his lips, your body arching into his, and he groaned right back–his hand sliding from your hip to the side of your neck, fingers splayed out over your pulse point like he needed to feel the rhythm of you.

The head of his cock brushed against your slick entrance–hot and heavy and trembling with anticipation–and he froze just a moment, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were blown wide, lips flushed, chest rising and falling like a wave cresting.

He lined himself up with a breathless stammer of your name, “J-Just tell me i-if I do anything wrong okay?” You nodded–soft, breathless, legs flinching around him slightly as he started to push in–inch by inch. Your mouth dropped open around a gasp.

”Oh–“ You breathed, hips twitching up towards him, “Bob…” He bit his bottom lip hard, trying to hold it together, closing his eyes at the sensation of you slowly taking him in.

“You’re s-so warm,” He choked out, “I can feel all of you, I–”

And then he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, both of you trembling.

You were wrapped around him, stretched and full and gasping through the intensity of it, and Bob just hovered there, buried deep, his forehead resting against yours like he needed the anchor. You cupped his cheek, kissed him once–soft, shaky–and whispered,

“I need you to move…” He nodded at your request, dragging his hips back only to press in again with a quiet groan that vibrated against your chest. His thrusts weren’t rough—but they had weight. Depth. Like he couldn’t help but want to be as far inside you as he could get.

Each time he rocked forward, your bodies met with a soft, slick sound, heat rising like steam between your tangled limbs. He kissed you through it, messy and desperate, lips parting and pressing and dragging over yours like he never wanted to come up for air. You kissed him just as hard–your tongue sliding against his, teeth nipping his bottom lip, your hands gripping his shoulders like you didn’t want him to go anywhere.

Your fingers tangled into the back of his hair, tugging gently–not to pull him closer, but to hold. To ground. The strands were damp with sweat and heat, and he gasped into your mouth when you did it, his hips stuttering in response.

Bob groaned low and soft, the sound caught between reverence and ache. Then his hand slid up, warm and sure, and cupped the side of your throat—not tight, just enough to feel the flutter of your pulse beneath his palm. His thumb tilted your chin up, guiding your gaze back to him.

“L-Look at me,” He breathed, voice ragged with want. “I…I need to see you.”

You did. Eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed and heated. You were so open for him, so undone and radiant in the lamplight–and it broke something in him, seeing you like this, needing him like this.

Then he hooked his arms under your knees and lifted.

The change in angle dragged a gasp from your throat so sharp it bordered on a cry. He slid deeper—so deep it felt like he was in your chest, like he was part of the ache and the breath and the heartbeat of you. Your mouth dropped open around a broken moan, and your eyes went glassy.

“F-Fuck,” You choked, your head falling back. “Bob–oh my God–”

Bob whimpered softly, overwhelmed by the sound of his name on your lips, by the clench of your body around him. His breath was hot and frantic, his face flushed and slack with awe.

“You feel…” He started, then trailed off, swallowing hard. “You feel s-so good–so warm–you’re perfect, I–” He kissed your cheek once. Then again. Then again, softer each time, like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t know how else to worship you.

And then, he saw it.

The mirror.

The two of you–tangled together, sweat-slicked and flushed with heat, your body curled around him like it was built to fit. His eyes snapped to it–and for a moment, he just stared. Breathless. Dazed. He could see the way your hands gripped his shoulders, the way your breasts bounced softly with each deep thrust. The sight of it–the raw, real closeness–wrecked him.

Your gaze flicked over his and followed where he was looking and you caught the reflection too.

“I want to watch us,” You whispered, breath ragged and full of heat. “Please.”

Bob’s breath caught hard. His hips stilled, his eyes wide, his mouth parting with something like awe and disbelief.

“Y-Yeah?” he stammered.

You nodded.

That was all it took.

He pulled out slowly–deliberately, as if the act of leaving your body was a loss he needed to mourn–and helped guide you onto your stomach, careful even through the haze of want. You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes fixed on your reflection, hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten.

He moved behind you, one knee between yours, and dragged his hand down the length of your spine in one long, aching stroke, watching goosebumps rise on your flesh before peppering a few kisses along the bare skin of your back. Then he gripped your hips and lined himself up again.

The first thrust back in was brutal in its beauty.

You let out a ragged groan–half gasp, half cry–as he sank back into you. The angle was different now. Deeper. Fuller. It felt like he was rooted inside you, like he could reach the very center of you.

Bob’s groan was wrecked.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “You’re so…This is…Y-You’re tight–so deep, I—”

He leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, and you felt the press of his mouth against the side of your neck–just beneath your ear. Then his arm slid around your neck from behind, not choking, not tight—just holding. Anchoring. His breath spilled hot across your skin, and he kissed your jaw again, reverently, trembling against you.

Your eyes locked in the mirror.

You. Spread out. Eyes heavy, mouth open, skin flushed and glowing. Bob–bare and trembling behind you, lips parted, face slack with wonder, arm curled protectively around you like he was trying to keep you from slipping away.

The reflection made your breath catch.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt.

“I’ve n-never…” He choked out, hips still rolling slow and deep, “Never seen anything so beautiful—so fuckin’ real–“ Your breath stuttered, your chest dragging in air like your lungs were trying to keep up with the sheer intimacy of his voice in your ear, his body inside you, the way his eyes stayed locked to yours in the mirror.

And then you turned your head.

Just a little.

Enough to find his lips.

Your mouths met in a kiss that shattered the edges of everything soft and safe. It wasn’t delicate this time. It was molten. You sucked gently on his tongue when he pushed into your mouth, and the noise Bob made was nearly inhuman–a muffled, desperate moan swallowed by your kiss.

The arm around your neck tightened just slightly, his palm flattening against your shoulder to hold you a little closer. He kissed you like he needed your breath to survive, and with every stroke of his tongue against yours, he thrust a little deeper, a little harder, losing the last shred of distance between you.

The sounds filled the room now.

Slippery, wet, rhythmic. The soft slap of skin meeting skin. Your gasps–broken, high, open. His moans–low, breathy, whispered things like “fuck” and “please” and your name like it was a prayer he’d never been brave enough to say out loud until now. The creak of the mattress. The rustle of the sheets. The hum of the city just outside the window, as if the whole world had gone quiet to listen.

His hips were moving faster now, not pounding but full of momentum. Urgency laced with awe. You felt every inch of him with every push, your body keening beneath him, his cock dragging against that tender spot inside you again and again.

And still–his mouth kept finding yours.

Messy kisses. Tongue and teeth and hot breath shared like something sacred. You whimpered into him, and he swallowed it, moaning in return, his pace growing more erratic with each roll of his hips.

“G-God,” he gasped into your mouth. “You feel so–so perfect–I c-can’t–” He pressed his forehead against yours, sweat-slick and shivering, his voice unraveling into something raw. “I’m gonna–Y/N–I c-can’t hold back–please come with me–please–”

You nodded, frantic, the pleasure building low in your spine like a storm. Your thighs trembled, your mouth fell open, and you barely managed a whispered, “Yes–yes, I’m close, Bob, I’m right there–”

His arm tightened around you again, holding you together as he watched your reflection–watched your mouth fall open, your eyes flutter shut, your body writhing beneath him.

“I see you,” He whispered. “I see you, I’ve got you, just–just let go, I’m right here–”

You did.

Your orgasm hit you so fast it felt like your entire body was going to give out. It was brilliant, consuming, and it had every nerve ending singing with heat. Your body pulsed around him, clenching and fluttering in frantic waves, and the cry that tore from your throat was almost too much to bear.

Soon after Bob twitched deep inside you, thick and hot, and you felt him spill–pulse after pulse of heat filling you, his hips jerking in short, erratic thrusts as he buried himself as far as he could go. His moan was wrecked–raw and full–and it tumbled from him as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. It wasn’t loud. It was low. Shaky. The sound a man makes when he’s completely undone. A whimper edged with disbelief, like he was giving you the very last piece of himself.

And just then–like the world exhaled around you–you heard it.

A faint, hairline crack.

Barely a sound.

Your gaze flicked up, dazed and hazy through the aftermath, and there it was: a thin fracture running across the mirror. A small, pale lightning bolt etched in glass, splitting right where your bodies met in reflection.

You blinked.

And then you tightened your hold on him.

Your hand clutched at the arm that held you–his forearm still locked gently around your chest–and your other reached blindly to touch his shoulder. You turned your head just enough to feel the hot tremble of his breath against your skin, the way it stuttered and hitched through parted lips still struggling to return to earth.

His entire body was shaking against yours. Not violently–just overwhelmed. The way a dam trembles after it’s burst.

“Shh,” you whispered, kissing the edge of his cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He moaned again–quiet this time, muffled against your skin, and full of something so deep it almost hurt. His arm loosened slightly from around your neck and slid lower, wrapping fully around your torso as he exhaled one long, shivering breath. His body collapsed slowly over yours, his chest pressed against your back, both of you trembling, covered in sweat and each other.

He didn’t pull out.

He couldn’t–not yet.

You could still feel him twitching softly inside you, still half-hard, still pulsing faintly from the intensity of it all. His cum was already starting to leak back down between your thighs, warmth slicking your folds, but neither of you moved to clean it up. Not yet.

He kissed your shoulder.

Then your neck.

Then the curve of your spine.

Each one slow and breathless. A vow, a thank you, a grounding touch.

You tilted your head back toward him, catching his lips with your own. The kiss was soft now. Lingering. Your mouths moved lazily together, wet and tender and full of exhaustion.

“Jesus,” He whispered against your mouth. “I–I didn’t mean to… I think I…”

“I know,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over the damp nape of his neck. “I saw it.”

His breath caught. “I–I cracked the mirror, didn’t I?”

You nodded once, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Just a little.”

A silence stretched between you, warm and golden and full of breath.

Then he laughed–quiet and stunned–and buried his face into your shoulder again.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered. “I–I didn’t mean to lose control.” You let out a soft sigh.

”It’s okay Bob…You were overwhelmed and feeling good…Let’s just hope Sentry is the one that gets seven years bad luck.” You both laughed–low and loose and breathless, the sound catching in the honey-thick air between your bodies. Bob’s chest vibrated softly against your back as he let out another stifled chuckle, nuzzling his nose into the space just beneath your ear.

“Only you,” He murmured, his voice warm and worn down, “C–Can make light of me literally c-cracking your mirror mid-orgasm.” You tilted your head slightly, grinning despite the ache still thrumming between your thighs.

“I mean… If you’re gonna break something,” You said, glancing back at him with a playful glint in your eyes, “At least it wasn’t my pelvis.”

That made him snort and he buried his face deeper into your shoulder, completely wrecked by laughter now. You felt the full ripple of it through his chest, the way his arms tightened around you just a little as if he could keep this moment stitched to the skin.

You turned your head, kissed him again–slow and sweet. No rush. Just the warm slide of lips and breath. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking your skin as he kissed you back with the kind of quiet that said I never want to stop doing this.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, his voice rough with affection. “I should, uh… I should pull out.”

You nodded softly. “Okay.”

He moved slowly, gently easing out of you with a quiet gasp at the sensitivity. You both hissed a little–his from overstimulation, yours from the sticky stretch of release leaving your body. He lingered there for a beat, fingers brushing your hip, as if he hated the idea of not being connected to you anymore.

He stayed close even after he pulled out, one hand resting lightly on your lower back, the other brushing your hip like he needed to reassure himself you were still there. The room was warm, quiet, the mirror fractured but the world around you whole.

“W–We should get cleaned up,” He murmured, his voice still dazed but laced with care. “D–Do you wanna…Maybe shower? With me?” His fingers twitched gently where they touched your side. “Only if you want to. I just—I don’t really wanna let you go yet…”

Your heart melted.

You turned slowly beneath him, shifting onto your back so you could face him fully. His hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the ends, cheeks still flushed, lips swollen. But it was his eyes that undid you. Wide and soft and full of affection. Still a little glassy. Still glowing slightly from the shock of Sentry.

“Of course,” You whispered, brushing your fingers through his hair, a soft blush rose to his cheeks, as you leaned up to kiss the tip of his nose, “I kinda wanna be held under hot water for like…An hour. Minimum.”

Bob gave you the softest grin. “I-I can do that. I’m good at holding.” His tone was still tentative, but there was pride there too. A glimmer of purpose. “You’ll be the cleanest, most held person in the entire compound.”

You sat up slowly, wincing slightly at the soreness blooming in your thighs and core. Bob immediately reached to steady you, his hands finding your waist, his brows pinched in concern.

“I’m okay,” You promised him with a soft smile, “Just a bit sore.”His ears turned red.

“S-Sorry.” He whispered.

“Don’t be,” You said gently, leaning in to press your forehead to his. “I liked being yours.”

His breath caught at that, his hands tightening gently on your sides. Then he kissed you–slow and soft and grateful. And when you pulled back, his hand brushed along your arm as he helped you out of bed.

You led the way to your en suite bathroom, flicking on the light that glowed soft and golden. The room was warm, fogged slightly from earlier use, and your spare towels were already folded neatly on the rack. You reached for two, tossed one onto the nearby counter for later, and handed Bob the other to keep nearby.

He looked at it like it was some sacred token.

You turned the water on and waited for it to warm while he stepped behind you, wrapping his arms gently around your waist and nuzzling the back of your neck.

“I could get used to this,” He whispered.

“What, showering?” You teased, smiling as you leaned back into his chest.

“No,” He said, shaking his head slightly. “Just…Being with you. Like this.”

You turned in his arms, heart thudding, and kissed him slow and sure. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The water turned to steam.

You stepped in first, guiding him in with you. It was small, a bit cramped–but it didn’t matter. You made room for each other. Bob pressed close, arms winding gently around your back as the water poured down over you both. His mouth found your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your lips, peppering you with soft, adoring kisses as the heat melted the soreness from your limbs.

He helped you wash your entire body. His fingers in your hair, gentle and careful as they massaged your scalp with your favorite shampoo. His palms smoothing body wash over your skin like you were something precious and breakable, his lips brushing your shoulder every few seconds just to stay close.

You did the same for him, trailing your hands down his chest, watching the way he shivered beneath your touch even now. You cleaned him carefully, quietly, the lather sliding down both your bodies in pearled rivulets. Every time you looked up at him, he was already looking at you. Eyes soft. Lips parted. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

At one point, you turned under the spray and leaned your back into his chest. Bob immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush to him beneath the stream of water. His chin came to rest atop your head, his breath steadying.

“I—I feel like I’m gonna cry,” He admitted quietly, after a long silence.

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “Why?”

“Because…” He swallowed. “B-Because I’ve never felt this safe. And that’s… Not something I ever thought I’d get.”

You reached up, touched his jaw, and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “Then I’ll just have to keep giving it to you.”

His arms tightened around you, and he let out a long, trembling breath.

“Promise?” He whispered.

“Always,” You said. And meant it.

In the shower’s warmth, with your bodies tangled and your hearts steadying into one rhythm, nothing else in the world existed.

Just you and Bob. Soft skin. Steam. And the quiet knowledge that everything had changed.

[dolceaspidenera]

Saw this and had to reblog to spread some love and appreciation for all the fics I stumbled upon that brought me some kind of comfort.

@surlydragon you already know it, but your series "In which Sylus..." is for me THE comfort fic. I never felt more seen and emotionally validated in my life. The way you voiced MC and the way you write Sylus taking care of her is incredibly comforting. Their dynamic and the way they love each other is beautiful. Seeing someone who is willing to put the work in, who is gentle and patient and loves you despite the hurt, despite the unlovable parts of yourself that still need healing is one of the most comforting things about your story. You have really written something important, I hope you know it and remember it every time you have doubts about whether or not you should share your stories (ultimately it will always be your decision but I wanted to let you know without a doubt that your writing is very appreciated and also I'm happy it made me "meet" a wonderful person, our conversations always bring me a smile).

@senualothbrok your stories about Aurora's healing journey (Progress and Promise) really left an impression. I still find myself thinking about them, and I really appreciate you for putting such vulnerable work out there. Plus, I think it was thanks to those stories that we really started talking, so one more reason to think back fondly on them.

@iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia your headcanons have brought me so much comfort and so many smiles. Thank you for everything you've written over the years. I have my personal favourites but I enjoyed seeing each and every one of your posts (Julian will always have a special place in my heart).

@linkons-most-wanted I think What The Cat Dragged In is by defenition the most comfort fic that could be made, and it found me on a day I really needed it. Also Double the Birthday, Double the Fun is another one of your works that somehow I find very comforting, and seeing the twins happy and being spoiled is always fantastic, they deserve it. Also, I have no idea what is wrong with my brain chemistry, but this line right here, "Sylus steps up quietly behind me, looping a hand around my waist and running a thumb softly over my ribs" makes me melt every time I read it. It's just those little gestures and body language that convey reassurance and closeness, a silent way of showing affection, of saying "I'm here," you know? Ugh, my heart.

@shenanigans-and-imagines, I Want It All was my very first BG3 fan fic I ever read so it definitely has a special place. Also, the ace!Tav x Astarion pairing was a breath of fresh air in the fandom climate at the time. Thank you for the positive and very empathetic ace rep.

@senseandaccountability, Blaze Me A Sun is one of my favourite fics ever. I just love the way you write, it inspired me to try writing something for myself, and I wish I had even 10% of your talent. You perfectly captured so many of the themes that are so important to me in bg3, especially when it comes to Astarion's story, what it means to live with trauma and scars, knowing that you didn't deserved it but it happened anyway, and the years you lost you’ll never get back, and yet life is still full of beauty and hope and you should still be kind to others. And then there are the developing feelings between him and Elnys, and what it feels like to find someone who actually sees you. Thank you for your incredibly touching prose and for addressing difficult themes with the care they deserve.

my dream as a fanfic writer is for one day, one of my fics to be someones comfort fic. like the fic that they reread when they don't feel good and want to be happy. i want my words to comfort someone one day

[keithyp00]

︵‿︵‿୨♡ Pretty Little Baby ♡୧‿︵‿︵

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: slow burn, hurt/comfort, romance, emotional vulnerability, mentions of PTSD, minor language, soft!Bucky, pining and tension, kissing, implied intimacy, fluff, 1950s music, scars, body image

Song Inspiration: Pretty Little Baby by Connie Francis

Word Count: 2.4K

Author Note: Hello! Sorry this one is out so late... This is another Connie Francis fic (because her songs work for him so well <3) that I'm pretty proud of. This note is to tell you guys that I don't think I bombed my AP exam this morning so that's good! AND that my post for tomorrow will be delayed to Friday night because of my PROM! Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this one!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

Pretty little baby / you say that maybe you'll be thinkin' of me / and try to love me / Pretty little baby / I'm hoping that you do~

~~~~~

Bucky Barnes wasn't supposed to fall in love. Not again. Not here.

The sunlight pooled through the tiny cafe window just enough to trace gold over the soft curve of your cheek. You sat tucked in the small booth located behind the counter- specifically for workers- like a secret waiting to be discovered, the vintage radio located next to you crooning out a low, crackling tune- something old. Something he vaguely remembered the melody of.

"Pretty little baby, I'm so in love with you~"

Your fingers tapped along the rim of your coffee cup, mimicking the tempo. You didn't see him at first. You never did. Not really. Not in the way others did- with their reverence, their suspicion, their fear. No, you had this gentle way of looking at him like he wasn't a ghost. Like he wasn't a man made of nightmares. You saw through the steel and the silence.

You saw him.

He'd been coming here for three months now. Tuesdays and Fridays. You always worked the morning shift, tucked in your apron and a smile so warm it melted his resolve. Bucky told himself the coffee was the reason he kept returning. Told himself the old songs reminded him of simpler times. Told himself it wasn't you.

But it was always you.

Today, you looked different. A little sad. Your smile not quite reaching your eyes.

"Hey, soldier," you greeted softly when he finally stepped forward to the counter, voice like a balm.

"Hey, doll," he murmured, almost under his breath. The nickname slipped out sometimes, like his body remembered the rhythm of a past life even when he didn't mean to.

Your lips twitched a little higher. You always liked when he called you that.

"Coffee?" You asked, already reaching for his usual.

"Yeah." He hesitated. "And... maybe a slice of that apple pie?"

You blinked. "Trying something new?"

Bucky shrugged, pretending it didn't take everything in him to break routine. "Thought I'd live a little."'

You gave him a playful salute. "That's the spirit."

As you turned to plate the dessert, Bucky glanced toward the radio. The song still played.

"Pretty little baby / You said maybe..."

It tugged at something in his chest. A memory, maybe. A fragment. He remembered holding someone close on a night like this. A whisper of perfume, the hem of a dress, the way music softened all the edges. But that wasn't this life. That wasn't now.

This was now. And you were here.

"Something wrong?" He asked when you set down his plate with slightly trembling fingers.

You smiled- small, too practiced. "Just... tired."

"Liar," he replied gently.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. Startled. Then they softened.

"My roommate's moving out," you confessed. "And I can't afford the place on my own. I guess I'm worried I'll have to leave the neighborhood. Find a new job. Start over."

HIs fork paused halfway to his mouth.

"You thinking about leaving?" He asked carefully.

You nodded. "Unless something changes."

Bucky set his fork down.

Something about the idea of you being gone made his heart lurch in his chest. He didn't want to admit how often he built his week around these visits. How often he remembered the sound of your laugh hours after hearing it. How he had memorized the smell of this cafe because it smelled like you.

"You shouldn't have to start over," he stated.

Your smile faltered. "Sometimes, you don't get a choice."

He knew that better than anyone.

There was a beat of silence. Just the soft voice of Connie Francis filling in the cracks between you.

Bucky cleared his throat. "You like this kind of music?"

Your eyes seemed to light up- really light up- and for a second, the weight on your shoulders vanished.

"I love it," you smiled. "My grandmother used to play these old records. Connie, Doris, Patsy. She used to say romance was simpler back then."

He smiled, something wistful curing in his chest. "Yeah, I remember."

You blinked. "You remember?"

He hesitated, caught. And then slowly, he let the words fall. "I was born in 1917."

The world stilled. You stared. Then stared a little longer. His coffee cooling beside the both of you.

You didn't ask. Not about the arm. Not about the Winter Soldier. Not even about Steve.

Instead, you reached across the table and placed your hand over his flesh one.

"That must be a lot to carry," you said.

And somehow- somehow- that was worse than pity. It was kindness. It made something in his chest ache.

~~~~~

Weeks passed.

You didn't leave. Somehow, a friend of a friend needed a roommate- really just someone to help pay half the rent for a place they rarely ever stayed in. You moved three blocks away instead of thirty minutes. You still worked at the cafe. Bucky still came by.

Sometimes he came just to sit with you during your break. Sometimes you played cards behind the counter. Sometimes he helped you change the records on slow afternoons, humming low and quiet.

Once, he brought you a tiny potted plant with a tag that just said "for the sunshine behind the counter."

You nearly cried.

You started listening to more old songs. Started humming them around him. Started smiling wider every time he walked in. You didn't know when you fell in love with him. You just knew that one day, Bucky Barnes was no longer a customer. He was a presence. A comfort.

A heartbeat. And you were his. But neither of you said it. Not until the night it all came undone.

~~~~~

It was raining.

Bucky didn't show up for his usual Tuesday coffee. Then Friday. Then the next Tuesday.

You didn't have his number. You didn't know where he lived. You were just a girl behind a counter who somehow memorized the man behind all the pain.

When he showed up again, he looked wrecked.

Eyes bloodshot. Jaw tight. Hair damp from the storm outside. He didn't say hello. Didn't order coffee.

Just stared at you like he didn't believe you were real.

"I'm sorry," he said.

You frowned. "Where were you?"

"I... I couldn't come," he whispered. "I couldn't see you. I couldn't look at you and pretend I'm not broken."

Your chest tightened.

"You don't have to pretend," you said quietly.

He stepped closer. "I dreamt I hurt you," he confessed, voice breaking. "My mind... sometimes I can't control what I see. What I feel. I thought if I stayed away, I could protect you. But it just- hurt more."

You were shaking now. "Bucky..."

"I'm not what you think I am," he said. "I'm not a good man. I've done things that haunt me. I'm not fixed. I'm not even whole. I didn't want to let you close because I knew- I knew I'd start to hope. And hope is dangerous."

Tears welled in your eyes.

"Don't you get it?" You whispered. "I don't need perfect. I need you."

Silence.

Then his voice- ragged.

"You deserve someone better."

"Maybe," you replied. "But I want you."

That cracked something in him. Broke him open.

And suddenly, he was holding you like a lifeline, forehead pressed to yours, rain in his hair, in his lashes, on his lips. He was trembling- an earthquake in a man's body. And then he kissed you.

Soft. Desperate. Real.

Like he's been waiting a hundred years just to find someone who didn't flinch.

~~~~~

"Meet me at the car hop or at the pop shop / meet me in the moonlight or in the daylight / pretty little baby, I'm so in love with you~"

The record played again a week later.

You danced in your kitchen barefoot while Bucky cooked behind you. He was clumsy with a spatula but careful with your heart. His metal arm wrapped around your waist as you spun into him, laughter spilling between you.

"I like this one," he murmured into your hair.

"I know," you smiled, eyes twinkling. "You always hum it."

Bucky kissed your temple.

"Pretty little baby," he whispered, echoing the lyrics. And this time, when you looked at him... You didn't see the Winter Soldier.

You saw James Buchanan Barnes.

And he was yours.

~~~~~

The first time you saw him shirtless, it wasn't intentional.

You'd only meant to bring him coffee.

It was barely past nine on a Sunday morning- quiet, sleepy light pouring through your bedroom window, another morning where your roommate was in a city thousands of miles away for work- and you padded down the hallway with two mugs in hand and nothing but one of Bucky's old Henley's falling past your thighs. You hadn't expected him to be out of bed already. You hadn't expected to find him standing in your bathroom, door ajar, wiping steam off the mirror as sunlight caught every scar on his back.

The coffee nearly slipped from your fingers.

He turned at the sound of your breath catching, eyes wide, chest bare, metal arm glinting sliver-blue in the light. He looked like a statue- carved from war and grief, tall and scarred and too beautiful to be real.

"Sorry," he muttered, reaching for a towel.

You swallowed. "Don't- don't cover up-"

HIs hand paused. Towel clenched at his side. His shoulders tensed as if waiting for you to flinch. For you to turn away. For you to look at him and see a monster.

But you didn't.

You just stepped closer. Set the mugs on the counter. Reached up with trembling fingers to touch the edge of one older scar that curled itself across his ribs.

"Does it still hurt?" You asked.

His throat bobbed. "Not always."

You leaned in. Pressing a kiss just beside it.

Then another.

And another.

You traced the map of his wounds like a poem written specifically for you. He stood still, breathing shallowly, as your lips moved over the place where flesh met metal, where skin had broken and grown over again. His eyes fluttered shut. His hand trembled when it came to rest on your waist.

"Pretty little baby," you whispered, half a breath, the song still echoing somewhere in your heart. "I want all of you."

And he kissed you- raw and real and aching.

Like he couldn't believe he was allowed.

~~~~~

Later, when your head lay on his chest, your fingers drawing idle shapes over his sternum, he spoke.

"I used to think I wasn't allowed to want anything," he murmured. "After everything I did... I thought wanting happiness was selfish. I thought being touched would always feel like control. But with you-"

His voice broke.

"With you, I feel human again."

Tears pricked your eyes. You turned your face into his skin and breathed him in.

"Then stay human with me," you whispered.

He did.

He stayed.

~~~~~

Time passed in quiet, golden pieces.

You slowly moved out of your apartment and into his. You left a toothbrush beside his. He left a dog-eared version of The Hobbit on your nightstand and insisted it was better than the movie.

You started watching black-and-white films together on an old projector screen you borrowed from a friend. He fell asleep on your lap during Roman Holiday. You took a picture- his face soft, peaceful, your fingers tangled in his hair- and set it as your lock screen. He pretended to grumble about it.

But he smiled every time he saw it.

You learned that he liked lemon in his tea. That he still had nightmares, but fewer of them now. That he hummed Connie Francis songs without realizing it, especially when he cooked. That he never quite believed he was lovable- but was trying, every day, to let you show him otherwise.

~~~~~

Then came the letter.

It was from the VA. A mandatory psych review. Another round of red tape. Another cold reminder that no matter how far he came, the world still saw him as dangerous first and human second.

You found him sitting on the edge of your bed, jaw clenched, paper crumpled in one fist.

"Hey," you said gently.

He didn't look at you.

"I don't want to go," he said. "I don't want to sit in some room and explain why I flinch at loud noises or why I check the door five times before sleeping. I don't want to be studied."

Your heart ached.

You sat beside him. Laced your fingers through his.

"You don't owe anyone an explanation for surviving," you stated. "But if you go... do it for you. Not them."

He exhaled slowly. Then nodded.

"I want to be better," he said. "For you."

You cupped his face, made him look at you.

"You're already enough," you whispered.

~~~~~

Spring came slowly.

The cafe bloomed with lavender outside the windows. You reopened the patio seating. He brought you flowers on your lunch break- daisies, once. Then violets. Then roses.

"You're spoiling me," you teased, cradling the bouquet.

He smirked. "You deserve it."

You kissed him on your break. In front of the window. In front of half the neighborhood.

He didn't care who saw.

For the first time in nearly a century, James Buchanan Barnes didn't hide.

~~~~~

But healing wasn't linear.

Some nights, he still woke up gasping.

Some days, he paced the apartment for hours before he could settle.

Once, he got quiet for a week after seeing his reflection in a store window and not recognizing himself. You didn't push. You just stayed close. Made tea. Held him when he let you.

"I don't know why you stay," he said one night, voice rough.

You pressed your forehead to his.

"Because I love you."

He didn't speak. But his arms wrapped around you tighter than ever.

And you knew.

He loved you, too.

~~~~~

One summer night, as fireflies blinked outside the open balcony and the radio hummed in the background, he pulled you into a dance in the living room. Bare feet on cool wood. Fingers on his collar. Chin tucked into his neck.

You swayed. Slowly. Softly.

He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your lips.

You tilted your head back to look at him.

"What are you thinking?" You whispered.

HIs blue eyes shimmered.

"That I want this," he said. "I want you. Forever, if you'll have me."

You laughed. A breathless, tearful sound.

"I've been yours since you walked into my cafe three months late and asked for a coffee with way too much sugar."

He groaned. "I said I was trying something new!"

You laughed and kissed him again.

"I love you," you smiled.

He closed his eyes.

"I love you more than I ever thought I could," he breathed. "And that terrifies me."

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

"Then let's be scared together."

[thedragonagebigbang]

Welcome to the Dragon Age Big Bang!

A fandom Big Bang encourages writers to produce a new, long piece of fanfiction, with the challenge of a deadline. Each fic will be paired with an artist, who will work with the author to create a new illustration based off of the themes and vibes of that work. Each pair of participants in this event will produce: One (1) new Dragon Age Fanfic of at least 25,000 words, and at least one (1) art piece inspired by that fic.

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Event Info: Full Guidebook & Rules | Artist Guide | Writer Guide Contact The Mods: ask | discord | email: thedragonagebig@gmail.com All 2024 Work Posts | 2024 Wrap Up | 2024 AO3 Collection

[bleulikedaylight]

I Was Hoping You'd Say That

pairing: basketball captain! natasha romanoff x cheerleader captain! reader

synopsis: it always starts the same way — the squeak of rubber soles, the bounce of a ball, and your hopeless crush on basketball captain natasha romanoff. as AAU’s cheer captain, you swear it’s all “professional observation.” but when natasha starts noticing your disappearing act every time she’s near, she calls you out — and maybe, just maybe, calls you in.

warnings: none !! <3 | wc: 1.4k | genre: fluff >_<

note: this is my first time posting a fic here, so hi !! :) i've literally been simping so hard for basketball player! natasha romanoff — it’s embarrassing. like, i saw her in a loose jersey once (in my mind), and i haven’t known peace since.

It always started the same way — the squeak of rubber soles, the bounce of a ball, the swish of a clean shot.

Y/N L/N sat with her legs crossed on the bleachers, red-and-white pom poms resting beside her. The cheerleaders were taking a quick break from their routine, but Y/N couldn’t tear her eyes away from the court — from her.

Every practice, Y/N swore she wouldn’t look. And yet, there she was again — legs curled up on the bleachers, pom poms forgotten at her side, eyes trained on the girl shooting hoops like the world wasn't watching.

Natasha Romanoff.

AAU's pride. Number 13. Basketball captain. And, unfortunately for Y/N, Yelena's older sister.

"You're drooling," Yelena deadpans beside you, sipping her soda.

You tear your eyes away from the court like you’d been caught committing a crime. "Excuse me? I’m just watching the game.”

“It’s practice.”

“I’m… analyzing her technique.” You sniff. “As a cheer captain.”

Yelena raises a brow. “Her technique?”

"Yes," you say, face heating. “Totally professional. Very strategic. Normal.”

Across the court, Natasha does a clean crossover, spins, and scores. Her ponytail bounces as she jogs backward, laughing with her teammates.

You sigh quietly.

Yelena rolls her eyes. “You always look at her like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re one Taylor Swift song away from writing her name in your wedding journal.”

You open your mouth to deny it. Then close it again. “...Shut up, Yelena.”

It’s been like this for months.

Crushes are supposed to fade — at least, that’s what your mom said when she caught you sighing at your phone for the fifth time during dinner.

But this? This isn’t fading.

This is sitting through every basketball game just to watch her sweat in slow mo level.

This is replaying every time Natasha calls you sweetheart like it didn’t shatter your brain chemistry.

This is slow, unbearable pining — made worse by the fact that Natasha is so effortlessly kind.

“Nice routine today,” Natasha would say, walking past the cheer squad.

Or, “You always do that little hair flip before you jump — it’s cute.”

Or, the worst one — the actual heartbreaker — “Your ribbon matches your eyes.”

Your ribbon matches your eyes.

You had written that down in the notes app under “Things That Made Me Float.”

One afternoon, after a long game and even longer practice, you stayed behind to help clean up the confetti from your halftime routine.

Everyone else had already left. Except—

"Need help?" Natasha’s voice makes you jump. She’s holding a broom and a water bottle, her jersey hanging loosely off one shoulder.

“Oh,” you squeak. “N-no. I’m good. I mean—yes? If you want? You don’t have to, but like—if you want to—”

Natasha laughs. “Breathe, cheerleader.”

You turn pink. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting—um. Thanks.”

You sweep in silence for a bit, just the two of you under the dim gym lights.

Then Natasha asks quietly, “Can I ask you something?”

You look up. “Yeah?”

“Why do you always avoid me?”

You freeze. “I don’t.”

“You do,” Natasha says, still gentle. “You’re always laughing with Yelena, but the second I show up, you go quiet. You stop making eye contact. You run off.”

You bite your lip. “I—I didn’t mean to. It’s not that I don’t like you, I just—”

You stop.

Natasha steps closer. “You just?”

You take a deep breath. “You’re Yelena’s sister. And you’re like, intimidatingly cool. And I didn’t want to make things weird. Or obvious.”

Natasha tilts her head. “Obvious?”

“I’ve kind of… liked you. For a while,” you whisper, cheeks on fire. “But you probably knew that already.”

There’s a pause.

Then Natasha smiles — slow, and soft, and heart-meltingly real.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

You blink. “What?”

“I like you too,” Natasha says simply. “Always have.”

You stare. “You’re joking.”

Natasha grins. “Nope. But I am going to ask if I can take you out. Like, for real.”

You nod too quickly. “Yes. I mean—yes. Like, absolutely. Just let me scream into my pillow first.”

Natasha laughs, shaking her head fondly. “You’re adorable.”

And as you stand under the gym lights, brooms forgotten, hearts louder than ever — it’s official.

You are no longer just the cheerleader with a crush.

You are the cheerleader who finally got the girl.

[zepskies]

hiii lovely happy wednesday 🫶🏽:) random question while i’m on my 10 :D this kind of goes hand in hand with your coffee shop headcanons if you squint, but in your opinion what coffee shop pastry would the boys (your favorite jackles characters) choose? 🤎

if that makes sense, like I think beau would really like our dulce de leche cheese danish :p or like ben might like a jalapeño cheese bagel lmao

again I loveee your insights <3 it makes work more entertaining for sure cause then i’m thinking of your responses at random times lol 💗 + I hope you’re having a wonderful week !!🫂

Happy Wednesday, friend! 😘 Oh yay! I love your random questions, and I love coffee shop pastries. 🥐 ☕

Dulce de leche Danish sounds amaziiiiing. 😩 And thank you!! I'm flattered that you love my insights - and that my little rambles infiltrate your brain! lolol 🥰💜 Hope you're having a great week too, hun! Mine is ok so far. I have a lot coming up tomorrow, so this is a fun distraction until then! 😂

HEADCANON: Coffee Shop Pastry Orders

Dean Winchester

*snorts* You mean the human garbage disposal?

We all know Dean's not picky about food. Though since he's drinking an espresso in his coffee order headcanon, I think he'd go for something indulgent to fill his stomach, like a cheese Danish, a couple of donuts, or if they have it, a brookie. 😂

He's very happy to show it to you and Sam when he brings it over to your table, strolling over on those bowed legs. Sam, of course, wears that half amused, half judgy look of his.

"It's a cookie mashed up with a brownie, Sam. Best of both worlds."

Beau Arlen

Beau the basic latte guy needs a basic (but delicious) coffee shop confection to go with it, so I'm going to say he's into coffee cake.

He likes them crumblies on top and a nice, warm cinnamon swirl in his cake. 👌🏽

Just be warned. He's probably going to have you order him another slice of cake while he's still working on the first one.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Like Dean, this guy's not all that picky about food post-captivity. Of course he likes good food, but he's also highly indulgent in most respects.

"I like what I fucking like," as he often tells you with a smirk. That goes for food, drugs, and frisky women (of almost all ages).

That being said, since we paired him with a cold brew, he'll probably want something classic, like himself: a glazed donut or a slice of marble pound cake with that thin strip of icing on top.

However, I think he could be persuaded (by you) to order something a little adventurous. He'd be game enough to try a jalapeño cheese bagel, with hash browns, and that donut and/or slice of pound cake on the side...

And he'll probably tell them to pack him up an extra bagel for the road. 😂 🥯

Russell Shaw

Russell's another one who's highly self-indulgent lol. He ain't picky about food, that's for sure. He'll eat junk food just as easily as a five-course meal from a Michelin star restaurant.

But since he got paired with a flat white, I think he'd get the biggest cinnamon roll he can find. He'd ask if they could warm it up for him, get that icing all warm and running down the sides, sticky and sweet.

And he looks at you mischievously while he licks his fingers afterward. ✌🏼

(He's only satisfied when he makes you blush.)

AN: Do you agree with these? Got other pastry orders for these guys? 💜

I love working on these HCs every time, no matter how simple or complex the prompt is. 😂

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Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Beau Arlen Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Russell Shaw Masterlist

Main Masterlist 

Dean, Beau, Soldier Boy + Russell Tag List (Part 1)

@kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @waynes-multiverse

@mostlymarvelgirl @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester

@deans-spinster-witch @sanscas @hobby27 @kaleldobrev @spnwoman

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdean

@lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @deansbbyx @chernayawidow

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@my-stories-vault @0ccvltism @rizlowwritessortof @cookiechipdough @mrsjenniferwinchester

@fromcaintodean @k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused

@mrlonelycat @deans-daydream @leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989

@siampie @rubyvhs @winchestergirl2 @winchester-whiskey

[ronweasleysgf]

he’s just nice…right? - vinsmoke sanji ✿

MDNI - 18+ | navigation - m.list 𝜗୧ | REQUEST OPEN !

summary: sanji is a sweetheart, he helps you with your chores, makes you treats, he’s a genuinely nice person and totally has no ulterior motives, and he definitely doesn’t wanna fuck you…right?

paring: perv!sanji x clueless!reader

wc: 0.8k

warnings: smutty, sanji is a perv…duh, reader is clueless, dub-con (?), grinding, fantasies, male masturbation, food kink??, and again sanji is a weird oh (lmk if i missed anything)

a/n; i may write i longer fic about this but idkk, if you guys want it, ill most likely will do it bc sanji is my boo..AND this for anime sanji and la sanji so you can imagine him however you want lol (this was cross posted on ao3 @/freddiebensonsgf)

NSFW UNDER THE CUT - MINORS DNI </3

sanji is such a good friend, a type of friend you haven’t had in a while. whenever you're tired from your pirate duties, he always offers to help. whether it’s laundry or making you a special treat, or even rubbing the knots out of your shoulder blade, you know you can always count on him. but little do you know all the little favors he does for you are all for his own selfish needs. as soon as he sees your stressed face walking around the ship he knows it’s the perfect time for him to ease in, “you look tense, mon amour,” he’d tsk, “let me help you relax…” slowly sliding his hand onto your shoulder, you look at him and smile “really? thank so much, my back has been killing me.” “anything for you.” but this was a way to oil your back up and glide his hand across your soft skin, fully knowing that he’ll be stroking the living daylight of his cock, using his other hand to muffle the moans spilling out later, and yes this is because of massage. but it doesn’t stop there.

whenever it’s laundry day you always see sanji's face poke out of nowhere with the slick smile he always carries around, you’re walking out of your room with an arm full of dirty clothes, “here, let me handle that” he mutters as takes the load out of hands. “are you sure? you don’t-""oh it’s nothing, i have some free time on my hands”. that’s a lie by the way, he had a lot of work to do, but he needed a way to snag a pair of panties, so he rubbing his leaking tip against it, storing in his draw like some kind of keepsake or prize. but the real prize was to find a way to dig himself in your tight cunt, hearing his name spill out of lips, legs shaking as he’s rutting his hips against yours shamelessly.

and the thing is, it’s only you. you’re the only one on the damn ship who can’t see the way he fucks you with his eyes every time you walk past him, the way he stares at your ass to pick something of off the ground—that he dropped on purpose so he could that glorious view. sneaking in a touch whenever he can, looking down your shirt whenever you look away, he is starving. “he’s so disgusting..” nami mutters after seeing an “innocent” interaction between you two, which involves him sliding behind you to get to the other side of the kitchen, his hand resting on your waist, as his clothed cock rubbing against your ass, when he could’ve easily walked behind you. “what? he’s so nice, and helpful,” you argue, coming to his defense even though nami was completely right. “he’s a prev.” she shoots back, but you can’t believe that a sweetheart like him would have ulterior motives, you don’t mind the idea. but he’s just a nice guy, right?

cooking food for you is another thing he likes to do, seeing your face light up as he sits down a place of food in front of, “go on…taste it,” he encourages, watching you dig your fork into the dish, closing it your mouth around the piece of metal and you lipstick leaving a stain as you pulled it out of your mouth slowly, savoring the taste. something about you eating what he cooked, hand breaking up the ingredients, kneading the dough, the way you let out a moan from how good it taste makes his cock turn red.

one thing about you is that you're a horrible chef, the best thing you could do in the kitchen was peel an orange. but sanji takes your poor skill level as an opportunity. when he sees you struggling, he offers to give you cooking lessons, because he’s an amazing friend, and a good person of course. for the lessons he tells you to wear shorts because “you wouldn’t want to ruin your pants, these lessons get pretty messy” but he doesn’t care about your pants, he just wanted to stare at your plush thighs pressed together as you’re standing still, waiting for instruction. and obviously you took the offer as a “aw he’s such a good friend” thing, but the whole time he’s guiding your hand as you chop through the vegetables or fruit, the crotch of his pants bump into your ass as he stands behind, mumbling instructions.

his heart is basically beating out of his chest and you feel on your back, but “maybe he’s just nervous, and he doesn’t want me to cut myself, he just cares” but his heart is racing because he doesn’t want you to feel the tent that’s growing in his pants. but no, you’re 99% sure he’s just being a nice friend.

dividers: @sseuda % @hyuneskkami ! do not copy my work for anything without my permission.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

How about a request for Ena? The reader is a cat-terpillar, which is to say, they're a big long fluffy entity, with a lot of limbs, essentially a caterpillar cat. They're big and soft and sweet, and very chill, meandering through life at a nice slow tempo. The personality of a nice warm mug of chamomile tea, or hot cocoa with mini marshmallows.

It would be nice to have a fic with them comforting Webseries!Ena after a rough day. Whatever format works best for you!

"Nyah...what a lovely day this is." With a small hum, you rested your chin on top of your two uppermost paws, curling up underneath the warm sun.

The weather was particularly nice today, with not a single rain rock floating in the sky, nor was there a storm cloud hanging around to dampen the atmosphere. But even if it did rain and thunder, it still wouldn't bother you in the slightest, as it's simply part of life.

Having wet fur and general feelings of discomfort weren't ideal, although you didn't worry, knowing that the sun will eventually shine down on you with its warmth once again. So what would be the use in stressing about things outside your control?

Unfortunately, the blue and yellow polygonal lady who was tracing shapes in the dirt beside you begged to differ, as she kept looking up at the clouds every now and then. It's like she was afraid it'll suddenly crack into pieces and fall onto her head.

"You think so? I disagwee." Her blue half mumbled, attracting your attention as you saw her bringing her knees to her chest. "My day's been awful from stawrt to finish..."

"Ah, I'm sorry to hear that, Ena." You look down at her.

Even though you had only met her a little while ago, she's comfortable enough to stay in your presence and even keep you company, which was always nice. Being a large cat-terpillar, many people were often scared of you until they discovered your personality greatly contrasts all appearances. You're sweet, kind, and mellow towards everyone you meet.

Ena was no different despite knowing about her species and the reputation they hold. She seemed lost, and so you invited her to sit and relax with you. Just to help her calm down before she got panic-striken.

Yet despite your best efforts, she still looked deeply saddened by something else. So much so that even her cheerful yellow half was frowning as she gazed up at you. "Tell me, kind stranger..perhaps you have a remedy for this predicament I'm in?" She leaned against your body, knowing you didn't mind your personal space being invaded.

Her way of speaking was most unique. A bit complex, but you understood that what she wanted was simple. "Meow..of course. Did you wanna talk, or-?"

"I don't know what I want anymowre!!" She instantly flipped into her sadder state, putting her head in her hands. "I just....feel like disappearwing!! Don't waste your bweath on someone as worthless as me! I'm mowre useful as a scwatching post! So go ahead and tear me apawrt!! Come on!! DO IT!!!"

You didn't do anything, instead letting a few moments pass before speaking. "Maybe...you'd like a hug instead?"

"....actually...yes." She sniffled, quieting down a little. "That sounds like a better idea...."

But when she tried to fully embrace you, she hit a roadblock: she had no idea where to put her arms.

No matter how far away they moved from her body, nowhere felt quite right. And while you were able to wrap a few pairs of your own arms around her torso, she couldn't do the same and felt the crushing weight of despair and stupidity washing over her.

Then the static waterworks began.

"Ohh, what's wrong with me??! I can't even hug you wright!! I really am useless!!" Burying her face into your neck, she just hiccupped and sobbed, her fingers clutching at your fur like a lifeline.

Normally, she'd be glitching and spinning out of control. But somehow you managed to help her physical form remain stable. A simple hug is all it took, and it's all that she needed in order to finally let that sadness out. So you just hushed her softly, not alarmed by her sudden and violent mood shifts in the slightest.

It's something she couldn't control, just like how you couldn't control your size or "scary" feline features. Why should you judge her for that when she never judged you?

"You aren't useless, my dear. There's no "right" way to hug someone. You have the intention, and that's enough. I don't get many of these, so....I appreciate this." A purr rumbled in your throat.

"Huh? Y-You...You bawely get hugs??!" Ena looked up at you, her white half displaying an utterly distraught expression. "But you're...you're so nice! What's wrong with other people??? Do they think you're too big to love or something?!!!! WHAT KIND OF CRUEL WORLD IS THIS??!!" Her more masculine voice screamed in outrage.

"That's a first..maybe I am "too big to love". But it's alright. I'm not worried about those other people. Just you right neow." You held her closely again, letting her cry some more. "Thank you for being so caring and considerate, Ena. You're a wonderful friend."

"Friend...? But...we've only met five minutes ago..."

"Have we really? Because it seems like we've known each other for longer." Patting her head, you smiled as her colors turned back to their normal tones. But you weren't going to let her go unless she did so first....and the poor girl was still clinging to you like you're the world's softest pillow.

Whatever she must've went through before meeting you had to have been terrible, but she did blubber something about a rude entity and tripping over a pebble.

You didn't interrupt once, allowing her to talk.

At that point, she suddenly remembered that she was on her way to an auction when she got lost and winded up on a serious of unfortunate misadventures leading to your location.

But maybe she was destined to find you and get these sad feelings off her chest.

Even so, you didn't like seeing her so troubled over missing the event. And that's when you came up with an idea after she dried her tears. "I think I know where that is. I was gonna go..but changed my mind. I don't like crowds too much. But now I have a reason to change it again."

"Wha...What do you mean?"

"I can provide you with transportation there so you don't lose your way again. Don't worry. For friends, it's free of charge." You wink, seeing her cheering up right away. "Only thing is that...we might get there a little late. I never like rushing to things."

"Oh I'm not worried about that! Auction Day is an all-day event!! How could I refuse such a generous service?" Her yellow side laughed, immediately climbing onto your back. But as soon as she got settled, she suddenly looked apprehensive, tilting her head. "Is this alright? I'm not too heavy?"

"Nope. You're as light as a polygonal feather." You chuckled. "Don't worry, you'll be safe up there, Ena."

"This is much appreciated, friend. But erm...you mind going slow? I tend to get motion sickness."

"That's fine by me. Now let's be on our way."

[myinaru]

Childhood Best Friend Complex - Part 2

You and Heeseung have been best friends forever. Emphasis on forever. Like, learned-how-to-walk-together type of forever. But college throws a wrench into your usual routine: one night blurs a line that was never supposed to move, and suddenly, everything feels different.

Now there’s weird tension, awkward silences, and unspoken things you’re both too stubborn to say out loud. You don’t know what’s worse, pretending nothing’s changed or admitting everything has.

Because staying friends? That was always the plan. Wanting more? That was never supposed to happen.

Pairing: Lee Heeseung x Fem!Reader

Genre: College AU, Childhood Best Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smut, Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 39.6k Total (11.8k - Part 2)

Warnings: Dry humping (hell yeah), Corny maybe idc, Lots of misunderstanding, Mentions of multiple kpop idols, Cursing, Cunnilingus, Unprotected sex (pls don't), Praising, Heeseung is a yearner, Lmk if I missed anything lol

Author's Note: First time uploading here lol. This fic was heavily inspired by the manhwa/webtoon Childhood Friend Complex. I'll be splitting it into three parts since Tumblr won't let me post it in one go. Hope y'all enjoy T-T

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

It wasn’t that anything necessarily big changed.

There was no confession. No dramatic blowout. No sudden declaration that things between you and Heeseung had shifted.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because everything technically stayed the same. You still shared lunch sometimes. Still exchanged half-sarcastic texts about your departments. Still found him standing beside you when the vending machine wouldn’t work, muttering something dumb like, “You scare it.”

But underneath all that? The norms had started to feel... different. Like it was hanging on by habit. Like you were both still playing the roles you’d always played, but now, someone else was quietly writing herself into the scene.

You didn’t like admitting it.

You didn’t even want to think it.

Because it made you feel petty. Stupid. Insecure.

But the truth was there, in the way your eyes always seemed to drift toward them. Heeseung and Yeri. Your name and his used to be the ones always mentioned in the same breath. Now it was hers.

“Did you hear their duet’s going well?”

“They’ve got really good chemistry.”

“She totally matches his energy.”

You tried to ignore it. Tried not to care. But each time, your brain grabbed onto those words and refused to let go.

Now, the university’s interdisciplinary festival was in full prep mode. Meaning more meetings.

More chaos. More hours spent in shared spaces with students from every department, Performance Arts, Medicine, Dentistry, Science, Athletics, all of it combined together under one event.

And today was another all-department coordination session. Nothing fancy. Just a general sitdown in the multipurpose hall to go over final scheduling, check logistics, finalize performance slots, make sure no one had a complete breakdown before the actual festival.

You showed up on time. Not early. Not late. Just enough to be on time without looking like you were trying to bump into anyone.

But as soon as you walked in, your eyes flicked across the room, and there it was again.

Heeseung. Already seated in one of the middle rows. Laughing quietly with someone beside him.

You didn’t need to guess who.

Yeri was leaning slightly toward him, her elbow resting casually on the chair arm they shared. She wasn’t loud, not obnoxious. But she had that kind of confidence that made everything she did seem intentional.

She looked at him when she spoke. Touched his arm to emphasize a point. And even from a distance, you could see the way her lips curled upward when he actually responded.

He wasn’t laughing like she was. Not nearly as much. His smile looked tired, his posture a little off. But he wasn’t stopping it either. He wasn’t moving away. He wasn’t brushing her hand off or even shifting slightly to the side.

He was letting it happen.

And you hated how much that sat with you.

You didn’t even realize you’d paused at the doorway until Vicky came up beside you and tugged your sleeve.

“Come on,” she said, nudging you gently toward the far side of the room. “I saved you a seat.” You sat down beside her without a word.

And for the next thirty minutes, you tried to focus. You really did. The facilitator’s voice echoed off the walls as they ran through updates; venue maps, booth assignments, emergency protocols. Someone asked a question about audio equipment. Someone else groaned about the last-minute changes to the talent showcase lineup.

You took notes. You nodded when needed. You acted like you were present.

But you weren’t.

You kept catching yourself glancing sideways. Watching the two rows in front of you. Watching her.

Yeri laughed again, not loudly, but clearly. She leaned over to whisper something to Heeseung, her hand briefly brushing his shoulder as she leaned in.

This time, you saw it clearly.

Heeseung didn’t laugh. But he let her lean in. Let her touch linger. He didn’t look at her like she was the only person in the room, but he didn’t look uncomfortable either.

And for some reason, that was what stuck.

Not the closeness. Not the flirting.

But the fact that he didn’t flinch.

You kept your expression neutral. Quiet. Collected. You didn’t frown. Didn’t glare. You just... watched.

Then you stopped watching.

And you stared down at the paper in your lap instead.

Vicky glanced sideways, but didn’t say anything. Not right away.

It wasn’t until the meeting let out and the students started packing up that she finally bumped your knee with hers.

“You okay?”

Her voice was quiet. Soft.

You hesitated for a beat too long before nodding.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just tired.”

She didn’t believe you. You could tell. But she also didn’t press.

“Okay,” she said simply. “Tell me if you wanna skip next shift. I’ll cover.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Thanks.”

As you both stood up to leave, someone from the volunteer team, a girl from the med department, you think, walked past with two others. They were chatting too casually, not thinking about who was near them.

“Honestly, I thought Yeri and Heeseung would’ve made a great couple anyway,” she said, laughing under her breath. “Like, come on. That chemistry? It just makes sense.” You didn’t look up.

Didn’t say anything.

But something inside you dropped. Like a part of you had just been officially replaced, and no one had bothered to tell you.

Later that night, you found yourself sitting on your bed, lights off, laptop open but forgotten beside you.

You weren’t even sure what you were looking for when you opened Instagram. Just scrolling. Mindless.

Then you saw it.

Someone from the performance team had posted a candid photo from today’s meeting. The lighting was bad. The image slightly blurry. But there, in the background, caught midconversation, Heeseung and Yeri.

He was turned slightly toward her. She was smiling. Their heads tilted together just enough to look close. Familiar. Like two people who belonged in the same frame.

You stared at it for a long time.

It wasn’t even a particularly romantic photo. Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious.

But it still made your chest feel tight.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

You didn’t believe it.

Things had been off for a while, but you didn’t want to admit it.

At first, you chalked it up to the mess of the semester with the schedules tightening, responsibilities piling up, everyone scrambling toward festival season. Heeseung was busy. You were busy. That was normal. That was expected.

But over time, it stopped feeling like a phase. It felt... like something slipping.

The texts started slowing down. First it was a few hours without a reply. Then full days. You’d send something light, “Did you sleep through lunch again?” or “You alive?” and get a thumbs up emoji hours later. Sometimes not at all.

And it wasn’t just that. You used to see him every day without even trying. Now you couldn’t remember the last time you bumped into him outside of some committee gathering or prep session. It was weird. And quiet. And nothing like you were used to.

Still, you kept giving it time. You told yourself he’d come back around. That he was just busy. That things would settle.

But things didn’t settle.

You kept showing up to lunch at the same table out of habit, only to sit alone with your food going cold. Heeseung would arrive twenty minutes late, sometimes more, always out of breath, his hoodie half-zipped, hair damp like he’d just left dance practice. And when he finally sat down, he’d dive straight into updates about the festival. About Yeri. About choreography tweaks and rehearsal conflicts.

You listened. You nodded. You even asked questions, just to fill the air. But it was getting harder to ignore how your name didn’t seem to belong in the sentences anymore.

That Wednesday, you waited ten minutes longer than usual before pulling out your phone.

No text. Not even a missed call.

By the time Heeseung showed up, you had already finished half your drink.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, sliding into the seat across from you with a huff. “Choreographer added a last-minute segment to block in.”

You looked up from your sandwich. “It’s fine.”

He gave you a crooked smile. “You sure? I feel like I’ve been flaking on you.”

“You’ve been flaking on everyone,” you replied lightly, pretending it didn’t bother you. “It’s equal opportunity neglect.”

He laughed a little at that, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess that makes it better?”

You shrugged. “Depends who you ask.”

There was a beat of quiet as he opened his own lunch box, but his eyes stayed on his phone. You caught the edge of a notification lighting up the screen. A name that was all too familiar now.

[12:37pm] Yeri (Performance Arts)

“got the water bottles u like!! want one?” You didn’t mean to look. But you did.

You took a sip of your drink and forced your voice to sound casual. “You and your partner getting close?”

He glanced up, chewing. “Huh?”

“Yeri,” you clarified, trying to sound like it was just a passing comment. “You’re practically glued together these days.”

Heeseung blinked like he hadn’t even thought about it. “We’re just working a lot. She’s on top of logistics too, so there’s been a lot of overlap.”

“Right,” you said. “Must be nice, having someone so... dedicated.”

He didn’t notice the shift in your tone. Or maybe he did and chose not to mention it.

You looked down at your half-empty plate. The air felt heavier now.

Then you tried again, stretching a smile across your face even if it didn’t feel real. “Maybe I should start calling you ‘partner’ too.”

Heeseung blinked, clearly confused. “What?”

“Nothing.” You waved it off too quickly, stood up before the silence got worse. “Anyway. I should get back. Vicky’s waiting.”

He didn’t stop you. Just looked up, lips parting like he wanted to say something, but never quite did.

You left without looking back.

Later that day, you found yourself holed up in a study room with Vicky, trying to finish a lab write-up, but your mind kept drifting.

She noticed.

“You’ve read that sentence like five times,” she said, nudging your arm.

You blinked down at your notes. “Sorry.”

Vicky leaned back, arms crossed. She wasn’t prying, she started not to, but she also didn’t beat around the bush. “Heeseung?” You stayed quiet.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

You let out a soft, bitter laugh. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Y/n,” she said, gently now. “You’ve been pretending this doesn’t hurt for weeks.”

“I’m fine,” you said, voice too sharp. And then softer, with a break you didn’t mean to show, “I’m just tired.”

Vicky didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she reached over and closed your notebook.

“You don’t have to be okay all the time, you know.” You didn’t answer. Just stared at the table.

The next day, on your way to the library, you passed the studio again.

You didn’t mean to stop. But the door was open. And your eyes flicked toward it without thinking.

Inside, Yeri was handing Heeseung a bottle of sports drink. He smiled as he took it, looking surprised but grateful.

Then he looked down.

And you noticed the small, scrawled letters across the label.

Heeseung ♡

It was dumb. A joke, maybe. Or not.

He muttered a ‘thank you,’ voice too soft to hear.

You didn’t stay to watch the rest.

You kept walking, not fast, but just enough to leave it behind.

That night, you went up to the rooftop. You didn’t know why. Habit, maybe.

You used to go there together. Late-night study breaks, ramen cups in hand, laughter echoing into the dark sky.

Now it was just you. The air was colder than you remembered. The city lights stretched out far beyond the campus, but it didn’t feel comforting tonight. Just... distant.

You sat there, arms wrapped around your knees, staring at nothing.

And for the first time, you wondered if maybe he wasn’t just busy.

Maybe he really was slipping away.

Maybe you really were replaceable.

The hallway was quiet by the time the last of the volunteer boxes were packed away. You rubbed your temples, body aching from the back-to-back shifts; morning coordination meeting, afternoon cleanup rotation, and then the impromptu rehearsal run you weren’t even scheduled for but ended up dragged into anyway.

Heeseung was still here. That was rare lately.

You found him near the vending machines, crouched down, digging through his bag for something. The hoodie he wore was damp at the collar, his hair messy like he hadn’t had a break in hours. He looked up when you walked past, surprised.

“Oh. You’re still here?”

You shrugged. “Didn’t have a choice.”

He straightened, offering a tired half-smile. “Yeah. Today was brutal.”

There was a long pause after that. Not the easy kind you used to fall into. This one sat heavy, awkward between you.

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the flickering light above. “At least you’ve got someone bringing you snacks and drinks now. Makes it easier, I guess.”

Heeseung blinked. “What?”

You didn’t look at him. “Nothing. Just... must be nice.”

He stood straighter, tone shifting just enough to be noticeable. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You finally turned to face him, voice too even. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

“Y/n.”

The way he said your name, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t teasing. It was cautious. Like he was trying not to set something off.

“You’ve got Yeri,” you said, hands tightening at your sides. “She seems really invested in helping you out.”

Heeseung frowned, genuinely confused. “She’s just helping with rehearsals.”

“And labeling your drinks?” you asked, raising a brow. “Cute touch.”

His face tightened. “Seriously? That’s what this is about?”

You scoffed, stepping away from the wall. “I didn’t realize we were doing the whole ‘defend her immediately’ routine now.”

“I’m not defending anyone,” he said, voice low but sharper now. “I just don’t get why you’re acting like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve committed some crime for accepting a drink.”

You shook your head. “Forget it.”

“No,” he pressed, following a step closer. “Say what you mean for once, Y/n. What’s going on with you?”

You swallowed hard, not ready to spill it, not like this, not when it already felt like he was miles away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It clearly does,” he said. “You’ve been cold for weeks.” That stung. More than you expected.

You looked at him then, eyes meeting his. “I’ve been cold?” He hesitated.

“You’ve been distant too, Y/n. Don’t act like this is one-sided.”

You stared at him. “Of course I’ve been distant.”

The next words almost came out, almost spilled out of your mouth too fast.  

I’ve been hurting. I’ve been watching you drift and I didn’t know how to reach for you without embarrassing myself.  

But instead, you bit them back.

“Whatever,” you muttered, grabbing your tote off the floor. “You’ve got your partner now, right?” His expression changed. Like you’d slapped him without touching him.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

You didn’t answer. Just slung the bag over your shoulder and turned toward the stairwell.

Behind you, he didn’t say your name again. Didn’t stop you.

And this time, the silence was unbearable.

You left first.

You pull your blanket tighter around you, burying your face into the pillow like maybe the pressure can hold everything in. You’re not crying.

No way.

But your eyes sting and you can’t tell if it’s from exhaustion or from the way your chest has been aching for hours, like someone’s wedged a stone behind your ribs and keeps pressing down.

Earlier, you hadn't meant to see anything. That part matters. You weren't snooping. You were just tired.

Just needed your charger from the volunteer room before heading home. Just needed five seconds to grab your stuff and disappear.

But when you turned the hallway corner, the faint sound of laughter stopped you in your tracks.

Not just any laughter. His.

You froze, blinking at the thin crack of light spilling from the studio across the way. The door was slightly ajar, just like that day, like someone had forgotten to pull it closed all the way, and for some reason, you found yourself standing there.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough.

Yeri was there, leaning against the mirror wall, hair tied back, cheeks flushed from rehearsal. Her eyes sparkled under the soft lighting, exhausted but still bright, still full of something lighthearted. And Heeseung stood just a step away from her, loose hoodie slung over his practice shirt, posture relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in days. Weeks, maybe.

He looked comfortable. At ease.

And then she held something out to him. A drink, one of those canned vitamin waters he liked. The kind only a few people knew he actually preferred after practice, even if he always claimed he didn’t care.

“Found the last peach one,” Yeri said with a small grin. “Thought you’d want it before Jungwon hoards the fridge again.”

He laughed. Not loud, not showy. Just that warm, tired laugh that sounded like something slipping past his defenses.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it without hesitation. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“You looked like you were gonna collapse,” she teased, nudging his shoulder lightly. “I thought I’d have to carry you out of here.”

Heeseung let his head tilt to the side, mock dramatic. “Honestly? Might not be a bad way to go.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile softened. “Please. You’d be the most stubborn patient.”

“Oh, definitely.” He nudged her back, and the contact lingered just a little too long before he stepped away.

They laughed again. It was soft. Familiar.

It shouldn’t have felt like a gut punch.

But it did.

Because he looked at her the way you remember him looking at you, when it was just the two of you waiting for the bus, sharing fries outside the cafeteria, stealing moments between classes where the whole world felt like it slowed down around you.

That drink? You used to buy those for him. Knew exactly which one to grab even when the shelves were chaos. You’re the reason he even liked peach to begin with. He hated it at first, said it was too artificial, until you forced him to try it during one of your late-night study sessions. You laughed when he made a face, and he kept drinking it anyway.

But now someone else was handing it to him.

And he took it like it was normal. Like it wasn’t anything.

Your hand tightened on your phone. You stepped back, heart hammering too loudly in your ears. The ache started small, sharp and shallow, but it grew fast, spreading under your skin like bruises you didn’t see coming.

You didn’t stay to hear the rest.

Didn’t want to see what else would unfold in that room where your place used to be.

You moved quietly, careful not to let the door click too loudly when you slipped into the volunteer room. Grabbed your charger. Left without saying goodbye to anyone.

Now, hours later, you lie there in the dark, teeth clenched against the thoughts clawing at your insides.

You’d kept telling yourself: He doesn’t owe you anything.

He doesn’t.

He never said he was yours.

But that didn’t stop it from hurting.

Because somewhere in your mind, maybe somewhere stupid, buried deep under all the teasing and the soft moments and the near-confessions, you thought maybe you were his.

Even just a little.

Still, the image stayed with you. The ease. The comfort. Like maybe she’d earned that closeness now.

Like maybe she’d replaced you.

You roll onto your back and exhale slowly, staring up at the ceiling.

“He doesn’t owe me anything,” you mumble, like saying it out loud will make it true.

It doesn’t.

Because underneath all the justifications and reassurances you’ve been feeding yourself, about timing, and misunderstandings, and maybe-it’s-all-in-my-heads, you know the truth. You’ve always known.

That night you told each other to forget what almost happened? It was a lie. A stupid, flimsy lie that neither of you ever really believed.

And now, all those memories you kept locked up are surfacing like waves you can’t stop.

You remember the way Heeseung crouched in front of you on the sidewalk after that terrible group date, his gently laying on your knees for balance, eyes steady as he said, “I’m not leaving you alone like this.”

You’d been tipsy, humiliated, ready to walk home barefoot if you had to. But he knelt down anyway, even when people stared, and let you rant or throw something or just breathe. And he stayed. The whole time.

You remember that night you crashed at his place after that incident. The restaurant the next morning, ordering greasy breakfast food and paying for his omelet with exact change because “he let you use his toothpaste and everything.” The grin he gave you when you teased him for adding too much syrup to your waffles still lingers in the back of your mind.

You remember the pact you recalled in the park, laughing about being single forever and getting married at thirty just for the tax benefits. But then he looked at you, really looked, and said, “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.” Like maybe it wasn’t a joke to him either.

You remember the little things, too. The way he used to wait outside the dental building with a coffee in hand, already knowing how you liked it. The walks to the bus stop, the way his shoulder would brush yours, solid and warm and always there.

And then, there was that night.

You were both too drunk, too loud, too everything. You’d ended up tangled on his carpet floor, laughing about something stupid. And then there was silence. The kind that hums between two people right before they make a mistake, or maybe, something they’ve always wanted to do. His hand on your face. His breath against your skin. His voice, barely above a whisper, saying your name like it meant something.

It hadn’t just been alcohol. Not for you. And if he’d pulled away right then, maybe it would’ve hurt less. But he didn’t.

You cover your face with both hands now, breathing slow and shaky.

You want to believe it was all just a phase. A passing crush. But it wasn’t. It never was. You whisper it to yourself like it’s a confession. “It wasn’t just a crush.” You don’t say the rest.

I love him.

The words come to the edge of your lips and then stop, like if you say them out loud, they’ll shatter whatever’s left between you.

You turn over, curling into your blanket again, arms wrapping around your pillow like it could make up for the weight in your chest.

You thought admitting it would bring some kind of clarity. Closure, maybe. But it doesn’t. It just makes everything hurt more.

You press your face into the pillow, willing yourself to sleep, even as the memories keep playing in your head like some kind of cruel reminder.

And when the silence grows too loud, you finally whisper, just to yourself, “This is way too fucking much.”

This time, you don’t try to fix it. You don’t try to make it okay.

You just let it sit there with you.

Because what else can you exactly do?

Heeseung stared at the open document on his laptop, but nothing was sinking in.

The rehearsal schedule was sitting in front of him, highlighted dates, times, deadlines, but his mind kept wandering to the empty chair across from him during last week’s prep meeting. The one you usually sat in. The one that had stayed cold and unoccupied.

You hadn’t shown up on time like you always used to.

You hadn’t texted since the last time you’d walked away from him, shoulders stiff, expression unreadable.

And maybe it shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did. Maybe he shouldn’t have looked up every time the door opened, hoping it would be you. But he did. Every single time.

You were still around, of course. He still saw you during volunteer work, during festival stuff. But it was different now. You showed up right on time or late. You didn’t look for him. You didn’t nudge him during boring announcements or send him dumb memes when the coordinator rambled too long. You kept to yourself, sitting beside Vicky or someone else. Always someone else.

And you never texted first anymore.

Heeseung scrolled through your chat thread last night. The last message was from him. A week ago. A casual "you get home okay?" that went unanswered.

He tried not to take it personally. But that ache had been growing.

Rehearsals were colder, too. Yeri noticed.

"You good?" she asked one evening, tossing him a water bottle during break.

He caught it, barely. "Yeah. Just tired."

She gave him a look that said she didn’t believe him, but she didn’t press.

The truth was, he was tired. So fucking tired. But not in the way they thought. He was tired of pretending nothing changed when everything had. Tired of trying to act like he didn’t notice the subtle way you avoided his gaze, the way your responses had turned careful, clipped.

He missed you.

God, he missed you.

He thought about the night after the group dinner, when you stayed over and kissed him like you were scared of what it meant but still did it anyway. The warmth of your hands on his jaw, your voice soft and unsure when you said his name like it was fragile.

He never forgot it. Not for a second.

But now?

Now, it was like it never happened at all.

You didn’t look up when Heeseung walked into the room.

You’d seen him coming, caught the shadow through the frosted glass, but you kept your eyes on your notebook, pen scribbling something meaningless. Just something to do with your hands. Just something to look at that wasn’t him.

You knew he noticed. He always noticed.

But he didn’t say anything either.

Not that you expected him to. It was easier this way, right? Keeping the peace. Keeping the distance. He had Yeri now, anyway. She brought him snacks. She knew when his rehearsals ended. She stayed behind to help him go over cues even when everyone else had gone home.

She called him “partner” like it was a nickname, and he never corrected her.

So no, you didn’t have a place anymore.

And still, that didn’t stop you from glancing at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. It didn’t stop the sting when you overheard Yeri teasing him in rehearsal the other day, laughing too hard at some joke only the two of them understood.

“Bet your partner can’t survive a rehearsal without you,” she’d said, voice warm.

And he had smiled. Not a full laugh. Not the way he used to with you. But still, he smiled.

You didn’t tell anyone what that did to you. But you did leave early that day, saying something about a group project that didn’t exist.

You kept rerunning your last real conversation with him. The not-quite-fight. The half-sarcastic, half-sincere jab about Yeri and the snacks and the attention. The way he blinked at you like you were the one being unreasonable.

“Don’t act like this is one-sided,” he’d said.

It wasn’t one-sided. That was the problem. You just never told him.

“You’ve got your partner now, right?” That’s what you said instead.

And you regretted it the moment it left your mouth.

Later That Week,

“Y/n,” Vicky said one afternoon, her voice gentle, “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

You didn’t respond right away. You were mid-task, helping tape decorations for one of the festival booths, trying to keep your focus on folding stupid streamers just right.

When you did speak, your voice cracked halfway through. “I’m fine.” Vicky didn’t push. She didn’t have to. The silence was enough.

Heeseung didn’t say goodbye when he left that day. He’d looked at you, he always did, but you weren’t looking at him. You were talking to someone else, your voice quieter than usual.

He lingered a second longer than he should’ve. Then turned and walked out.

That day, you took the long way home. It wasn’t planned, really. Your feet just sort of led you there, the corner outside the convenience store, near the apartment where Heeseung lived. The one you’d crashed in after a group night out, both of you tipsy, tired, laughing at things that didn’t even make sense.

You paused in front of the same sidewalk you’d stood on that night. The one where you’d clutched his coat and tried not to shiver. The one where he’d leaned in close, breath warm as he said something that made you laugh and forget how cold the night was.

You stared for a while. Didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.

Then you walked home, arms folded tighter around your chest.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

The club office was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards. Heeseung sat alone, the glow of his laptop casting a pale light on his face. The rehearsal schedule blinked back at him, but his eyes were unfocused, staring through the screen rather than at it.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then dropped to his lap. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the past few weeks.

The door creaked open, and Jay peeked in, a teasing smile on his face. "Still here? Burning the midnight oil?"

Heeseung offered a half-smile. "Just tying up some loose ends."

Jay stepped inside, glancing around the empty room. "Or still thinking about her?"

Heeseung paused for a moment, sighing. “I think Y/n’s avoiding me.”

Jay blinks now, leaning against the doorway. “Like avoiding you-you? Or just people in general?”

Heeseung leans against his chair. “Haven’t seen her since Tuesday. She keeps skipping prep meetings. And if she’s there, she leaves the second we’re done.”

Jay shovels a mouthful of chips. “Damn. That’s serious.” Heeseung waits for more wisdom, but none comes.

“I don’t get it,” he mutters. “We were… fine, weren’t we? I mean, I thought we were fine.”

Jay sets the bowl down. “You guys fight or something?”

“Not really. Not directly. But she’s… different.” Heeseung exhales through his nose. “Did I do something?”

Jay shrugs. “I mean…” He stretches his arms out like he’s just warming up for the bomb he’s about to drop. “Well, Yeri’s been attached to you lately.”

Heeseung frowns. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Jay stares. “Dude.”

“What?”

“If Y/n likes you, and I’m not saying she does, but like, if she does, then that would piss me off too.”

The words hit like a body blow.

Heeseung goes quiet.

Jay raises his brows. “What?”

“She doesn’t like me,” Heeseung mutters.

Jay snorts. “You sure? You guys had, like, a thing. I don’t know what kind of slow-burn drama you’ve been cooking, but even I could tell something was there.”

“Yeah, was,” Heeseung snaps. “That was before.”

Jay just shrugs again, totally unbothered. “I’m just saying. If it were me, I’d be mad too.

Watching someone I like hanging out with someone else. All the time. Smiling. Sharing snacks.” “We’re not dating,” Heeseung mumbles.

“But were you ever just friends?” Jay counters, surprisingly sharp. “I mean, did it ever feel… just friendly to you?”

Heeseung looks away.

That silence is answer enough.

Jay raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "Alright, man. Don't stay too late."

As Jay left, Heeseung's gaze drifted to the corner of the desk, where a small, half-written note lay beside a closed drawer. He reached out, fingers brushing the paper, then pulled back. With a swift motion, he slid the note into the drawer and closed it.

He opened his messaging app, a blank draft addressed to you staring back at him. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then he sighed and deleted the draft.

His eyes landed on his old film camera perched on the shelf. He reached out, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. A soft smile played on his lips as he whispered, "She always liked this kind of stuff..."

The camera clicked softly as he pressed the shutter, the sound echoing in the empty office.

All of a sudden, something odd happens.

It starts on a Monday.

The morning had it out for you from the start.

First, your alarm glitched and woke you up twenty minutes late. Then you opened your cabinet to the horrifying sight of an empty instant coffee box. And your oral path notes? Still buried somewhere in your room under two textbooks, one laptop charger, and a heaping pile of unresolved stress.

By the time you made it to school, you were already sweating through your uniform and running on two hours of sleep, half a granola bar, and pure academic anxiety.

You shuffled into the hallway, barely noticing the hum of fluorescent lights or the sharp sting of antiseptic in the air. The dentistry building always smelled like stress and sterilization, and this morning was no different.

You reached your locker on autopilot, expecting the usual cluster of dusty handouts and last week’s anatomy quiz shoved inside. But something made you stop.

There was something taped to the door.

Your fingers slowed before they reached the handle. A small, crinkled packet of candy, taped slightly off-center like someone had stuck it on in a hurry. Your favorite kind, too. Not the kind you could find at the nearby convenience store, but the one you used to keep in your bag during high school, the brand you hadn’t talked about in ages.

Your first instinct was suspicion. Not fear, just confusion.

You looked around. No one was near you, except a junior from the ortho track yawning into his phone a few lockers down.

There was no note. No “from,” no explanation. Just the candy.

You stared at it for a second longer than you meant to.

Part of you wanted to laugh. It felt weirdly out of place, like a random act of kindness from someone who knew exactly what to get, but not how to say why.

You peeled it off, tape clinging to the edge of your thumb. It wasn’t heavy or dramatic or anything worth overthinking. Probably someone from your class. Or a friend. Or someone pulling a subtle prank. Right?

Still, you slipped it into the pocket of your bag instead of throwing it away.

You told yourself it was no big deal. But you found your fingers brushing against the wrapper again when you were halfway to lecture.

It stayed in your pocket all day.

The next day, you were early. Not by much, but enough to catch the tail end of the building’s weird, pre-lecture silence. The kind where the hallways sound more like libraries and less like war zones. Your breath fogged up a little in the over-airconditioned room. It was always too cold in your department. Even your bones complained.

Your lab coat hung over your arm. Your bag dug into your shoulder, heavier than usual from two atlases and the water bottle you forgot to empty yesterday.

The classroom lights were already on when you stepped in.

A few of your classmates were scattered around, some seated, some still dragging stools across the tiled floor. The usual chatter filled the space: someone whining about the lab manual, someone else reciting mnemonics for nerves. The projector flickered to life in the front, bathing the whiteboard in that cold blue light.

And then you saw it.

Your desk.

Second row from the front. Right side. Your safe spot.

And sitting right there, dead center on your desk, like it belonged, was a banana milk. The kind you hadn’t bought since… forever ago. Not the generic brand, but the nostalgic one, cartoony packaging, yellow cap, slight condensation fogging up the sides.

There was a note.

Pink. Square. Curling a bit at the corners from the humidity. You recognized the handwriting immediately, though your brain scrambled to deny it.

Hope today goes easy on you. Drink this.

You froze.

Just for a second. Then your eyes scanned the room, casually, act normal, your head not even moving an inch, as if expecting someone to be staring right back at you.

No one was.

Everyone looked half-asleep. A few people waved when you looked their way, distracted. You caught the eye of your seatmate, who raised an eyebrow like long night? You shook your head.

You touched the note once, then peeled it off the bottle like you were handling evidence.

Whoever left it… either knew you very well, or had been watching too closely.

But it didn’t feel like a prank. It didn’t feel threatening. Not like the wrong kind of attention you’d learned to dodge in your first two years here.

It felt… specific.

The note stayed in your hand longer than it should’ve. You didn’t drink the banana milk right away. Just slid it to the side and opened your laptop, acting normal, though the back of your neck felt hot the whole time.

That one didn’t feel random.

That one… sat with you.

A little too well.

By Wednesday, it stops feeling like coincidence.

There was a cycle to college days, especially by the middle of the week, where exhaustion blended with routine and your brain ran mostly on autopilot. You knew when to wake up, when to walk, when to nod politely at upperclassmen you didn’t know.

So when you saw the photo, it felt like your internal programming glitched.

It was just there.

Waiting on your seat as you returned from your locker, right before prosthodontics. Most of the class had already taken their places, notebooks out, laptops humming. Your professor’s voice buzzed quietly over the mic system, giving last-minute quiz reminders. Someone at the front groaned dramatically. You were half-listening.

Until your foot bumped your chair, and you noticed it.

A square. Slightly curled edges. Off-white.

You picked it up, cautiously at first. A polaroid. The faded kind that developed with too much contrast and too little clarity.

It was a photo of a café.

That café.

The one from that rainy afternoon sophomore year, the place tucked behind the old printing press building. You hadn’t been back in what felt like forever. The sign in the photo was tilted, the glass slightly fogged. A pair of hands, yours, rested on a chipped ceramic cup. The memory was so specific it made your stomach lurch.

No note.

No initials.

Just the picture.

At first, you tried to reason it away.

Maybe someone found your old post on Close Friends. Maybe it was a weird throwback prank. Maybe- No.

It wasn’t random. Not this time.

The drinks, the candy, maybe you could dismiss. But this? A photo of something that happened years ago, between just the two of you?

No one else knew this memory.

Except Heeseung.

And maybe… Yeri?

Your heart twisted.

Yeri had been around more lately. Laughing louder when he was near. Finding excuses to rehearse longer. She wasn’t cruel, exactly, but she knew how to toe that line. Knew how to smile at you a second too long. How to tilt her head when Heeseung looked your way.

Was this her?

Is she trying to taunt me?

Your throat went dry. That weird prickling feeling crawled up the back of your neck again, the same one from lab yesterday. You looked around the room, slowly this time. No one looked suspicious. No one even seemed to notice the photo.

You slipped it into your folder. Carefully. As if hiding it would make the knot in your chest unravel.

But it stayed.

You couldn’t shake the feeling.

Not that someone was being kind, but that someone was watching.  

The noise in the hallway was enough to make your skin feel paper-thin.

Groups of students moved in packs, some fresh from their lectures, some just arriving from lunch, some laughing too loud on a casual Thursday morning. The Dentistry hallway was warm, humid from too many bodies and not enough airflow. The linoleum tiles squeaked under cheap sneakers and worn boots.

Your bag thudded on the bench as you dug for your notebook.

You’d been rushing all morning. Late for oral path. Your clinical partner had forgotten her gloves again, and you’d run out of time to print your readings. So now, all you wanted was to get through this lab with minimal human interaction and maybe five minutes of silence after.

You pulled your notebook out.

And something slid out of it.

Your breath hitched as the folded paper fluttered to the floor. It landed face-up. Neat creases. Familiar pen pressure. You picked it up slowly, heart already pounding before your eyes even scanned the words.

Maybe you’ll notice me again one day.

Your fingers clenched.

You blinked once. Twice.

Something about the handwriting tugged at your nerves, not because it was completely unfamiliar, but because it was almost familiar. Soft loops. Deliberate slant. A little too tidy to be yours. A little too warm to be your blockmate’s.

Your stomach turned.

You’d seen it before.

On the edge of a clipboard during rehearsal. On the corner of a script printout. Scribbled across a whiteboard when Yeri took over warm-ups.

That same Y.

That same Maybe.

Your breath caught again, this time sharper.

Your head snapped up, scanning the hallway instinctively. No one was looking your way. No one looked suspicious. Just your classmates, shuffling and talking and complaining about case requirements.

You looked back down at the note.

The first thought was: This is weird.

The second was: Wait… was this Heeseung?

The third hit harder: No. This looks like Yeri’s handwriting.

You stood there, frozen, the paper still between your fingers. The more you stared at it, the more your gut twisted. It felt like something Heeseung would say. Something quiet and aching and leftover from the version of him who used to wait for you outside class just to walk five extra steps beside you.

But the writing... It looked like hers.

Your throat closed up. This wasn’t just a message anymore. This felt like a performance. Someone writing lines in someone else’s voice. Playing pretend with something fragile. Something sacred.

You dropped the note.

Your hand flinched back like it burned.

A few feet away, someone called your name. A labmate, probably. You didn’t respond. You bent down, picked the note back up mechanically, folded it, shoved it back into your notebook without even thinking.

Your heart was pounding.

What if it was Yeri?

What if she was trying to taunt you?

She’d been everywhere lately. Always lingering near Heeseung. Always looking when she didn’t need to. Always acting like she knew something you didn’t. Like she owned something that used to be yours.

Maybe she was trying to twist the knife.

You tightened your grip on the notebook.

It had started as a simple doubt. But now... now it was a full sentence circling in your skull:

They're together.

She knows it.

She wants me to know it, too.

And the worst part?

You couldn’t tell if that note had come from someone who missed you, Or someone who wanted you to suffer.

You don’t tell anyone. Not even your best friend in the department, and she’s the one who catches you zoning out mid-convo and missing half the answers during study review. You just laugh it off. Say you’re tired. Say it’s the festival stress.

Because what would you even say?

“I think someone’s leaving me weirdly affectionate notes... and the handwriting looks like someone I don’t trust?”

It sounds paranoid. But it feels worse.

On Friday, you showed up to rehearsal with your guard up.

Even as you entered the campus theatre building, its echoey halls and scratched laminate floors, you felt it. That knot in your chest. That hum beneath your skin. Like your body was prepping for something it hadn’t been told yet.

And there she was.

Yeri.

Perfect posture. Her hair clipped neatly to one side. A Starbucks drink in her hand, matcha, probably, and a laugh caught on her lips as a freshman from your batch said something stupid and charming.

She didn’t see you at first. Or maybe she did and didn’t care to show it.

You didn’t say anything either. You moved toward your corner of the practice room, unrolled your mat, checked your laces. Did all the normal things people do when they’re pretending not to watch someone else.

But she kept hovering.

During warmups, she drifted near your stretch line. During the blocking run, she ended up beside Heeseung again, like it was just a coincidence. Like she hadn’t spent the whole week orbiting him.

And then came the break.

You were tying your shoelaces when you felt it.

A glance.

You looked up.

Yeri.

Just a flicker. A second. Her gaze slid off you like water, back toward her phone.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Not obvious. Not lingering. Just enough to make your chest tighten like it was warning you of thunder.

You stood. Back against the wall. Bottle in your hand. And then she walked past you. Water bottle in one hand. That same unreadable smile.

She slowed. "You look tired lately," she said lightly. “Are you okay?”

You blinked. The question wasn’t harsh. Wasn’t mocking. But it felt… wrong. Off-key. Like a compliment with the teeth filed down.

Your mouth moved before your brain caught up. “I’m fine.” Too fast. Too defensive. It slipped out like a shield.

But she didn’t react. Just nodded like she expected that answer. Like she already knew what you’d say. And then she walked into the studio, quiet and graceful like nothing had happened.

You stood there too long, holding your water bottle like it might help you stay grounded.

Was that concern?

Or was it mockery in disguise?

You thought about the handwriting again. The photo. The note. The timing.

Heeseung.

Yeri.

Together, maybe. And laughing behind your back. Pretending it wasn’t weird. Pretending you weren’t still flinching from a memory they’d made sacred and left behind.

Was it a coincidence she was suddenly always there?

Was it your imagination?

Or was she really trying to tell you, without saying it out loud, that she had him now?

That she’d taken something you didn’t even realize was still yours?

By Weekend, it stopped being cute.

It wasn’t a game anymore. Wasn’t flattery. Wasn’t mystery. It was something else now. Scarier. Personal.

You found the note on Saturday, wedged beneath your water bottle during the afternoon rehearsal block. You hadn’t even stepped out that long, just enough time to stretch your legs and grab a snack from the vending machine. The hallway had been nearly empty.

But when you came back, there it was.

The paper was thick. Folded precisely. Just one line, handwritten in blue ink.

“If I hated you, I wouldn’t know your favorite ice cream or where you hide when you’re overwhelmed.”

You stared at it for a full minute before picking it up.

Your hands started to shake before your brain even finished registering the words.

That quote, that quote, was from the show you and Heeseung used to watch in middle school. Not a popular show. Not the kind you’d quote online or reference to new friends. Something small. Silly. Yours.

You hadn’t mentioned it in years.

No one knew about it.

Except Heeseung.

Except… maybe someone else heard.

Maybe someone overheard. Or maybe he told someone.

And the only person who had been consistently, strategically close lately… was Yeri.

You thought back to the last few days. Her glances. Her perfect timing. Her voice that never sounded quite as soft as it pretended to be.

“You look tired lately. Are you okay?”

That nod, like she expected you to say you were fine.

And now this?

Was this still a note?

Or was it a warning?

You folded the paper so tightly it creased like a blade. Tucked it into the bottom of your bag like it might burn if anyone saw it.

You started locking your backpack zippers.

You kept your locker closed, even between classes.

You stopped hanging around after rehearsal. You left first. Arrived late. Walked the long way around the Music building even if it made you sweat through your shirt.

Your earbuds stayed in, even when your playlist had long since stopped.

Because it wasn’t just about the note anymore. It was about the way you felt seen.

Not admired. Not even observed.

Seen like you were something to be watched. And that feeling… that was new.

You avoided Heeseung. Entirely.

You didn’t know what to think. Whether he was part of it, or just too close to the one who was. Whether he gave her that memory. Whether he was laughing with her about you, the way old friends sometimes do when they feel sorry for someone they used to care about.

He waved at you once on Sunday during the last cleanup before the festival officially starts. You didn’t wave back.

Didn’t even look at him. Just reached for your bag, turned, and walked away. The music was still playing, the room full of chatter, but your ears were ringing.

It hurt. God, it hurt.

Because maybe the worst part wasn’t the fear.

It was that the person who used to know you best had no idea what you were going through. Or worse…

What if he did?

You don’t wake up rested.

Even though you got a full seven hours, your body feels like it never stopped moving. Your limbs ache, not from physical work, but from tension. Like your muscles have been clenched for days and you forgot how to let them go.

You stare at the ceiling for a while before you get up. Today’s the first day of the Interdisciplinary Festival. Booths. Selling. Mingling. Crowds. Too much noise and not enough distance.

You already feel too drained, and the day hasn’t even started.

As you get ready, your mind keeps circling back to the gifts, the notes. The way they just kept appearing like pieces you were never meant to read. You haven’t found a new one since the weekend, but the silence doesn’t help. It only makes the air heavier.

What if it was her?

What if it wasn’t?

What if he knows?

You shove the thoughts aside with your toothbrush, with your hoodie, with the bag of booth materials slung over your shoulder. You’re here to work. You’re here to help. You're here to get through the damn day.

The festival grounds are already packed by the time you arrive. Colorful tarps, handmade signs, extension cords running like veins under the booths. Laughter, chaos, music thumping from cheap speakers. The scent of grilled street food already clings to the air.

You check in at your department’s booth, dentistry is doing a cute, mildly educational thing with mini tooth kits and enamel pins. There’s a raffle, too. You’re in charge of tracking sales and organizing the freebies.

Which is perfect. It gives your hands something to do.

It helps you focus.

Mostly.

"Hey, can you pass the price tags?" someone calls out.

You nod, grabbing the pack and sliding it across the table without looking. Your eyes drift again, without your permission, really, across the field of tents and student bodies. Searching.

You spot him halfway across the lot.

Heeseung.

He’s wearing a simple long-sleeved shirt rolled to the elbows and a lanyard with his department tag. He’s crouched by the performance art booth, helping adjust a foldable whiteboard that keeps sliding down.

Even from here, he looks… different. Focused. Calm on the outside, but you can tell he’s tired. There’s something about the way he moves, like his mind’s somewhere else. You know that version of him. You’ve seen it more times than you care to count.

Then he straightens, and as if sensing it, his head turns in your direction.

His eyes meet yours.

You don’t mean to freeze, but you do.

He smiles.

Hesitant. Small. Like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to.

You look away before you can decide what it meant. Before he can read your face. Before you can start wanting again.

You bend over to reorganize the freebies.

He doesn’t approach.

You don’t either.

Yeri shows up around mid-morning.

Of course she does. She's part of the performance committee, and her name is basically embedded into every schedule and announcement slide. She’s not wearing anything flashy, just a cropped cardigan over a simple top, jeans, but she still stands out. She always does.

She greets a few people near your booth, dropping smiles and soft waves like it costs nothing. People gravitate toward her naturally. She laughs easily, her voice lilting in a way that makes conversations sound lighter than they probably are.

And then she moves toward their booth.

You try not to look.

You really try.

But there’s a lull in booth activity, and your hands are still, and there’s nothing left to organize.

So you glance up. Just once.

Yeri’s standing next to Heeseung, her hand brushing his arm as she says something. He laughs softly, barely. He doesn’t pull away. Again.

Stil, he doesn’t lean in either.

You’re too far to hear the words, but you see the way she tilts her head. The way her eyes linger. The way he shifts his weight slightly like he wants to be somewhere else, but doesn’t know how to excuse himself.

Your stomach twists. Like it always does.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You’re not together. You haven’t even spoken properly in days. You’ve been the one avoiding him. This, whatever this ache is, shouldn't even exist.

And yet, your throat tightens.

Your hands curl around the edge of the table.

Around noon, one of your booth mates offers to run and grab snacks. You nod along and stay behind, glad for the excuse to avoid walking through the crowd. The last thing you want is to cross paths with either of them.

Your phone buzzes on the table.

It’s a message from your best friend in the department.

[10:34am] Vickypedia

“he’s been glancing over here all morning, btw.” You don’t reply.

You don’t know how to.

Because you’ve felt it too, in flickers. But you don’t know what to do with it. You don’t know if it’s guilt or affection or just residual habits.

You tell yourself again that it’s fine.

You’re okay.

That this unease in your chest is just the festival stress. That the weird notes were probably someone trying to be sweet in a way that landed… wrong. That maybe it really isn’t Yeri. Or maybe it is. Or maybe…?

You’re spiraling again.

By the afternoon, the sun gets warmer, and the energy of the crowd swells. You’re elbow-deep in raffle tickets, half-listening to the excited chatter around you, but your heart hasn’t caught up to the moment.

You feel disjointed.

Every time someone passes behind you, your shoulders tighten. Every time someone leans close to speak, you flinch a little too easily. The world feels a bit too close, like you're moving through static.

And every now and then, from the corner of your eye, you catch sight of her.

Yeri.

Sometimes alone. Sometimes not.

Always smiling.

Always composed.

Always a little too aware of where you are.

You catch her looking once, in the late afternoon. Not long. Not obviously. Just long enough.

And this time, she doesn't smile.

She just nods once, like an acknowledgment.

And then turns back to whoever she’s talking to.

You barely register the end of the day when it comes. Someone claps near your ear to get your attention, laughing when you jump.

"Sorry," they say. "You just looked really zoned out."

You smile thinly. “Yeah. Long day.”

You help pack up your booth’s supplies into a box. Your hands are sore. Your chest is heavier than it was this morning. The festival energy doesn’t cling to you, it bounces off. You feel untethered, like you never quite touched down the whole day.

You don’t know what you’re hoping for.

A confrontation?

A confession?

Clarity?

But there’s nothing.

Just a field full of tired students, taped-up posters, and lingering music.

Just the sound of your own heartbeat trying to convince you this isn’t what it feels like.

You wake up again, already bracing for the day.

It’s the kind of morning that feels too bright, like the sun’s mocking you for not sleeping properly. You barely touched breakfast. Your stomach’s too knotted up to hold anything.

Today’s the performance.

And that means Heeseung.

And Yeri.

You stall in front of your closet longer than necessary, pretending you’re just indecisive. But really, you’re just thinking about what to wear that’ll make you look fine. Not affected. Not like you spent half the week thinking about handwritten notes and brushing off your closest friends and avoiding the one person who used to know you better than anyone else.

In the end, you settle for something simple and casual, but not lazy. The kind of outfit that says, I’m not here to impress, but I also didn’t roll out of bed crying.

You arrive at the venue just before the crowd thickens. The makeshift stage is already set up.

Complete with lights, speakers, and a colorful backdrop painted by the Fine Arts department. Foldable chairs form a semi-circle around the stage, though most students are content to stand or sit on the grass.

It’s loud. Warm. Packed with energy.

The Performing Arts kids own the space like they were born for it. There’s already buzz going around about the final number. Someone mentions it’s going to be dramatic. Emotional. “The one with Heeseung and Yeri,” they say.

Of course it is.

You find a spot near the back, away from the crowd, where the lighting’s dimmer and no one’s paying too much attention. You can see the stage, but you don’t feel like you’re being seen.

You scan the performers setting up.

And then, there he is.

Heeseung, standing offstage in his performance outfit. Black long sleeves, flowy fabric, minimal accessories. He’s talking with one of the stagehands, nodding, focused. You know that look. It’s the same one he used to get before big recitals or exams.

Then Yeri walks over to him.

She’s in costume too. Her outfit matches his, fluid lines, soft fabrics. They look… good. Like they belong in the same setting.

They exchange a few words. She smiles. He smiles back, tight-lipped but polite. Then she reaches up to fix something on his collar.

Your nails dig into your sleeve before you can stop yourself.

The performance begins in full force.

First, it’s ensemble acts. Some lighthearted, some poetic. Spoken word, a musical duet, a monologue that earns a teary sniffle from someone behind you.

And then, the lights dim.

A hush falls. The final number.

The opening notes boom low and smooth through the speakers, a stripped-back instrumental. Two spotlights fade in.

Heeseung walks onto the stage from one side. Yeri from the other.

The crowd leans forward.

And you stop breathing.

It starts slow.

Just movement at first. Their silhouettes circling each other. Graceful. Every step like a wave. Not a word is said, but you understand it. It’s a story told through choreography. A story about distance. Yearning. Resentment. Reconnection.

And God, they sell it.

You try to remind yourself that it’s acting. That it’s what they do. Heeseung’s always been good at disappearing into his roles and so has Yeri. You’ve seen them rehearse, you’ve seen them prep. You know this.

But when their hands touch?

When Yeri’s palm finds his chest and she pushes, gently, like she’s letting go of something?

When he doesn’t react?

It doesn’t feel like acting anymore.

Your eyes sting.

You blink fast. Shake your head.

Don’t be ridiculous. You know what this is. You know how this looks. And still. Still, your chest burns like you’ve swallowed something wrong.

And then it happens.

Near the end of the piece, there’s a still moment, part of the choreography, you’re sure of it.

Yeri steps close.

Cups his face.

Just for a moment.

But it’s a long moment.

Too long.

The audience gasps. Cheers. Someone shouts, “Just kiss already!” which earned a few giggles in the crowd.

You turn your head, eyes darting down and away. But not before you catch it.

Heeseung sees you.

He sees your face.

And your hurt isn't hidden fast enough.

You turn away before you can register his reaction. You pretend to be interested in your phone, in the grass, in anything that doesn’t look like jealousy.

You don’t look back at the stage.

When the piece finally wraps, the crowd explodes.

Applause. Whistles. Phones up, cameras flashing. The host rushes out to thank the performers, but it’s clear who stole the show. People start pushing forward to get closer, half for pictures, half just to gush.

“Heeseung and Yeri, seriously…” a girl says beside you, practically squealing. “Like, are they dating? They should be. They’d be such a power couple if they got together for real.” You step back.

And then again, as more students surge forward to get a better view of the stage. Someone bumps your shoulder, and your balance falters. You steady yourself, the applause ringing too loud in your ears.

That’s enough.

The walk back to your dorm is quiet. The sun’s still out, but it doesn’t feel warm anymore. You take the long route, hoping the extra time will help you process what you just felt. What you saw, but your mind keeps looping back to the same thing.

That look on his face before you turned away.

He saw you.

He saw you.

When you get back to your door, there’s something waiting. Another note. Folded neatly, like it’s been sitting there all day.

You hesitate.

Then pick it up.

Your stomach drops as you read it.

You’ll regret ignoring this.

No smiley face. No name. Just that.

You stare at it for a while, your fingers tightening around the paper. A chill slips down your back. This one doesn’t feel romantic. It doesn’t feel soft. It feels like a threatening whisper at the back of your neck.

The third day is supposed to be the chill one.

That’s the whole point.

The sun’s out but gentler, the air buzzing with leftover festival energy. There’s an acoustic stage on the grass where students are passing around a guitar. A few first-years are on picnic mats playing card games. Others are threading beads for last-minute friendship bracelets. It’s mellow, warm, a little bittersweet. The high is wearing off, and everyone’s in that weird inbetween space where nothing’s urgent, but everything still feels important.

You spot the photo wall they put up, a collage of Polaroids from the past two days. You spot one of yourself behind the booth, half-laughing with your group, sweat clinging to your temples. The version of you in the photo looks... lighter. Like she wasn’t holding in a hundred burden.

And there he is.

Heeseung, smiling in one of the shots, arms around his team. Yeri’s just behind him. You glance at it for half a second too long before turning away.

It’s fine. You’ve been holding yourself together this long. One more day won’t kill you.

Your department’s booth is halfway disassembled. Tents down, tables cleared, only boxes of supplies left.

Your shirt sticks to your back. You’re sweaty. Your legs are sore. Your throat’s dry from giving out instructions and calling over people who clearly weren’t listening.  

“Man, please tell me that’s the last one,” one of your blockmates groans, dramatically stretching their back.

You chuckle tiredly. “That’s the last one.”

“Thank God,” another adds. “I’m never organizing an event again. I swear I aged ten years.”

Someone collapses beside you on the grass. “Remind me why we volunteered again?” “Free food?” one of your blockmates offers.

“Trauma bonding?” another guesses.

Laughter ripples through your group, loose and tired.

Sunoo, a close friend you’ve met after volunteering, pats your back. “You killed it this week, by the way. Thanks for making sure we didn’t die.”

You give a small, crooked smile. “Of course.”

Then you glance at the stacked boxes beside you. “I’ll take these to storage.”

“Seriously?” Sunoo asks. “That’s like five floors up.”

“I need the break,” you say, hoisting two boxes up into your arms. “Aircon elevator ride? Yes, please.”

They wave you off with half-hearted cheers. “Stay alive!”

“Text us if you get stuck in the horror movie elevator!” someone jokes.

You roll your eyes, already trudging toward the building.

The halls are quieter than usual. Most students are still outside, too busy soaking up the last bits of festival atmosphere.

You elbow the elevator button, shifting the weight of the boxes. The elevator doors slide open. Empty.  

Thank God.

You step inside, back hitting the cool wall. You exhale deeply, adjusting the boxes in your arms.

The doors finally start to close.

And then- SLAM.

A hand shoves between the doors at the last second. You flinch instinctively, your grip tightening on the boxes. The doors bounce open again with a ding. And there he is.

Heeseung.

Sweaty. Breathless. A single box in his arms. His eyes widen the moment he sees you.

The air leaves your lungs.

He steps in silently. The doors close.

You’re both frozen.

You can hear his breathing, shallow and fast. You’re not sure if it’s from running or from this.

From you. From this.

Seconds tick by.

“Didn’t know we were still doing the silent treatment.” His voice is quiet. Tired. A little raw.

You don’t look up. You stare at the elevator buttons instead. “Didn’t know we were still friends.” The silence that follows is loud. Crushing.

All of a sudden-

The elevator jerks. The lights go out.

You both flinch as everything goes dark, save for the faint red of the emergency lighting.

Your heart drops.

“God,” you mutter under your breath. “I shouldn’t have ignored why nobody takes the damn elevator.”

He drops his box with a thud. “Of course it does.”

You press the emergency button half-heartedly. Nothing but the same dull buzz.

The silence creeps back in.

Then, his voice again, quieter.

“Why weren’t you accepting them?”

You blink, confused. “Accepting what?”

He exhales. Shaky. Like it’s costing him something to speak.

“The gifts. The notes. I thought you’d… I thought you’d understand. I didn’t sign them, but I thought- I hoped, you’d just know.” You finally look at him.

His jaw is clenched. His eyes glimmer in the dim light.

“You…?” you whisper.

“You didn’t even keep them,” he says, hurt flickering in his voice, barely concealed.

You frown. “Not all of them…”

He shakes his head. “But enough.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then, softly, “I thought they were from someone else.”

Heeseung laughs, bitterly. “Yeah. You looked scared. Like you were being stalked. Like I made you afraid of me.”

“I didn’t know it was you, Heeseung,” you whisper. “You never said-”

“I didn’t know how!” he bursts out. “You stopped talking to me. I didn’t even know if I had the right to show up in front of you anymore. I just… I just wanted you to feel me there. Even if you couldn’t look at me.”  His voice cracks.

“I missed you so much, it hurt,” he chokes out. “And I saw it, you know? You flinched when you read them. You started walking faster. Stopped looking me in the eyes. I thought I ruined everything.”

You swallow hard. “But I didn’t hate you.”

“I didn’t know that.”

His hands twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them anymore. “All I wanted was to fix things. And I kept waiting for the right time. For something to change. And then the rehearsals keep happening and Yeri and I just-” His voice breaks. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” There’s a pause.

Neither of you move.

The elevator hums quietly under the emergency lights.

You don’t know who steps first.

Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you.

But suddenly, his arms are around you.

Not smooth. Not choreographed. Not clean like their dance.

It’s messy. Clumsy. A little panicked. Your box hits the floor beside his with a hollow thunk, but neither of you care.

He wraps his arms tight around your shoulders, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Please don’t hate me,” he whispers, face buried in your shoulder. “I didn’t want to lose you. I just didn’t know how to fix this.” He trembles.

You’re frozen for a second. Then your hands slowly reach up, clutching the fabric of his shirt. Holding him back.

Your voice barely comes out.

“Are you… crying…?”

He lets out a soft, trembling laugh. Pulls back just a little. His eyes are red, but he’s smiling. Barely.

He looks at your face.

Then your lips.

And then, He kisses you.

Softly. Slowly.  

Like he’s scared he’ll break you.

You don’t pull away. You kiss him back. Your fingers grip tighter into his shirt, grounding yourself.

The elevator hums. Then jolts.

The lights flicker back on. The machinery whirs.

But neither of you move away.

Not until the ding of the elevator bell cuts through the silence like a gunshot.

The doors slide open.

Heeseung hesitates to pull back.

It’s his floor.

He hesitates. Steps forward just as the doors begin to open.

And you, your voice finally finds the courage.

“Heeseung.”

He pauses just in front of the door.

You say, “Meet me at my apartment later.”

The doors slowly close between you, and he holds your gaze until the very last inch.

And nods.

Then he’s gone.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

[cha-melodius]

I'm kind of in the doldrums where I feel like I've shared too much and people are getting tired of me teasing the same fic, hence I've been absent again. But I decided to share another snippet today because I'm realizing there's no way I'm gonna finish this sucker before I leave to go on vacation, so it'll be a little while more until it's here. Thank you to everyone who's been patiently waiting, it's looking like June if things go well. In the mean time, please have a bit of thirsting and banter.

“Where on earth did you get these things?” Henry asks, gesturing to Alex’s clothes. He’s not sure what he expected Alex to ride in today, frankly. Perhaps his jeans and cowboy boots—most of the other guest riders wear their regular gear along with the team-issued polo shirt provided by the club. “You like ‘em?” Alex says with a shit-eating grin as he—lord help Henry—turns sideways to show off the breeches and boots. Just the side profile of his arse is ruinous. “I got Ariat to send me a pair of boots. Told them I’d post about it on Instagram. Dunno when else I’ll ever wear them, but maybe I’ll go as a jockey for Halloween this year.” “You’re short enough for it,” Henry returns automatically. “Hey,” Alex chokes out on a laugh and socks him in the shoulder. “I take it back, I didn’t miss you.” “You did, though.” “Unfortunately. But you missed me too,” Alex says over his shoulder as he starts walking past Henry deeper into the barn. “Don’t try to deny it.”

Thank you to @pippinoftheshire, @justabigoldnerd, @loki-is-my-kink-awakening, @suseagull5914, and @onthewaytosomewhere for the tags today, and @alasse9, @14carrotghoul, @iboatedhere, @firenati0n and @welcometololaland for tags in the last couple of weeks. I'm not tagging anyone else because it's late now and not Wednesday for much longer, but consider this an open tag if you want it!

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Godless and Free

Pairing: Sigtryggr Ivarsson (The Last Kingdon) x f!reader Warnings: Talk of religion, mild angst, sexually explicit content. Word count: ~5k

Summary: It has been a year since Sigtryggr took her away from Winchester. Now, settled into a life in Jorvik, the two must learn to navigate their differences.

Author's note: Based on this request, but also a sequel to Little Warrior. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

The wind whipped through her hair, its icy chill pricked like tiny daggers against her heated skin as she raced through the woods – more a rapid stumble than a full run – it was an inky black night, the glow of the moon and stars above were all that illuminated her way, preventing her from crashing face first into the roughened trunks of the trees. Her lungs burned with exertion, her feet bloody from the repeated snap of twigs and stab of jagged stones against her bare soles. She would not, could not stop though; a fate far worse than sore feet and breathlessness awaited her if she allowed herself to slow down. 

“Christian…”

The taunt filtered through the air as a loud whisper, seeming to come from everywhere and yet nowhere all at once. She was suddenly uncertain of if she was running to or from the voice. She collided with something solid, and was sent sprawling upon her bottom. Her thin, cotton nightdress did nothing to cushion her fall, and she yelped at the impact of a gnarled root that protruded sharply from the earth. Pain bloomed hot and intense across her flesh. She stared fearfully up into a familiar pair of blue eyes – once they would have softened in sympathy at her discomfort – now she saw only hatred reflected back at her in their depths. Sigtryggr’s mouth twisted in disgust as he spat the word “Christian” again, as though it were poison upon his tongue. She wanted to plead, to cry out for mercy, but when she opened her mouth only a pathetic whimper escaped her lips. She trembled, a prey animal beneath a stalking predator, as fear sent acrid bile creeping up the inside of her throat. He lifted his axe in a high arc above his head and brought it down in a heavy swing.

She awoke with a gasp, her heart racing as cold sweat slicked her hair to the back of her neck. The pale light of dawn had only just begun to reach out across the heavy furs she lay beneath, bringing with it the realisation that she was not, in fact, being chased through the woods, but tucked safely in bed, next to the man who had once held her captive. Now she lay beside him of her own volition, though since leaving Wintanceaster he had haunted her dreams, not as a symbol of liberation, but one of terror. Instinctively, her hand went to her neck, fingers reaching fruitlessly for the wooden cross she had once worn around it, and found the skin bare. Her hand dropped uselessly back to the furs, curling into a fist. That little cross had been a source of comfort to her in the life she had before this one, that was until her heathen lover had torn it free and discarded it the first time they had lain together. She had not minded at the time, the reckless act had enthralled her, but that had been in the safety of the confines of Alfred’s study, which was familiar. Now they were settled in Eoferwic, the furthest from home she had ever been, and the absence of her cross made her ache.

Sigtryggr stirred beside her, disturbed by her startled awakening. A tired noise of displeasure rumbled in his chest, as he rolled to face her. His slender fingers reached beneath the furs, gripping the dip of her waist.

“It is early, Little Warrior, too early to begin the day yet” he whispered, before tugging her against his bare chest with gentle ease. “You are trembling. Why?”

His tired eyes opened wider, regarding her with mild concern as she felt her racing heart slow beneath the comfort of his touch and the soothing sound of his voice. So different from what she had dreamed, and yet eerily similar. “I had a dream,” she murmured as her body pressed against his, “about you.”

"You dreamed of me?" he asked, his gaze softening as his hand lifted from her waist to her face, and his thumb stroked tenderly against her jawline. 

She could sense the desire that simmered beneath the surface of him, his body so tightly wound against her own and prepared to pounce at the slightest hint of invitation. It hurt her to know that the next words from her mouth would snuff that out, causing him to withdraw from her, but she could not lie to Sigtryggr. He did not just see her when he looked upon her; that piercing stare bore down to the very core of her, flaying her open. There was nothing she could hide from him, he was far too perceptive.

"I dreamed of you," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she clutched the furs tighter to herself, as though the very act would protect her from whatever hurt or offense she would inevitably see reflected back at her in his stare. "You were chasing me. You meant to kill me."

The wolfish grin that spread across his face was not the reaction she had anticipated, and she frowned as he huffed a soft laugh, the gentle expulsion of air fanning across her cheek. He cupped her face, pressing a soft kiss of reassurance to the crease of her brow. “I do not allow those I mean to kill to warm my bed,” he muttered, “now sleep. You are safe.”

She cuddled against him, allowing him to tuck her head beneath his chin as he wrapped both arms around her. His warmth quickly lulled her back into a gentle slumber, though she noticed as her breaths softened and she inhaled his scent that he smelled faintly of soft earth and fallen leaves – like the woods.

Hours later, with the morning sun now streaming vibrant through the gaps in the wooden beams of their longhouse, they broke their fast on salted pork and oat cakes – long gone were their days of scraping green mold from their bread crusts during the siege of Wintanceaster – food in Eoferwic was plentiful with no one at the city walls to starve them. The settlement here was a prosperous one for the Danes; they had crops, livestock, homes. The space she shared with Sigtryggr was modest, but comfortable – the self-contained hut was a single room consisting of a small hearth for a fire with a space to prepare food, a large bed laden with furs and a wooden table with chairs, which they now sat at to eat.

When Sigtryggr had given Wintanceaster back to Edward, and asked her to go with him, she hadn’t hesitated. The month they had spent together had not seemed long enough, especially not when they had only just begun to explore the depths of their feelings for one another. However, the journey north towards Eoferwic had worn her patience beyond its limits, quickly dissipating the lover’s haze she had lost herself in. She did not voice her complaints to Sigtryggr – she was all too aware of what he had sacrificed to keep her safe – however, long hours spent astride his horse made her backside sore and, as eager as she was to welcome him between her thighs when they made camp each evening, the hardness of the ground was unforgiving against her knees and back. She grew miserable and withdrawn, waving it away as travel weariness whenever her lover queried her sullen silences.

She had expected her spirits to lift once they arrived at their destination, and to an extent they had – a comfortable bed, and days not spent on horseback did wonders for morale, but at her core she was homesick. When Sigtryggr had thrown away her cross, in her mind that had been symbolic of his disapproval of her faith. Out of respect to him, she had not prayed since leaving Wintanceaster, afraid she would offend him or, worse, that he would mock her. It was painfully apparent from the suspicious stares directed her way by his fellow Danes that they did not trust her. Sigtryggr was putting himself at risk by keeping her as his woman, the absence of her faith was the least she owed him. However, far from home and without being able to speak to her god, she was afraid. The nightmares had begun shortly after that, and she had kept them to herself – until now.

“I want to talk about my dream,” she said, placing the remnants of her oat cake upon her plate, and dusting the crumbs lightly from her fingers. She watched as Sigtryggr chewed a mouthful of salted pork slowly, eyeing her carefully as he lifted his gaze from the table towards her.

“It’s nothing,” he said with a shrug once he’d swallowed, “I would never hurt you.”

“It’s not nothing,” she insisted, “I’ve been having this same dream since we arrived here.”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms across his chest. “Are you afraid of me?”

She swallowed thickly, looking down at the crumbs upon the table then back up at him. A look of impatience had settled over his features, she could see it in the subtle lift of his eyebrow as he waited for her answer. “I was your prisoner once.”

He narrowed his eyes and she instantly wished she could take back what she’d said. But it was too late now. “And now you are my woman. You chose to come with me.”

“How has anything changed?” she demanded, her voice becoming shrill as she fought back the tears from it, rapidly losing the battle against a tide of emotions she had held at bay for months. “I am as much your prisoner here as I was back in Wintanceaster. I have not even my faith anymore, only you. My life is in your hands.”

He leaned across the table, nostrils flared in anger and instinctively she shrank away, fearful of his reaction to her admission. When he spoke, his voice was angry, but it was not loud. There was a dangerous lowness to it, a quiet edge that was more menacing than any furious shout. “You are free, free to leave anytime you’d like. And if this is how you feel, I suggest that you do.”

She felt as though all the air had left her as she watched him stand up from the table and leave without another word. There was a part of her that longed to chase after him, to demand that he stay and talk about all of this, yet she remained rooted to the spot, unable to move from her chair as her chest felt too tight and unshed tears pricked at the rims of her eyes. She had done it. She had finally done it; shown the depth of her ingratitude for all he had done for her and he had hated what he saw, grown tired of her. A tear tracked its way down her cheek as she wondered if he would come back.

He did come back. Darkness had fallen, the day having passed at a glacial pace as she busied herself, sweeping the floor, making the bed – no task taking enough time to while away the seeming crawl that the passage of time had halted to. She lay on her side, facing the wall when she felt the dip of the mattress next to her as his weight settled into the bed. She wanted to wail like a child when he didn’t tug her against him as he did every night when he slipped into bed beside her. She had grown used to him pulling her against his body as though she weighed nothing, either nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck as sleep claimed them both, or rolling her onto her back as his hardness nudged insistently at her inner thigh. Tonight, he did neither of those things. It was the first night since they left Wintanceaster that he hadn’t touched her.

No dreams came for her that night, though she was certain at some point she felt the gentle brush of Sigtryggr’s lips against her own. When she opened her eyes to greet the morning sun, his space in the bed was empty. She threw back the furs, eyes wide in panic as she moved through the small space. His weapons were gone, boots and clothes too.

Has he left me?

Not caring that she was dressed in only her nightgown, she pulled open the door, looking out upon the settlement. It was eerily quiet. The grassy plane that the longhouses encircled, worn down to the earth by repeated footfall over time, was mostly empty, void of the usual men that gathered to talk and spar. A few small children ran past giggling with a dog barking at their heels, and she could see Brynhild draping wet clothes to dry over a length of twine pulled taut between two posts.

Besides Sigtryggr, Brynhild was the kindest to her of the Danes. She was unsure of how old she was, but she had a manner of speaking which sounded more ancient than time itself. She was a portly woman, seemingly as wide as she was tall, and her long hair was grey as iron, always neatly braided and then pinned into buns at the sides of her head. Her blue eyes sat deep in her well lined face, yet still twinkled with vivacity. She was a person that smiled with her eyes rather than her mouth, and they softened as she watched the young Saxon woman rush breathlessly over to her.

“Brynhild, where is everyone? Have you seen Sigtryggr?” she asked, too worried to be embarrassed about the shrillness that the urgency in her question lent to her tone of voice.

“Gone to Dunholm,” the old woman answered simply, “all fighting men and women gone.”

“What for?” she asked. Dunholm was English land, the Danes had no business being there, unless to cause trouble.

Brynhild shrugged, then groaned with effort as she stooped to lift a damp undershirt from her wicker basket. The younger woman was quick to step forward, taking over from her and beginning to drape the laundered items over the clothesline.

“You are a good girl,” Brynhild commented, her eyes sparkling in one of her subtle smiles, “Sigtryggr was smiled on by the gods when they gave you to him.”

She stiffened at the mention of him, pausing to look sadly over her shoulder at the old Dane. “He’ll come back to me, won’t he?”

“If the gods mean for him to.” Brynhild took the empty wicker basket from her as she offered it back. Her words provided little comfort.

Sigtryggr had left without a word. The last thing he had said to her was that she should leave. Perhaps he hoped she would not be there when he returned. Dejectedly, she turned to go back inside, suddenly feeling much too vulnerable in the little that she was wearing.

“Wait, before I forget,” Brynhild called after her.

She turned, and saw that the old woman held out Sigtryggr’s dagger to her, hilt first. It was a simple weapon, the steel of the blade was dull, yet its edge was wickedly sharp. The dark wooden handle was carved with runes that she did not know the meaning of. She looked quizzically from the weapon to Brynhild’s face, hesitating.

“Take it,” she urged, thrusting her hand out again for emphasis, “he told me to give to you. Keep you safe.”

Slowly, she reached forward and took the dagger from her outstretched hand with a quiet thanks, then turned and walked back inside of the home she shared with Sigtryggr. She turned the blade over in her hands, wondering why it had been left for her. She would get no sense from Brynhild beyond what she had already told her, and she dare not speak to any of the other women left behind – they treated her with mistrust and their answers would not be kind. 

Did Sigtryggr mean to return to her? Had he simply given her his blade as a means to arm herself when she went off by herself out into the world? Why had he left and not said anything?

The days passed by with an agonising slowness, and upon the fifth morning, when she had woken alone once more, she climbed from the bed and prayed – the first time she had done so since leaving Alfred’s study. The earthen floor was cool against her knees, a strange contrast to the warm furs upon which she placed her elbows as she clasped her hands before her and closed her eyes. She surprised herself when her thoughts immediately landed on Sigtryggr and not herself.

“I pray, Lord Jesus Christ, be Sigtryggr’s true armour. Cover him, therefore, O God, with your strong breastplate. Cover him all in all with his five senses, so that, from his soles to the top of the head, in no member, without within, may he be sick; that, from his body, life be not cast out

by plague, fever, weakness, suffering, until, with the gift of old age from God, departing from the flesh, be free from stain, and be able to fly to the heights, and, by the mercy of God, be borne in joy to the heavenly cool retreats of his kingdom.”

She kept her hands clasped in front of her, as she knelt before the bed with her eyes closed, and her thoughts drifted to her wayward lover. “Please come back to me,” she whispered. She would stay, she decided, if only to know for certain that he intended for her to leave, that their time together was at its end.

Upon the seventh night, she jerked awake, torn from sleep by the blare of a war horn that pierced through the silence with a loudness that made her heart feel as though it would burst forth from her chest. She snatched up Sigtryggr’s dagger from beneath her pillow – the place she had stashed it for safekeeping since Brynhild had given it to her, partially for her own protection, but mostly because having a little piece of her lover in the bed with her helped sleep to find her with greater ease. She moved quickly from the house, and peered out into the distance. She could see flames upon the wooden fortifications that encircled their settlement, and hear the shouts of men. The shouting grew louder, signifying that the people whose voices they belonged to were drawing closer. She looked down at the blade clutched so tightly in her fist that it made her knuckles white with the effort, and decided there and then that it was better to run. It was craven, she knew, but it was her best chance of survival. Her and a single dagger were no match for whatever army advanced upon them.

Having hurriedly tugged on a red linen shift over the top of her nightdress, and pulled on her boots, she rushed out of the door, dagger in hand. She thought of Brynhild – she couldn’t simply leave the old woman defenceless, but as she looked towards her dwelling, she could see that the portly old woman was already outside, her back towards her, and marching purposefully towards the source of the noise.

What was she doing? Did the old woman have a death wish?

She called out after her, wondering if she’d even hear her amidst the cacophony of noise. Apparently she did as, without turning around, she waved her off dismissively and carried on walking. She stared after her, jaw agape, torn between chasing after her and simply fleeing. Growling in frustration, she took off running in the opposite direction – she could offer no protection, simply another body for the advancing forces to cleave through before they inevitably killed Brynhild too. She made for the treeline, deciding that hiding in the thick of the woods was her best chance of survival.

The moment that she was running amidst the trees, the light of the settlement swallowed up by dense woodland, icy fingers of fear began to dance along her spine. She couldn’t get enough air into her lungs, visible whimpers escaped her with every laboured breath as she ran as though hunted. She was living her nightmare, and this time she couldn’t jolt into wakefulness to end it – this was real. It was a cloudy night, with no moonlight to illuminate her path, and so she stumbled in darkness, tripping and almost falling several times over unearthed roots. She managed to right herself each time and continue to run, until a particularly bad pitch in her step shook the dagger loose from her grasp, sending it clattering to the ground where she could no longer see it.

“No!” she cried, dropping to her knees and scrabbling at the dark earth with trembling fingers in search of it. It was all she had left of Sigtryggr. Her nails scraped uselessly in the dirt, never making contact with the blade she desperately sought. She hadn’t even realised she had been crying until she felt the droplets fall upon her hands.

She yelped in surprise as her fingers brushed against someone else’s, drawing her hand back as though scalded. She looked up, her eyes able to make out the figure of Sigtryggr crouched before her, the dagger she had dropped held loosely in his fingers. She had been so frightened, so absorbed in her own sense of panic that she had not even heard his approach.

“Looking for something?” he asked softly, offering the weapon back to her.

It was in that moment that she realised that this was nothing like her nightmares. She had nothing to fear from him, he would never harm her. All of her fright dissipated in the moment that she looked upon his face – so familiar even in darkness – and she lunged towards him, throwing her arms around his neck, causing the blade to fall back to the ground as Sigtryggr toppled backwards, wrapping his arms around her waist, as he laid heavily on his back.

She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, his long hair tickled her nose as she sobbed helplessly against him. Her words made little sense, even to her. “I was lost, I was lost,” she babbled, hiccuping around her tears.

Sigtryggr hushed her with a soothing sound, stroking his large hand over the back of her head, before coaxing her to look at him. “You are lost only if I am searching for you, little warrior, and I have found you. You’re safe.”

She was overwhelmed by the urge to interrogate him, to demand to know where he had been for the last week, why he had left her, but at the feeling of him beneath her, the sound of his sweet words and how earnestly he looked into her eyes, all questions died upon her tongue. Suddenly aware of the feeling of him beneath her, how real he felt after so many nights without him, she was eager to feel more.

Reaching between them, she tugged open the lacings of his trousers. Knowing straight away what she was after, Sigtryggr crushed his lips to hers, forcefully pushing her skirts above her hips as he kissed her as though he meant to devour her. It was too much and not enough. She felt as though she could not breathe, but could not bear to be parted from him as her tongue licked messily against his. The scrape of the rough woodland floor against her knees stung, and yet not for a moment did she wish to climb off of him. With hastened desperation, she grasped  the base of his manhood, panting heavily as he broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers. His eyes screwed shut in pleasure as she dragged him through her slick, and the vision of his face in the darkness, contorted in ecstasy, was one she wanted to etch into her mind, to ensure she would remember it always. She didn’t care that time had not been taken to prepare her properly, and sank down onto his girth with a cry of both pain and gratification as he stretched her open. The impossible fullness was the most complete she’d felt in days.

One of his hands grasped her hip, guiding her movements as she began to undulate atop him, while the other sank into her hair, anchoring her against him. Catching sight of his Mjölnir pendant against his leather breastplate, she took the cord of it between her teeth, biting down as she impaled herself upon him over and over, urged on by his soft, breathy moans. She stilled only when he came inside of her with a jerk of his hips, holding her hip with such force that she knew he would leave bruises. She let his Mjölnir fall from her lips, as he groaned low against the hollow of her throat, then fell bonelessly backwards, staying inside of her, taking her with him as he went. She had not peaked, it did not matter, the feel of him, his essence, filling her, reminding her he was real and not something her frightened mind had conjured as a comfort was all she needed.

When she had finally caught her breath enough to speak, she lifted herself enough to look down at him. “We have to go, we cannot stay here, we are being attacked.”

“That was just us,” he said softly, pulling her back down to him and tenderly kissing the top of her head. “I told Brynhild not to open the gates until she heard the horn and saw the torches, so that she would know she was welcoming us home.”

“Why did you leave?” she asked, lifting her gaze to look at the sharp line of his jaw. She was trying desperately to remain the balmy glow of their coupling, but could not quite keep the biting edge of anger from her voice.

“Uhtred wishes to take back Bebbanburg,” he explained, stroking a hand lazily up and down her back as they remained entwined upon the woodland floor. “We rode to Dunholm to keep him and his men away from Eoferwic.”

“And..?” she asked with a curious raise of her eyebrow.

“We had to lend fighting men and women to his cause, but he will not trouble our settlement here.”

“I am surprised you do not wish to join his fighting,” she murmured, tracing the lines of his leather breastplate with her fingertips in the darkness.

“I have fought for all I want, and it is here,” he replied, “I owe a debt to Uhtred for what he did for us in Wintanceaster, and that debt is now paid. I have no need to fight for him.”

She hummed in acknowledgement, quietly relieved that he would not be placed in harm’s way for another man’s cause. “Why did you not tell me you were going?”

He hesitated a moment, his hold on her tightening subtly. “I…I was going to, and then I was unkind to you before I left. I feared you would leave, and I knew if I went without telling you why then at the very least your curiosity would keep you with me.”

Her heart ached at his words, how could he ever believe that that was all that bound her to him? She reached up, cupping his cheek, nuzzling her face against his. “I am not going anywhere.”

“You say you still feel like my prisoner…”

She sighed, shaking her head. “I just…I do not know what my place is here. I wish to keep my faith, Sigtryggr, but will you cast me out if I am to do that?”

He sat up, keeping her upper body cradled against his chest. Sweeping her hair away from her face, he gazed down at her, intensity burning in his eyes, visible even in the gloom. “It is no secret that I hold no love for your nailed god, the followers of his faith have taken much and more from me. But it was a Christian woman that I fell in love with back in Wintanceaster, and I did not bring her north to change any part of her. Do you understand?”

She nodded, her eyes misty and voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

It was bright outside when she awoke – back in their bed, with no memory of how she got there – and Sigtryggr’s side was empty. For a moment, dread gnawed a pit in her stomach, worried she had dreamed his return and that he was still gone from her, until she looked bleary eyed around the room and saw him huddled in a corner beside the fireplace.

“Sigtryggr? How did we get back here? What are you doing?” she mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

He turned, looking at her over his shoulder, offering her a cunning smile, before he rose and crossed the room, greeting her with a soft kiss against her forehead. “You fell asleep in my arms,” he told her, “and I carried you home. Come, I have something I want to show you.”

She accepted his outstretched hand, smiling at the warmth of his rough palm against her softer one, and rose from the bed. He led her to the corner where he had been kneeling a moment ago and gestured towards it. He had laid down a sheepskin upon the floor, with a small wooden altar erected against the wall, complete with a half burned tallow candle.

“Now we both have a place to speak to our gods,” he smiled, and opened his free hand, allowing a length of leather cord wrapped around his fingers to dangle against his palm. Threaded onto it was a handmade wooden cross, whittled so crudely that it almost made her want to laugh. She simply smiled though; despite its crookedness, it was all the more perfect for the fact that he had made it for her.

She pushed her hair out of the way, as he came to stand behind her, fastening it around her neck. Her fingers toyed with the cross as it settled upon her chest. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her back against his chest, the word that fell from his lips was warm, moist, spoken with desire against her neck. “Christian…”

It sent a shiver down her spine, and this time for an entirely different reason.

<< Previous chapter || Masterlist

[dandelioncasey]

So uh. Homeless Buck. If I were interested in writing it, would there be specific things you want to see? Particular word count or rating? Pairing you envisioned?

Hey! So in my og post I did kinda hint at Firepilot (with the whole 'somebody in LA who cares about Buck' thing) but honestly I was just thinking about how it would be navigated in a non-Buddie context - a LOT of homeless Buck fics end up with him hooking up with Eddie and becoming a second dad to Christopher, and I wanted to explore what the solutions would be in a world where Eddie is the one who made him homeless, y'know?

He can't go to Eddie, he can't go to Bobby, Athena is grieving, Madney have a young child and a (soon to be) baby, Henren have two kids so probably no spare bedroom, Ravi is a landlord but also I feel like Buck doesn't want to make it 'weird', Tommy and Buck STILL haven't had a proper talk, he can't leave LA because Bobby told him the team would need him - so what does he do?

All I've got in my head is vaguely some kind of confrontation with the team, where Buck tells them that Eddie kicked him out with nowhere to go, but honestly I feel like any scene you'd write and any path you'd take would be interesting for the sole reason that it's a premise I haven't really seen yet - like I said, a lot of these sorts of fics rely very heavily on the Buddie of it all, so what changes when that's not an option?

I will say the only thing I'm kinda iffy about is crossovers - I don't usually mind them, but I've recently been finding a lot of fics where I will specifically filter out crossovers and yet it still contains Steve from H50 or Tim from The Rookie or Hondo from SWAT - if they're gonna be in a fic, tag the fandom, y'know? But yeah, other than that feel free to go wild, I'm honestly just flattered you feel inspired by my ramblings!

[scary-grace]

Enough to Go By (Chapter 27) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Your best friend vanished on the same night his family was murdered, and even though the world forgot about him, you never did. When a chance encounter brings you back into contact with Shimura Tenko, you'll do anything to make sure you don't lose him again. Keep his secrets? Sure. Aid the League of Villains? Of course. Sacrifice everything? You would - but as the battle between the League of Villains and hero society unfolds, it becomes clear that everything is far more than you or anyone else imagined it would be. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

Chapter 27

It’s bizarre to be so close to All Might. He’s the object of so much of Tomura’s hatred, and you’ve laid your fair share of blame on him, too – the Number One hero, the strongest and the fastest, able to save everyone except the person who matters most to you. But that’s not who he is anymore. Right now he looks so thin and fragile that even your hatred could break him in half.

The words leave your mouth in a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

“Present Mic left you in the interrogation room to teach you a lesson. He was not authorized to do so. When we came to retrieve you, you were unconscious.” All Might coughs into a handkerchief. “There is an unusual amount of strain on your heart.”

You don’t want anyone thinking about that. “Is this some kind of good cop, bad cop thing?”

“No,” All Might says. All Might’s not a good liar. “If you choose to view it that way, perhaps. Your relationship with Present Mic is adversarial. I have hope that you can help me with something else.”

“With what?”

“You said something to Present Mic before he terminated the interview,” All Might says instead of answering you. “You appeared to take the blame for Shigaraki Tomura’s ascent as a villain. I’m interested in why you said that.”

You clam up. All Might doesn’t look worried. “You were unconscious for quite some time,” he says. “It gave me the opportunity to compile some research I’d been conducting. You see, it didn’t strike me as an accident that the first town Shigaraki destroyed when the war began was your hometown. The destruction was telegraphed enough in advance that most of the residents were able to evacuate, and I took the opportunity to interview them, to see if any of them could tell me something about you. The picture that emerged was similar to the one that emerged when I spoke to your friends, family, and coworkers, with one important difference. Nearly everyone in your hometown who spoke of you spoke another name in conjunction with yours.”

He sets a tablet down on the bed in front of you and presses play on a video. The woman speaking looks vaguely familiar to you. You don’t know why until you hear her voice, and realize with a jolt that she’s your preschool teacher.

“Oh, she and that Shimura boy were always together. You couldn’t separate them,” she’s saying. “I never saw a pair of students as close as those two.”

So it was obvious from the beginning, what you and Tenko were to each other. Someone prompts the interviewee from off-screen. “What was he like?” your teacher repeats. “A little emotional, but the sweetest boy you’ve ever seen. It was terrible, what happened to him.”

She keeps talking, you think, but All Might swipes to another video. This one is from a neighbor on your same block. “I saw them walk home together from school every day. They lived across the street from each other.”

All Might swipes again. Your kindergarten teacher, now. “— worst case of puppy love I ever saw. Kids are all or nothing at that age, but things weren’t the best for either of them at home. They probably felt like it was them against the world. If what happened had happened to her instead of him, he’d have gone just as insane as she did.”

“We’ll return to that in a moment,” All Might says. He lifts the tablet out of your lap. “There are no official records of the fate that befell the Shimura family, and the memories of those who lived on the street are clouded. They do remember, however, how you reacted to what you found in the Shimuras’ home, and that allowed me to piece together a likely course of events. Everything points to Shimura Tenko’s quirk awakening unexpectedly, and the surprise combined with a child’s lack of control led to his family becoming casualties.”

He consults his folder. “The neighbors reported shouting from inside the house earlier that afternoon, and some stated that they could hear a child crying in the yard. Late-breaking quirks are known to activate in states of heightened emotion. It seemed likely to me that Tenko did not intend to kill his family members — and the reports from those who knew you both do not describe a child with an innate desire to harm others. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

You catch yourself nodding. “To me, this answers two of the questions that have been plaguing us with regard to a psychological profile of you,” All Might says. “How you first encountered Shigaraki, and why you would choose to side with him. And it bears out a theory that I have held for some time — that it is possible, in fact, necessary, to save Shigaraki Tomura.”

Your eyes well up before you can stop them. Your breathing hitches, and no matter how hard you dig your nails into your palms, it doesn’t help. You flip your left hand, sink your nails into the back of it, and pull hard, trying to ground yourself, but All Might snatches your hands away. “Please don’t hurt yourself,” he says anxiously. “You are not in trouble. You are among friends. I understand that this is likely the first time anyone has expressed the idea to you that Shigaraki can or should be saved —”

“Stop saying that!” Your voice cracks, shatters. “You don’t want to save him. You want to kill him, just like everyone else! I’m not going to help you hurt him! I don’t want anyone to hurt him ever again.”

Your heart rate is escalating. All Might is gesturing anxiously, trying to calm you down, but you talk over him, struggling to catch your breath. “You want to know why I made the bullets? That’s why! So the next time one of you tries, I can take away the only thing any of you care about! I’m not stupid. I know what you want to do! If you want to kill him, you’ll have to kill me, too!”

You regret the words the instant they leave your mouth. It’s a clue, the biggest one you’ve ever left, but All Might doesn’t react even slightly. He keeps your hands separated so you can’t scratch and speaks calmly. “Do you believe his current state is your fault because you couldn’t save him when you were children? If my research is correct, you tried harder than anyone else. While there’s no record of his disappearance, there’s a lengthy record of your efforts to find him in the form of police reports, school incident responses, and medical records. Your efforts didn’t cease until you were placed on a not insignificant dose of risperidone.”

That’s an antipsychotic. Your parents put you on an antipsychotic so you would stop looking for Tenko — and as if that wasn’t enough, they wiped your memory, too. Fury begins to bubble up within you. All Might keeps talking. “You were a child. It was not your job to rescue him. It was my job, and I failed him,” he says. Your chest goes tight. “I’m tired of failing him. I believe he can be saved, and so do you. Will you help me do it?”

“Why do you need me?” Your voice is hoarse. You can’t be fooled. You need to be careful. “I’m not a hero. I’m nobody.”

All Might shakes his head. “You know Shigaraki better than anyone else,” he says. He rises from his chair. “Get some rest, and think about what we’ve discussed. In spite of what some of my colleagues may have said, it’s not too late — for either of you.”

All Might is tricking you, or trying to trick you. You’re almost certain of it. There’s no reason why a hero would conclude that you could be saved, let alone that Tenko could, and there’s no way they’d ever ask you to help them save him. You’re a villain. There’s nothing redeemable about you at all in the eyes of heroes. You deserve to rot in Tartarus forever. Why is letting you die a step too far? Society’s made their decision about you; that’s why you’re here. You aren’t worth saving.

Except Midoriya Izuku saved you, didn’t he? And All Might took the time to learn about Tenko’s past through you, to see that he hasn’t always been the way he is now. Should you have spoken up more, explained how much of the boy you knew is still present within the person he is now? Maybe. As long as they aren’t trying to trick you. As long as it isn’t all a ploy by the heroes to learn as much as they can about Tenko. To make him easier for them to kill.

You don’t know what the right thing to do is. How is it that it was easier for you to choose to step into your role as Tenko’s sidekick than it is for you to try to save him? Was it because it was just you, because the only people you had to trust to do it were the same people you’ve always trusted — yourself, and your best friend?

But you’ve learned to trust other people, too. You trusted Kurogiri to protect Tenko along with you. You trusted Kazuo to tell you the truth, even when you didn’t want to hear it. You trusted Mitsuko and Ryuhei to help you, not to sell you out. You trusted the League, some of them more than others, into wanting some of the same things that you want. You even trusted a few members of the Meta Liberation Army, by the end. Trusting people hasn’t been a mistake. Yet.

Your heart is racing again. You can’t tell if it’s because something’s happening to Tenko or because your own anxiety is driving it onward, but you press your hand against your chest and try to take deep breaths. All Might left the call button on the bed. You can press it if something goes wrong. In the mean time, you need to calm down. And by the time someone else comes to talk to you, you need to have made a decision.

All Might comes to talk to you the next day, but he’s not alone. You don’t know who he brought, but they want to talk to you by themselves first, and All Might asks if that’s okay with you, like you have any kind of choice in the matter. You say yes. Of course you’re going to say yes. All Might leaves, and someone else slips in through the door. Someone you recognize. “Midoriya.”

Midoriya Izuku’s gaze is flat as he looks at you. “It’s Deku.”

“I’m not calling you useless,” you say.

“What I call myself is my business,” Midoriya says. “That’s my hero name. You’re a villain.”

“I still don’t call people useless,” you say. “Does using your real name feel like that much of an insult to you?”

Midoriya’s eyes flash, and in them, you see the echo of an anger you recognize, a moment before he forces it down. You recognize that, too. “You took away Kacchan’s quirk,” he says. “Why did you do that?”

“So he wouldn’t blast me in the face,” you say. Midoriya’s expression twists. “I was supposed to let him hurt me?”

“You were trying to take away Aizawa-sensei’s quirk, too. Why?” Midoriya asks. His voice pitches upwards, cracks, and you remember all at once — he’s just a kid. “You know what it’s like to be quirkless. How could you do that to someone?”

“Because I don’t think that being quirkless is the worst thing that can happen to someone,” you say. “It’s not even close to the worst thing that’s happened to me.”

Midoriya looks like he thinks you’re out of your mind. Like he can’t imagine why any quirkless person wouldn’t hate every second of their life. An impulse boils up within you, an impulse to twist the knife, but you crush it. You’re a villain, sure. You’re not that kind of villain. “Do you have other questions for me?”

“Why did you decide to be a villain?”

That one pulls you up short. “You can’t save people unless you understand them,” Midoriya says. He looks tired. Way too tired for a fifteen-year-old. His hands are laced with surgical scars. “I don’t understand Tenko. I’ve tried, and I can’t. But you do, so maybe if I understand you — and you understand him — maybe I can make him stop.”

Your stomach clenches, and it’s not just because you’ve heard someone else use Tenko’s real name. “You want to kill him.”

“No!” Midoriya visibly recoils from the idea. “I want this to stop. I want my friends to stop getting hurt. I want people to be able to go home, if there’s anything left of home. I just want this to be over fast, and killing Tenko won’t end it. Just like letting you die wouldn’t have.”

He looks at you, holds your gaze. “I want to make it stop, but there’s a right way to do it and a wrong way, and I want to do it the right way. So tell me why you became a villain.”

You want to tell him, but you also feel like this is above his grade level. Midoriya looks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “I know you guys are in love. I heard it.”

That strikes you as weird. “What do you mean, you heard it?”

“In One For All.”

You sit there with that for a second. “Tell me about what happened after I fell. Then I’ll tell you why I’m a villain.”

After you fell, Midoriya caught you. As soon as you were on the ground, heroes took you away, hid you from Tenko. Not that Tenko had a chance to look for you. He was taking critical hit after critical hit while the heroes tried to overwhelm Super-Regeneration and kill him, and according to Midoriya, something was wrong with him. “It didn’t make sense,” he says. “Based on what he’s able to do now, he should have crushed us. But it was like he was fighting himself.”

Your heart sinks. “We knew he’d gotten a bunch of quirks, and we knew one of them was probably All For One,” Midoriya continues. “I knew he wanted One For All, so I left the battlefield, hoping he’d chase me, and he did. When he tried to take it from me, we wound up in the world of One For All.”

“The world of One For All?”

“Where the vestiges of the past wielders live,” Midoriya says. You don’t know what to say to that. “Tenko was there, but it wasn’t just him. There was something else in there, like a shadow, and it was talking to him. Telling him you were dead and nothing mattered anymore.”

That breaks through the cloud of despair your failure’s left you suspended in. “I’m not dead.”

“I tried to say, but I can’t talk in that world yet,” Midoriya says. That makes as much sense to you as everything else Midoriya’s said so far, which is to say it doesn’t make any sense at all. “The shadow looked like it was Tenko’s, but it wasn’t him. It it kept trying to move without him. And then it moved him. Like he was a puppet or something. I was right there, but they weren’t fighting me anymore. They were fighting each other.”

Your chest goes tight, shortening your breath again. “Everybody had caught up to us by then,” Midoriya explains. “When I woke up, I knew it wasn’t Tenko fighting. I could see the shadow — Tomura. And I guess Tomura didn’t like how the fight was going, so he withdrew, and the rest of the army went with him. If he hadn’t —”

“It would have been the end of hero society,” All Might says from the door. “The end of Japan as we know it. We couldn’t defeat him. And since then —”

“We know which one of them is in control when a battle happens,” Midoriya breaks in. “You can tell when it’s Tomura because he’ll — hurt himself — while he’s fighting. We think it’s to stay in control of Tenko’s body, but we’re not sure. When it’s Tenko, he fights different. He destroyed the city where UA was, but we’d thought he was headed somewhere else, so the evacuations were still going on when they got there. The whole city fell apart from Decay, but none of the refugees died from it. He destroyed everything but them.”

“In short,” All Might says, “The alternate personality – Tomura – cares nothing for life. Tenko appears to.”

Of course he does. Tenko’s killed people — a lot of people — but he doesn’t kill indiscriminately. Thousands died in Deika City, but Tenko was defending himself, defending the League, defending you. The deaths of the Creature Rejection Clan were on Spinner’s behalf, the murder of Overhaul’s minion one piece of revenge for Magne. Tenko doesn’t take joy in killing people. Even when you played games as children, he just wanted to win. He never wanted the villain to die. All Might leaves the doorway and comes closer. “We need to know how the alternate self came to possess Tenko’s body. And if there’s any way to help Tenko regain control.”

“It’s really important,” Midoriya says earnestly. “If there’s anything that — um, are you crying?”

It’s kind of a dumb question. You’re absolutely crying — head in your hands, headache already building, struggling to breathe while your eyes stream and your nose runs. You know what’s happening here. “Tenko and Tomura are the same person,” you say. “The shadow is All For One.”

There’s a split second where Midoriya and All Might simply stare at you. Then they both start talking, talking over each other, trying to get you to explain. But there’s nothing to explain. It’s all so simple. You thought you’d saved Tenko by swapping out All For One, but it didn’t work. Some part of All For One escaped, or snuck through, or something — or maybe it’s your fault again, because All For One came back after you let yourself get captured and almost killed. Either way, you screwed up royally. You lost your best friend, again, and this time the only person who could have stopped it is the same person to blame. You.

It takes a while for you to calm down enough to speak, to remind yourself that it’s not over until both of you are dead, that as long as you’re both alive there’s a chance. Midoriya and All Might want to help Tenko. All Might seems to want to help you, too. You’re locked up here, unable to reach him, but the two of them could. And that means you need to tell them what they need to know to save your best friend.

It takes explaining. A lot of explaining. Neither of them are getting the details, but they pick up enough of the big picture to understand what you tried to do. Mostly. “All For One is still in prison. How could Tenko have been given the original quirk?”

“All For One has a copy, so the doctor could give the original to Tomura. They had extra copies of it, too. And a Nomu that could make copies of things,” you say. Midoriya scribbles something in a notebook. “I swapped the original for a copy.”

“Could the doctor have swapped it back for the original without your knowledge?” All Might asks. You shake your head. “How do you know?”

“I destroyed it.”

All Might coughs. “What?”

“You destroyed All For One,” Midoriya repeats. “How?”

“The quirk factor is in his hands. His palms. They had them on a slide. I tested them to make sure they weren’t copies and then I cut them up.” You’re not sure why they’re looking at you like that. They asked. “It was the only way I could think of.”

All Might nods briskly, but he still looks supremely creeped out. “Since you made the switch, and you were present during the entire process, what is your best guess as to what happened?”

“I think –” You can’t burst into tears again. You dig your nails into the back of your hand. “The imprint of Sensei’s personality was still there. It couldn’t take over unless Tomura let his guard down. Now it won’t go away, but it doesn’t have full control over him. Tomura is still there.”

“What if we cancel his quirks?” Midoriya asks. “That would get rid of All For One, and we’d win.”

“It won’t be so easy. Remember, his speed and strength were sharply increased even when Eraserhead canceled his quirks,” All Might cautions. “We���d be better off if we could simply target All For One. You said it’s in his hands?”

“If we can’t land a good hit on him, there’s no way we’d be able to cut both his hands off,” Midoriya says. You feel like you’re going to be sick. "Besides, he’s got that regeneration quirk now. If we cut them off they could grow back just like they were.”

“He had the quirk for several weeks before the attack,” All Might says, “and the takeover occurred at a moment when Tenko was vulnerable. What would it take for him to regain control on his own?”

You think you have an answer. You don’t want to say it. It’ll sound really self-serving, and you don’t need to, not when Midoriya’s in the process of getting there on his own. “We’ve noticed that Tenko’s more likely to be in control when members of the League are present. Which might be why All For One’s been sending them away when he’s not. As of the attack in Yokohama the only member of the League who’s still with Tenko is Spinner. All the others have been sent elsewhere, or — um —”

He glances at you, guilty and uncomfortable, and somehow you know what he’s trying not to say. “Was someone hurt?”

“Giran was killed,” All Might says. He looks like he feels bad. You feel worse. “By Endeavor, in the battle for Kyoto. Compress was badly injured during an ambush of Shiketsu High. It’s unclear if he’ll survive.”

You swallow hard. “What about Toga?”

“The PLF fighters we’ve captured indicated that Toga’s gone underground. We’re not sure why, or where she is currently. If we could contact her —”

“Twice has gone missing, too,” Midoriya interrupts. “Nobody’s seen him since the battle at your headquarters.”

“And Dabi?”

“We don’t know,” All Might says. “All For One may have sent him on a mission, or may have had him killed. He hasn’t been seen since Kyoto.”

The League is scattered, or dead. All For One wants Tomura to feel hopeless, to feel alone. Tomura can’t fight back against him because All For One’s taking away the things he fought for. If you can give him a reason to fight back again — “I think we have to,” Midoriya is saying to All Might. All Might nods. Then they both look at you. “What do you think?”

You think you missed something. “What?”

“If the problem is that All For One is taking away Tenko’s friends, we need to give them back,” Midoriya says. “And since you’re his oldest friend — and the only we have who isn’t, like, dying — we need to give him you.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, lodging there painfully. He can’t mean it. He can’t be thinking of letting you go. “Hiding you was an error,” All Might says. “If our theory is correct, your perceived loss cemented All For One’s control. If we are able to return you to Tenko’s side, and if you are able to help Tenko reassert control, then perhaps we can bring this to an end.”

“You mean — negotiate?” You want more than anything for them to let you go, but you can’t lie to them. “Even if he’s himself, there’s no guarantee he’ll do that.”

“No, but there is a chance. Which is more than we’ll have from All For One.”

You can’t argue with that. “It shouldn’t just be her,” Midoriya says quietly. “He needs all his friends. As many of them as we can get.”

Your heart is beginning to race. You recognize the feeling of your body speeding up to try to match Tenko’s needs and force yourself to take deep breaths, to lie still. The less energy you burn yourself, the more you’ll have to send. You wonder where he is. What’s happening to him. If he’s injured because of a fight with the heroes or if it’s because of something All For One has done to try to maintain control of him. He’s alone there. All For One’s gotten rid of everyone except Spinner — Spinner, who you were able to warn months ago that something might go wrong with the quirk transfer. Spinner, who definitely knows Tomura well enough to know when Tomura’s not in control. The plans All Might and Midoriya are making are a vague buzz in your ear. You need to let them know that it’s Spinner they have to get a message to, Spinner who will help them get you back to Tenko. You open your mouth to speak, but your chest feels tight, and spots fill your vision. Before you can say a word of warning, everything goes black.

<- Chapter 26

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[darkjediqueen]

WIP Wednesday

I was sort of tagged by @mintedwitcher. This is for a little post 8.17 fic where Buck hits rock bottom and Tommy helps him pick up the pieces of the life he had.

I'm not tagging anyone because I don't like to do that but anyone who sees this can join in.

Story snippet under the cut.

Buck stood up to follow him as Father Brian escorted him through the back of the congregation hall and into the outside. There was a garden there. It was beautiful. There were benches all through it, but there at the center was a pair of chairs, and they faced each other. Father Brian sat down in one, and he waved for Buck to take the other.

"I had a man who came here for years. He never wanted to be in the confessional. He would come when he needed it, when he needed his sins absolved, when he needed to have a connection to something bigger. It was much more for a while, and then it slowed down, but I still saw him a lot. The time when he was at his worst was after one of his team members was nearly killed. I came to find it wasn't even the first, but it was after he had fully taken that firefighter on in his heart as his son."

Firefighter. Son. Buck looked at Father Brian because he knew what it meant. 

"I looked up that firefighter in the wake of that, the news that had been there about it. Bobby talked about his station all the time. I was there at his funeral that day, but I didn't seek anyone out. My grief over his death was so much less than anyone else's, but seeing you right now, I wish I had. He talked about you a lot, Buck. I didn't connect it until after you left the last time, after the small earthquake. This garden is almost always open during the daytime, unless I have someone else out there. Feel free to be here when you need. To say your words to the heavens to be close to a man you lost long before you ever should have." 

Father Brian stood up and laid his hand on Buck's shoulder, and then he was gone, leaving Buck in a place where he could feel Bobby sitting in front of him, where Bobby was connected to. 

Buck broke. He wasn't sure what he said or if he said anything at all. He just sobbed and held on for dear life as his world shattered around him because he couldn't be what Bobby needed him to be. He couldn't be there for his team because they didn't allow it. They refused to talk to him. They refused to do anything with him. He broke, and he came back together stronger. IF they didn't need him, he didn't need them. He would show up to work and give them the side of him they always wanted, the puppy, the ever loyal dog who never made them worry about him. He could be that person. 

When he was out of tears, Buck pulled out his cellphone. He was snotty as hell and would need to use the bathroom to clean up his face before he left, but he remembered where it was in the hall. 

"Go for Kinard," Tommy said.

[kattheogcat]

Stunned and Silenced

Pairing — Jacaerys Velaryon x afab!HightowerReader

Summary — The day he saw his betrothed decked out in his colors truly did have him feel... well... you'll see...

Genre — fluff

Wordcount — 0.9k

Warnings — arranged marriage, alcohol mentioned

Rating — pg-13

A/N — I have not read the books and i have last watched the show when the 2nd season was released. For fiction purposes i also changed a few things to fit my idea so be warned that it's not canon compliant :))

Also my first post on this blog – yaaay✨️

Disclaimer: this fic is written and copyrighted by ©kattheogcat on tumblr. do not rewrite or repost on any other plattforms without my permission.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED!

For all that it was worth, Jacaerys had not wanted this betrothal. They were on the brink of a war that threatened the peace his house had fought so hard to give the realm. Peace that was now in danger because of his own family. A wedding was not what they needed now.

His mother, his queen, thought different.

“A reason to unite us once more and mayhaps mend bonds that appeared to be broken.”

Those had been the words the young man had been greeted with one morrow. Words that had him searching for the eyes of Baela who, just like him, had been under the impression that it was her who would one day take the position by his side. Now however these plans had changed. Not that he was mad about the change of betrothed in itself as he had never held romantic feelings for his cousin but one that left him more unsettled then anything else.

So he found himself sitting and waiting while it seemed the entirety of the realm was starring at him as his breath was stuck in his throat from the nerves this entire ordeal brought with it.

He knew you, his betrothed, not well b but enough to have exchange pleasentries once or twice and he knew you were pleasant to look at. But other than that and that you came from the very house that was trying t usurp his own claim to the throne, he knew little of what was to come.

“I still think this isn’t what we need right now…” he quietly mouthed to his mother sitting by his right while his left was still unoccupied until you would take your place there. The watchfull eyes of the court and especially Otto, Alicent, Aegon, Aemond and the most pleasant one to be around, Helaena burning as most of them either glared or seemed to be ready to eat him alive; a steady presence on his skin.

“Oh, sweet boy. I think it’s exactly what we need right now. Y/n is with Helaena actually pleasant to be around. Even with Alicents vile words through the years, she was only ever loyal to what Targaryens stood for. And that is exactly why I trust her with you. My younger sister is said to be many things but she has the kind of strenght and gentleness I wish for you to experience as wife and future queen consort.” Her words were meant to be reassuring yet all Jacaerys felt was unsettled.

“I’d rather make them see reason!” he grumbled as the queen rose from her seat, a delicate glass of their finest wine raised in her hand, making the chatter around quiet down.

“A joyful occasion has brough us all here together. The union between House Targaryen and House Hightower. A union that has long been shaken and will now strenghten our bonds once more.”

Oh how the prince prayed to the gods that she was right or this would have all been for nothing

“From this day forward, my oldest son, your prince, will be wed to y/n Hightower! It is my honor to welcome my sister as my daughter!”

The grand doors opened and for someone who had been breathless before, Jace was fascinated how much less air suddenly flowed down to his lungs. Now for entirely different reasons as he watched his betrothed step down the stoney stairs with slow, calculated yet almost hesitant steps. Head held high to eminate confidence he knew you were unlikely to actually feel yet unwilling to show weakness you moved with an elegance he had only ever seen in his mother and dressed from head to toe in the colors of his house. Not one speck of the Hightower green he came to loath with time. You h/c hair, that stood in contrast to allo of your siblings gracefully pinned out of your face in a way that brough out your best features like a shining star in midst of the darkest night.

He truly had to remind himself to start breathing again, the horrified gasp at the colors her daughter was wearing instead of green or white as would have been appropriate for a wedding, only faint in his ears as he now rose from his chair. Rhaenyra sat back down and watched with amsument how her son rounded the table and met you halfway, falling for his wife hard and fast.

“You knew this was going to happen?” Daemon whispered smugly and took her hand.

“I just know my son.” She smiled back innocently.

----------

Jace stunned to silence came to stand in front of you. Everyones eyes still heavily on him and you.

“My prince.” You greeted with your head bowed lower then he liked to see.

“Princess…” he chocked, completely stunned and incapable of forming the words fitting for what he truly felt in that moment.

He offered his hand for you to take and lead you back where you belonged by his side on the dinning table.

Sitting down one glare of his past your head let Alicent sit back down before she could berate you for going against the Hightowers by wearing his signature colors.

His.

“Let the feast beginn!”

[k4is4rion]

In the Wake of Us - PROLOGUE

Parent!Bucky x Child!GN!Reader x Bob Reynolds

‼️⚠️TWs: Canon typical trauma+violence, brief allusions to SA, Brain washing, MCD (or so you think)⚠️‼️

HELLOOOOO MY NEW GAGGLE OF FOLLOWERS! YOU HAVE BEEN HEARD! Ask and you shall receive, I must give the people what they want. I’m still working out how I want this fic to go with how early or late in the timeline it starts, though I might mess around with the idea of flashbacks when they’re relevant. Bob’s not quite in this yet, but it felt necessary to provide a little somethin somethin beforehand. I hope I am up to Tumblr’s standards as a long time reader of fanfic, because I cranked this out over two days between prepping for finals and other activities (and wrote this entirely on my phone)

I am not very confident in this one because it is just providing basically a summary ofthe necessary information the best I can to set stuff up for the future, rest assure the normally paced story will be MUCH better 🙏

Feel free to comment suggestions or feedback (but please be nice to me I haven’t posted publicly since wattpad in 2019)

WC: 2540

MY LOVELY SUPPORTERS/TAG REQUESTS: @marcsb1tch @moonyseyelash @sarcazzzum-blog @iamtrasch @marvel-z0mbie @amaris444 @usuallyunlikelyfox @p4arll @tatsunesworld @amoebadue @marvelouslittleone @mynicknameisgasoline

The faint buzz of the lights was the only sound in the room as a moment of silence passed between the two who sat across from one another. The woman with the clipboard looked up at you overtop her glasses, which now sat on the lower bridge of her nose. She shifted her position slightly, still looking at you with the usual intensity— or rather the lack thereof. She had an unsettling air of neutrality about her that always seemed to irk you.

“Barnes, for the last time, if you do not participate fully and truthfully in this session, you will not be given release. I don’t want to delay you any further, but rules are rules. I have to make a final report.” She spoke, her pen sat between her index and middle fingers as she gripped the clipboard. You meet her eyes for the first time as you slouch back in your chair.

“It’s been.. what, five years and you’re still calling me that? Even though I’ve told you that calling me anything else is fine? Barnes doesn’t belong to me. You wound me, Doc.”

“It’s what you selected to be put on your official documents.” She adjusted her glasses before looking back up at you. “Consider it for old time’s sake, then. But still, Y/n, you’re avoiding the question. In your own words, describe a brief history of your life. Including everything you’ve begrudgingly discussed within our sessions. We’re doing this so we can send a transcript to your next specialist. Wouldn’t you prefer to give your side of the story instead of just your records?” Taking in her reasoning, you glance at the microphone recording this session. They were usually recorded for security purposes but this in particular was for just for documentation. With a deep breath, you reluctantly began explaining your very.. humble beginnings.

Your conception was begun roughly around the late 60s, although conceptualized much earlier with the apparent success of the winter soldier program. A series of roughly twenty children were to be conceived from hand-selected pairs of up-and-coming male and female super soldiers, all based on their first and only success; the original Winter Soldier. You were lucky enough to receive your genetic makeup from the blueprint; as well as a promising young woman. It was an unfortunate truth that your conception was not a happy story. Genetic engineering was rudimentary at the time and they did not care to what extent their “donors” suffered. Even with this reluctant knowledge, the intimidating man with the metal arm has cared deeply for you even in the circumstances you both found yourself in. He said you were a beautiful little test tube baby from what he remembers. Hydra quickly introduced you to one another in hopes of forming an early bond between soldiers, primarily in pairs with their best-suited parent. This was to not only establish partners that functioned perfectly together but to have something to hold over these people even when they previously had nothing. You called this guardian of yours “Soldat”, but much like you, he had no real name.

One by one, the adults failed the program or their children did. One by one there would be one less soldier. It was survival of the fittest, not only for being put against one another but for general survivability. Genetic modification was a large factor in many of the children’s deaths until few remained, then in your early childhood- only you. You were all that remained. In a desperate attempt to not have this all been for nothing, they put everything they could into you. Biomechanical enhancements to help your physical condition and functionality and a steady stream of serum to keep you healthy. For the first several years of your life, it was spent exclusively learning and training. Occasionally when the winter soldier was due for a mission, his break from cryostasis would be extended by higher-ups to train her. It was rough, of course, being a child training with such a violent force, but he cared whenever he could. For some reason, kneeling down before you to aid your wounds felt oddly familiar. Like he had done it routinely before to another little girl he cared deeply about. Hell, you even looked similar. But at the end of the day, his thoughts were irrelevant. His job was not to think, his job was to do as he was told. You learned this very quickly as it became clear that failure to understand this would result in something awful. You were a quick learner— you had to be if you were to continue surviving.

Once they decided you were adequate enough to be functional as a weapon, you began your cryogenic stints, only being woken up when it was time for another task. This wore heavily on your already fragile condition, even despite your inhuman strength. This also happens to cause another subsequent issue with you, your aging being incredibly messed up. Yes, you were conceived nearly 60 years ago, but you’ve only been conscious for a small part of that. In 2014 you were still practically a young teenager when the Winter Solider made his great escape. In his emotional distress, he made perhaps the most regretful decision of his life. He left you behind in the hands of the enemy, escaping without you. You only followed much later after being sent after him to end his life, but when you were met with the opportunity to, you simply couldn’t. You ran off, not back to Hydra, but going into hiding for the time being. You used what skills they taught you in case you needed to be self-sustainable until you could be recovered by backup, but it was hardly enough. It was incredibly challenging having to figure out how to get by on your own after being constantly monitored and treated by professionals. Not only that, but you were suffering from withdrawals due to Hydra forcing your dependency on the serum, as well as an injury from when you dug out your tracker from your bicep. You had a nasty infection by the time your “Soldat” found you, but he was joined by a strange new man who offered you help. His name was Steve Rodgers, that Captain America fellow you and the Winter Soldier were sent after a while ago. He was incredibly kind to you, even if you didn’t trust him. He was patient with not only you but him as well. The two seemed close- you hadn’t ever seen this side of him. This is also when you decided on your new name; Y/n Rebecca Barnes. Bucky chose your middle name, saying it was after someone special.

This is also when you learned a lot about the man you previously thought you knew. It turned out his name was James, James Buchanan Barnes. Even if his name was James, he seemed to prefer Bucky. He was also from New York City, where he grew up alongside Steve during the Great Depression. Over time you felt more and more distressed upon the realization that you didn’t know Bucky at all, let alone yourself. You realized early on that you were a reminder of a profound amount of trauma for a man who got mixed up with something he never deserved. You desperately tried making yourself better, especially for his sake, but there was only so much you could do. You still stuck to your habits, your purpose— to serve alongside the winter soldier.

You fought valiantly for your freedom, doing what you could to protect Bucky against these people who wished to get ahold of you both. Between half of the Avengers coming after you as well as the United States government, you were stretched pretty thin. Bucky swore that you both would get through this, that he would give you the life you deserved. He struggled to believe himself sometimes, but he knew he had to try. He would get better for you. He would atone for his sins by doing what he can for you. He had a life outside of Hydra before being captured, but you never got the chance. Without realizing it, you both became devoted to the safety of one another.

It would become apparent the world was against you both, as during a fight attempting to exit Siberia, you were wounded as you defended him from a harsh blow. Steve and Bucky were forced to decide between saving you or escaping, but you pleaded with them to follow through with the latter. They did, albeit begrudgingly, after Natasha promised Steve that she would look out for you until they could come back for you. Nat did this as best as she could and for as long as she could, but instead of going to the raft with the others, you were imprisoned in a top-secret base to be studied. You only got to experience freedom for a short time prior to this, so even if the conditions were considerably better than Hydra, it was still awful. You spent so long wondering if Bucky was alright, hoping your sacrifice wasn’t for nothing.

Nearly two years later, you were allowed visitation with Steve. It was a sweet reunion, almost immediately bringing your worry over Bucky to an end, but it ultimately was to discuss something very important. None other than your possible pardon. There was something brewing and all hands on deck were needed; including you. After all, you were a world-class assassin. Plus, Wakanda was developing a cure for Bucky whilst being a refugee there. It was nice to know he was somewhere safe even if he missed you as much as Steve said he did, based on what he’s heard from communicating with T’Challa and Shuri about his condition. With vague permission from the United States government, you headed out with Steve’s team to Wakanda. You and Bucky were going to be together again and fight together, just like it was for old time’s sake.

When you walked through the central part of Wakanda, your mind was elsewhere, not taking even a moment to admire your surroundings. You were only focused on getting back to him as you walked silently behind Steve. You weren’t used to being in foreign places without Bucky so you were completely on edge, even with Nat doing her best to make sure you didn’t freak out completely. Steve was the first one to greet Bucky as he was led by T’Chally. The two were happy to see one another again, Steve giving him a hug and exchanging fond remarks. Once they parted from the hug, Bucky saw you standing there. You had grown up slightly, a sight he wasn’t used to seeing. It made his heart ache as he took you into his arms as tightly as he could without harming you. It was hard not to allow the tears brimming your eyes to fall in front of your allies, but Bucky still held you close and buried his face into your hair as you instinctively nuzzled into his neck. Quiet exchanges of how much you missed one another were shared. As you both parted, he moved his hands to your shoulders. He looked at you with the most love you had ever seen before quietly remarking. “You’ve grown up. It’s good to see you, kid.” It was a very genuine sentiment he shared, as for the entirety of his time caring for you, your survival was not guaranteed. He never thought he’d be able to see the day when you look like you’ve gotten a chance to regroup yourself.

You spent what time you could together discussing what life had been like over the last two years for the both of you. He lived a peaceful life as a farmer, while you were under the care of the United States government. You both received very different treatments for your brainwashing, with his somewhat holistic treatment being more successful than your purely clinical and scientific one. Your brain was poked and prodded, while he received therapy. Bucky told you that once this was all over, the Wakandans said they could help you too. It gave you hope, more than you’ve had in a very long time. Soon after this conversation, it was time for what you came here for. Saving the world.

Loss was a thing you had become accustomed to a long time ago. But this felt incomparable. The fight was over, Thanos had won. He had successfully removed half of all life and with just the snap of his fingers, you watched the only person you’ve ever trusted turn to dust. He was gone and it felt like you had nothing left. With the chaos that followed this, you returned home with Steve. He did his best to console you but he was struggling with the loss of his best friend for the second time. Because of the aforementioned chaos of the situation, the government essentially went on lockdown while it attempted to regain control over the situation. This unfortunately meant your incarceration for the second time with no end in sight. You had no one left to fight for you. Steve certainly tried, as he knew that’s what Bucky would’ve wanted, but he could only do so much. He was spread thin after the blip and you fell through the cracks.

You would remain in prison for five years, with constant experimentation traded for frequent monitoring performed. It felt as though you were forgotten about and would never taste that sweet, sweet freedom again. You always thought you’d die alone and without any freedom, but after having it for such a brief moment in your life, it only seemed to twist the knife into the wound. You forced yourself to adjust and get used to it, just like you always had. You grew accustomed to the monotony of constant scheduling very quickly. It became a cycle of government-mandated therapy, frequent checkups, and doing what you could to use up the passage of time. You received permissions for good behavior that were enough to keep you somewhat sane for the most part. Steve visited you when he could, but one day he stopped coming. You learned why when you saw the news: the 50% that had been lost were returning.

Now here you were. About a month or two later, still in here. The only word you got was from the news on the television, making the theory you genuinely had been lost to time all the more real and fearful. That was until a week ago. You received mail for the first time in a long time— an official government document. Your case of a pardon was being reopened; alongside Bucky’s. That’s what brought you here. You were having your last mandatory session within your prison before you were being released, and boy were you thankful to get out of here.

“Well, aren’t we both glad I remembered to hit record? I believe we are just about out of time.” Doctor Miller spoke as she placed down her clipboard.

“What, no ‘same time next week’?”

“Not this time. Enjoy your long-awaited freedom, Y/n. It was good treating you.”