#it didn’t work. it just gave him more space to hide things

[that-thief-in-red]

I’d really love to be tagged! (by anyone for that matter) I’ve enjoyed all the previous ones so much (even if I don’t always get a chance to reply—sorry in advance 😅). But yes, I do enjoy being tagged, so feel free to include me 🤗

Now for my little (longass) TED Talk moment: I totally agree with anon, and Mari (and looking back at the recent reblogs, what most people are saying!). The way people can be biased toward their faves definitely ends up overshadowing other characters. I think sometimes we get too comfortable turning characters into simplified versions of themselves, especially when they’re not the most popular ones. And honestly, I’ve always felt that about Julia too but never knew how to word it. She didn’t need Carmen to inspire some big change—she already believed in herself. She just needed people to actually listen to her. I love how it was pointed out that she didn’t really have a traditional growth arc. She was already strong and sure of herself; she just needed the space to show it Also yeah, that thing about her not being a genius but a problem solver?? SO TRUE. People act like you either have to be Sherlock-level or completely useless, and Julia lives in the middle ground where people like her actually thrive.

And the ACME point. YES. I dont think she ever really had a “lack of confidence,” but mostly had a lack of space to speak. Obviously just my own interpretation of the character and nothin more. I love my girl Jules, she's definitely a lovely character, as most are in the show. :)

AND SHADOWSAN my boii. I really do think he’s killed before during his time as an operative, and honestly? If it came down to it, like if it was between protecting someone like Team Red or himself, I believe he’d do it again. Not recklessly or easily, but without hesitation?

The thing is, ever since he met baby Carmen, he’s chosen not to. That decision changed everything for him. Unlike Carmen, who I think would rather sacrifice herself than take a life, Shadowsan has that deep, quiet willingness to do what's necessary. But the reason he doesn’t anymore? It’s because of her. Because she gave him another way to exist. I don’t know how else to explain it, but maybe I’ll try with a short piece—because wow, I really need to write again (it’s been forever 😭). (also this is more so my own headcanon)

Mari brought up the good ol' Shadowsan quote:

“I do not consider myself an evil man, merely a soldier with orders to obey.”

And honestly… I feel like what would’ve hit even harder is if he’d said, “I DID not consider myself an evil man.” I feel the small change would've done more. That he used to think like that. That following orders once excused everything for him. That he once believed he was just a product of his world—of poverty, of circumstance, of unfair systems that made “doing wrong” feel inevitable.

But then Carmen came along.

And she, despite every unfair hand the world dealt her, chose to do good. She was kind. Gentle. Protective. She cried over hurt turtles that washed up on shore. She gave more than she got, even when no one thought of her—long before she had Team Red. That kind of selflessness didn’t just impress him. It shook him. It made him feel.

Maybe that’s what unlocked his guilt and justification stopped working.

So now, he knows what he’s done. He knows what he’s capable of. But instead of hiding behind the word “orders,” he makes his choice of not being that man anymore. Not because it’s easy. But because a little girl once looked at him and still believed he could be good.

And honestly it’s more than fine to have favourite characters (I’ve got mine too, bias and all), but I think it does a disservice when canon gets bent too far just to fit what we want a character to be.

AND NOW curtain reveal for a short insight? Story.

“For if you choose this road, there is no going back.”

Shadowsan does not think himself a perfect man. Not the saviour in anyone’s story (Carmen might disagree). Not the hero in one of Zachary's overly dramatic action flicks.

At one point in his life, before the girl with sunset curls, before those steady grey eyes met him and softened without reason, before the gummy smile that screamed purity—he truly did not think himself an evil man. merely a soldier, as he once told her. A product of the world’s injustice. Obedient. Necessary.

He was wrong.

He was a man stained by his choices. Tainted by what he’d done in silence, and what he’d allowed others to do in the name of discipline and control. He sees it now, clearer than he ever has, and still wonders how Carmen doesn’t. Or maybe she does. Maybe she chooses not to look directly at it. Maybe she refuses to see the blood on his hands so she can go on believing in the better version of him. The one she calls sensei... Protector… and in one unmarked moment. Father. Maybe in her eyes, he is still a samurai. The kind from her childhood stories. Not the shame-soaked ninja he sees reflected in the mirror.

And yet he had chosen this road. Chose it easily, the moment his life became unsatisfactory. Not out of desperation, but out of want. Out of greed. He was a selfish man, once. He had told himself it was survival, just another hand dealt by an unjust world. But deep down, he knew the truth: he wanted more. More power. More control. He followed orders because they gave him purpose, yes, but also because they gave him permission to take.

And then Carmen came along.

This child, who had every reason to turn bitter. Who had no real home, no real past (that she knew of), no one to shield her but herself (for he was a coward and not enough) and still, she chose good. She was kind. Gentle. Protective. She cried over injured turtles and nursed them like they were sacred. She shared food, warmth, laughter, even when she had little of any of those things herself. Before Team Red, before the missions, before the name Carmen Sandiego meant anything to the world. She was already that person.

That selflessness didn’t just impress him. It undid him. It peeled back every excuse, every justification he’d clung to like armor.

Maybe that’s when the guilt began. Maybe that’s when he realised that obedience was not innocence, and survival was not absolution.

Now, he lives with it. The weight of what he’s done. He knows exactly what he’s capable of. The blade in his hand, the violence in his body, the things he used to do without hesitation. But he doesn’t hide behind the word “orders” anymore.

He makes a choice. Not because it’s easy. Not because it erases the past. But because one girl small, stubborn, impossibly hopeful once looked at him and believed he could be more.

And somehow, that was enough to make him try.

Even if she doesn’t know the full extent of what he’s done. He prays she never will.

But even if she did, some part of him wonders if she would still sit beside him like she does. If she'd still bring tea and call him "sensei" without flinching. If he'd still undeservingly hold the title of father in her mind

“There is no going back” Maybe that’s why he keeps going. Because he couldn't go back if he even wanted. Couldn't redeem himself no matter how hard he tries. Couldn't erase the past. He could only try to be worthy of the peace she gives him, day by day.

One breath at a time.

(IK THIS IS UNGODLY LONG BUT I ALSO WROTE THIS LIKE 3 DAYS AGO AND THEN I GOT CAUGHT UP IN WORK AND WAS NOT ABLE TO PROOF READ THAT MUCH OR ADD ON TO ANY NEW NOTES PEOPLE HAVE SAID, im sry lads)

I feel like some people really undermine characters they don't like and elevate characters they do, take gray and chase,

Gray, according to canon, is one of VILE's finest and dr bellums favourite student, we know from the book that he made inventions, there was a electrical grid something I don't remember exactly what, but it was there, also he beat all the ACME agents when he made his escape, but I've seen people thinking he's not competent, at least two the other operatives.

Then we have chase, who found VILE island and is very obviously clever but held down by his arrogance and unwillingness to listen to other people, he is not a himbo, but I've seen people make him incompetent in many fics.

Contrast to julia, who I've seen people make a genius, like no, she's not, yeah, she's academically smart, doesn't mean she's a genius, it takes a lot more than that.

-🐇

[peapod20001]

Lil baby guy <3 he reaches Shirley’s hip only cus of the hair

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Omgomgomg hiiii! can I please req Bob reynolds x reader (fem if thats okay) where Sentry falls before bob if thats okay?

I LOVED this request! Thank you so much for sending it to me <3 I hope you like how I wrote this idea

-------------------

You’d always been kind to Bob. That’s where it started. Not with declarations or romance, but with you bringing him coffee during early mornings at the Tower, remembering how he liked it—two sugars, light cream. With you making space for him on missions, never treating him like a weapon, but like a person. That rarest of things. Sentry noticed.

Not Bob. Sentry.

The glowing man with golden eyes who flew ahead of the team, who faced gods and monsters like they were made of paper. He saw the way you spoke to Bob, not with fear or awe, but warmth. Softness. Sentry didn't understand it at first; they never received this treatment before, but he knew he wanted more of it. More of you.

The first time Sentry saw you for himself you were laughing. Not the kind of laugh meant for someone else’s benefit. Not polite. Not strained. It was real—loud, full, your head thrown back, the corners of your eyes creased with joy.

It was something Bob flinched from in the past. But Sentry? Sentry leaned closer. She sounds like sunlight, he thought.

Sometimes, when Bob would retreat inward, when his self-doubt pressed in like the darkness of the Void…Sentry would come forward. To protect him but also to see you…you’re starting to become the main reason. 

“I like your hair like that,” he said once—Sentry, not Bob—hovering just outside your window in the dusk, glowing faintly. “It looks… brave.” You smiled. “That’s a strange compliment.”  “I mean it.” He hesitated, then asked something Bob never could. “Can I sit with you a while?”

You nodded. That night, he said nothing else. Just sat beside you on the rooftop, watching the stars, bathed in quiet gold. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t probe. You didn’t call him by the names others whispered with fear or reverence. You just sat with him. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

He visited more after that. Late nights. Rooftop talks. Quiet confessions. His voice, usually so commanding, softened around you. Like your presence gave him permission to be fragile. “Sometimes I think I’m not real,” he said one night, golden aura flickering like a dying star.

“You feel real,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over his. “To me, you’re real.” And that was the first time he ever considered choosing to be more than just power. 

It took Bob longer to realize it. He thought it was the Sentry who was drawn to you, that golden half of himself—stronger, bolder, unafraid. Bob told himself that he wasn’t worthy of you. That Sentry could love, and he could only watch. But love doesn’t stay where it isn’t returned. And you never smiled at the Sentry quite the way you smiled at Bob. Not when he made terrible jokes in the kitchen at 2 a.m., or when he forgot how to tie his tie before a briefing and you patiently helped him. Not when he was anxious and hiding it badly, and you leaned into him just enough to say “I’m here.”

Sentry might have spoken first.  But it was Bob you were falling for. You had been falling for Bob the whole time. It just took him a while to catch up to the part of himself that already had.

Bob sat on your porch steps one quiet evening, fingers twisting nervously in his lap. “I think…” he started. “I think he fell in love with you before I did.” You smiled, soft and knowing. “I think you were always a part of that love for me. You just didn’t know how to let yourself feel it.” His shoulders dropped. Relief. Maybe something close to peace. And when you kissed him, there was no Sentry. No golden light. No legend. No god.

Just Bob. And this time, he let himself stay.

Thank you so much for reading my work! As always if you like my work, please let me know! Reblogging, commenting, and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work, and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Requests are open <3

Tagging: @msfirth

@my-name-is-baby

@metalarmsandmanbuns

@live-love-be-unique

@disillusioniary

@you-bloody-shank

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@itsjustisa

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[happy74827]

Talk To Me

[Eggsy Unwin x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: With your boyfriend sneaking out 24/7 and always returning with carefully concealed injuries, it's only natural to be concerned.

WC: 3033

Category: Slight Angst + Fluff, Hurt/Comfort

I watched Carry-On last night (10/10 so good), and it got me re-thinking about one of my favorite films. Kingsman supremacy 🙌

『••✎••』

You loved Eggsy. Dearly. Truly.

You loved him so much that sometimes it scared you. How fiercely your heart clung to his smile, how tenderly your hands always seemed to reach for his, how naturally your entire world had shifted around him without you even realizing it. He was yours—scruffy, sweet Eggsy Unwin—and you believed you knew him. At least, you thought you did.

But then, the nights started.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. Everyone had their own struggles, and Eggsy never struck you as someone who’d open up easily about his. He’d always been the type to handle his own problems, to wear his hardships like armor rather than show them. But that was before the late-night disappearances, before the quiet footsteps across your floorboards, before you’d wake up in a cold bed at 3 a.m. to find him gone.

It didn’t happen all at once. It was gradual—so gradual you could almost convince yourself you were imagining it. One night turned into two. Two turned into a week. And before long, you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

The first time you tried to confront him, you did it gently. You’d asked him if everything was okay, masking your concern with casual curiosity. "You seem really tired lately, Eggsy. Is work being a pain?"

Eggsy had smiled, all teeth and dimples, and said, "Nah, luv. Just gotta lot on my plate, s’all."

You believed him because you wanted to.

But then there were the bruises.

The first one you noticed was along his jaw, faint and shadowed under the soft light of your kitchen. He’d winced when you kissed him there, just a tiny twitch of his lips, but enough to make you pull back. "You alright?" you’d asked.

Eggsy had waved you off. "Yeah, yeah, fine."

"Fine."

The word had felt too tight on his tongue, too forced. But you’d let it go because that’s what you did when someone you loved was hurting. You gave them space.

Except the bruises kept coming, each one a little harder to miss than the last. The faint cut above his brow, the stiffness in his shoulders when you hugged him, the way he’d flinch—just barely—when your fingers brushed against his ribs. And you noticed. Of course, you did. How could you not?

There was the other stuff, too. The sudden shift in his wardrobe. Gone were the trainers and bomber jackets, replaced with sharp suits and polished shoes. He’d started wearing glasses—ridiculous little round things that didn’t even have a prescription—and he carried himself differently now. Straighter. More serious. It wasn’t that you didn’t like the change. You did. Eggsy looked good in a suit, and you’d told him as much. But it was the why that lingered in the back of your mind.

Everything about him was changing, and yet you were still supposed to believe he was fine.

You weren’t stupid.

And so tonight, when you’d felt him slip out of bed yet again, something inside you had snapped. Enough was enough.

You stayed awake, feigning sleep as you listened to him shuffle around the room. You heard the soft clink of his belt buckle, the muted sound of a zipper, and then the quiet groan he let out as he bent to tie his shoes. He was trying to be quiet, but you could feel his movements, his tension, the exhaustion radiating off of him like smoke.

The front door closed behind him.

For a moment, you thought about following him. Your mind painted a dozen possibilities—none of them good—and the urge to know was almost overwhelming. But something held you back. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the sick feeling that if you saw what Eggsy was hiding, you wouldn’t be able to unsee it.

So, instead, you stayed. You waited.

And you waited.

Hours slipped by, the quiet hum of the room punctuated only by the ticking of the clock and the occasional thump of your restless heartbeat. You sat in the darkness, curled up on the couch with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company.

It was almost dawn when you heard it—the sound of keys fumbling at the door.

Your breath caught as the door swung open, and there he was. Eggsy. Exhausted, disheveled, and dragging himself inside like he’d just run a marathon. He tripped over the shoes you’d left by the door, letting out a hushed curse as he stumbled and caught himself on the wall. "For fuck’s sake…"

You watched him for a long moment, your heart twisting. His shoulders were slumped, his face pale under the bruises, and there was an air of defeat clinging to him that you’d never seen before.

Your hand hovered over the lamp beside you.

Click.

Light flooded the room.

Eggsy froze. His wide, tired eyes met yours, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

"…Where were you?"

Your voice came out steady—colder than you intended—but you didn’t care. You needed answers.

Eggsy straightened up, wincing slightly as he did, and ran a hand through his messy hair. "What’re you doin’ awake?"

"Where were you, Eggsy?" you repeated, softer this time.

He opened his mouth to answer, but you saw the hesitation in his eyes. That flicker of guilt, of indecision. And it hurt.

You watched him—really watched him—take in the situation, his gaze darting from you to the lamp and back again. He looked so tired, the dark circles under his eyes stark against the pale exhaustion in his face. His bottom lip pulled tight between his teeth, and for a fleeting moment, you thought he might lie to you.

He always did that when he was nervous, chewing his lip like he was trying to hold the words inside.

And then he sighed.

"Look, luv—"

"No." You cut him off, surprising even yourself with the sharpness in your voice. Your heart was pounding now, a steady thud in your chest, and you swallowed the knot rising in your throat. "Don’t 'look, love' me, Eggsy. I’ve given you space. I’ve ignored the bruises. I’ve let you—whatever this is—carry on without question. But not anymore."

Eggsy’s mouth closed. He shifted on his feet, his wince almost imperceptible, but you caught it. You always caught it.

"Are you hurt?" you asked, voice trembling slightly despite the resolve you tried to hold. Your eyes dropped to the faint, bloodied scrape on his knuckles and the stiff way he held his side. "Jesus, Eggsy…"

"I’m fine." The words came out fast—too fast—and though they were meant to be firm, they only sounded hollow.

You flinched like the word was a slap. "You’re not fine."

He sighed again, this time deeper, and rubbed a hand over his face. "It’s complicated."

"Complicated?" you echoed, your voice pitching with disbelief. "Complicated is when you forget an anniversary or don’t know how to split rent. This isn’t complicated, Eggsy—this is you sneaking out in the middle of the night and coming home bruised and battered, and I’m scared."

There it was. The confession you’d been holding back. The thing that had been gnawing at you for weeks, clawing at your chest every time he slipped away. Your voice broke slightly, the words tumbling out like a dam had burst, and Eggsy’s face softened in a way that almost broke you.

You could see the guilt then, raw and unguarded, etched into the lines of his expression. He took a cautious step forward, but you held up a hand, needing the space to breathe.

"Do you…" Your voice faltered. You didn’t want to say it—didn’t want to voice the fear that had whispered in your mind during the loneliest hours of those nights. “Do you not trust me, Eggsy? Is there something you can’t tell me?”

Eggsy’s head snapped up at that, his brow knitting as if you’d insulted him. "What? No. No, it’s not like that."

"Then what is it?" Your voice cracked, and for the first time since this all started, you felt your eyes sting with tears. "Because I’m running out of scenarios, Eggsy. I thought maybe… maybe it was someone else, maybe you’d stopped loving me. But then I’d see the bruises, and I’d hear you groaning in your sleep, and…" You trailed off, pressing a hand to your forehead. "I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine when you’re falling apart right in front of me."

The room was silent save for your quiet, unsteady breaths. For a moment, you thought Eggsy wouldn’t answer, that he’d slip into that shell of his again and leave you stranded in this mess of unanswered questions.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he crossed the room in two quick strides, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.

It wasn’t a soft kiss—not like the ones he’d give you after long days or lazy mornings. It was desperate and grounding, like he needed to make sure you were real and that you still loved him despite everything. You froze for half a second, caught off guard by the sudden warmth of his lips on yours before you melted into it. Your hands gripped his wrists, holding onto him like an anchor as your heart hammered against your ribcage.

When he finally pulled away, you stared at him, breathless and reeling.

"Eggsy—"

"I’m sorry," he muttered, his forehead resting gently against yours. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to make you think that. Any of that." His voice was low and earnest, the accent softening as the words spilled out. "You’re the only good thing in my life, alright? The only thing that keeps me goin’. It ain’t you—it’s me. I’m just… I’m tryin’ to keep you safe."

"Safe?" Your brows furrowed as you leaned back to look at him. "Safe from what, Eggsy?"

He hesitated. You could see the war playing out in his eyes—the push and pull of wanting to tell you the truth but still trying to protect you from it. He was holding something back; you knew that much. Something big.

Finally, he exhaled slowly. "It’s work. The bruises, the nights—I can’t tell you everything, but you gotta trust me when I say I’m doin’ it for you. For us."

"Eggsy…"

His thumb brushed along your cheek, and you realized then that you were crying—just a little.

"You’re right," he admitted softly, the words heavy with guilt. "I shoulda told you somethin’. Not everythin’, but… somethin’. I just didn’t want you to worry, love. Didn’t want you to see this part o’ me." He smiled faintly, the corners of his lips tilting upward. "You deserve better than this mess."

You stared at him, the boy who had somehow become a man without you noticing. His rough edges were still there—still scrappy, still stubborn—but there was something more now, too. He carried weight on his shoulders, weight he hadn’t let you see until tonight.

"I don’t care about the mess," you whispered, your hands sliding down to hold his. "I care about you. And if you’re hurting, I want to know. I want to help."

Eggsy blinked at you like he wasn’t sure he deserved to hear that. Then he pulled you into his arms, wrapping you up tightly as if trying to shield you from the rest of the world.

"You’re mental, you know that?" he mumbled into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. "Too good for me, you are."

Eggsy was warm against you, his arms solid and grounding, but you couldn’t let yourself melt into it—not entirely. Not when you could still feel the lingering tremor in his body, the careful way he was holding you like he was afraid of falling apart completely if he let go.

So you didn’t let it slide. Not this time.

You pulled back slightly, enough to look at him, your hands sliding to rest against his chest. He avoided your eyes for a beat too long, gaze flicking toward the floor as if the answers to all of your questions were scattered across the floorboards.

"Eggsy," you said softly, forcing him to look at you. "You’re doing it again."

His brows furrowed slightly. "Doin’ what?"

"Avoiding." You swallowed hard, your voice gentle but firm. "You keep saying you’re trying to protect me, but from what? From you? From whatever it is you’ve gotten yourself into? I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with half-truths and cryptic excuses."

He didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, his lips pressing into a tight line as the silence stretched between you like a taut wire. You watched him, the Eggsy you knew—the one who laughed too loudly, who lit up rooms with his smile—hidden behind this new, heavier version of himself. A man weighed down by secrets you weren’t allowed to touch.

You felt your throat tighten. "If you’re in trouble, I need to know."

"I’m not—"

"Gary." You said his name softly, but with enough weight that he stopped, his shoulders sagging just a little under your gaze. You could see the walls going back up, the way his expression started to close off again, and your heart ached. This wasn’t about control. It wasn’t about digging into things he didn’t want to share. This was about him—the man you loved. The man standing in front of you with bruises and exhaustion, painting him in shades of worry and pain you didn’t recognize.

"I love you," you whispered, the words breaking through the quiet. His head snapped up, his eyes finally locking onto yours. "I love you, Eggsy. But this—" you gestured gently between the two of you "—this isn’t fair. You don’t get to shoulder all of this alone. Not when I’m right here."

You could see the cracks in his resolve then, the guilt splintering through his expression like fractures in glass. Eggsy exhaled, a heavy breath that deflated his entire posture, and he reached up to cup your cheek again, his thumb brushing faintly at the tears still lingering there.

"It ain’t trouble," he muttered after a long pause, his voice low and rough like gravel. "Not like you’re thinkin’. I ain’t into anythin’ shady, I swear."

"Then what is it?" you asked softly. "Please, Eggsy. I’m not leaving. I’m not running. I just need to know what’s doing this to you."

He hesitated again, clearly grappling with something you couldn’t see. For the briefest moment, you thought he might tell you—might rip off the Band-Aid and let you into whatever world he’d been keeping you out of. But then, as if on instinct, he sighed and shook his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before resting his own against it again.

"You don’t wanna know, luv," he murmured, voice so soft it nearly disappeared into the space between you. "I promise you don’t."

You stared at him, your heart twisting painfully. You could feel it now—the invisible door he was trying to close, to lock between you—and the worst part was, you knew he thought he was doing the right thing. He thought he was protecting you.

But all you felt was the sting of being shut out.

"This isn’t fair," you said again, your voice trembling slightly. "You don’t get to decide what I can and can’t handle, Eggsy."

His lips parted slightly, and for once, he didn’t have a rebuttal. He just looked at you—really looked at you—as if weighing the woman in front of him against whatever dark reality he’d been hiding.

"I can handle it," you pressed, your voice steady this time. "Whatever it is, I can handle it. I can handle you."

Eggsy pulled back slightly, his hands slipping to your shoulders. There was a flicker of conflict in his eyes, and for the first time that night, you saw a hint of vulnerability beneath the surface. "It ain’t about you not bein’ strong enough," he said finally, his words slow and deliberate. "It’s about me not wantin’ you to see the worst parts of what I do."

"What you do?" you repeated carefully, and you saw him flinch—just barely—like he’d said too much.

"Eggsy, I don’t…"

He let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his messy hair. "Jesus Christ, I’m shite at this."

Your eyes searched his. Part of you wanted to press further—to keep pushing until the dam broke—but the other part could see his exhaustion, the way he was leaning slightly against the counter like his legs were struggling to hold him up. He looked so tired. So defeated. And you hated it.

You let out a soft sigh, taking his hand and lacing your fingers through his.

He stiffened.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. There was a question lingering between you, the same one you knew he was struggling to answer.

Tell her.

Don't.

It felt like an eternity had passed when you finally said his name, squeezing his hand gently.

His gaze lifted to yours.

And you let it go.

You didn't push. You didn't demand. You didn't ask. Because this wasn't a fight, you were going to win.

He wasn't ready.

So, instead, you just said, "Promise me something."

"Yeah?"

You hesitated, the words feeling heavier on your tongue than they had any right to be. You swallowed the lump rising in your throat and whispered, "Promise me you’ll come home."

Eggsy stilled.

It wasn't much of a request—more of a desperate hope that this wasn't all leading to some unavoidable ending you weren't ready for. It was an offer of surrender. A silent, exhausted plea to put the pieces back together, to stitch up the cracks before they could break.

He studied you, his tired eyes roaming over the lines of your face as if he could read the question lingering there.

And then he pulled you into his arms, a hand cradling the back of your head. You felt the warmth of his embrace, the weight of his body against yours, and your arms wrapped around him as tightly as you could. For a second, you weren’t sure if he would answer. If he even could.

And then, in the softest voice you'd ever heard, he whispered, "Always."

"For you, always."

[solxamber]

Overblot Gang + Rollo vs Plushies

Surely they're not jealous of a stuffed toy, right? ....right???

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle stepped into the room, exhaustion clinging to him like an unwelcome guest. It had been a day filled with chaos—Ace and Deuce were their usual disruptive selves, Heartslabyul’s hedgehogs had staged what could only be described as a minor rebellion, and the tea party had gone disastrously wrong when the tart supply mysteriously disappeared.

All Riddle wanted was to collapse into bed with you, the one person who made his world feel a little less upside-down.

But instead of finding you waiting to greet him, he found you fast asleep, curled up in the middle of the bed.

And clutching...a plushie.

Riddle froze, his hand still on the doorknob, his eyes narrowing at the offending object. It was a bunny plush, worn and clearly well-loved, nestled securely in your arms. Your cheek rested against its soft head, your lips slightly parted in a peaceful slumber.

For a moment, Riddle just stared. Then the tiniest flicker of jealousy ignited in his chest.

It’s just a stuffed toy, he told himself, but the longer he looked, the more irrational his thoughts became.

Why is it getting your affection while I’m here, alive, and far more deserving?

He shook his head, trying to dispel the ridiculous notion, but the sight of you snuggling the plushie like it was the most precious thing in the world made his face heat up.

“This is absurd,” he muttered under his breath, but his resolve only grew stronger.

Quietly, carefully, he crept closer to the bed, his eyes fixed on the plushie. His plan was simple: extract the bunny and take its place. Surely, you’d prefer your boyfriend over a stuffed toy.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against the plushie’s soft fabric. Just as he began to tug it free, your eyes fluttered open.

“Riddle?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.

Riddle froze like a thief caught in the act, his face turning as red as his hair. “You’re awake!”

“I am now,” you said, a teasing smile tugging at your lips as you noticed the bunny in his hand. “What are you doing?”

“I was—” He struggled to find a reasonable explanation, but his traitorous blush gave him away. “You were holding it so tightly, and I thought perhaps you’d be more comfortable with me instead.”

You blinked at him for a moment before breaking into a laugh, soft and warm. “Riddle Rosehearts, are you jealous of my plushie?”

“I most certainly am not!” he spluttered, though the way he avoided your gaze told a different story.

“You are!” you said, sitting up and holding the plushie close. “You’re jealous of Bunny!”

Riddle groaned, burying his face in his hands. “This is mortifying.”

“Don’t worry, Bunny,” you cooed, deliberately making it worse. “Riddle doesn’t understand how much you mean to me.”

“Give me that!” Riddle reached for the plushie again, but you held it just out of reach, giggling as he tried to maintain his dignity while grappling with a stuffed toy.

Finally, you relented, setting the plushie aside and wrapping your arms around him instead. “I’m just teasing. You know you’re my favorite, right?”

He sighed, leaning into your embrace despite his embarrassment. “I don’t know why I let myself get worked up over something so silly.”

“Because you’re adorable,” you said, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Riddle’s blush deepened, but this time, he didn’t try to hide it. “Just...promise me you won’t replace me with a toy.”

You grinned, cupping his face in your hands. “Never. You’re too cute to replace.”

And with that, you pulled him into a kiss, his earlier jealousy forgotten as he melted into your affection. The plushie sat abandoned at the foot of the bed, no match for the warmth and love you gave so freely to the one who truly deserved it.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona slammed the door to your shared room, the sound of it echoing through the space. His day had been one giant pile of nonsense—from an annoying meeting he didn’t even want to attend to Ruggie disappearing when he needed him to take his place. And let’s not even talk about that one random pigeon that had the audacity to poop on his shoulder during his walk back to the dorm.

All he wanted now was the comfort of your presence and the luxury of using you as his personal pillow while he finally got some peace.

But when he turned to the bed, his sharp emerald eyes caught sight of you curled up against something that was decidedly not him.

You were cuddling a lion plushie, of all things, as you read a book. The toy was tucked snugly in your arms, and every now and then, you absentmindedly stroked its mane while flipping the pages.

Leona froze, his ears twitching in irritation. What in the world is that thing doing in my spot?

You glanced up when you noticed him standing there, his face an unreadable mask of simmering annoyance. “Oh, hey, Leona,” you greeted cheerfully, holding up the plushie. “Look! Isn’t this cute? I found it earlier, and it reminded me of you.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he crossed the room in a few swift strides, grabbed the plushie from your arms, and unceremoniously hurled it across the room. It landed with a pathetic little plop in the corner.

“Leona!” you exclaimed, half-shocked, half-amused. “What was that for?”

He flopped onto the bed beside you, pulling you into his arms with a huff. “That stupid toy’s been hogging my place all day,” he grumbled, burying his face in your neck. “I don’t need competition in my own bed.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, threading your fingers through his hair as he tangled himself around you like an oversized, grumpy cat. “Leona, it’s just a plushie. Are you seriously jealous of a stuffed animal?”

“I'm not jealous,” he muttered, tightening his grip around your waist. “I’m the only lion you need.”

“Aw, poor baby,” you teased, tilting his chin up so you could look him in the eyes. “Do you feel neglected? Should I make it up to you?”

Leona raised an eyebrow, though the corner of his lips twitched upward in a smirk. “Damn straight, you should. Start with those kisses you owe me.”

With a laugh, you leaned down and kissed him softly, your hands cradling his face. He hummed in satisfaction, his earlier annoyance melting away as you continued peppering his cheeks and forehead with affection.

“Better now?” you asked, grinning against his skin.

“Hmm,” he replied, sounding almost lazy, though his arms stayed firmly locked around you. “Still annoyed that you thought some stuffed toy was good enough to take my place, but I guess I’ll survive.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, shaking your head but snuggling closer to him.

“And you’re mine,” he murmured, pulling the blanket over both of you. “Now shut up and get comfortable. You’re my pillow tonight.”

You didn’t mind one bit, letting him rest his head on your chest while you stroked his hair. The plushie in the corner could wait—your favorite lion was right where he belonged.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul walked into your shared room, exhaling a sigh that carried the weight of a long, exhausting day. Between renegotiating contracts with customers, juggling lounge finances, and—most harrowing of all—keeping Floyd and Jade from causing a full-blown diplomatic incident, he was done.

All he wanted now was the comfort of your embrace and the chance to leave the chaos of the Mostro Lounge behind.

But when he stepped into the room, his eyes landed on you sprawled on the bed.

You were curled up with an octopus plushie of all things, the game console in your hands forgotten as you absently squished the toy. It had an oddly familiar round head and floppy tentacles that dangled off the side of the bed.

Azul froze in the doorway, blinking at the scene in front of him. His sharp mind began firing off thoughts at record speed.

Is that... me? No, of course not. But you’re cuddling it. You’re smiling. Does it remind you of me?

He frowned as another realization hit him like a cold wave.

Am I... jealous of a goddamn plushie?

Clearing his throat, he stepped further into the room. “What’s this, my dear?” he asked, voice smooth but laced with suspicion.

You glanced up and beamed at him. “Oh! Welcome back, Azul!” You held up the plushie as if presenting a priceless artifact. “Isn’t this cute? I found it earlier and thought it looked a little like you.”

Azul’s composure faltered for a split second, his cheeks tinging pink. “You think an oversized toy resembles me?”

“Well, yeah,” you said, tilting your head innocently. “It’s an octopus. And it’s adorable.”

Azul adjusted his glasses, hiding his expression. “I see.” He hesitated before clearing his throat again. “It seems you’re quite attached to it.”

You hummed in agreement, giving the plushie another squeeze. “It’s so squishy and comforting to hold while I play.”

Azul’s eyebrow twitched. “Comforting, is it?”

He walked to the bed, sitting down beside you with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Darling, might I propose a trade?”

“A trade?” you repeated, trying not to laugh at how serious he looked.

“Yes,” he said smoothly. “That plushie for... well, anything you desire. Perhaps a free full course meal at the lounge? Or a favor of your choosing?”

You raised an eyebrow, setting down your console. “Are you trying to make a deal with me over a stuffed toy?”

Azul’s cheeks darkened. “Of course not. I simply thought you might prefer a more... meaningful source of comfort.”

It clicked, and a mischievous grin spread across your face. “Oh. Oh, I see what this is.”

“What are you implying?” he asked, straightening his tie even though it wasn’t out of place.

“You’re jealous of the plushie,” you said, leaning toward him with a teasing glint in your eyes.

Azul sputtered, adjusting his glasses again. “Jealous? Don’t be absurd. Why would I—”

“Aw, Azul,” you cooed, cutting him off as you set the plushie aside and wrapped your arms around his neck. “You should’ve just said you wanted to be my cuddle buddy. You’re my favorite octo-mer, after all.”

His ears flushed deeper as he tried to maintain his dignity. “Well, of course I am. There’s no need for comparison.”

“Good,” you said, pulling him down onto the bed and into the position the plushie had been occupying moments ago. You rested your head against his chest, a satisfied smile on your face. “Because this is way better than some squishy toy.”

Azul relaxed, his arms wrapping around you as a content sigh escaped his lips. “Naturally,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

From the corner of the room, the plushie sat forgotten. Azul glanced at it once and smirked. You’ll never take my place again.

Jamil Viper

Jamil shuffled down the dorm hallway, exhaustion radiating off him in waves. The day had been a whirlwind of chaos—cooking for Kalim’s impromptu banquet, mediating arguments between students, and narrowly avoiding another wild scheme involving magic carpets.

All he wanted was to collapse on the bed he shared with you. That you’d be there was just the cherry on top.

He pushed the door open, ready to greet you—only to stop dead in his tracks.

You were curled up on the bed, scrolling through your phone with a peaceful smile. But it wasn’t just you. No, you were wrapped snugly around a snake plushie.

Its long, noodle-like body coiled over your lap as you absently hugged it closer, your cheek pressing against its soft fabric.

Jamil’s eye twitched.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and stared at the scene with growing annoyance.

You look so happy... with a plushie.

“Hey, Jamil!” you greeted cheerfully, glancing up from your phone. “Welcome back. Long day?”

“Mm,” he hummed, walking toward the bed with a carefully neutral expression. He sat down stiffly at the edge, his back to you.

“Everything okay?” you asked, noticing his unusually curt demeanor.

“Fine,” he replied, voice clipped.

You frowned, putting your phone down. Wrapping your arms around his back, you rested your chin on his shoulder. “You sure? You seem… off.”

“I’m fine,” he said again, though his tone didn’t convince either of you.

You squinted at his turned profile, the faintest flush dusting his ears. He wasn’t looking at you—or, more specifically, at the snake plushie you still held loosely.

Then it clicked.

You smirked, leaning closer. “Wait a second. Are you… jealous of the plushie?”

His shoulders tensed, and he immediately scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh my gosh, you are jealous!” you teased, letting go of the plushie entirely to wrap yourself fully around him. “You hate my noodle friend, don’t you?”

Jamil turned slightly, just enough to glare half-heartedly at you. “It’s not— I don’t— It’s a toy,” he huffed, the flush on his face deepening.

“A very cute toy,” you said with a grin, nuzzling your cheek against his. “But not as cute as my boyfriend.”

Jamil stiffened as you started peppering kisses along his jawline. “Stop,” he mumbled weakly, his resolve clearly crumbling.

“Why?” you asked innocently, kissing the corner of his lips before moving to his neck. “You’re so much better than any plushie. You’re warm and handsome and smell nice…”

He finally cracked, turning to face you fully with an exasperated sigh. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Mm, but you love me anyway,” you said with a laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Jamil gave you a tired but affectionate look, letting himself melt into your embrace. “Maybe.”

You smiled, pulling him down onto the bed with you. As he settled into your arms, the plushie forgotten on the floor, you whispered, “You’ll always be my favorite noodle.”

He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder to hide his embarrassed grin. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Never,” you said, pressing a kiss to his temple.

And Jamil, despite his protests, felt a sense of peace he hadn’t experienced all day.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil returned to his dorm room with a sigh of relief, the stress of the day clinging to him like stage makeup. The auditions, the photoshoots, and Epel’s ongoing refusal to use skincare—it had been a lot.

What he wanted now was simple: your company, your warmth, and the soothing routine of winding down together before bed.

However, when he stepped inside, his poised demeanor wavered.

You were curled up on the bed, a content smile on your face, snuggled tightly against a plushie—a soft, bunny-shaped one at that.

Vil froze, one hand still on the door handle.

It’s just a plushie, he told himself. A mere inanimate object.

But as he watched you absentmindedly rub your cheek against the bunny’s floppy ear, he felt… something.

Annoyance? At the plushie? Himself? You? He couldn’t even tell.

Brushing off the irrational jealousy bubbling in his chest, Vil set his things down and began his evening routine. He didn’t mention the plushie or the way it seemed to taunt him with its undeserved place in your arms.

You looked up with a warm smile. “Hey, Vil. How was your day?”

“Busy,” he replied smoothly, glancing your way briefly before focusing on his vanity.

“You want me to pin up your hair?” you offered, already starting to sit up, plushie still clutched in one hand.

“No need,” he said quickly, voice tighter than usual.

You blinked. That was unusual—Vil always let you (only you) help with his hair. But you shrugged it off, assuming he was just tired.

As Vil carefully applied his cleanser, the plushie caught his eye again in the mirror. It was still nestled against you, smugly enjoying the attention that should’ve been his.

Halfway through his routine, he finally snapped.

With a dramatic sigh, Vil spun around, crossed the room in three graceful strides, and plucked the bunny from your lap.

“Uh—?” you started, confused, but before you could say more, Vil replaced the plushie with himself, settling across your lap as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Vil?” you asked, biting back a laugh as his weight pressed you into the mattress.

“Not. A. Word,” he warned, narrowing his eyes at your amused expression. His cheeks were faintly pink, but he composed himself quickly, picking up where he left off with his skincare routine as though nothing had happened.

You grinned, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You’re adorable, you know that?”

Vil’s hands faltered for a split second before he regained his composure. “I don’t need your commentary.”

“You’re totally jealous of the bunny,” you teased, leaning up to kiss his shoulder.

He clicked his tongue but didn’t deny it. Instead, he muttered, “Why would I feel jealous over a plushie?”

“Because you’re pouting,” you said, laughing softly.

Vil sighed, tilting his head slightly to look at you out of the corner of his eye. “I do not pout. And don’t think I’ll let you win this one.”

“Oh, I’ve already won,” you said, tightening your hold on him.

Vil shook his head, muttering something about your insufferable sense of humor, but his posture relaxed as he continued his routine.

By the time he finished, the plushie had been completely forgotten, replaced entirely by the warm, smug human wrapped around his waist.

Idia Shroud

Idia shuffled back to his room after the dorm leaders' meeting, grumbling under his breath about its sheer redundancy.

"Like they really needed me there. My tablet could've handled it. Heck, I could’ve sent Ortho in my place! It’s not like I’m ever the one making decisions… What’s the point of—"

His mumbling came to an abrupt halt as he stepped into his room and saw you on the bed.

You were curled up against a giant teddy bear, console still in hand, the screen long since dimmed. Soft snores escaped you as you nestled deeper into the plushie's arms, utterly at peace.

Idia froze, his face instantly heating up. "Wha—?! W-why is this so—?!" His hair sparked pink as he clutched his hoodie, feeling like he was going to short-circuit.

The sight was almost too much. You, looking so cute and peaceful, holding a teddy bear like it was some kind of rival stealing his spot.

He fumbled for his phone, hands shaking slightly as he snapped several photos. “For, uh, research. Totally normal behavior. Definitely not for my… secret stash.” His whisper echoed a bit too loudly in the silent room.

But now he was faced with a dilemma.

On one hand, you looked so cozy, and the last thing he wanted to do was disturb you. On the other hand… he wanted to be that teddy bear.

Idia stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, trying to decide what to do. He wrung his hands together, muttering to himself like a character weighing dialogue options.

"Option A: Let them sleep. Pros—cute and peaceful. Cons—no interaction.

Option B: Wake them up. Pros—I get attention. Cons—they might get mad."

Before he could settle on an answer, you stirred, stretching with a groggy yawn. Your eyes fluttered open, and you blinked at him standing there, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

"Idia?" you mumbled, setting the console aside. You gave the teddy bear one final pat before tossing it away and reaching out to him. "C’mere.”

His heart skipped a beat. “M-me?!”

“Obviously you,” you teased with a sleepy smile, pulling him into a hug as soon as he got close enough.

Idia practically melted into your arms, his hair shifting to a bright pink. His smugness quickly returned, though, as he realized the teddy bear had been successfully ousted. "H-heh. +1 affection point for me," he muttered under his breath, his voice a mix of pride and shyness.

You raised an eyebrow, laughing softly. “Affection point? Idia, you already maxed out your affection gauge ages ago.”

His brain short-circuited again, and he buried his face in your shoulder, muffling a squeaky, “D-don’t say stuff like that!”

“Why not?” you teased, leaning back to look at his glowing face. “You’re adorable when you blush.”

Idia groaned dramatically, his hair flaring brighter as he tried to hide behind his bangs. But despite his embarrassment, he managed to wrap his arms around you, pulling you closer.

“Fine, whatever. Just… don’t let go, okay?” he muttered, his voice soft.

You chuckled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Not a chance.”

From the corner of the room, the discarded teddy bear sat forgotten, a silent casualty in Idia’s victorious conquest for your affection.

Malleus Draconia

It had been a peaceful evening—stars twinkling, a cool breeze wafting through the window, and the promise of a lovely stroll under the moonlight. Malleus had been particularly pleased with the weather and decided to invite you for an evening walk.

He entered the room, his usual serene expression softening when his eyes fell upon you. But then, he froze.

There you were, curled up in bed, holding a plush dragon in your arms like it was the most comforting thing in the world.

A deep rumble echoed in the distance.

You blinked, sitting up slightly. “Was that… thunder?”

Before you could ponder further, a crack of lightning lit up the sky outside, followed by the booming roar of thunder that seemed to shake the walls. You stared out the window in disbelief.

“But it was perfectly clear two minutes ago!” you exclaimed.

Turning back to Malleus, you found him standing as still as a statue, his eyes narrowed and locked onto the offending plushie in your arms. The air around him practically crackled with energy.

“Uh… Malleus?” you ventured carefully, glancing between him and the plush.

His voice was low and serious, tinged with a hint of betrayal. “Is that what brings you comfort in my absence?”

You stared at him for a moment, then at the plushie, before the realization dawned. Suppressing a laugh, you decided to play along.

“Oh no, this?” you said, holding up the plush with exaggerated disdain. “This means nothing to me.”

Malleus arched a brow, clearly unconvinced, though his eyes remained laser-focused on the dragon-shaped invader.

To really drive the point home, you dramatically tossed the plush into the corner of the room. “See? It’s nothing compared to you, my most handsome, powerful dragon.”

You spread your arms and wrapped yourself around Malleus, resting your cheek against his shoulder. His stiff posture eased almost immediately, and the thunderstorm brewing outside dissipated as if it had never existed.

“Hmm,” he hummed, his voice quieter now but still holding a touch of haughtiness. “I suppose it’s only natural. I am your favorite dragon, after all.”

“You’re my only dragon,” you said with a chuckle, leaning back to look at him.

Malleus gazed down at you, his expression softening into something tender. “Good,” he murmured, placing a hand under your chin to tilt your face up. “I would hate to compete with a mere stuffed toy for your affection.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re lucky you’re so cute, you know that?”

He blinked, visibly startled by the compliment, his ears tinging slightly red. “Cute? I… I do not believe ‘cute’ is the word one typically uses to describe the future king of Briar Valley.”

“Well, I do,” you said, smiling mischievously as you planted another kiss on his lips.

Malleus let out a deep sigh, though the corners of his mouth quirked upward. “You are… quite the peculiar human, my love.”

“And you wouldn’t have it any other way,” you teased.

Malleus chuckled softly, pulling you closer. Outside, the weather had returned to the calm, moonlit serenity it was before—a perfect night for a walk. Though judging by the way Malleus held you now, neither of you seemed in any rush to leave.

Rollo Flamme

After a long day of dealing with incompetent council members, insufferable students, and the lingering stench of magic in the air, Rollo Flamme was finally free. As he walked into your shared room, his shoulders relaxed slightly at the thought of seeing you. Your presence was always the perfect antidote to his day’s irritations.

But then, he saw it.

There you were, curled up in bed, holding a plush dragon that was far too detailed for his liking. Its smug, embroidered eyes glinted in the soft light, as if mocking him. Worse, it was lounging on his side of the bed.

He froze mid-step, the betrayal hitting him like a thunderbolt.

You looked up, immediately noticing his stricken expression. “Rollo? Are you okay?”

He didn’t respond, his gaze locked on the plushie with such intensity it was a wonder it didn’t burst into flames.

You tilted your head, following his line of sight. “Oh, this?” you said, holding up the dragon plush with a smile. “I won it at the arcade today! Isn’t it cute?”

Glass shattering. Dramatic violins. Betrayal.

“...A dragon,” he said, his voice low and tight.

“Yeah,” you said, hugging it closer without realizing the depth of the offense. “It’s so soft, and look at its little wings! They’re kind of shiny—”

“Does it need wings?” he cut in sharply, glaring at the plush like it had personally insulted him.

You blinked. “Rollo, are you... mad at the plushie?”

He straightened immediately, huffing indignantly. “Mad? At a stuffed toy? Don’t be absurd.”

But the way his eyes flicked back to the plush betrayed him, the subtle narrowing of his gaze screaming volumes.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. “Oh my gosh, you are mad! Is it because it’s a dragon? Does it remind you of Malleus?”

His jaw tightened. “I do not dignify such comparisons with a response.”

You grinned, setting the plush aside. “Well, if it bothers you so much, I can just put it away.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” he lied, though his shoulders eased a fraction when you stood and picked up the plushie.

“I’ll banish it to the closet,” you teased, waving the dragon plush dramatically before stuffing it into the closet. “There, see? Gone.”

Rollo exhaled quietly, his usual stoic demeanor returning. “Good. It’s for the best.”

You walked over and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his shoulder “You know you’re the only one I’d ever actually want to cuddle, right?”

His ears turned red, and he cleared his throat, but his arms instinctively came up to hold you close. “I would hope so,” he muttered, though his tone softened as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

As you snuggled against him, he allowed himself a moment of peace, though his mind wandered. He would have to get you something far superior—something elegant and tasteful. Perhaps a plush raven or something equally refined. Certainly nothing with wings or scales.

You smiled against his chest, feeling the tension leave his body. “You’re not still mad, are you?”

“No,” he said quickly. “But I’ll be... keeping an eye on your choice of arcade prizes in the future.”

You laughed, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Whatever you say, Rollo.”

Deep down, he wasn’t entirely sure if he’d won or lost this battle, but with your arms around him, he decided it didn’t really matter.

Masterlist

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

The Long Game

Robert “Bob” Floyd x Fem!Aviator!Reader

Slow Burn & Smut

Call Sign: Cipher

I knew the stares were coming before I even stepped off the transport van.

The heat clung to me like a second skin as I walked across the tarmac of North Island, boots striking pavement with a rhythm I hoped sounded like confidence. Not nervousness. Not hesitation. Just movement—forward, always forward.

“Cipher,” a voice called out behind me, sharp and warm.

Natasha Trace—Phoenix—grinned as she jogged up beside me. Her sunglasses pushed up into her hair, uniform half-wrinkled, all confidence. She looked exactly the same. Like home, if I believed in that kind of thing anymore.

“Didn’t think they’d actually send you.”

“They almost didn’t.” My voice stayed flat. “But someone in D.C. wants me out of sight. I guess this is as far as they could push me.”

Phoenix gave me a look I knew too well. Soft sympathy, no pity. She knew better.

“You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

We walked together toward the hangar. A wall of voices echoed ahead—laughing, teasing, steel-toed swagger and aviators. The squad.

“Anyone I should be nervous about?” I asked, already bracing for it.

Phoenix glanced at me. “They’ve heard of you. But they don’t know you.”

I didn’t ask what they’d heard. I didn’t have to. The Navy rumor mill worked faster than any news outlet. Cheated on. Lied to. Publicly. A man with a shiny rank and dirt under his fingernails made sure I was humiliated before he left the relationship and the country. I never responded. Not once. Let them guess.

“Great,” I muttered. “Let’s get this over with.”

The squad was already gathered in the hangar: familiar callsigns, unfamiliar eyes. I clocked them quickly. Rooster, Hangman, Fanboy, Payback—loud, easy energy. And standing off to the side, reading something on a tablet, was one I hadn’t met. Calm posture. Clean lines. Wireframe glasses. The only one not trying to look at me without looking at me.

Bob Floyd.

Nat nudged me. “Play nice.”

I gave her a dry look.

Hangman was the first to approach, of course. “So you’re Cipher.”

“That’s what the patch says.” I didn’t stop walking.

“Just trying to be friendly,” he said, flashing a grin. “We don’t usually get the Navy’s media darlings around here.”

“Must be my lucky day,” I replied.

A low whistle came from Fanboy, and Rooster elbowed him in the ribs, not bothering to hide his laugh. But I didn’t care about their games. They weren’t new to me.

Phoenix introduced me to the group with as little ceremony as possible. “Cipher’s your new wing. She’s flying solo until pairings reshuffle.”

Rooster offered a nod, more curious than guarded. Payback smiled politely. Fanboy seemed unsure if he was allowed to speak to me. Bob—quiet, thoughtful—just looked up from his tablet and met my eyes.

He didn’t say anything. Just offered a small nod.

No judgment. No awkward grin. No I read everything about you online vibe. Just…presence.

I gave him one back. Equally small. Maybe smaller.

That was all.

I didn’t speak in the locker room.

Not because I had nothing to say, but because I didn’t trust what would come out if I started. The squad filled the space like a living thing—teasing each other, trading sarcastic barbs, familiar in a way I hadn’t been with anyone in a long time. It was like watching a party from outside the house, lights warm but unreachable.

I took a bench in the corner. Laid out my gear with muscle memory that felt mechanical. Helmet, gloves, checklist. Precision. Control.

Nat plopped down next to me without asking. “You good?”

“Always.”

She gave me a look. “You know, if you don’t talk to them, they’ll just assume you hate them.”

I shrugged. “They’re not wrong.”

That made her laugh—loud and unguarded. “At least you’re consistent.”

“Pairings?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Mav’s switching it up every run. Random at first. Says it’ll push us to sharpen instincts.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sounds like a headache.”

She grinned. “Sounds like training.”

I didn’t ask who I’d be paired with. I didn’t care, or at least I pretended not to. But when Maverick strode in a few minutes later and started reading off names, I tuned in.

“Phoenix and Fanboy. Hangman and Payback. Cipher… you’re flying with Floyd.”

I barely blinked.

Nat did, though. Her eyes flicked to mine with a quiet curiosity.

Bob Floyd. The guy with the still posture and the eyes that didn’t miss much. I could do worse.

He met me by the Hornet with a nod.

“Cipher.”

“Floyd,” I replied, zipping up my G-suit. “You good back there?”

“I’m always good back there.”

I paused. Looked up at him. No arrogance. No smirk. Just quiet confidence. He meant it.

“Let’s see if that holds,” I said.

He smiled, just barely. “Let’s.”

—

Up in the air, everything felt sharper. Crisper. My hands molded to the stick like they belonged there, instincts kicking in before thought had a chance to catch up. Bob’s voice filtered through my headset, low and steady. Clear. Calm.

“Bandit coming in on your six—three clicks. Banking right.”

“I see him.”

“You’ve got two seconds to counter.”

“I only need one.”

I pulled the maneuver hard and clean, ducked the simulated missile, looped back through the canyon, and caught a second target dead-on with a lock I shouldn’t have had time to make.

Silence.

Then Bob’s voice again, softer now.

“Nice flying.”

“Didn’t do it for praise,” I muttered.

“Didn’t give it for you.”

That caught me off-guard—just enough to make my chest tighten, almost like a laugh. Almost.

He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t perform. He didn’t pry. He just… showed up. Flew well. Spoke only when needed. And when I pushed, he didn’t push back.

I wasn’t used to that.

—

When we landed, Maverick gave us a glance that meant “interesting.” He didn’t say anything, just made a mark on his clipboard.

Back in the hangar, the others were already pulling off helmets and razzing each other. Rooster gave me a subtle nod across the room—respect. Payback asked Nat how I flew. Hangman was suspiciously quiet.

Bob sat down on the bench beside me without asking.

“You don’t talk much,” he said, not unkindly.

I glanced sideways. “Neither do you.”

“Guess we’ll get along just fine.”

I didn’t respond. But my silence wasn’t rejection—it was something else. Consideration. And maybe he knew that.

Because when he stood up, he didn’t push for more.

“See you on the next run, Cipher.”

He walked away, shoulders relaxed, not waiting for a goodbye.

And for the first time since I’d landed on base, I realized I wasn’t bracing for impact.

I was waiting for something else entirely.

I didn’t plan to go to the Hard Deck.

In fact, I told Nat twice that I wasn’t going. Once while peeling off my flight suit, and again while half-watching her braid her hair back in our shared room. But she looked at me with that stubborn gleam in her eye — the same one she wore before every high-G maneuver — and said, “You’re not getting out of this, Cipher. You need to let them see you.”

“I’m not interested in being seen.”

“Well, they already see you,” she said. “Might as well be in control of what they’re looking at.”

Annoying. Smart. Phoenix.

I wore black. Clean lines. Minimal makeup. Something about dressing simply gave me control, let me decide what I was showing instead of what they’d try to dig up.

The bar was warm and humming with energy when we arrived. Pool balls cracking. Country music on a loop. Pilots gathered in loose groups — some I recognized, others I’d heard stories about. I followed Nat’s lead toward the squad, who’d claimed the high tables near the jukebox.

Hangman spotted me first.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he said, grin wide and bright like a billboard. “Didn’t think you were the social type, Cipher.”

“I’m not.”

“Then this must be a Phoenix miracle.”

“I’m very persuasive,” Nat said, smirking as she handed me a beer.

Bob was already there, quietly nursing his own bottle. He looked up as I approached but didn’t say anything. Just nodded — a small gesture, like punctuation at the end of a sentence.

Rooster pulled me into a round of darts with Payback and Fanboy. I went along, mostly to keep Hangman from drawing attention to me. But I kept catching glimpses — eyes that lingered just a second longer, conversations that quieted when I walked by. I’d lived through it before. The whispers. The That’s her… of it all.

Public humiliation has a way of making you infamous.

Especially when your Navy pilot boyfriend cheats on you with a junior officer, denies it, then accuses you of instability when the story breaks. The headlines were a storm I hadn’t asked for — just tried to survive.

I didn’t wear it on my skin, but the wind still howled behind me.

“Cipher!” Fanboy called, grinning. “Come sing!”

“No.”

“Come on! You look like you could use a little Springsteen therapy!”

“I’d rather get shot down in a simulator.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the group. Even Bob chuckled under his breath.

But Nat was already dragging me by the wrist toward the karaoke mic.

“You owe me for dragging you here,” she said, victorious.

I could’ve fought harder. Could’ve pulled back. But something about the way Bob looked at me — calm, not amused but… interested — made me step up. The music started, some vintage rock number I half-knew, and I sang. I didn’t belt it. I didn’t shake the walls. But I sang like I meant it.

People watched.

Bob did, too.

Not like the others — not dissecting me or sizing me up. Just watching, like he wanted to understand something I hadn’t said yet.

And for one second, I felt exposed.

When the song ended, I handed the mic off and stepped outside. I needed air. Space. Quiet.

The night was cooler than I expected, the salt breeze cutting through the heat of the bar. I leaned against the deck railing, trying to remember how to breathe without having to think about it.

Footsteps behind me.

Not Nat’s.

“You didn’t want to come,” Bob said.

I didn’t answer.

“But you did.”

He came to stand beside me, close but not too close. Just enough to make his presence feel intentional.

“I don’t like being on display,” I said quietly.

“I noticed.”

There was no pressure to say more. No prying. Just a pause, open and easy.

“I hate that they know,” I said before I could stop myself.

“About him?”

My jaw tensed.

“People talk,” he said gently. “Doesn’t mean they know anything.”

I glanced at him. “You don’t.”

He met my eyes. “No. But I listen.”

Something in my chest wavered.

He didn’t offer pity. He didn’t promise to fix anything. He just stood there, quiet and steady beside me, like air traffic control during a storm.

“Thank you,” I said before I could swallow it back.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The beach was Nat’s idea.

Of course it was.

—

She told me it was team bonding. “Tradition,” she said, grinning like the devil. “Mandatory,” she added, when I gave her the look.

I tried to make excuses — had reports to finish, laundry to do, a thousand ways to avoid being half-buried in sand with people who still didn’t know if they were supposed to talk about the headlines or pretend they didn’t exist.

But Nat was relentless. And honestly? I was too tired to keep saying no.

So I showed up.

Black tank top, aviators, hair pulled back in a braid. No one asked me to play at first. They weren’t sure how close to stand, how much was too much. It was easier that way. I kept to the shade with a beer, watching as the others launched into a game of dogfight football like their lives depended on it.

Rooster dove into the sand, yelling something about a fumble that didn’t exist. Hangman and Payback were locked in some macho shoving match. Nat zigzagged between them like a bullet. And Bob…

Bob was steady. Patient. He didn’t move like the others — no showboating, no shouting. He ran clean routes, made smart passes. He played like someone who understood rhythm, not noise.

He caught my eye once — not because I was trying to look, but because I already was.

He offered a smile. Brief. Real.

I nodded. Sipped my beer.

Eventually, Nat called for me. “Cipher! You’re in.”

I could’ve said no. Probably should have.

But something pulled at me — not the desire to play, not the camaraderie I still wasn’t sure I wanted. Just the fact that for a minute, I forgot to remember what I’d lost. For a minute, I remembered I used to be someone else.

I stepped in.

Within five minutes, I had a touchdown.

Within ten, I was trash-talking Hangman so fast he missed a block.

By the time Nat shouted, “Last play! Winner takes bragging rights for the month,” I was breathless and wild and didn’t recognize the laugh that came out of me.

The ball snapped. I cut left. Bob tracked me — saw it before I even moved.

We locked eyes across the sand, and I knew.

The ball flew. I jumped.

Caught it mid-air. Fell hard into the sand.

Someone — Payback, I think — dove after me too late and landed in a heap next to me. “Damn, Cipher,” he groaned. “You don’t miss.”

I sat up, brushing sand from my arms.

Bob stood over me, just a little winded. “You okay?”

I nodded. “That a real pass or were you showing off?”

He smiled again — that small, crooked half-smile that didn’t ask for anything. “Wouldn’t dare show off with you on the field.”

Nat whooped. Rooster clapped me on the back. Hangman grumbled about bad calls. Everyone buzzed around us, the way teams do when the game’s done and the adrenaline still lingers.

But I stayed sitting for a second longer.

Watching Bob.

He’d already turned back to the group, offering someone else a water bottle. But he’d looked at me like I was here. Not the Cipher from the headlines. Not the girl who got cheated on and ghosted by command when she tried to report it. Just… me.

And that?

That was dangerous.

Because I knew what happened when you let yourself get seen.

-

The hangar was quiet, save for the soft hum of a floor fan and the occasional creak of cooling metal. Most of the squad had cleared out hours ago, eager for drinks, beach plans, or anything that didn’t involve more forms.

I stayed behind.

Old habit — staying late, cleaning up details no one cared about but me. Maybe I liked the quiet. Or maybe I wasn’t ready to go home to a dark room and my own thoughts.

Bob was still here too.

I hadn’t noticed at first. He moved like silence — neat, efficient, unobtrusive. But when I looked up from my logbook, there he was, at the desk across from mine, flipping through reports with a red pen and a furrowed brow.

“You always stay this late?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He glanced up, a little startled, then offered a small shrug. “Only when the numbers don’t add up.”

I raised a brow. “You’re a perfectionist.”

Bob paused. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Just… rare.”

Silence stretched between us, not awkward, not charged. Just… easy. A kind of stillness I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Then my stomach growled. Loudly.

Bob looked up again, startled — then smiled, just barely. “Guess we forgot to eat.”

I blinked. “You didn’t eat either?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t notice.”

That made two of us.

A beat passed. Then he pulled out his phone. “I can order something. You like Chinese?”

I hesitated.

I should’ve said no. Should’ve made up an excuse, pretended I had something frozen waiting for me back home.

But instead I nodded. “Yeah. Chinese works.”

—

We sat on the hangar floor, takeout containers between us, eating lo mein with plastic forks like two rookies back from their first flight.

“This feels illegal,” I muttered around a bite. “Eating greasy noodles in a government hangar.”

Bob grinned. “Don’t tell Maverick.”

A laugh caught in my throat before I could stop it.

He looked at me like he’d just won something.

After a while, the conversation quieted. Not uncomfortable — just… heavier. The kind of silence where everything starts to feel a little more real. A little closer.

“You don’t talk much,” I said quietly, still not looking at him.

Bob shrugged. “Neither do you.”

Touché.

“But,” he added after a beat, “I notice things.”

I glanced at him. “Like what?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“You read the same three lines of that maintenance log five times,” he said softly. “Your left shoulder tenses when someone brings up press. You pretend you’re not watching people, but you’re tracking exits. And you never look at your phone unless someone else is looking.”

I froze.

His voice didn’t change. “That doesn’t scare me.”

I looked away. “It should.”

And that was when he kissed me.

Soft. Careful. Like a question. Like I could still say no.

I didn’t.

At least not right away.

His hand found the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheek. The warmth of him — the steadiness — made something in me ache.

But just as my fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, just as his breath hitched against mine—

I pulled back.

Fast. Like I’d been burned.

“I—” I stood abruptly, putting space between us. “I shouldn’t have let that happen.”

Bob blinked, eyes wide. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” I said too quickly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

But you did. You made me feel safe. You made me forget.

I forced a smile, already backing away. “I should go.”

He nodded, still sitting on the floor, still looking like he wanted to reach for me but knew better.

“Cipher—”

“Don’t,” I said, voice low. “Just… don’t.”

And I left.

Not because I didn’t want it.

Because I did.

But want had never been safe.

And I was done mistaking kindness for promises.

-

It had been months since I transferred in. Months of settling into this team. Months of drills and missions and inside jokes I somehow earned my way into. I had a seat at the table now — someone always saved me a spot. I sparred with Rooster, laughed with Payback, threw bar peanuts at Hangman. Phoenix still had my six.

But only Bob ever saw everything I didn’t say.

We never talked about it. The almosts. The whens and should we’s that hung like smoke between us. A kiss after late paperwork. A hug that lasted too long in the dark outside the Hard Deck. His hand brushing mine during flight checks.

We never let it go further. Not because we didn’t want to.

Because I couldn’t.

And he never asked me to explain why.

That’s how I knew it was real.

Now we were here — stranded in a half-frozen cabin, grounded and waiting out a blizzard that swallowed the world whole. 

“I keep things locked up,” I said again, quieter.

Bob looked at me like he could see the whole storm playing out behind my eyes. He didn’t press. Didn’t pry. Just passed me a thermal mug of weak black coffee and sat closer, the blanket tugged tighter around both of us.

The fire popped. My fingers were numb even with gloves. And his thigh was pressed to mine so solidly it felt like an anchor.

“I’m sorry,” I said, surprising both of us.

“For what?” he asked.

“For letting it go this far and… still keeping you at arm’s length.”

Bob’s expression didn’t change. But something flickered behind his eyes — something soft and steady.

“You don’t owe me anything, Cipher,” he said. “But if you want me to stop, you need to say so.”

I didn’t.

Instead, I leaned in, my heart pounding in my ears. I pressed my mouth to his, the kiss slow and deliberate, like I was finally giving in to something I’d been fighting for far too long. It was nothing like the stolen kisses we’d shared before—no rushed moments in hallways, no hiding in the shadows. This one was deep, intentional, like everything I hadn’t let myself want was finally surfacing.

Bob kissed me back, his hands moving to my jaw, steady and reverent, like he was afraid I’d shatter if he held me too tightly. But I didn’t want gentle. I wanted him, all of him, and I shifted closer, until I was almost in his lap, the blanket forgotten.

His lips moved to my neck, his breath hot against my chilled skin. One hand ghosted beneath the hem of my shirt, his touch light but insistent, like he was mapping the contours of my body for the first time. I shivered, not from the cold, but from the way his touch set my nerves on fire.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against my skin, his words a low rumble that sent a thrill through me. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

I tilted my head back, exposing more of my neck to him, and he took the invitation, his lips trailing kisses along my collarbone. His hand slid higher, his fingers brushing the underside of my breast, and I gasped, my body arching into his touch.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. “Tell me how you want me to touch you.”

I closed my eyes, my heart racing. “I want you to take your time,” I said, my voice barely audible. “I want you to make me feel it.”

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching mine, like he needed to see the truth in them. “I will,” he promised, his voice thick with desire. “I’ll make you feel everything.”

His hands moved slower then, deliberate, like he was savoring every inch of me. He unbuttoned my shirt, his fingers trembling slightly, and I helped him slide it off my shoulders, leaving me in just my bra. The cabin was cold, but his touch was fire, his palms warm as they glided over my skin.

“You’re perfect,” he said, his gaze lingering on my body, his admiration undeniable. “So fucking perfect.”

I felt a flush creep up my cheeks, but I didn’t look away. Instead, I reached for the hem of his sweater, pulling it over his head, revealing the lean, muscular frame beneath. His skin was warm, his chest dusted with fine hair, and I ran my hands over him, tracing the lines of his abs, the ridges of his shoulders.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I teased, my voice shaky.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound, and pulled me closer, his lips finding mine again. This time, the kiss was hungry, desperate, like we’d both been starving for this moment. His hands moved to my back, unhooking my bra with practiced ease, and I let it fall to the floor, my breath hitching as his gaze raked over me.

“God, you’re stunning,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “I’ve dreamed about this.”

I felt a surge of desire at his words, my confidence growing under his gaze. I reached for the waistband of his pants, my fingers trembling as I undid the button and pulled down the zipper. 

He hissed as my hand slid inside, wrapping around his erection, and I smirked, a wicked thrill running through me.

“You like that?” I asked, my voice low and teasing.

“Fuck, yes,” he groaned, his head falling back against the couch. “You have no idea.”

I stroked him slowly, savoring the way his body reacted to my touch, the way his breath quickened, his muscles tensing. “Tell me what you want,” I whispered, echoing his earlier words. “Tell me how you want me to touch you.”

He opened his eyes, his gaze locking with mine, his expression raw with need. “I want you to take control,” he said, his voice steady despite the desire burning in his eyes. “I want you to make me yours.”

The words sent a jolt of power through me, and I leaned in, kissing him deeply as I continued to stroke him. His hands moved to my hips, guiding me onto his lap, and I straddled him, our bodies pressing together, his hardness nestled against my core.

“You feel so good,” I murmured, grinding down on him, my breath catching at the friction.

“Not as good as you’re about to feel,” he promised, his hands moving to my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples, making me arch into his touch.

I moaned, my head falling back as pleasure washed over me. “Bob, please—”

“Soon,” he said, his voice a low growl. “But first, I want to taste you.”

Before I could respond, he stood, lifting me with him, and carried me to the couch, laying me down gently. He knelt between my legs, his gaze intense as he looked at me, like he was memorizing every detail of my body. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he said again, his voice filled with awe. “Let me show you how much I want you.”

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my pants and pulled them down, along with my underwear, leaving me completely bare. I felt exposed, vulnerable, but his gaze was so full of desire and reverence that I couldn’t look away.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, his lips brushing my inner thigh, sending shivers through me. “So fucking perfect.”

He kissed his way up my legs, his touch feather-light, his breath hot against my skin. When he reached my core, he paused, his gaze meeting mine, like he was asking for permission.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice desperate. “I need you.”

He smiled, a slow, wicked grin, and then his mouth was on me, his tongue tracing patterns that made me gasp and squirm. He was gentle at first, teasing, his tongue flicking against my clit, his fingers parting my folds. But then he grew bolder, his tongue plunging inside me, his fingers joining in, thrusting in and out in a rhythm that had me moaning his name.

“Bob—oh God, Bob—”

“You taste so good,” he murmured against my skin, his voice muffled but filled with delight. “So sweet. So fucking sweet.”

His words sent a rush of pleasure through me, and I arched into his touch, my hands tangling in his hair, holding him close. He sucked my clit into his mouth, his tongue swirling, his fingers pumping faster, and I felt the coil of tension inside me tighten, the pleasure building to an unbearable pitch.

“Bob, I’m close—”

“Come for me,” he urged, his voice a low growl. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

His words were all it took. My body shook as my orgasm crashed over me, waves of pleasure washing through me, my cries echoing in the small cabin. Bob drank it all in, his mouth never stopping, his fingers relentless, until I was a trembling mess beneath him.

When I finally came down, he kissed his way back up my body, his lips brushing mine, his eyes shining with satisfaction. “You’re incredible,” he whispered, his voice filled with wonder.

I smiled, my heart full, my body still buzzing with pleasure. “Your turn,” I said, reaching for his pants, my fingers trembling with anticipation.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound, and let me pull them down, his erection springing free. I took him in my hand, stroking him slowly, my thumb brushing the tip, and he groaned, his head falling back.

“Fuck, Cipher,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “You’re going to kill me.”

I leaned in, kissing him deeply as I continued to stroke him, my mouth moving in time with my hand. His hands tangled in my hair, holding me close, his hips thrusting slightly into my touch.

“I want to be inside you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I want to feel you around me.”

I smiled against his lips. “Then take me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He reached for the nightstand, pulling out a condom, and rolled it on with shaking hands. Then he positioned himself at my entrance, his gaze meeting mine, like he needed my permission one last time.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice gentle.

I nodded, my heart pounding with anticipation. “Now.”

He thrust into me, slow and steady, his eyes closing as he savored the sensation. I gasped at the fullness, at the way he stretched me, filled me completely. He was thick, his length pressing deep, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice a low groan. “So tight. So perfect.”

He began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the way my body felt around his. I met his rhythm, my hips moving with his, our bodies moving in perfect sync. The fire crackled, the blizzard raged outside, but in that moment, there was only him, only us.

“Bob—” I moaned, my nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure built inside me again.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice commanding. “Look at me when you come.”

I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze, and saw the raw desire burning in them. His thrusts grew harder, faster, his control slipping as he chased his own release.

“Cipher—fuck—I’m close—”

“Come with me,” I urged, my voice shaky. “Let go.”

His eyes closed, his face contorting with pleasure as he thrust deep one last time, his body stiffening as he came, his name on my lips. I followed him over the edge, my body shaking as my orgasm crashed into me, my cries mingling with his.

We stayed like that for a moment, our bodies still joined, our breaths ragged, the world outside forgotten. Then Bob pulled out, disposing of the condom, and gathered me into his arms, holding me close as we caught our breath.

“That was—” I started, but he cut me off with a kiss, his lips soft against mine.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice filled with satisfaction. “It was everything.”

I smiled, my heart full, my body still buzzing with pleasure. The blizzard raged on outside, but inside the cabin, we had found our own warmth, our own sanctuary. And as I snuggled into his embrace

—

The first thing I notice is the warmth.

The second is him.

Bob’s arm is slung over my waist, his chest pressed to my back, breathing slow and steady like he’s actually relaxed for once. I shift slightly, careful not to wake him, but his hand tightens on my side, pulling me back in like I belong there.

I let myself stay, just for a moment. Eyes closed, heart soft, memorizing the feeling of him—his warmth, the faint scratch of stubble on my neck, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my palm.

Then I feel it—his breath against my ear, the faintest huff of a laugh.

“You’re awake,” I mumble.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice rough from sleep. “Didn’t want to move.”

I turn over to face him, and he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at. His hair’s sticking up in every direction, glasses askew, and he’s wearing that old, soft Top Gun t-shirt that’s probably seen more sunrises than either of us.

He brushes a hand gently across my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear like it’s his job.

“So, uh…” He clears his throat, suddenly bashful. “Are we… uh, are we a thing now?”

I blink at him, caught off guard.

“A thing?” I echo, voice soft.

His cheeks flush pink, but he holds my gaze, eyes wide and hopeful. “I mean… I’ve kinda wanted to be a thing since, I dunno… the first time you called me ‘Glasses’ in front of the whole team.”

A laugh bursts out of me—a real one, bright and unfiltered.

“That was a joke!”

“Was it, though?” he grins, that crooked, Bob grin that makes my heart stumble in my chest.

I look at him—really look at him—and suddenly, I know.

“I think I want to be,” I say quietly, the words feeling heavy and light all at once. “I want this. I want you.”

His eyes go soft, impossibly tender, and he leans in, brushing a kiss to my forehead—gentle, reverent, like I’m something fragile he’s been waiting years to hold.

And I’m pretty sure I stop breathing.

We sit like that for a while, wrapped in the quiet, our fingers tangled together. The storm still rages outside, but in here, it’s warm—safe in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Eventually, Bob untangles himself and shuffles over to the tiny stove, fiddling with the ancient coffee pot like it might bite him.

“God, this stuff is terrible,” he mutters when the coffee finally sputters out, a thin, watery excuse for caffeine.

I take a sip anyway, wincing. “It’s… something.”

He laughs, and it’s the best sound in the world.

Then the radio crackles.

“Rescue team’s ten minutes out. You two decent in there?”

Phoenix’s voice, clear as day.

Bob practically chokes on his coffee, coughing and wide-eyed, while I scramble to grab the radio.

“Yeah, we’re good,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Just cold, tired, and ready to get the hell out of here.”

I glance at Bob, and he gives me a little grin—quiet, shy, like we’re sharing a secret.

Because we are.

When the team finally bursts in, Bob and I act like nothing happened. Just two aviators, weathering a storm.

But as we step outside into the snow, his hand brushes mine—and this time, I let my fingers curl into his. Just for a second.

Long enough for him to know I’m not going anywhere.

And I know—neither is he.

—

Back at base, everything’s supposed to go back to normal. Briefings, drills, checklists, the whole routine like clockwork.

But nothing feels normal. Not when every time I glance up, I catch Bob already looking at me—soft, quiet, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows something no one else does.

Like he knows me.

And maybe the others don’t notice at first. But it starts adding up.

Like how I’ll get up from the ready room table to grab a coffee or “go to the bathroom,” and not five minutes later, Bob magically has to stretch his legs, too.

“Oh, uh, I’ll—uh—head that way too, I guess,” he’ll mumble, cheeks pink.

The first time, no one blinks. The second time, Rooster’s eyebrow quirks up. The third time, Phoenix catches my eye and smirks like she knows.

And the worst part? We’re so bad at playing it cool.

Phoenix crosses her arms, smirking, and leans in toward Rooster, whispering loudly, “I give it a week before they start wearing matching sweaters.”

“Two days,” Fanboy counters.

“Guys,” Bob protests, flustered, but it’s half-hearted at best. His eyes find mine across the room, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling like an idiot.

It only gets worse.

Inside jokes start cropping up—mostly between Bob and me. Like the time Mav asks a question during a briefing, and Bob murmurs, “I think we need… cabin coffee for this.”

I choke on my drink, snorting so hard I nearly spill it all over my notes.

Everyone turns to stare.

Bob just sits there, all wide-eyed and innocent, as if he doesn’t know exactly what he just did.

And the way he looks at me after—soft, secret, like he’s holding onto a memory only we share—makes my chest ache in the best way.

the other night at the Hard Deck.

Everyone’s packed in, the bar loud with music and laughter, darts flying, bottles clinking. I’m at the bar, waiting for my drink, when Bob slips in beside me—close, but not too close.

“Hey,” he murmurs, soft enough that no one else hears.

“Hey, Bob,” I say back, fighting a grin.

It’s too easy, the way we fall into our own little world. He nudges my shoulder, and I nudge him back. We share a look when Payback tries to tell some long, winding story about a failed maneuver, and Bob’s eyes sparkle like he’s holding back a laugh just for me.

Then there’s the dart game.

Phoenix lines up her shot, eyebrow cocked. “Loser buys the next round.”

Bob steps up behind me and murmurs, “Aim a little left.”

I smirk. “Since when are you my coach, Floyd?”

He leans in—too close, definitely not regulation—and whispers, “Since the cabin.”

I nearly drop the dart.

Phoenix catches it. “What’s that about a cabin?”

Bob’s ears go bright red, and I’m this close to smacking him with the dartboard.

-

It was supposed to be a quick moment.

Just five minutes, tucked away in a quiet corner of the hangar after everyone had cleared out. Bob had been rambling about flight patterns, his hands waving in the air, glasses slipping down his nose, and I couldn’t help it—I had to kiss him.

And now here we are.

His back’s against the cold metal wall, his hands warm on my hips, his mouth soft and everywhere on mine.

It’s sweet and slow, like we’ve got all the time in the world, like the whole world shrank down to just this: me, Bob, and the sound of our ragged breathing echoing in the quiet.

I break away, forehead pressed to his, catching my breath.

“I like this,” Bob whispers, his voice so soft it feels like a secret.

“Me too,” I murmur, smiling against his lips, and then I’m pulling him in for another kiss—

And that’s when we hear it.

A loud, dramatic throat-clear.

I freeze. Bob’s eyes go wide, lips still parted, breath caught halfway between oh no and please let it be someone else.

Slowly—so slowly—we turn toward the noise.

And there, standing with his arms crossed and a very smug grin, is Hangman.

“Now, what do we have here?” he drawls, drawing out the words like he’s savoring every single syllable.

Bob practically jumps away from me, nearly tripping over his own feet. I swipe at my lips, cheeks burning, and try to come up with literally anyexplanation.

“Uh—” I start.

“Nope!” Hangman cuts in, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. “Don’t even try. I know exactly what I saw.”

Bob’s face is a shade of red I didn’t even know was humanly possible.

“Hangman,” I say, stepping forward, voice low and dangerous. “You can’tsay anything.”

He smirks, like he’s won the lottery. “Oh, I can say something. In fact, I’m dying to.”

Bob looks like he might actually pass out.

“Jake, please,” Bob says, voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t.”

“Please, Hangman,” I add, and I’m pretty sure my voice is borderline begging.

He taps a finger against his chin, pretending to think about it. “Hmm… what’s it worth to you?”

I narrow my eyes. “You would pull this.”

“Absolutely,” he grins, teeth blinding. “I mean, this is gold. ‘Glasses’ and ‘Cipher’ sneaking around like a couple of teenagers? The team’s gonna eat this up.”

“Jake.” Bob’s voice is soft, but desperate.

Hangman glances at him, then back at me, and for a second—just a second—he looks like he’s almost feeling generous.

I cross my arms, glaring. “Jake Seresin, if you say one word about this, I will personally make sure your locker mysteriously ‘loses’ all of your flight gear before your next sortie.”

Bob, bless him, tries a different tactic. “Look, we’re not trying to… make a thing out of it. Just… let us figure it out first, okay?”

Hangman’s smirk softens, just a little.

He lets out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Alright, alright, I’ll keep my mouth shut. For now. But don’t think for a second I won’t collect on this later.”

Bob lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours.

I give Jake a long, warning stare. “Not a word.”

He holds up his hands, all innocent-like. “Scout’s honor.”

As he walks away, whistling like he’s the hero of the story, Bob groans softly, burying his face in his hands.

“Well,” I mutter, “that was… not ideal.”

Bob peeks at me through his fingers, and somehow, we both start laughing, breathless and a little hysterical.

Because of course it was Hangman. And of course we’re not gonna live this down.

But for now… at least our secret’s safe.

Sort of.

—

The sun’s low in the sky, golden and warm, casting long shadows across the Hard Deck parking lot where someone—probably Fanboy—decided it would be a good idea to haul out a grill and have an impromptu squad barbecue.

There’s laughter, music, the smell of burgers and smoke in the air.

And absolutely zero chance we’re going to make it through this without someone saying something.

Bob and I showed up separately. Obviously.

But it took exactly five minutes for us to somehow end up standing way too close by the drinks cooler, and exactly ten for Hangman to start hovering.

He’s leaning against the bar with a beer in hand, watching us like a hawk—grinning, of course. Just waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

Bob’s trying to play it cool. He’s got his glasses on, hair a little messy from the wind, and he’s nodding along to whatever Rooster’s saying about football, but his hand is gripping his soda can way too tightly.

And every few seconds, he glances at me like he can’t help it. Like he’s trying to check in, make sure I’m okay, like we’re still tethered even in the middle of a crowd.

I’m just as bad. I keep catching myself smiling for no reason when he looks at me, and the way my stomach flips every time his arm brushes mine is so obvious, it’s a miracle no one’s called us out yet.

But then Hangman clears his throat.

Loudly.

“Man,” he says, voice pitched just loud enough to carry over the music, “this barbecue’s almost as hot as the sparks flying over by the cooler.”

Everyone turns.

Bob practically jumps. I freeze, a solo cup halfway to my lips, and glare daggers at Jake, who’s grinning like he just won the lottery.

Rooster’s eyebrows shoot up. Phoenix glances between us, her eyes narrowing like she’s connecting the dots.

Bob’s cheeks flush a deep, tell-tale red, and I can feel my own face heating up.

“We’re—” Bob starts, voice cracking slightly, “uh, we’re just… standing here.”

“Sure you are, Glasses,” Hangman smirks, stretching out the nickname in that infuriatingly smug drawl.

Bob sputters. I glare.

“Jake,” I warn, stepping in, voice low, “don’t.”

He just grins wider. “Relax, Cipher. I’m not saying anything… just making an observation.”

Phoenix folds her arms, watching us with a smirk, clearly enjoying the absolute trainwreck unfolding in front of her.

Bob’s about to combust. I can see it in the way he’s fidgeting, hands tugging at the hem of his t-shirt like it might save him.

So I do the only thing I can do—grab his hand under the table, squeeze gently, and shoot him a look that says we’ll survive this.

Because we will.

Eventually, the team drifts back into their conversations, the moment fading.

But Hangman?

He catches my eye, tips an imaginary hat, and mouths “You owe me”before turning away.

Bob lets out a long breath, eyes wide, and mutters, “We’re so bad at this.”

“Yeah,” I whisper back, smiling despite myself. “But I kinda like it.”

And when his fingers brush mine again, soft and quick, like a promise, I know we’ll figure it out.

Even if the whole squad knows exactly what’s going on.

-

The Hard Deck is loud tonight—music thumping, laughter bouncing off the walls, and the squad scattered across the bar like it’s home base.

I’m standing by the pool table, pretending to watch Rooster line up a shot, but really, I’m hyper-aware of Bob across the room, sitting with Hangman and Fanboy, a beer in one hand and that quiet, thoughtful look in his eyes.

It’s been like this for weeks now—stolen glances, “accidental” run-ins, lingering touches when no one’s looking.

And somehow, we’ve kept it under wraps.

Or… we had.

Because that’s when I hear it.

Bob, in his sweet, earnest voice, casually saying:

“Yeah, I think Cipher and I are just gonna grab dinner after this.”

Time freezes.

My stomach drops.

Hangman—sitting right across from Bob—slowly turns his head, a grin spreading across his face like a slow-motion car crash.

Rooster chokes on his beer, coughing so hard he has to thump his chest. Phoenix spins around from the dartboard, eyebrows halfway to the ceiling.

Bob?

Absolutely oblivious.

He’s still talking, going on about how there’s this new Italian place we’ve been wanting to try, and I can see it happening in real-time—the moment he realizes—

His voice falters.

His cheeks flush bright pink.

His eyes dart around the room like a deer in headlights, finally catching the looks being thrown his way.

“Oh,” he mumbles, blinking rapidly. “Uh. I mean… just, uh, as friends—”

“Bob.” Hangman’s voice is silk and poison, smug dripping from every syllable. “You sure about that, buddy?”

Bob opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. He’s completely flustered.

I can’t help it—I burst out laughing. It just bubbles up, unstoppable, and when Bob’s eyes snap to mine, mortified, I just shake my head, grinning.

“Smooth, Floyd,” I tease, crossing my arms. “Really subtle.”

Payback lets out a howl of laughter, slapping the table like he’s at a comedy show. “I knew it! Knew it, knew it!”

Bob groans, covering his face with both hands.

“I’m so sorry,” he mutters behind his palms.

I reach over, gently tugging his hand down. “Hey. It’s okay.”

He peeks at me, cheeks still bright red, and whispers, “I’m so bad at this.”

“You’re adorable,” I whisper back, grinning so wide it hurts.

Hangman leans in, grinning ear to ear. “So… dinner date, huh?”

Bob looks at me, eyes soft and a little resigned, and then—finally—he shrugs.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, but with this quiet certainty that makes my heart flip. “Cipher and I are a thing.”

And just like that, the whole bar erupts.

Cheers, laughter, Phoenix throwing a coaster at us and yelling, “Finally!” Rooster shaking his head with a grin like he’d bet money on it months ago.

Bob looks at me, like he’s a little overwhelmed but also relieved, and I just smile, squeezing his hand under the table.

Because yeah. The secret’s out.

And it feels really, really good.

—

It’s late afternoon when I show up at Bob’s apartment, arms full of snacks, the weight of the week falling off my shoulders as soon as I step through the door.

Bob’s already in his cozy mode—sweatpants, a hoodie, glasses slightly askew as he fiddles with the TV settings, trying to make sure the entireMarvel collection is queued up for the marathon.

“Hey,” he says when he sees me, voice soft, eyes lighting up like I just made his day.

I grin, kicking off my shoes and dropping the snacks on the counter. “Hey yourself, Glasses.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, cheeks already turning pink, and I feel that familiar pull in my stomach—the one that makes it way too easy to get lost in those sweet blue eyes.

“I brought the essentials,” I say, holding up a giant bag of popcorn. “Also, drinks, candy, and…” I dig through the bag, “a whole lot of regret for the sheer amount of time we’re about to waste watching every single Marvel movie.”

Bob laughs again, softer this time, and I catch the way his gaze lingers on me a little too long.

The apartment smells like popcorn already—he’s got a batch going in the kitchen, and the windows are cracked open to let in the cool evening air. It feels comfortable, like we’ve done this a thousand times.

And maybe that’s why it happens.

I’m helping him set up the blankets on the couch—fluffing pillows, arguing over the best blanket placement—when I glance up and find him watching me.

Really watching me.

His mouth is slightly parted, eyes soft behind his glasses, like he’s thinkingsomething he hasn’t dared to say out loud yet.

My breath catches.

“What?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

He swallows, shaking his head like he shouldn’t say it, but then—

“I just…” His voice is quiet, warm, gentle, like a secret he’s been keeping close to his chest. “I really like this.”

“Movie night?” I tease, even though my heart is racing.

He gives me a look—one that says, You know that’s not what I mean—and takes a small step closer, enough that I feel the heat of him, the way his breath hitches just a little when I don’t move away.

I swear the world tilts.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, Bob reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and let his fingers linger on my cheek. The air between them crackled with tension, thick and electric.

“Bob,” I breathed, his name feeling like a promise on my tongue.

He leaned in, his eyes fluttering shut, and kissed me. It was soft at first, a brush of lips that made my knees go weak. But then my hands were in his hair, and his arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us. The kiss grew hungry, desperate—like we’d been waiting too long and couldn’t wait anymore.

His breath was ragged against my skin as his lips trailed down to my jaw, my neck. I tugged at his hoodie, pulling him even closer, my fingers digging into the fabric as if to anchor him to me. His hands slid down my back, pressing me against him, and I could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of my shirt.

“God, Y/N,” he murmured against my skin, his voice rough with need. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

I didn’t respond with words, just tightened my grip on his hair and pulled him back up for another kiss. This time, it was fierce, our lips moving against each other with an urgency that left no doubt about how we felt.

Bob broke away first, his chest heaving as he looked at me with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. “Bedroom,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Now.”

I nodded, my heart pounding in my ears as he took my hand and led me down the hallway. The bedroom was dimly lit, the evening light filtering through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. Bob didn’t waste any time, pressing me against the door and kissing me again, his hands roaming over my body like he was memorizing every curve.

I moaned into the kiss, my hands sliding under his hoodie to trace the muscles of his back. He was strong, his body lean and athletic, and I reveled in the feel of him against me. His lips moved down my neck, his teeth grazing my skin as he whispered, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

The praise sent a shiver down my spine, but it was the edge in his voice—a hint of something darker, more primal—that made my knees weaken. Bob wasn’t just gentle; he was hungry, and I loved it.

He pushed me back onto the bed, his eyes never leaving mine as he hovered above me. “You’re mine, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “Do you understand?”

I smirked, arching my back slightly. “Prove it.”

The challenge in my tone seemed to ignite something in him. His eyes darkened, and he grabbed my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand while the other tangled in my hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp. “Oh, I will,” he growled, before slamming his lips back down on mine.

The kiss was rough now, his tongue demanding entrance as he kissed me like he was claiming me. I moaned, my body arching against his as I surrendered to the intensity of the moment. His free hand slid down my body, pulling up my shirt to expose my bra. He traced the lace with his fingers before hooking his thumbs under the straps and sliding it off, his eyes devouring me.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice thick with desire. “Your tits are perfect.”

I felt a flush of heat at his words, the mix of praise and degradation sending a jolt of pleasure through me. Bob leaned down, taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking hard, his tongue swirling as his hand squeezed my other breast. I cried out, my head tossing back into the pillow as I tangled my fingers in his hair, urging him closer.

“Bob, please,” I panted, my body thrumming with need.

He smirked against my skin, his breath hot as he moved lower, kissing down my stomach. His hands slid down my jeans, unbuttoning them slowly, deliberately, as he looked up at me with a mix of hunger and reverence. 

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmured, his fingers brushing against me through the fabric of my panties. “You want this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I gasped, my hips lifting off the bed as he hooked his fingers into my jeans and panties, sliding them down my legs. “God, yes.”

Bob’s eyes locked on me, his expression intense as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over my core. 

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, his voice rough.

“I want you to fuck me,” I said, my voice steady despite the desperation she felt. “Now.”

He smirked, his fingers tracing the edges of my lips before slipping inside me. I was slick, my body ready for him, and he groaned at the feel of my heat enveloping his hand. 

“So fucking wet,” he repeated, his thumb pressing against my clit as he slid a second finger inside me. “You’re dripping for me, aren’t you?”

I moaned, my head falling back into the pillow as I squirmed beneath his touch. “Bob, please. I need you.”

He chuckled, a dark, satisfied sound, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to my thigh. 

“Impatient, aren’t we?”

I rolled my eyes, even as my body betrayed me with another desperate moan. “Just get on with it.”

Bob’s smirk widened as he stood, shedding his hoodie and sweatpants to reveal his toned body. His glasses were askew, his hair tousled, and he looked utterly undone—and it was the hottest thing I’d ever seen. He reached for his belt, his eyes never leaving mine as he undid his jeans and pushed them down, revealing his erection, thick and hard.

My breath caught at the sight, my body aching for him. He stepped out of his jeans, kicking them aside before reaching for me again, his hands gripping my hips as he positioned himself between my legs.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

I nodded, my heart pounding as he pressed the tip of his cock against my entrance. “Fuck me, Bob.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. With one swift thrust, he buried himself inside me, his eyes closing as he let out a ragged groan. I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders as I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growled, his hips snapping forward as he began to move. Each thrust was deliberate, powerful, filling me completely as he set a relentless pace.

I met his rhythm, my body moving with his as I lost myself in the sensation. His hands gripped my hips tightly, his fingers leaving bruises as he pounded into my, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

“You like this, don’t you?” he panted, his voice laced with satisfaction. “You like being fucked by me.”

“Yes,” I moaned, my head tossing back as I felt her orgasm building. “God, yes.”

Bob leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered, “Cum for me, Y/N. Let me feel you fall apart.”

His words pushed me over the edge. my body tightened around him as I cried out, my orgasm ripping through me like a wave, my nails digging into his back as I rode it out. Bob groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own release, his hips snapping forward one last time before he stilled, his body trembling as he spilled himself inside me.

For a moment, we were both silent, our breaths ragged as we clung to each other. Then, just as Bob pulled out and collapsed beside me, the doorbell rang.

It’s way too quiet when the doorbell rings.

Bob and I freeze, tangled up in each other in the middle of his bed, both of us flushed and breathless, the remains of the movie night snacks scattered across the dresser.

I stare at the ceiling, panting, my shirt somewhere on the floor, and Bob’s hair is sticking up in all directions, his glasses crooked, lips definitely kiss-bruised.

And then—

Ding-dong!

“Shit.”

Bob launches himself off the bed like the doorbell is a grenade.

I can’t stop laughing, the sound bubbling up in my chest as I pull the blankets around me and watch him scramble to find his sweatpants. He’s halfway hopping into them when the team starts knocking like they’re about to bust the door down.

“Bob!” Rooster calls, voice way too loud. “You alive in there, man?”

Bob fumbles with his hoodie, cheeks flushed red, muttering under his breath as he bolts to the front door.

The second it opens—

Hangman leans in, smirking so hard it looks like his face might crack. “Well, well, if it isn’t Bobby I-Just-Got-Lucky Floyd.”

Phoenix chokes on her soda, Rooster wheezes, and Payback is dying in the back, barely holding it together.

Bob’s face goes nuclear.

“I—what? No, I—uh, we were just—” he stammers, his hands flailing.

“Oh, we know,” Hangman says, voice dripping with amusement as he pushes his way inside, holding up the pizza box like a trophy. “Just wasn’t expecting to interrupt.”

Bob looks absolutely mortified, rubbing the back of his neck as the rest of the team files in, smirking and laughing and throwing him looks.

I give it five whole minutes before I walk out of Bob’s room—wearing his hoodie, hair still a mess, cheeks burning.

The second I appear, the team erupts.

“Oh, look who finally decided to join us!” Rooster crows, clapping his hands together.

“Confirmed,” Hangman grins, gesturing between us. “Bobby ‘I-Just-Got-Lucky’ Floyd and his very happy girlfriend.”

Phoenix is leaning back in the armchair, arms crossed, giving me the most knowing smirk like, you’re not even trying to hide it anymore.

Bob groans into his hands, and I can’t help it—I’m grinning.

“Alright, alright,” I say, throwing my hands up as I grab a slice of pizza from the box. “You guys gonna keep teasing us, or are we watching Iron Man?”

Hangman just laughs, leaning back on the couch, but the glint in his eyes says this definitely isn’t the last we’ll hear about it.

Bob catches my gaze across the room, cheeks still pink, but when I smile at him, he smiles back—soft, like he can’t believe how lucky he is.

And honestly?

Neither can I.

—

The apartment is quiet chaos in the morning light.

Half the team is still asleep, sprawled across Bob’s couch and floor in a mess of blankets and empty soda cans. Rooster’s got an arm flung over his eyes, snoring like a freight train. Fanboy is curled up in an armchair, drooling slightly, and Phoenix is half-awake, mumbling to herself as she tries to shove Hangman’s very annoying leg off her lap.

Hangman, of course, is the only one who looks remotely alive—sitting at the counter in a t-shirt and sweatpants, sipping a mug of coffee like he owns the place, smirking at me and Bob every time we brush past each other in the kitchen.

“Morning, lovebirds,” he drawls, lifting his mug in a lazy salute.

Bob flushes a shade of pink I didn’t know existed, fumbling with the carton of eggs, and I can’t help but grin.

“Careful, Bagman,” I say, tilting my head as I flip a pancake, “or you’ll be on dishes duty.”

Hangman’s smirk widens like I’ve just issued a challenge.

“Oh, I know what you two were up to last night,” he says, voice just loud enough to make Bob nearly drop the spatula. “Our boy Bobby I-Just-Got-Lucky Floyd here—looking awfully smug this morning, aren’t you?”

Bob goes red—cherry red—and I nudge him with my hip, biting back a laugh as I plate the pancakes.

“You’re such an ass, Jake,” I mutter, but I’m grinning, because honestly? It feels good—to have this, to be teased like this, to have a place.

Bob glances at me, his eyes soft and warm behind his glasses, and for a second, it’s like the room melts away—just him and me, quiet and ours.

By the time everyone’s finally up, we’re gathered around the table, plates piled high with pancakes, eggs, and bacon. The coffee’s lukewarm and the pancakes are a little burned at the edges, but no one cares.

The team is loud—joking, laughing, stealing food off each other’s plates. Payback’s recounting a mission gone sideways, Rooster’s half-listeningwhile arguing with Fanboy about who would win in a fight: Iron Man or Captain America.

And I’m just… watching.

Watching Bob refill Phoenix’s coffee like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Watching Hangman tease Bob and get a pancake thrown at him for it. Watching Bob’s hand rest on my knee under the table, his thumb brushing back and forth like he can’t not touch me.

It’s messy and loud and perfect.

And it hits me, sudden and deep and a little overwhelming:

I don’t have to carry the weight of my past anymore.

I don’t have to prove anything to anyone—not to my ex, not to the Navy, not even to myself.

This right here—Bob’s soft smile, the way he looks at me like I’m everything, the sound of the team laughing like family around the table—this is what matters.

I’m not the girl who got left behind.

I’m Cipher.

And I’m happy.

I catch Bob’s gaze, and he must see it—something in my face, in the way I’m holding myself, because he smiles at me like I just lit up his whole world.

And maybe I did.

[strawberryrnilk]

Ghost getting salty about capable!reader

Simon has always been a provider. A helper. The one who does things for people and not the other way around.

So when he meets you, his precious little doll, someone he can care for and provide for, he’s more than happy to! Except…

You’re late from work one day, arriving home, hair a little frazzled. “What happened love? Where were you?” Simon rushes to you.

“Oh, got a flat tyre, had to put the space saver on” you groan with a smile and head to the sink to wash the dirt off your hands.

Simon huffs. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Oh nah, it’s all good I just changed it” you smile at him, but then frown. “Now I gotta go get a new one tomorrow, ugh”

And he’s peeved. Because he could’ve changed your tyre for you. He could have come to the rescue. But at hearing you need to buy a new tyre he starts pulling out his wallet but you stop him. “No, Si, it’s okay I’ve put money away for stuff like this” you smile up at him and wander off, leaving him dumbfounded.

Another time, he hears you swearing in the bedroom, he wanders in to see the dresser half falling apart and a grumpy look on your face. “Y’alright love?”

“This bloody thing is useless! The nails are too short!”

“It’s alright, love, I’ll get you a new one-“ but before he can finish you’re already headed to the shed to get a hammer and nails. He can’t deny it’s kinda sexy seeing you with a scowl on your face hammering away at the dresser. By the time you’re finished it’s better than new.

He can’t deny it’s also kinda sexy seeing you under the sink when he get back home, fixing the leaky tap after he insisted he’d fix it. He’s also pissed tho because he’s supposed to be doing that for you.

He’s also pissed about that time you were at the pub and some fuckhead grabbed your ass so you turned and gave him a good hiding. He’s supposed to be the one doing that!

Or the time you were both out for a run, he’s obviously way faster than you and when you tried to catch up you fell and split your shin open. He tried to pick you up but you pushed through and ran back home. He tried to help patch you up but you did it yourself without thinking, only a small wince when you cleaned the wound and blood. He sulked.

Or the time you wanted to rearrange the lounge and moved all the furniture yourself without asking for help.

Or the time you carried all the groceries inside in one trip. He sulked again. What are all those muscles for if not to help you?!

Or the time you needed a new phone/computer and he’s pulling out his wallet but you already saved up and brought it for yourself proudly.

Or or or

Would he have it any other way? Maybe.. no he would not

[girlinterupptedsblog]

Frat boy rafe doesent know how to fuck properly

Pairing: frat!rafe cameron x reader

Warnings: (smut 18+, frat boy Rafe behavior (cocky, entitled, desperate), inexperience, unfulfilling experience, mild degradation/frustration, light alcohol consumption, messy, not romantic)

Rafe had been circling you like a vulture for weeks.

It wasn’t even about you—not really. It was about the chase, the fact that you weren’t giving in as easily as the others. The more you rejected his advances, the more he obsessed over the idea of getting you in bed. And you knew it. You saw the way his eyes would darken whenever you shot him down, the way he would always try again like he had something to prove.

He wasn't subtle. Not at all. Every chance he got, he had some excuse to get you alone. Every night at parties, he was in your space, offering you drinks you didn’t ask for, whispering things in your ear that he thought were smooth. He didn’t even try to hide that he was only after one thing.

"Come on," he groaned one night, cornering you in the kitchen at a house party. His breath reeked of cheap beer, his hand splaying against the counter beside you, blocking you in. "Why are you making this so hard?"

"Maybe because I don’t want to?" you teased, watching frustration flicker across his face.

But that wasn’t entirely true, and you both knew it.

Rafe was an ass, a spoiled rich boy with entitlement issues, but you couldn’t lie and say you hadn’t thought about it. He was hot, obnoxiously so. He had this effortless kind of arrogance, all strong arms and cocky smirks, and as annoying as he was, he was still magnetic. You knew exactly why girls lined up for him. But still—you held out, dragging it on longer than necessary, just to see how desperate he’d get.

And he got desperate.

By the time you finally gave in, he was already half out of his mind with want.

It happened in his room, the air thick with tension, his hands greedy and impatient. He didn’t waste time. The second you let him know it was happening, he was on you—mouth everywhere, hands fumbling with your clothes like he was scared you’d change your mind.

He was rushed. So, so rushed.

You could tell he had no idea how to pace himself, no sense of control. He was all over you, hands squeezing, pulling, gripping, as if he couldn’t decide what to focus on. He didn’t know how to take his time, how to make it good for you. He was just chasing his own high, acting purely on impulse.

"Fuck—" he panted against your skin, already working to get his jeans off, his breath hot against your neck. "You don’t know how bad I need this."

You almost laughed. Oh, you knew.

The desperation was pouring off him in waves. He was so worked up, so frantic, that he barely let you breathe between kisses. His hands trembled slightly when he shoved your underwear down, his fingers clumsy against your skin.

And then—just like that—he was in you.

No teasing, no buildup, no attempt at making it feel good for you. He just buried himself inside you with a strained groan, gripping your hips so tight it almost hurt.

And it was bad.

Not the worst experience you’d ever had, but definitely not good.

He was messy, unsure, and completely out of rhythm. His thrusts were erratic, too fast one second and too slow the next, like he couldn’t decide what worked. He kept adjusting, shifting positions, like he thought the issue was in the angle instead of the fact that he had no idea what the hell he was doing.

"You like that?" he asked at one point, voice breathless, and you almost rolled your eyes because—no. Not really.

It was obvious he was trying to figure out how to talk you through it, but it just wasn’t working. Every time he opened his mouth, he second-guessed himself, stumbling over his words like he didn’t know what you wanted to hear.

And then—it was over.

Way too soon.

His breath hitched, his body tensed, and you barely had time to process it before he was finishing, groaning against your shoulder as he lost control completely.

You didn’t even try to hide your disappointment.

Rafe, still breathing heavily, finally pulled back enough to look at you. His face was flushed, his hair damp with sweat, and for the first time since you’d met him, he looked uncertain.

You could practically see it in his eyes—the slow realization that he hadn’t gotten you off. That it hadn’t been good for you. That maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as smooth as he thought.

"Did you…" he trailed off, searching your face.

You just raised a brow.

He groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. "Fuck."

[gf2bellamy]

hiii!

i was wondering if you could write spencer x reader, where she’s having a really bad day but spencer is coming home from a case and is exhausted, mentally and physically so she feels guilty that she would bother him with her mood

So she just hides away and is on the verge of a panic attack and spencer finds her and is all “you save me, so pls let me save you” and just comforts her (and calls her angel because 🫠)

thankyouuu so much (you dont have to do it if you dont want! no pressure at all!) i love your writing, it’s so incredibly cute and endearing <3

exhaustion — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader crying a lot , reader feeling guilty / tired / exhausted, spencer calls reader angel a/n: hii thank you so much for your request !! i hope you like this <3

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. You sat on the couch, curled up in one corner, staring blankly at the empty space in front of you. The TV was off, the big overhead light was off, and the only light came from the small lamp on the side table.

You hadn’t moved in what felt like hours, your mind swirling with the events of the day. It had been one of those days. The kind where nothing went right, where every little thing seemed to pile up until you felt like you were drowning under the weight of it all. 

You missed Spencer. A lot. Especially right now.

He had a way of making everything feel better. You longed for his comforting hugs and the way he’d listen to you ramble about your day.

But he wasn’t here. He was at work, buried under mountains of paperwork and case files.

But then, the sound of keys jingling in the lock snapped you out of your thoughts. You jumped up from the couch, your heart leaping in your chest as you hurried to the door.

Spencer stepped inside, looking disheveled and exhausted. His tie was loosened, his hair was a mess, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He dropped his bag by the door with a heavy thud, and before you could say a word, he pulled you into a tight hug. 

You melted into his embrace, your arms wrapping around his neck as you buried your face in his shoulder. He smelled like coffee and faintly of paper. For a moment, you just stood there, holding each other.

“I missed you,” Spencer mumbled into your hair, his voice muffled but sincere. His hands rubbed soothing circles on your back.

“I missed you too,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. You didn’t want to let go, but after a moment, he pulled back slightly, his hands moving to cradle your face. His thumbs brushed gently over your cheeks.

“Today was horrible,” he said with a sigh, his shoulders slumping as he let go of you to shrug off his jacket. He ran a hand through his hair, looking more tired than you’d seen him in a long time. 

You bit your lip, hesitating. “What happened?” you asked softly, following him as he moved further into the apartment. 

He sighed again, sinking onto the couch and leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Just… paperwork. So much paperwork. And then Garcia’s computer crashed, so we lost half the files we needed, and Hotch wanted everything reorganized by tomorrow morning…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It was just one thing after another.” 

You sat down next to him, your heart aching as you watched him. He looked so drained, so unlike his usual self, and you felt a pang of guilt for even thinking about burdening him with your own problems.

Today had been hard for you, but it sounded like it had been even harder for him. The last thing you wanted was to add to his stress. 

So instead of talking about your day, you reached out and took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “That sounds awful.” 

He gave you a small, tired smile, his fingers intertwining with yours. “It’s okay. It’s just… one of those days, you know?” 

You nodded, your throat tightening. You did know.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him. Instead, you shifted closer, pulling him into another hug. He leaned into you, his head resting on your shoulder as you ran your fingers through his hair. 

“How was your day?” Spencer mumbled, his voice soft and drowsy as he leaned back against the couch, pulling you with him.

You settled against his side, his head still resting on your shoulder as your fingers continued to gently card through his hair.

The question caught you off guard, and you hesitated for a moment, your hand stilling briefly before you forced yourself to keep moving. 

“It was… good,” you said, your voice carefully neutral. You tried to inject a note of cheerfulness into your tone, but it came out sounding hollow, even to your own ears. 

Spencer hummed against your shoulder, seemingly too tired to notice the slight falter in your voice. “I’m glad,” he murmured, his words muffled as he nuzzled closer to you. His warmth was comforting, but it did little to ease the tightness in your chest. 

After a moment, he shifted, pressing a soft kiss to your temple before slowly sitting up. “I’m going to get changed,” he said, his voice still heavy with exhaustion.

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze before standing and heading toward the bedroom, leaving you alone on the couch. 

As soon as he was out of sight, the lump in your throat returned, thicker and more suffocating than before. You bit your lip hard, trying to hold back the tears that had been threatening to spill all evening.

But it was no use. The dam broke, and before you could stop yourself, you were on your feet, hurrying toward the bathroom. 

You shut the door behind you, leaning against it as the first tear slipped down your cheek. Then another. And another.

Soon, you were crying , your shoulders shaking as you tried to stifle the sobs that threatened to escape. You muttered curses under your breath, frustrated with yourself for not being able to hold it together. 

“Get it together,” you whispered harshly, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. But the tears wouldn’t stop.

The tears kept running, your shoulders shaking as you tried to stifle the sobs that threatened to escape.

You felt like a mess, your face hot and your chest tight. But just as you were about to try to pull yourself together, you heard footsteps outside the bathroom door, followed by a soft knock. 

“Hey,” Spencer’s voice came through the door, gentle and concerned. “Can I come in?” 

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. You didn’t know what to do. Part of you wanted to tell him to go away, to spare him from seeing you like this, but another part of you desperately needed him.

You muttered a curse under your breath, wiping at your face with the back of your hand before slowly getting to your feet. 

You opened the door just enough to peek out, your eyes meeting Spencer’s. He was standing there, his expression soft but worried. His hair was still a mess, but his eyes were focused entirely on you. 

“Hey, hey,” he said immediately, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?” 

You sniffled, your throat tightening as you tried to find the words. “I—” you started, but your voice broke, and you shook your head, unable to continue.

How could you even begin to explain? Everything was wrong. The entire day had been wrong, and now you felt like you were falling apart. 

Spencer didn’t push. Instead, he reached out, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek, wiping away a tear. His touch was so tender that it only made you cry harder.

“Come on,” he said softly, his hand slipping down to take yours. He gave it a gentle squeeze before pulling you with him, leading you out of the bathroom and down the hallway. 

You followed him numbly, your fingers intertwined with his as he guided you to the bedroom. He sat you down on the edge of the bed and knelt in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he looked up at you, his eyes searching yours. 

“Talk to me, angel,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “What’s going on?” 

The nickname made your heart ache, and you shook your head, fresh tears spilling over. “I didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “You had such a bad day, and I didn’t want to make it worse.” 

Spencer’s expression softened, his hands moving to cradle your face. “You could never make my day worse,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And you’re never a bother. Not to me. Not ever.” 

You shook your head again, your hands gripping his wrists as you tried to steady yourself. “But you were so tired, and I didn’t want to—” 

“Hey,” he interrupted gently, his thumbs brushing away your tears. “You save me, I save you. That’s how this works, remember?” 

You nodded slowly, your breath hitching as more tears spilled over by just hearing those sweet words. Spencer leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before pulling you into his arms.

You went willingly, burying your face in his shoulder as he held you close. His hands rubbed soothing circles on your back, and you felt some of the tension in your chest begin to ease. After a while he slowly let go, but his hands remaining on your arms.

“Tell me about your day,” he said after a while, his voice soft but insistent. “What happened?” 

You hesitated, but the way he was looking at you—so patient, so understanding—made it impossible to hold back. So you told him. You told him about everything that had gone wrong.

And he listened, his hands never leaving yours, his eyes never wavering from yours. 

When you were done, he pulled you into his arms again, holding you tightly against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “I’m sorry you had such a bad day. But I’m here now, okay? And I’m not going anywhere.” 

You nodded, your face buried in his shoulder as you clung to him. For the first time all day, you felt like you could breathe again. Like maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his shirt. 

Spencer pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his arms tightening around you. “Always, angel,” he said softly. “Always.” 

[fandoms-x-reader]

MC Faints

Requested By: @space-dragon-ace

Headcannons

Summary: The brothers (individually) react to MC who faints. Word Count: 4,146

This time of year had been the most stressful for you.

The brothers were always fighting for your attention, so you rarely had time for yourself. 

You felt like the second you got home from RAD you were being pulled left and right by one brother or another.

And while you appreciated that they wanted to hang out with you, exams were coming up and as an exchange student, there was an immense amount of pressure on you to do good.

And since you were under that pressure, you had to find time to make sure you were studying.

Which unfortunately meant cutting into your sleep schedule.

You were overworked and exhausted and the only thing that was keeping you upright was the anxiety of knowing that the exams were in the next few days.

Lucifer was a very overworked person himself. So, he had a hard time noticing when someone was struggling to keep up with their workload.

It’s not that he couldn’t pick up on the signs of your exhaustion, it’s just between student council business and keeping his brothers out of trouble, he didn’t really have time to look for those signs.

So, when you fainted in the middle of a student council meeting, he was more surprised than anything.

You had been standing there, looking just as you usually did with no noticeable signs of distress.

And then the next second you were on the ground with his brothers surrounding you.

After the initial shock, Lucifer began thinking of reasons as to why you may have fainted and that’s when all of the little signals suddenly became clear to him.

It’s as if they were bright neon signs that stated you were overtired and ready to collapse.

And Lucifer suddenly became very protective of you, telling his brothers to give you space before whisking you away to the House of Lamentation where he could properly take care of you.

Lucifer held your hand the entire time you were asleep, gently touching his other hand to your forehead occasionally to make sure you weren’t running a fever or anything like that.

When you finally woke up, Lucifer gave you a small smile, apologizing to you for not noticing the signs of your suffering earlier.

“It’s not your fault, Lucifer,” you reassured him before adding, “I just need to do a better job of managing my time.”

Lucifer planned on helping with that.

He already planned to have a long talk with his brothers about respecting your time so that you didn’t have to sacrifice your own health just to keep up with your grades.

On top of that, Lucifer invited you to his room after school much more often. 

He claimed that it was to help make sure you were staying relaxed, but in reality, he needed a break just as much as you did.

And you were the only thing that helped him relax. 

Demons didn’t get sick the same way that humans did.

That was one thing you had come to learn during your time in the Devildom.

They didn’t have a flu season and they didn’t get shots to stave off illness.

So when you started feeling sick, you didn’t think to mention it to the brothers.

After all, you were sure it would only end in a very long conversation consisting of you trying to explain your sickness while they bombarded you with a hundred questions.

You did your best to hide how awful you were really feeling, wearing a smile and doing your best to not look shaky or pale.

And it seemed to work because the brothers were as persistent as ever about spending time with you - especially Mammon.

And you loved spending time with Mammon. You thought it was adorable how he always fought for your attention.

But, today, you were hoping that he would get tired of going out and doing things and let you return to the House of Lamentation.

You would be fine even if he wanted to watch a movie with you at home. Then, if you fell asleep, you could just say you were really tired. It’s not like Mammon would be mad at you for very long anyway.

But, of course, when you were feeling very under the weather,+

Mammon decided he had a full day planned for the two of you.

From shopping to watching him do a photo shoot to trying out new restaurants - Mammon just wanted to spend the whole day together.

You did your best to keep up - to act like nothing was wrong.

But at the end of the day your ailment caught up to you and as you were standing next to Mammon at the casino, you felt incredibly lightheaded.

“I think I’m going to go sit down for a moment,” you told Mammon and he gave you a small frown.

“But, I’m about to win the jackpot!” Mammon argued and you once again smiled at him, agreeing to stay.

Moments later, Mammon did win the jackpot. He let out a victorious laugh and turned to celebrate with you only to find you collapsing into his arms.

His celebration was cut short as he was now freaking out trying to get you to wake up and gently brushing your hair out of your face as tears threatened to form in his eyes.

He rushed you back to the House of Lamentation and after Lucifer and Satan looked over you, they determined you had just fainted from being sick.

They gave Mammon some medicine to give to you when you woke up and then left.

Mammon stayed by your side the entire time and he felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders when you finally opened your eyes.

His lips were turned down into a frown as he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

“I didn’t want to ruin our day together,” you replied and it only made Mammon more sad as he pulled you into a hug.

“I thought you died,” he admitted, his arms tightening around you, and you could see how affected he was by seeing you faint.

“I’m sorry, but I’m okay. It’s just a cold,” you told him and although he was satisfied with your answer, he wasn’t letting you go from his arms.

He needed to hold you there for a little while longer, just as some extra reassurance that you were okay.

Levi was absolutely determined to finish the new game that he had bought.

It was a two-player game that he specifically purchased because he thought you would enjoy playing it with him.

Which meant that you were being dragged along for the ride whether you wanted to or not.

Levi wanted to finish the game as quickly as possible so that he could be the first person to review it and in order to do so, he had you pull two all-nighters back to back.

You were exhausted and ready to call it quits, but Levi was very convincing when he wanted to be. 

He knew all of the right bribes to offer you to keep you awake and playing.

On top of that, you were genuinely happy to be spending time with Levi.

But as the alarm clock rang after the second all-nighter that happiness you were feeling was overtaken by your exhaustion. 

You let out a groan as you sat down your controller, looking at the clock in Levi’s room as if it betrayed you by signaling it was time to get ready for school.

You and Levi still hadn’t finished the game and you couldn’t help but stare off into space with dread as you realized that meant that you would be in Levi’s room again after school today trying to finish it.

And no amount of caffeine would help you survive a third all-nighter in a row.

You didn’t say anything to Levi as you left his bedroom to get ready for school. In fact, you didn’t say anything to any of the brothers all day.

You weren’t trying to be rude, you were just too tired to care.

It wasn’t until you fainted at lunch that they realized something was genuinely wrong.

They all clamored over to you as you went down in the middle of the room, the other students whispering and asking what happened.

The scene caused quite the commotion which led to Diavolo finding out quickly. 

 As you rested in the infirmary, Diavolo questioned the brothers about what could have caused you to collapse.

Lucifer turned to Levi, claiming that he had been spending the most time with you lately.

Diavolo asked Levi if he noticed you feeling unwell and Levi innocently told him you looked like you were fine during your two all-nighters together.

“Wait - did you say that they hadn’t slept in two straight days?” Diavolo questioned and all of the brothers looked at Levi incredulously. 

Levi’s words suddenly registered in his own mind as he realized that he was the reason you fainted.

He immediately started panicking as his mind tried to come up with ways to make it up to you.

And as if his guilt wasn’t punishment enough, he had to endure a multiple-hour-long lecture from Lucifer about the importance of sleep for humans. 

Levi was afraid to face you the next time you saw him. He was afraid that you would hate him for forcing you to stay awake with him.

You reassured him that you had fun playing the game with him.

“Next time, maybe just let me get a couple hours of sleep in,” you teased and a blush rushed to his cheeks as he nodded his head.

Levi was really happy that you still wanted to play games with him despite what happened and he made a promise to himself to prioritize your health over the game from now on.

Between his brothers and the busy life of being a member of the student council, you and Satan didn’t get a whole lot of free time to spend together.

So, when the opportunity did present itself where Satan was able to steal you away, the two of you liked to take advantage of it.

There was an outdoor festival happening up in the human world and Satan wanted to take you to it.

He knew that it had been a while since you visited and the festival had an overall theme that he knew you would both enjoy.

You were ecstatic when he asked you to go with him and the two of you left almost immediately after.

The festival was absolutely gorgeous and it was full of things that you and Satan could do together.

You shared the cuisines, you bought souvenirs, and you even participated in some of the side activities they offered.

And while you were enjoying your time with Satan, there was one problem - the heat.

The Devildom had no sun to shine brightly or warm the weather so you had grown accustomed to the weather there.

But in the human world, the sun was at large, beating down on you.

You hadn’t prepared for it to be so hot and were starting to feel light-headed.

Satan was usually so attentive and would recognize something was off the second that you started to not feel good.

But, he was so distracted by everything else going on that he didn’t notice.

He was like a kid in the candy shop, holding your hand as he dragged you from stall to stall.

He was talking to a vendor about a necklace they had when you felt like your head was starting to spin.

Satan turned to ask your opinion on the piece of jewelry with full intentions of buying it for you.

But, when he faced you, he saw how flushed your complexion was.

He barely had time to react before you were collapsing.

The necklace was long forgotten as Satan easily caught you in his arms.

He immediately went into doctor mode, doing his best to recall everything he had learned about humans.

His mind was racing with possible reasons as to why you could have fainted. The possibilities seemed endless.

Until he placed his hand on your forehead and noticed that you felt hot to the touch.

And it was like everything had clicked into place as he was suddenly rushing you back to the House of Lamentation.

He laid you in his bed because he figured it would be easier to take care of you there since the other brothers wouldn’t barge in.

When you woke up, it took you a moment to figure out where you were and what happened but a deep blush coated your cheeks as you began to comprehend the situation.

“I’m sorry I ruined our date,” you stated, refusing to look at Satan.

He immediately leaned forward and cupped your cheeks before tilting your head up to look into his eyes.

“You didn’t ruin our date. I still had a great time - did you?” Satan questioned and you nodded your head.

He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead before telling you, “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

You leaned into his touch and he pulled you into his arms, attempting to calm his heart rate that had been racing since your first collapsed.

As calm and composed as he remained, Satan had been so scared when you fainted and now he was going to keep you in his arms for however long it took to convince himself that you were okay.

You were heading home after school when Asmo suddenly approached you.

He had such a happy smile on his face when he saw you and you could hear the excitement in his voice.

Asmo had been invited to a special event that night and he asked if you would be his plus one.

You could see the jealous looks you were getting from miscellaneous other people as Asmo stood before you with a hopeful look.

When you agreed to go, Asmo let out a happy noise of excitement before taking your hand and leading you into town.

The two of you needed to start getting ready right away!

He wanted the two of you to have matching outfits so he took you to Majolish to get new ones.

The two of you spent a while there trying on different outfits, attempting to find matching ones that fit both your and Asmo’s styles.

And you had finally found an outfit that had a mix of both. 

There was just one problem - it had a corset. And in true corset fashion, it was quite restricting. 

Asmo was dying over the way you looked in that outfit, giving you compliment after compliment and looking so happy while doing it.

You didn’t tell him about the corset being too tight, instead agreeing to buy it.

The event would only be for a little while, so you figured it would be fine. All you had to do was last until the end of the event.

And you had managed to do just that, albeit with a bit of a struggle.

You felt like the corset was somehow getting tighter and tighter as the night went on and you were starting to feel short of breath and hot. 

Asmo could see that you weren’t feeling one hundred percent, so he suggested that the two of you head back to the House of Lamentation.

Though, he didn’t understand why you weren’t feeling well. Did you have something to drink when he wasn’t looking?

The two of you barely made it to the House of Lamentation when everything went black and you fell to the ground.

Asmo panicked immediately, shouting for Lucifer to come outside and help you as his hands shakily held your head, not knowing what to do.

When Lucifer inspected the scene in front of him, he noticed the corset and demanded Asmo take it off.

Lucifer was so sure that the article of clothing was the cause of your fainting so Asmo quickly rushed you to your bedroom and took the corset off you, staring intensely at your face as he waited for something to happen.

You woke up shortly after and Asmo let out a loud sigh of relief as he pulled you into his arms, blinking past the tears that had formed in his eyes.

He stroked your hair as you took deep breaths, the feeling of your lungs expanding fully was something that felt strangely nice.

“If the outfit was too tight, we could have gotten you something else,” Asmo told you softly.

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to look good for your event,” you replied and Asmo pulled away from the hug to cup your cheeks and look you in the eyes.

“You look perfect in everything. You didn’t have to suffer all night - I wanted you to have a good time,” Asmo replied.

“I did have a good time, Asmo,” you reassured him and he pulled you back into his arms.

“Just don’t ever do that again,” he said quietly as he tried to push the image of you fainting out of his mind.

You were running late to breakfast and the brothers had noticed that his had been a recurring thing with you lately.

The day before, you were late for breakfast because you overslept after staying up all night studying.

And then you were also late to dinner later that day after Solomon unexpectedly asked for your help with something.

And today you had sent them all a message letting them know you would be late to breakfast due to a shower mishap.

Asmo attempted to ask you to explain in further detail, but the others didn’t press the subject.

They knew that you would be a little late, but it was only a few minutes until everyone had to leave to make it to RAD on time.

Beel had been staring at your plate of food the entire time, doing his best to restrain himself. 

He knew that after missing both breakfast and dinner yesterday you would be hungry. But, if you weren’t going to eat it, he wasn’t going to let it go to waste.

After waiting a couple more minutes, Lucifer let out a small sigh before allowing Beel to eat your food.

Just then, you came bounding into the dining room with a look of shock on your face as you watched Beel gobble up your food in one bite.

“Hey, that was mine,” you said with a small pout and Beel looked like a deer in headlights as he sat your plate down.

“You were late,” Lucifer retorted before adding, “Time to go.”

You had a small frown the entire way to RAD and Beel felt guilty every time he heard your stomach rumble.

He was determined to make it up to you by getting you extra food at lunch.

But your hunger was starting to really get to you and by the second class you were starting to feel lightheaded.

You tried not to act any differently but you could feel Beel’s eyes on you during the class and it was only adding to the myriad of things you were feeling right now.

You felt overwhelmed by everything and as soon as the bell rang signally class was over, you stood up - only to fall right back down.

Beel managed to get to you just in time to catch you, but he started panicking when he saw that you were unconscious. 

He immediately lifted you off the ground and carried you to the school infirmary. 

The guilt he was feeling now was eating him alive. He knew that you had fainted because you were hungry.

If only he had a little more self-control and didn’t eat your food then maybe you wouldn’t have fainted.

When you woke up, you were immediately met with Beel’s concerned eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Beel asked you and you sat up slightly as you realized what had happened. 

“I’m fine,” you replied, though he suspected that wasn’t one hundred percent true.

You looked around the room and noticed Beel had bought a ton of snacks and drinks and laid them out on the bed next to you.

As soon as he deemed you were okay enough, he handed you snack after snack and apologized profusely for eating your food.

He would make sure you never fainted from hunger again. 

You and Belphie shared such romantic moments sometimes.

Other times, he acted like such a brat.

It seemed like one of Belphie’s favorite things to do was to mess with you. Especially when he was feeling particularly testy.

Lucifer woke him up from his nap? I guess that means you wanted to pick a fight with him too so now he’s relentlessly trying to wrestle and tickle you.

Beel decided to eat his food that morning? Well, then you don’t get to eat either. But, you don’t mind, right?

And you would always retaliate which would end up leading to a war between you.

And both of you refused to back down.

In fact, sometimes it got to the point where the other brothers avoided the two of you, afraid of being collateral damage.

You wanted something to drink in the middle of the night, so you made your way to the kitchen and grabbed your favorite from the fridge.

You poured yourself a cup and sipped it quietly, immediately regretting it as you did so.

The taste was awful and you could hear Belphie’s snickering somewhere nearby.

You swallowed the drink and glared at the entrance to the kitchen as Belphie entered, holding his sides from laughing.

Why was he only awake at the most inconvenient times?

You decided to make Belphie pay for his actions.

“Belphie - did you put something in this?” you asked him, holding a hand to your stomach as if you were about to be sick.

“You should see your face right now,” he replied, continuing to laugh.

You placed one hand on your head and started fanning yourself with your other hand.

“Okay, but you made sure it was safe for humans, right?” you asked him and Belphie paused. You were just pulling his leg, right?

You took a few strained breaths before asking him, “Is it really hot in here?”

Belphie’s expression had turned from one of amusement to one of slight panic as he watched you, trying to figure out if you were lying or not.

He was positive what he put in your drink wouldn’t harm you, but he didn’t exactly look it up to check.

Belphie’s eyes were wide and he felt like he couldn’t breathe as you collapsed to the ground.

He was panicking as flashbacks of what once happened between the two of you overwhelmed his mind.

Did he just kill you? Again?

He felt like he was starting to have a panic attack as Beel suddenly entered the kitchen.

“Belphie?” he questioned, not expecting his twin to be there. He was just trying to get his midnight snack.

“Beel - I think I…,” Belphie stated, frozen in shock.

Beel’s eyes widened as he saw your body on the ground and he immediately rushed over to you, placing his fingers on your neck to check for a pulse just like Satan had taught him.

When you could feel Beel’s shaky hands, you knew the prank might have gone a little too far and you gently grabbed his wrist and opened your eyes.

Beel and Belphie looked at you confused for a moment and then Belphie realized what happened.

He gave you the biggest death glare and you noticed the tears that had started to form in his eyes.

“Belphie-,” you began but he stormed off to sulk in the attic. You followed him, only to find the door shut. 

“Belphie, come on let me in,” you told him. You could see him lying on the bed, turned away from you.

“I opened this door once before, I’ll do it again if I really have to,” you added.

Belphie let out a sigh of frustration before getting up and opening the door.

You immediately pulled him into a hug as he did, wrapping your arms around his torso and his arms timidly wrapped around you as well.

“I’m sorry,” you told him, genuinely feeling bad for taking things so far.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he stated, hugging you tighter before pulling you over to the bed with him.

Your punishment was to spend the night with him so that you were there whenever he needed some extra reassurance that you were okay.

Despite his pranks and brattiness, Belphie really loved you and he couldn’t imagine what he would do without you.

[avengxrz]

what we destroy to be free ⁃ bucky barnes

pairings: bucky barnes x anti-hero!reader word count: 25.1k words synopsis: bucky barnes was supposed to help take down the most dangerous mind-bender the thunderbolts had ever faced, not end up patching her up in his apartment and watching her feed his cat like she belonged there. but when secrets unravel and loyalty starts to look a lot like love, bucky has to choose between the orders he's always followed and the chaos he can't seem to stay away from. what if the villain he was meant to destroy is the only person who truly sees him? warnings: contains violence, blood, injuries, morally gray characters, mentions of past trauma and war crimes, emotional manipulation, mild language, slow burn tension, enemies to lovers vibes, thunderbolts slander, cat content, and one (1) very emotionally constipated man trying not to fall in love. flight log: this took me like two weeks to write, and yes, it was absolutely inspired by that one tiktok video where someone said “what if the villain crashed on the hero’s couch” and my brain just spiraled from there. i poured way too much love, spite, and emotional damage into this, so please enjoy the chaos, the softness, the yelling, and the chickens. thank you for reading, i hope it wrecks you gently. disclaimer: my works are not made using ai. every word comes from me, my thoughts, my hands, my time. do not steal, copy, or feed my fics into ai for any reason. fuck ai and what it’s doing to creative spaces. support real writers. ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ masterlist

Bucky knew that making the Sentry fight this bitchass enemy would not be a great plan. Hell, he said it in the damn briefing room. Val didn’t listen. Walker barely listened to anyone except his own ego, and the rest of them? They’d been too busy puffing up their chest plates to see the setup for what it was. 

Now, watching Bob, Sentry, rocking himself back and forth near a shattered crate, fingernails carving into his own palms as his mind bent in places no one could reach, Bucky figured the silence in the room said enough. No one dared to move too close. Not even the Red Guardian, and he usually wasn’t afraid of anything that breathed. 

They all just kind of... stood there. Pretending like they weren’t watching him spiral, and pretending they weren’t thinking about the Void.

Meanwhile, Yelena was crouched beside him, whispering whatever she thought might reach him, her voice low and slow like a lullaby that maybe worked once a lifetime ago. It wasn’t helping. 

Bucky could see it in the tremble in her hands. No one wanted to admit it out loud, but they were all just hoping Bob didn’t snap open and let the thing inside him loose.

And you? You stood in the middle of it all like it was a game, head tilted just slightly beneath that sleek, impassive mask, like this was nothing more than a very average Tuesday. You reached up and casually adjusted the strap at your jaw, the mask settling tighter against your face with a soft click. Not armor, just something you wore like jewelry, like a dare.

“You know,” you said finally, tilting your head just slightly, "I almost feel bad for him. Almost, but then I remember your big bad Sentry over there was supposed to be your ace.” You gave them a slow once-over, barely hiding the grin tugging at your mouth. “That’s what you lot are, right? Earth’s... what is it now? Earth’s Mightiest Leftovers?”

No one answered. Even Walker was silent, jaw tight as he shifted uncomfortably beside the collapsed form of Ghost, who was still trying to reboot her damn suit.

You took a few steps forward, deliberate, unhurried, like you had all the time in the world and not a single ounce of fear. “God, it’s embarrassing. You really thought throwing this mess of ex-assassins and government toys at me would go differently?” You laughed, but it was dry.

“You know, I thought maybe there was a plan. A real one, but this?” You motioned around the room, at Sentry twitching on the floor, at Red Guardian blinking through a concussion, at Ghost breathing heavy through half-phased lungs. “This is just sad.”

Red Guardian grumbled something and tried to sit up, but you ignored it.

“Stark would be rolling in his grave if he saw what the replacement Avengers looked like. You all really want to play at being heroes, don’t you?”

Your eyes flicked to Walker then, sharp with amusement. “Even you, U.S Agent. You especially. Parading around with that shield like it's not just scrap metal with a body count. You think I’m the monster? Please, I do not start wars for fun, and I don’t wear uniforms made for stunt actors. I’ve killed bad people, yes, but you people kill whoever’s convenient.”

The silence that followed wasn’t the kind that begged a reply. It was the kind that came after a bruise.

Bucky stayed quiet. He didn’t stop you, and he wasn’t going to, not yet. He watched the way your shoulders stayed loose, how your voice never cracked once. You weren’t angry, not really. This wasn’t rage. It was something colder. Something truer.

“You’re not a team,” you went on. “You’re a patch job. Government glue holding together a bunch of trigger-happy disasters, hoping none of you fall apart before the press can spin your next mission into a victory.”

You smiled again, this time wider. “You know what I am? I’m honest about it. I’m not pretending. I don’t walk around calling myself a hero while doing the government’s dirty work in other countries. I’m not a good person, but I am not you.”

Then you turned, calmly walking past the edge of the mess you’d made. The floor creaked under your boots, soft and slow, like the entire room was waiting for something else to fall apart.

Bucky didn’t move. He just kept watching you. No gun drawn, no order given, not yet. Because somewhere between the blood on your boots and the truth in your voice, he couldn’t decide if you were the threat… or just the only one finally telling it straight.

Walker was the first to break the silence, stepping forward like the conversation hadn't just stripped the paint off everything they pretended to be. Maybe he thought if he moved fast enough, it would cover the fact that you'd just called them all out in front of each other and none of them had denied a damn thing. 

His shield came up quick, arm snapping into motion like muscle could still fix something that was already broken. You saw the move before he finished thinking it. You always did.

You sidestepped him easily, shifting your weight onto the balls of your feet, the movement fluid and light, not rushed. Letting him think he was close enough to land something was almost more fun than knocking the breath out of him, which you did with the flat of your palm against his ribs as he passed. It wasn’t a hard hit. You didn’t need it to be. You needed it to hum through his chest like a warning.

Then, Ghost reappeared just to your left, trying to flank. You twisted into a pivot, watching her phase in too late, already caught in your trap. You flicked your fingers once, and the angle of the room shifted just slightly, like the floor wasn’t quite real anymore.

She staggered, trying to correct her momentum, but it was already off. She clipped the corner of a broken beam and rolled hard across the ground. You didn’t stop to check if she got up.

Meanwhile, Red Guardian had somehow managed to shake off the earlier blow and came charging like he thought brute force was still in style. You spun as he reached for you, your body moving like water, arms loose but precise, the movement almost lazy if it wasn’t so calculated.

You let him lunge and miss, then ducked under his swinging elbow and kicked the back of his knee. He dropped with a grunt and a curse you didn’t bother to translate. You kept dancing.

Because that’s what it felt like now. Not a battle, and not even a struggle, just rhythm. Steps and countersteps. They lunged, and you spun. They reached, and you disappeared. You weren’t angry, you weren’t tired, and you were actually enjoying this. 

The way they tried so hard to keep up, to act like you were something they could contain. You could’ve ended it already, you knew it. Bucky knew it. The rest were still trying to pretend this wasn’t just a lesson in their own mediocrity.

Walker came at you again, more frustrated now, his mouth tight with the kind of rage that only came when pride took a hit. You ducked his swing and laughed, not loud, just enough for him to hear it.

“Is this what they taught you in those shiny government camps?” you said, twisting just enough to let his momentum carry him past you. “You all train for this in between press conferences?”

You turned, hands loose at your sides, and caught Bucky’s eyes across the chaos again. He hadn’t moved yet. Not really. He was watching, taking it in like he wasn’t sure what side of the fight he was supposed to be on.

“Come on, Barnes,” you called to him, voice steady, almost amused. “You gonna keep letting your squad embarrass themselves or are you finally gonna take a swing?”

For a second, he didn’t answer. Then he stepped forward, slow and sure, the way he always did when he finally made up his mind. And you stopped dancing, just for a breath. Because this wasn’t a game anymore, at least not with him.

Bucky moved like a man who’d already decided how this would end, boots slow and deliberate across the wreckage-strewn floor, each step heavier than the last. The others had fallen back, groaning or flat-out unconscious, leaving only him standing between you and the exit.

You watched him come with that same half-lidded calm, like none of this mattered, like he was late to something boring and you were the only thing worth his attention tonight.

"You done hiding behind tricks?" he asked, voice hard now, no more caution, no more measured soldier tone. "Or is this your whole game? Slip in, fuck with people's heads, then vanish when someone actually steps up?"

You tilted your head, hand resting lazily against your hip, weight shifted like you were leaning into a joke. "Oh, Barnes," you said, grinning without warmth, "you’re mad, and it’s kind of cute.”

He didn’t answer, just kept coming closer, fists clenched, jaw set. Then, he said it. "You’re a coward. That’s what you are. Hiding behind that hideous mask—”

You interrupted him, one eyebrow raised in mock offense. “Hey now,” you said, hand flying up in mock hurt. “Hideous?! That’s just rude! This thing’s custom-made. Breathable, heat-resistant, and it doesn’t fog up when I ruin a man's psyche, and at least I get to have two arms.”

That landed. You saw it hit, sharp and immediate, like a slap he didn’t see coming. His mouth twitched. You weren’t sure if it was rage or restraint.

“You think you’re funny?” he bit out, low and rough. “You think this is all a joke?”

“Honestly?” you said, stepping to the side just as he lunged, his metal arm swinging past your shoulder. “A little bit, yeah. I mean, come on, Barnes. You, this team, you’re the punchline. You’ve got Walker playing Captain Discount, a Russian tank with a daddy complex, and Bob over there crying in the dark like he just woke up from a bad dream. You’re all trying so hard to be heroes, but the blood doesn’t wash off that easy.”

He turned fast, feinted left, then grabbed your arm with his right and yanked you forward. You didn’t resist. Let him pull you in, close enough to see the anger lined in the corner of his mouth. His breath hit your cheek.

“You’re still hiding,” he growled, tightening his grip. “You could’ve done something real with your power. You could’ve helped people.”

You smiled then, full and dangerous. “And join the circus? No thanks. I like sleeping at night.”

Then you shifted your weight and drove your knee into his stomach, not enough to break anything, just enough to make him let go. He staggered, barely, but you were already stepping back, giving him space like this was a game of tag and he was too slow.

He charged again.

You laughed, not cruel, just tired of pretending he was different from the rest. “You don’t get to be the righteous one, Barnes. You killed people in your sleep. I do it wide awake.”

That stopped him. For a moment, the room was quiet again. Just the two of you breathing hard, the air thick between you, not with smoke or blood, but something worse. Recognition. You didn’t move, and neither did he. Whatever this was, it wasn’t over, but it had never really started, either. The look on Bucky’s face almost made you stay longer. Almost, but you’d made your point. There wasn’t much left to prove.

Walker tried to get up again, dragging himself upright with a grunt, shoulder still hunched from the hit you gave him earlier. You didn’t even look his way. He was predictable, all bark and grunt and misplaced patriotism. He threw his shield again, too slow, too obvious. You didn’t even bother dodging it fully, just ducked under, let it crash into the wall behind you, and caught his wrist as he charged after it.

You twisted. He screamed.

Not a clean scream. Not a soldier’s grunt. A sharp, cracking, human sound. You let him drop before you broke anything important. You weren’t here to maim, not tonight. Just to remind them where they stood.

Meanwhile, Ghost had her knives out again, flickering fast, trying to catch you while you were distracted. You turned and moved through her strike like you’d been doing this forever, then used the heel of your hand to knock the side of her head. Her body glitched mid-phase, then crashed down hard. She stayed down this time.

Red Guardian got halfway to his feet before your fingers curled again, and the air around his skull bent just enough to make him sink back to the ground. Not unconscious. Just confused. Humiliated. They always came in so loud, and left so quiet.

And Bucky? He hadn’t moved since you last hit him with the truth. He was still standing there, fists loose now, metal hand twitching like maybe it didn’t quite know what to do without orders. That part made you sad, almost. The way he wanted so badly to not be the thing they made him, but still kept showing up when they called.

You walked past him, slow, deliberate, boots echoing through the warehouse like punctuation.

As you reached his side, you paused. Not to attack. Not to mock. Just to speak.

"You know, Barnes," you said, voice low, just for him, "I get it. You're not controlled by words anymore. No triggers. No codes. You’re free, right?"

You leaned in, close enough that he could see how calm you were. How unbothered.

"But the truth is," you whispered, “you’re still that same man. Not the Winter Soldier, no. Not the weapon, but the good little soldier who still waits for someone to point.”

He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t deny it either. You stepped back, smiling just a little. Not smug. Just done.

“I don’t need to control your mind,” you said, walking away now, past the ruins of what used to be a mission. “The world already does that for me.”

You were halfway to the exit when you paused, turning slowly on your heel like you'd just remembered something important. The room was quiet except for a few groans and the distant hum of flickering lights. Bucky hadn’t moved, as he was still trying to process what you said. Walker was cradling his wrist like you’d taken something from him that mattered. Red Guardian looked like he wanted to crawl under the floor and stay there.

You smiled, wide this time, bright and biting. “Oh,” you said lightly, like you were talking to old friends. “I’d love to stay and keep playing, really. This has been such a fun bonding experience.”

You gestured around the room, spinning your finger once as if gesturing to the collective mess you’d left behind. “But unfortunately, I’m late for a very important appointment.”

You started ticking the list off on your fingers, voice chipper.

“First, I have to eat something because ruining your morale takes energy, then I have an episode of my favorite show waiting, don’t worry, I won’t spoil anything, and finally, I need my beauty sleep.” You gave them a wink. “Some of us don’t get to wake up with government-funded bone structure.”

Yelena, still crouched beside Bob, glared at you like she wanted to throw something sharp. You blew her a kiss. Then, you turned back toward the busted loading door you’d walked in through, tossing one last line over your shoulder like a joke nobody else was in on.

“See you all tomorrow!”  You didn’t look back. Just walked out, like nothing had touched you at all.

- Back to the Watchtower - 

The Watchtower wasn’t quiet, not really. It was just full of the wrong sounds. The hiss of oxygen valves. The soft whirr of a scanner. The low murmur of medical droids checking vitals and noting pain thresholds. Someone was groaning behind a curtain, and someone else was cursing under their breath like they thought whispering made the shame sting less.

Alexei was laid out flat on a med table, eyelids fluttering as a nurse reset his dislocated knee. Ava was barely conscious, pale and sweating through the glitching phase of her tech. Bob was strapped to a diagnostic chair that had been built for emergencies, head tilted back, eyes fluttering like his brain was still somewhere else. Yelena hadn’t left his side since they touched down. She sat next to him with her hand clenched too tight in his, still murmuring soft, firm things in Russian that no one else could hear.

And Bucky? Bucky didn’t go to the med bay. He didn’t need to. Not physically.

He was in the briefing room already, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest, metal fingers twitching against the side of his bicep like they were trying to make a fist on their own. He didn’t look at Walker when he walked in, didn’t greet Val when she entered with a tablet and a pinched look that said I told you so before she even opened her mouth.

They filed in slowly. Walker first, his wrist in a brace, jaw set like he still thought this could’ve gone another way. Then Ava, walking stiffly and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. Alexei followed, limping but loud, muttering something about needing better shoulder padding.

Val didn’t waste time. She hit the screen and brought up the footage, the glitchy, stuttering mess of helmet cam recordings that made the fight look more like a riot than a mission.

“Let’s go ahead and call it,” she said flatly. “Another failed op.”

No one said anything.

She didn’t look up as she added, “We lost containment again. The Bandit walked.”

There it was. Your nickname. Half-insult, half-acknowledgment. Not assassin. Not rogue enhanced. Just the Bandit. Like you were some petty thief pulling fast ones on the world’s cleanup crew. It started as a joke Walker made two missions ago, but the name stuck. Because deep down, they all knew it wasn’t wrong. You didn’t just fight them. You took from them; dignity, pride, illusions of control. Every damn time.

“She left five of us on the ground,” Ghost muttered, voice low, sharp with leftover adrenaline. “Didn’t even break a sweat.”

“She’s playing with us,” Walker said, bitter. “It’s a game to her.”

“And you’re mad ‘cause she’s winning,” Bucky finally said, voice quiet but heavy enough to draw heads.

Val raised an eyebrow, but didn’t interrupt.

Walker looked at him, fuming. “You want to say that again, Barnes?”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave the screen, where a blurry shadow of you flickered mid-kick. He stared like he was trying to find a glitch. Like maybe there was something he missed.

“She wasn’t trying to win,” he said. “She already had.”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that made everyone shift a little in their chairs.

“She let us walk away,” Bucky added. “Again.”

Val tapped the edge of her tablet. “She’s mocking us. She knows we’re limited. She knows she can get in and out without a scratch, and she’s not even trying to hide it anymore. That mask? That’s theater. She wants us to know we’re being humiliated.”

“She’s not just humiliating us,” Yelena said from the doorway. No one had noticed her come in. She looked drained, dark circles blooming under her eyes. “She’s studying us.”

That pulled Bucky’s focus. He sat forward slightly, watching Yelena like her words had weight.

“She knew Sentry was our ace. She took him out first. Messed with his mind, deep. Not just illusions. She knew what to poke. Knew where it hurt. She wasn’t improvising. She came in with a plan.”

Val frowned. “And we keep falling for it.”

Bucky didn’t speak again. He just sat back in his chair, staring at the static pause of the footage, where your mask was caught mid-glint. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t say what he was thinking. That he could still hear your voice in his ear. That final whisper, smooth and quiet, still echoing louder than the shouting had.

You’re still that same man. Not the Winter Soldier, no. Not the weapon, but the good little soldier who still waits for someone to point.

He ground his teeth. You weren’t just in his head, you were under his skin, and you hadn’t even stayed long enough to finish the fight.

Then, three weeks passed.

Seventy-two hours turned to seven days, then doubled again, and still, nothing. No sightings. No messages. No whispered threats or sabotaged missions. Not even the occasional cryptic meme posted to a burner account Bob swore was yours. You had vanished. Like smoke after a fire.

It drove Bucky mad. He didn’t say much, but everyone felt the tension in the way he moved through the Watchtower; silent, taut, like a drawn wire ready to snap. He stopped showing up to shared meals. Ignored mission briefings unless your name was in the folder. Val didn’t push. Yelena didn’t ask, but everyone noticed.

“Maybe she’s finally dead,” Walker said, tossing the words out casually as he popped the tab on an energy drink. “Somebody probably got her. Off the books. Would explain the silence.”

Yelena looked up from her seat, brows raised. “You really think she’d go quietly?” Her tone was neutral, but her meaning wasn’t. “That one dies? She takes the building with her.”

“Not if she bled out somewhere,” Walker muttered. “Could’ve been karma, could’ve been luck.”

“Karma?” Ava scoffed from the end of the table, arms folded across her chest. “If that bitch has karma, it’s platinum-tier.”

Bob glanced up from where he was curled on the couch, hood up, bag of chips untouched in his lap. “Do you think she’s… like… watching us?”

Walker rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Bob—”

“No, I mean,” Bob sat forward, frowning. “She’s quiet. Like, strategic quiet. That’s worse. She didn’t even roast us online this time.”

“She is cooking,” Alexei said with a mouthful of protein bar, gesturing broadly with his hands. “That one? She is at home right now, doing pilates, eating soup, plotting murder.”

Yelena smirked without looking up. “Soup?”

“Yes,” Alexei said, nodding like this was obvious. “Murder soup. Spicy. Russian women make it when angry.”

“That is not a real thing,” Ava said, deadpan.

“Is real if you believe in it hard enough,” Alexei grumbled. “Anyway, she’s not dead. No. She’s hibernating. Like bear. Waiting for spring to come so she can bite someone’s head off.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from Bob, the first sound of joy from him all week.

Val entered the room with a tablet in hand, her expression sharp, tired, and unimpressed. She dropped it on the table in front of Walker with a loud clack.

“Ping in Brussels. Cold lead. She ghosted again.”

“Could be a copycat,” Ava offered, already sounding bored. “People love a mystery.”

Walker leaned forward. “So what? We just sit here and wait? She’ll slip eventually. She has to.”

“She doesn’t have to do shit,” Yelena said, crossing her legs and sitting back in her chair. “You think she’s playing chess. She’s not. She’s making the board up.”

Bucky hadn’t spoken once. He just stared out the window, thumb resting against his bottom lip, metal fingers twitching restlessly against his knee.

“She knew we were coming,” he said suddenly. “She knew everything. Took Bob out first. Turned Ava inside out. Broke Alexei’s knee like she read the blueprint.”

Alexei raised a hand. “Not broken. Just insulted.”

“She's not guessing,” Bucky muttered. “She’s studying us, playing the long game, and we’re letting her.”

There was a pause. A thick one. The kind that made the air feel too tight. Then, Bucky’s voice dropped, barely audible. “I hope she’s dead,” he said. “And I hope it wasn’t quick.”

- Bucky’s Apartment, Brooklyn - 

The door to his apartment creaked open on the second try. It always did that; jammed just enough to be annoying but never bad enough to fix. Bucky didn’t bother kicking it or swearing like he used to. He just gave it a rough nudge with his shoulder and stepped into the dark, the weight of the Watchtower still sitting heavy between his shoulder blades.

Alpine meowed once from the window.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, tossing his keys into the ceramic dish by the door without looking. “I’m late. You gonna report me?”

She jumped down with the grace of someone who’d been waiting exactly three hours and twenty minutes to hear his voice again. She circled his legs, tail curling like punctuation, then let out another, louder meow when he didn’t bend down fast enough.

“Alright, alright,” he said, crouching slowly, his knees stiff from training drills and stress. “I gotcha, sweetheart.”

He scratched behind her ears, letting his fingers sink into the fur there. Alpine leaned in hard, purring instantly, rubbing her cheek against the back of his vibranium hand like she was claiming it. He let her. She always picked that side first.

The apartment smelled faintly like lavender from the candle Yelena gave him last Christmas. He never told her he lit it more than once. It was still burning on the kitchen counter where he’d left it that morning, well, more accurately, at three in the morning when he couldn’t sleep and figured folding towels was better than staring at the ceiling.

Bucky stood again, cracking his neck. Alpine trotted ahead of him toward the kitchen like she was giving him a tour of his own place.

He filled her bowl with the dry food she actually liked (not the organic vet crap Val kept recommending) and set it down gently. She immediately went at it, tail twitching, purring into every bite like it was the best damn meal of her life.

He leaned back against the counter and watched her eat, eyes unfocused.

The silence in here wasn’t like the silence at the Watchtower. This one wasn’t heavy or pointed. It didn’t judge. It just… was. The soft hum of the fridge. The tick of the old wall clock. The occasional clink of Alpine’s teeth against ceramic. No one trying to prove anything. No one calling him a coward. No one whispering truths that cut sharper than knives.

Except maybe his own head.

He reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. The mask. The voice. That last line. He hadn’t slept right since. You were still in his thoughts like shrapnel. Still in his hands, the way you let him grab you like it meant nothing. Still in the air every time he walked past an alley or turned a corner or blinked too long.

You were everywhere except where you were supposed to be. And somehow, that pissed him off even more than losing the fight.

Alpine finished her meal and hopped up onto the counter like it was hers, which, honestly, it kind of was. She stared at him with wide green eyes, the ones he always caved to, even on bad days. Especially on bad days.

“You’d like her,” he said quietly, grabbing a sponge and wiping down the counter next to her out of habit. “She’s mean, and smart, and, uh, smug as hell.”

Alpine blinked slowly, then batted her paw toward his hand like she was telling him to shut up already.

“Yeah, I know.”

He dropped the sponge into the sink and ran water over it absently. He didn’t have the energy to cook tonight. He barely had the energy to stand. Still, he moved through the apartment like it helped, like routine could undo what chaos left behind.

Folded a blanket on the couch. Adjusted a crooked picture frame. Checked the locks twice, then once more. When he finally sat down, Alpine leapt into his lap without hesitation. She circled once, then settled, warm and weighty. His real anchor.

Bucky leaned his head back against the worn cushion and let his eyes close. “Where the hell are you,” he muttered under his breath, not to Alpine, but she still purred like she knew the answer.

The apartment was quiet again. Not the kind of quiet that held its breath, but the softer kind. The kind that crept in after the dishes were done, after the cat was fed, after there was nothing left to fold or wipe or adjust.

Bucky sat there, Alpine stretched out across his lap like a living weighted blanket, her tail twitching every few minutes like she was dreaming. He hadn’t moved in half an hour, maybe longer.

The lights were off except for the lamp in the corner; the one with the soft yellow glow that didn’t give him a headache. He didn’t need more light than that. Most nights, he didn’t want it.

His eyes had drifted up to the shelf near the TV. A photo sat there, tucked behind a dusty paperweight and an old cassette tape he still hadn’t digitized. It was a black-and-white print, slightly faded, but sharp enough that he could see the grin on Steve’s face if he looked long enough.

Brooklyn, 1940.

God, they were so young.

Steve looked like a skeleton in a uniform, too small for his cap, shoulders tight with stubbornness, but smiling like he’d just won something anyway. Bucky was standing beside him, tie askew, leaning slightly, one hand on Steve’s shoulder like he’d meant to keep him grounded and accidentally anchored himself instead.

He remembered that day. A double date that ended with Steve getting into a fight outside a movie theater and Bucky sweet-talking their way out of getting arrested. He couldn’t even remember the girls’ names now. He just remembered Steve’s nose bleeding and the way he said, “I had him, Buck,” like he always did.

Bucky had laughed. Not to make fun, just because Steve believed it every damn time.

There had been music playing that night. Someone had a radio up in a windowsill, crackly jazz drifting down with the summer air. A trumpet solo and some woman singing about kisses sweeter than wine. He remembered it like he remembered the heat of the pavement, the stick of sweat on his neck, the clang of someone’s fire escape.

They were boys. They had no idea.

He closed his eyes.

Other memories came easier now, which wasn’t always a blessing. He remembered the streetcars. The smell of roasted peanuts and cheap cologne. He remembered Mrs. Klemenski from 5C, who used to give them hard candy when they ran errands for her, and the butcher down the block who always snuck Steve extra meat because he was too thin for comfort.

He remembered the girls, too, or at least flashes. Dances in basements. Lipstick stains on handkerchiefs. Laughter behind alley doors. A warm hand in his coat pocket on cold nights. He’d been smooth back then. He knew it, cocky, and brave in ways that didn’t survive the war.

Sometimes he caught glimpses of that version of himself. In a mirror. In the corner of a store window. In someone else’s memory, but mostly, he didn’t recognize that guy anymore.

Too much had burned away. Still, on nights like this, when the city was soft and Alpine was warm and the past crept in like fog under a door, he let himself remember. Not to mourn it, but just to see it. To remind himself it was real once. That he had laughed without flinching, that he had loved people before he forgot what it meant to say the word out loud.

That he had been Bucky Barnes, not a code or a weapon or a broken promise. He sighed through his nose, hand resting lightly on Alpine’s side, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breath.

Steve would’ve liked her, and probably would’ve called her a punk and fed her chicken from his plate.

“You’d like him too,” Bucky murmured, voice almost hoarse. “He was… good. The best of us.”

Alpine didn’t respond. Just curled tighter, eyes closed. The picture on the shelf didn’t move. The past didn’t change, but for a second, it felt closer.

His hand rested on Alpine’s fur, unmoving. She was purring still, barely—a soft hum under his fingers like the last string holding him in the room. The lamp flickered once, then steadied, casting long shadows on the wall.

Bucky stared at the photo a while longer. Steve’s smile didn’t waver. It never had.

He wondered, not for the first time, what would’ve happened if he’d died in that fall. Not the metaphorical one, no. The literal fall, off that train in the Alps, years before his name turned into something cold and dangerous. Before he became a ghost in someone else’s war. Before the Winter Soldier was even an idea.

He wondered what the world would look like if that fall had finished him. If there had been a body. A grave. A flag folded neatly in Steve’s hands. Something final.

Would it have hurt less for the people who loved him? Would he have been remembered better?

He tried to picture it. That ending. Falling into snow, bones breaking, lungs burning, and then , darkness. Peace. Maybe even something quiet on the other side. Maybe nothing, but at least it would’ve been his.

It wouldn’t have been needles and cold steel and screaming in languages he didn’t know. Wouldn’t have been seventy years of commands and blood and waking up just long enough to realize what he’d done.

It wouldn’t have been this.

He shifted in his seat, jaw tight, breath stuck somewhere behind his ribs. Alpine stirred, letting out a tiny grumble like she knew he was getting too tense. He exhaled and scratched behind her ear again, grounding himself.

“I think I was supposed to die that day,” he said quietly, more to the room than to her. “That’s the part that gets me. That I didn’t. That somehow they found me. Took me. Kept me.”

He didn’t often say it out loud. Even in therapy, he danced around it, made jokes or shrugged. Because saying it plain made it too real. Made it feel like he was still there, still strapped down, still waiting for the voice to say his name wrong in Russian.

But here, in the safety of his dim apartment with nothing but Alpine to hear, he could be honest.

“I think… if I had just hit the ground a little harder,” he whispered, “Steve would’ve grieved. Maybe he’d have cried, but then he would’ve moved on, married someone, built something, and I’d be… done. Not this. Not some half-version of myself, still trying to make up for all the shit I didn’t even choose.”

He rubbed his face with his flesh hand, callused fingers dragging across his cheek.

“And now I’ve got people calling me a hero. Or a liability. Or both. Got assholes like Walker looking at me like I’m supposed to lead them, like I know what the hell I’m doing.” He shook his head. “And then there’s her.”

He didn’t say your name. Never did. He wasn’t even sure he knew your name. Not the real one. Not the one you whispered to yourself when no one was listening, but your voice was carved into him now. Your laugh. The way you moved. The way you saw right through him like it was easy.

You hadn’t fought him like an enemy. You’d fought him like someone who knew him. Like someone who understood every scar and every failure and didn’t even bother flinching.

And somehow, that had rattled him more than all the blows you’d landed on the others.

Alpine jumped down and padded over to her water bowl. Her soft steps filled the quiet like a heartbeat. Bucky leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the dark spot where she’d been.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he said.

Then, he heard it, a thud, quiet but definite.

Bucky’s head lifted from his hands, body already tense, instincts curling tight around his spine like old muscle memory. Alpine didn’t move. She was by the water bowl, but her ears had flicked toward the sound, alert.

He stood slowly, but didn’t grab a weapon, not yet. He wasn’t sure he needed one, and not sure it would matter if he did.

The hallway was dark, shadows layered thick on the walls, the floor creaking under his bare feet as he made his way to the door of the guest bedroom. It was closed. He didn’t remember closing it. He always left it open at night, easier to hear the city, and easier to breathe.

He placed one hand on the doorknob, the other flexing open and closed.

And then—

“Careful, soldier. You open that door any faster and I might think you’re excited to see me.”

The voice slithered out of the dark like smoke. Smooth, wry, lazy with amusement. No panic. No urgency. Just presence. Like you’d been waiting for the right moment to speak.

Bucky froze. That voice, he hadn’t heard it in twenty-one days, and he’d still memorized it like it had been stitched into the lining of his skin.

He pushed the door open slowly, gaze adjusting to the low light.

Moonlight spilled in through the guest bedroom window, casting long streaks of silver across the walls and floor. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

Then, he saw you.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, one leg crossed over the other like you owned the damn place. Like you hadn’t ghosted the Thunderbolts, the mission, and nearly their sanity for the better part of a month. Like you lived here.

The shadows painted you in soft blue tones, eyes half-lidded, mouth curled in that crooked not-smile that never meant anything good. There was no blood on you. No limp. No bruises. Just your presence, poured out like wine across the room, ruining the silence like it had never belonged.

You leaned back slightly, one arm resting over the top of the couch like a throne.

“Hello, James,” you said, tilting your head just enough to catch the light. “Miss me?”

He didn’t move, and he didn’t breathe. And suddenly, that apartment wasn’t quiet anymore.

Bucky moved the second his brain caught up to the image, instincts snapping faster than thought. One second he was standing in the doorway, the next he was lunging, metal arm cocked, eyes dark with something too sharp to be called rage. It wasn’t clean like anger. It was messier. Deeper. A month of silence and unanswered questions and bruised pride boiling all at once into a motion he didn’t control so much as release.

But before he could reach you, before his feet even cleared the carpet, the air shifted.

A pulse, quiet but unmistakable, bloomed from where you sat. Not loud. Not flashy. Just a hum, like a heartbeat made of static, curling through the room like smoke. The color wasn’t bright, not like comic book red. It was darker. A deep, bruised crimson that moved like ink in water, curling around Bucky’s limbs mid-strike.

He froze mid-lunge. His metal arm stopped just short of your throat. It twitched, once, like it wanted to keep going, but the energy around it tightened. Not choking. Not painful. Just absolute. Like gravity turned sideways.

You hadn’t even stood up. You just raised your hand slightly, fingers loose, wrist relaxed, eyes still calm like you were bored more than anything else.

“Now, now,” you said lightly, the power humming a little louder as it wrapped around his chest. “You weren’t really going to hit me, were you?” You tilted your head slightly, watching his mouth twitch, his muscles fighting the hold. “That’s not very neighborly, Barnes.”

He bared his teeth, not speaking, just glaring, jaw tight enough to pop.

You stood then, slowly, the energy retracting just enough to let him breathe easier, but not enough to let him move.

“You’ve been thinking about me,” you said, stepping closer, your voice low and sing-song, taunting in a way that wasn’t entirely playful. “Don’t lie. I’m in your head already. Even without all this—” you wiggled your fingers, the color pulsing slightly, “—you haven’t stopped replaying that fight, have you?”

Bucky didn’t answer. His jaw stayed locked, but the way his eyes flicked to the window told you he was calculating. Not for an escape, but for a hit.

You kept walking, the floor quiet beneath your steps, until you were close enough to speak softer.

“I mean, I leave for three weeks,” you murmured, gaze flicking over his face, “and you start wishing I was dead, but when I walk into your apartment, you don’t even bother asking how I got past your locks. You just jump.” You grinned, sharp and amused. “Classic soldier move. React first, never ask the real questions.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

You raised your hand again, fingers spread in front of his chest, the energy humming stronger now. Just a whisper of it, but enough that the hair on his arm stood on end.

“So,” you said softly, almost curious, “do I get to control you now?”

The question was rhetorical. You didn’t need him to answer. You saw the shift in his expression anyway, the way his brows pulled in, the way his shoulders fought against the invisible weight holding them in place.

“Relax,” you said finally, stepping back again, letting the power loosen just slightly, “I’m not here to kill you. Yet.” Then you smirked. “Unless Alpine gave you permission.”

Behind you, Alpine made a tiny, offended meow from her perch on the counter, like she knew she was being referenced and was not pleased.

Your smile widened. Bucky still hadn’t moved, but he would. And you were going to enjoy it.

You didn’t move again. Didn’t need to. The pulse of power that still lingered in the air made the room feel heavier, like the space between you and him was soaked in something invisible and humming. The shadows leaned toward you like they knew who owned the night.

Bucky’s breath finally broke the silence, sharp and heavy through his nose. You’d loosened the grip on his body, sure, but not enough to let him forget what it felt like. That stillness. That helplessness. It was too damn familiar.

“What the fuck do you want?” he finally spat, voice low and rough like gravel dragged across steel. “Why the hell are you here?”

His hand twitched at his side, the metal one curling and unclenching, the threat still lingering even if the fight had been stolen from his limbs. His jaw flexed as he took you in again, this time not as a threat, he already knew you were that, but as a question that had been clawing at the back of his mind for weeks.

“You vanish for three weeks after tearing my entire team apart like tissue paper,” he snapped, voice climbing just slightly, “and now you’re sitting on my goddamn couch like you live here?”

He took a step forward. You let him.

“Why are you messing with us?” he went on, heat rising now, thickening his words. “What is this? Some kind of game? You screw with Bob’s head, knock Alexei on his ass, nearly break Ava’s ribs, hell, you made Walker scream like a fucking child—”

You raised your eyebrows slightly at that, almost proud. Bucky noticed. It made him more pissed.

“Don’t smile,” he snapped. “Don’t you fucking smile like that. You think this is funny?”

You shrugged once, slow and infuriatingly casual.

“I’m asking you a real question,” he said, taking another step, his voice a growl now, barely held together by whatever was left of his discipline. “What the fuck do you want from us? From me?”

You said nothing, so he kept going.

“You could be anywhere right now. Causing chaos, robbing banks, taking on another Hydra cell, I don’t know, but no, you’re here, in my apartment, acting like this is just some midnight social call.”

He was closer now. The light from the window stretched long between you, painting the floor in pale streaks. His face was tight, eyes sharp, but there was something underneath it. Not just fury. Not just the remnants of bruised ego and failed missions. There was confusion there. Maybe something else he hadn’t named yet.

His voice lowered again, not gentler, just quieter. More dangerous.

“Why me?”

That was the real question, and you knew it. All the other ones had been warm-ups.

Why him?

Why here?

Why tonight?

You didn’t answer, no, not yet. You just watched him with that same unreadable calm, like the silence was your favorite weapon and he was bleeding slow from every word. And he hated it, he hated that he wanted to know.

Your silence stretched, but not because you were being cruel. Not this time. Bucky could see it, now that the heat of his anger wasn’t drowning everything else. You weren’t smirking anymore. You hadn’t moved to defend yourself. You hadn’t even flinched when he raised his voice. You just stood there, steady but off. Like something was tilting just under your skin.

“I didn’t really mean to come here,” you said finally, voice quieter, slower, not dramatic but tired in a way that didn’t match the chaos you usually carried. “Wasn’t planned.”

He narrowed his eyes, shoulders still tense, arms crossed like he didn’t believe a word coming out of your mouth. “Then why the hell are you here?”

You exhaled, and it wasn’t a sigh, not exactly. More like something that had been trapped in your chest finally slipping out. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

The sentence just hung there. You didn’t follow it up with sarcasm. No snide comment. No dig about how his team was pathetic or how Alpine had better manners. Just those words, plain and fragile in the quiet.

Bucky blinked, thrown off for half a second. He tried to recover it with a scoff. “Bullshit. You’ve been dodging satellites for weeks. You can’t tell me someone like you doesn’t have a dozen bolt-holes and safehouses.”

“I do,” you said, nodding slightly. “Had, actually.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean, had?”

“I mean,” you replied, looking toward the floor like it might offer an easier version of the truth, “they’re gone. Burned. Raided. I went dark, but someone else went darker.”

He didn’t respond. Not yet. You lifted your hand and tapped your temple twice, slow. “But for whatever reason, my brain decided you were the next stop.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “So I’m what, a last resort?”

“No,” you said, and there was a flicker of something honest in your voice now, rough around the edges but not lying. “You’re just the only person I could think of that wouldn’t kill me on sight.”

“That’s optimistic.”

“I’m bleeding, Barnes,” you muttered. “Not delusional.”

He paused. Took a step closer. Something shifted in his eyes, still cautious, still guarded, but less sharp now. Then his gaze dropped, finally taking in the way you were standing. You were favoring your left side. Your shoulders weren’t quite level. You hadn’t drawn attention to it, hadn’t made a scene, but now he saw it. The stiffness. The way your right hand hadn’t moved much at all.

“Where?” he asked, voice low.

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Then, without a word, you reached up and curled your fingers around the edge of your jacket, tugging it aside just enough to reveal the deep crimson soaking through the black fabric near your ribs. It wasn’t a scratch. The stain was spreading.

Bucky’s stomach turned.

“Stabbed,” you said flatly. “I think. Maybe a knife. Could’ve been a shard of glass. Honestly didn’t stop to ask.”

His jaw twitched. “And you didn’t think to mention this before you started playing psychic puppet master?”

You shrugged, and it almost broke the spell—almost brought back the old mask of sarcasm. “Didn’t want to ruin the moment.”

“You’re bleeding all over my goddamn floor.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Take the mask off,” he snapped, stepping forward again. “Let me see—”

“No.”

That stopped him. Your tone wasn’t panicked, but it was firm. Quiet, but immovable. You didn’t raise your voice.Didn’t reach for your power. You just said it like it was final.

“I’m not taking it off.”

Bucky watched you for a long moment, still, breath coming slow through his nose.

And then he muttered, “You’re a fucking nightmare.”

You smiled faintly. “Takes one to know one.”

Bucky didn’t move at first. He just stood there, jaw tight, the lines in his face drawn deep by moonlight and something harder beneath. The shadows clung to his features, and the silence stretched so long it stopped feeling like calm and started tasting like pressure.

Then he stepped closer, just one deliberate movement, the floor creaking faintly beneath his boot. His voice was low when he finally spoke again, quieter than before but somehow heavier.

“Do you really think I wouldn’t kill you right now?”

Your head tilted slightly, unreadable beneath the mask, but your body stayed still. The power curling around your fingers had dimmed. It was there if you needed it, sure, but right now you weren’t using it. You weren’t fighting. You were just… there. Bleeding, and watching him.

He kept going.

“You’re standing in my apartment,” he said slowly, every word laced with something old and bitter, “bleeding all over my floor, half-conscious, out of tricks. You’re helpless. And I really, really want to kill you.”

His tone didn’t shake. Not once. He wasn’t bluffing. You could hear it. This wasn’t a threat for show. It was the truth as he saw it. You were his enemy. You humiliated his team. You invaded his space. And now you were here, vulnerable, talking like the war between you was some inside joke.

He meant it. He wanted to kill you.

And yet, you looked at him for a beat longer, then finally spoke, voice quiet but even. Not mocking. Not taunting. Just matter-of-fact.

“You won’t.”

That made him flinch, almost imperceptibly. You took a slow step forward, enough to make the room feel smaller, but not close enough to provoke him.

“Because if you were going to,” you said, “you would’ve done it already.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. You saw it in the way his fists stayed clenched, not swinging. The way his jaw worked, like his body couldn’t decide if it was more afraid of what you’d done or what he hadn’t.

You stood there for another second, swaying just slightly now, the wound making itself harder to ignore.

“I’ve done worse,” you added. “To better people.”

Still, no reply. You smiled faintly, not from strength, not from pride, just from knowing. From being right, again.

Then your knees wobbled, and the room pitched slightly, and suddenly the silence wasn’t tense anymore. It was something else. Something softer, or maybe sadder.

You didn’t fall, but you weren’t far from it. And Bucky, for all his anger, didn’t move to finish the job. He just stared at you, still deciding.

Bucky didn’t move. He just stood there, still as a goddamn statue, watching you bleed in his living room like it wasn’t the strangest thing that had ever happened to him, and somehow, it wasn’t. Your frame had gone quieter, the tension in your muscles easing not from calm but from exhaustion. Every breath you took now sounded like a gamble, like your body hadn’t decided if it was worth trying again.

The shadows wrapped around you, the room still mostly dark except for the moonlight bleeding through the slats in the blinds. It streaked across the hardwood floor in soft silver lines, casting your silhouette like a painting too old and too wounded to hang anywhere.

He noticed now, fully noticed, how pale your knuckles were, how your right arm hung a little too heavy at your side. The blood hadn’t stopped. It had just learned to hide better, soaking into your clothes and pooling quietly at your hip.

And still, you said nothing.

Until finally, your legs wobbled again, and this time your hand gripped the edge of the couch like it might anchor you to the earth. Your head dipped slightly, shoulders folding in, not like someone afraid, but like someone too damn tired to keep faking strength.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. Every part of him screamed to stay still. To let you fall. To punish you for the mess you’d made.

But then, you lifted your face again, and even through the dark, even behind that damn mask, he could tell you were smiling.

“Careful,” you mumbled, your voice frayed at the edges, like you were dragging the words out from someplace deeper. “If you touch me, I might start thinking you care.”

His mouth twitched. Not with amusement. Not even with anger. Just something tight and confused and ancient, like some part of him had heard those words before, in another life, maybe from another mouth.

And then, quieter, barely a whisper, you added, “You don’t want that… I’m really annoying when I’m conscious.”

Your knees gave another shiver, this time sharper. Your fingers slipped from the couch. And Bucky’s instincts, old as war and sharper than any steel Hydra ever forged into him, moved faster than thought.

He caught you before gravity could.

One hand braced flat against the center of your back, steady and firm, while the other curled around your arm just above the elbow, his grip tight but careful. Your body slumped forward, not heavy, but limp in a way that made his pulse jump. You were smaller like this. Not physically, just quieter. All the fight drained, and all the venom simmered down into stillness.

You didn’t jerk away, and didn’t even try to bite your way free. You just leaned into him, instead, head tilting slightly to the side as your breath brushed his collarbone.

“See? I knew you wouldn’t let me fall,” you murmured, and your voice had lost that razor edge now. It was soft. Almost gentle. Almost… human.

Bucky’s jaw flexed, unsure if he wanted to shake you or carry you.

Then your body sagged all at once, weight melting into him as your knees finally gave out for real. Your head dropped forward against his chest, breath shallow, warmth fading beneath the blood cooling through your layers.

You passed out in his arms.

And for a long second, Bucky didn’t move.

The only sounds were the soft ticking of the wall clock, the whisper of Alpine shifting somewhere in the other room, and the hiss of his own breathing as he looked down at you—this walking disaster of a person who’d torn through his team like paper and then stumbled bleeding into his home like it was where you were always meant to be.

You didn’t even tell him who did this to you. You didn’t explain. You just showed up, then fell, but he caught you.

God help him.

Bucky sat back on his heels, breathing hard, watching you like you might sit up and throw another insult at him just for fun, but you didn’t move. You were still sprawled across his bed, limp and half-twisted into the sheets, body heavy with blood loss, breath catching in soft, uneven intervals that were somehow worse than silence.

His eyes flicked back to the wound on your side. The bleeding had slowed, and now that he’d pulled off more of your gear, he could see the damage wasn’t as bad as he’d first thought. It was a deep slice, maybe from a combat knife or a sharp piece of shrapnel, but it had missed anything vital. You were lucky. Or maybe just stubborn enough not to die.

He muttered something under his breath, not quite words, more like frustration disguised as exhale, and grabbed a clean cloth from the kit. Soaked it. Wiped the blood away carefully, methodically, like it might make this whole thing feel less insane.

His fingers brushed your skin again, just near the edge of the wound, and he paused.

Jesus.

You were warm. Warmer than you should’ve been, maybe from the fever starting to settle in your bones, maybe just from the fight, but the heat of your body seared into his palm like a brand. And for a split second, just one razor-edge beat of a moment, he let himself feel it.

The softness of your waist beneath the torn fabric. The steady thrum of your pulse, faint but there, under skin that had no business being this smooth in a life like yours. He caught a glimpse of the curve of your ribs, the subtle rise and fall of your chest. The moonlight spilled across your skin like it had an agenda of its own, catching the faint sheen of sweat that clung to you, the way your stomach tensed unconsciously when his fingers hovered too close.

He cursed under his breath again, this time with more force.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, dragging his eyes away from the stretch of bare skin and back to the gauze. “You’re not even awake and you’re still pissing me off.”

He worked quickly now, forcing himself to focus. The antiseptic stung where he dabbed it across the gash, and you flinched again, but barely. It was the first real movement you’d made in minutes, and somehow that made it worse. Made it real.

He wasn’t supposed to be doing this. You were supposed to be the enemy. A threat. A walking storm that wrecked everything in your path, including him.

And yet, here you were, bleeding into his mattress while he cleaned your wounds with the kind of care he hadn’t given himself in years.

Another swipe of the cloth, another inch of skin exposed beneath the torn fabric, and Bucky felt his jaw twitch. You were too close. Too still. And despite everything—the missions, the wreckage, the fucking chaos, you looked like you belonged there. In his bed. In his space.

It pissed him off more than anything else.

He taped the final strip of gauze into place, pulling the wrap snug across your side, fingers brushing the dip of your waist again before he forced his hands to pull back.

Then he stood, too fast, like he needed to create space between your body and his sanity. He tossed the bloodied cloth into the sink across the hall, ran cold water over his wrists, and stared at his own reflection like maybe it could talk him out of whatever the hell this was turning into.

He didn’t go far. Just stood in the doorway, watching your body rise and fall with every uneven breath, jaw clenched, throat dry, eyes still tracking every inch of exposed skin like it was a weapon he couldn’t disarm.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath.

Because the truth was? He’d rather be bleeding than feeling whatever the hell this was.

Bucky hadn’t moved from the doorway. He stood still as a statue, arms folded, brow furrowed deep, eyes pinned to the unconscious figure in his bed like staring long enough might make this all make sense. He should call it in. That was the first thought that tried to crawl its way up through the thick, unsettled fog of his brain. 

He should let Val know, let the team know, hell, let anyone know that the problem they’d been chasing for months had landed herself square in his apartment and passed out on his sheets like it was some kind of sick joke.

The comm was on the shelf by the front door. It’d take ten seconds. Maybe less. He stared at the wall. He didn't move.

Then, slowly, Bucky’s gaze dropped back to you. Your breathing had changed. It was heavier now, unsteady and choppy in a way that made his skin crawl. Not from fear. From familiarity.

You were dreaming. No, nightmaring. Whatever hell was clawing at you behind that mask, it was real enough to twist your body in slow, tight jerks. Your hands clenched against the sheets. Then he saw it.

The faint shimmer at your fingertips, glowing like embers under your nails. Not bright. Not wild. Just a low, steady pulse of dark red that crackled with something not entirely stable. It sparked once, then again, and Bucky caught a tiny thread of energy split the air and vanish into your palm like it had never been there.

His stomach dropped. That wasn’t just dreaming. That was a mind screaming in a language he didn’t speak.

You let out a breathless sound. Almost a word. Almost pain. Sweat had broken out across your neck, dampening the collar of your clothes. Your fingers twitched again, and another spark followed, more desperate this time. The kind of movement that didn’t belong to someone faking.

“Shit,” he whispered, barely loud enough to be heard over the soft buzz of the lamp.

He moved back toward the bed, slow now, careful like he was approaching a live wire instead of a bleeding enemy. You didn’t wake. You just turned your head slightly, and the angle of the moonlight hit your mask at a strange slant, catching the carved lines and worn edges.

You were still hiding. Still half the phantom they’d been hunting.

And for whatever reason he couldn’t pin down, that made his chest tighten. He hesitated.

One second. Two. Then, wordlessly, Bucky reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the mask.

It came away easier than he expected. A few clipped locks, a thin band at the back of your head. The fabric was damp with sweat, and it peeled away like second skin, slow and steady. He held his breath as he lifted it free.

And finally, finally, he saw your face. No illusions. No glamours. No sharp grin or sharp tongue. Just you.

Skin pale with blood loss, features drawn tight in the grip of whatever storm was rolling through your mind, lashes damp with sweat, lips parted like you were trying to speak even now. There was no satisfaction in the reveal. No moment of triumph. Just... silence.

Bucky stared. You didn’t look evil. You didn’t look like a threat. You looked like someone who hadn’t slept in weeks. Like someone who’d run out of places to go and had landed here without a plan.

You twitched again, and that red light bloomed at your fingertips once more, a soft flicker curling toward your wrist before sputtering out.

And that was when it hit him. He couldn’t call anyone. Not right now.

Because whatever was happening in that head of yours, it wasn’t something the Thunderbolts would wait to figure out. They’d come in guns drawn, protocols blazing, and they’d end this before you even woke up.

And Bucky? For reasons he didn’t understand, reasons he didn’t want to understand, he didn’t want you dead. Not tonight, and not like this.

So instead, he set the mask on the nightstand. Then, he sat on the edge of the bed, just far enough that he wouldn’t accidentally brush your leg, and watched the flickers of red fade into nothing again, waiting for your breathing to slow.

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but he knew this much. He couldn’t let you go. Not yet.

Bucky didn’t move. Not even when the wind outside caught the blinds and made them clatter softly against the windowpane. Not when the radiator groaned like it always did at this hour, settling into itself with a sigh that filled the silence like a whisper. He just sat there, still, quiet, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling loose between them, watching you breathe like the answers were hidden somewhere in the rise and fall of your chest.

His jaw was clenched tight. It had been since he took off your mask.

The red glow had stopped a few minutes ago, but the heat of it still lingered in the room. He could feel it in the air, a charge that hadn’t quite dissipated. It made the hairs on his arm stand, not out of fear, he was long past that, but out of something closer to instinct. That bone-deep awareness that something powerful had been here. Was here. And he’d let it inside.

You shifted slightly, not enough to wake, just a soft curl of your fingers into the sheets. Your breath hitched again, then settled. Sweat still beaded along your hairline, darkening the edges, clinging to the corner of your jaw like tiny fragments of whatever nightmare you’d just survived.

Bucky looked at you like he was waiting for the truth to rise out of your skin. It didn’t.

Instead, all he had was that voice in his head, Steve’s, maybe, or his own before Hydra carved it hollow saying, What the hell are you doing, Buck?

He didn’t know.

He should’ve called it in. Should’ve tied you up. Should’ve shoved a gun between your eyes and waited for backup. He knew how to do that. He’d done worse to people who mattered less. And you? You’d earned it. After everything. The ruined ops. The mind games. Bob still flinched every time someone said your name.

You weren’t a person to the Thunderbolts. You were a problem. A mission that kept slipping through their fingers like oil and smoke.

But here you were now; unarmed, and unconscious.

Bleeding into his sheets with your mask off and your guard down, and something in Bucky’s chest had curled in on itself the second he saw your face.

He hated that he noticed how young you looked. Hated that he clocked the faint scar above your brow, the subtle pull at the corner of your mouth like your default was half a smirk, even in sleep. He hated that he wasn’t reaching for his gun right now. That he wasn’t dragging you out of his apartment and into the light where the others could finish what they started.

Instead, he was sitting beside you, wondering if your breathing was finally evening out or if you were slipping deeper into whatever hell kept your fists twitching in your sleep.

His eyes drifted down to your hands again. No sparks this time. Just fingers curled into loose fists, stained faint with dried blood. He remembered how those hands moved when you fought, fast, deliberate, surgical. Like you didn’t waste motion because you didn’t have to. And he remembered how you’d looked at him right before you passed out. Like you knew he wouldn’t kill you.

And worse? You’d been right.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispered under his breath, dragging his metal hand through his hair.

He stood for a second, pacing once to the window and back like the motion would shake something loose. But the only thing it did was remind him how small the apartment really was. How close you still were. How this moment, this choice, was already something he couldn’t take back.

So he sat again, this time closer. You didn’t flinch. And he didn’t speak, because if he opened his mouth now, he didn’t trust what might come out.

Suddenly, three days passed. Three days. That’s how long you’d been in his bed.

Three whole days of stillness, of soft, labored breathing, of skin running hot one minute and cold the next. Three days of Bucky keeping one ear tuned to your every movement, eyes always flicking to the bedroom every time a floorboard creaked too loudly. He didn’t sleep much. Not that he did on a good day, but with you there, unconscious and unpredictable, every quiet second felt like a lit fuse waiting to hit the powder.

He'd checked the wound the first night. Pulled your shirt up just enough to see the damage, careful not to touch more skin than necessary. The stab had gone in deep enough to make his stomach drop, blood soaked clean through the gauze he’d wrapped you in the night before, but nothing vital. No organs hit. Lucky, or maybe you were just built like a roach in leather.

So,  he cleaned it again. Changed the dressing twice a day. Sat at the edge of the bed and muttered things under his breath like he didn’t mean to, things like, “Should’ve let you bleed,” and “Pain in my ass, even half-dead.” But he did it anyway. Hands steady. Movements practiced. Like tending to wounds was the one thing he could do right without anyone barking orders.

He tried not to look at your face too long. That part was harder. Especially when the nightmares came again, twitching in your sleep, red curling off your skin like smoke. He kept a damp cloth near the bed, dabbed your forehead when the sweating got bad. It felt too human. Too careful. He hated it.

But last night? Last night he’d peeled back the bandage, fingers moving slow, expecting the same mess. The bruising. The tear.

And there was nothing.

Not a scab. Not a scar. Not even the faintest mark of trauma. Just clean, smooth skin stretched over where the blade had gone in. He’d blinked. Looked again. Touched it, gently, like maybe he’d imagined the whole damn thing, but no, it was gone.

He sat back on his heels, eyebrows drawn together in that familiar look of what the fuck, and stared at your side for a full minute.

“Of course,” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his metal hand. “Because nothing about you is normal.”

It wasn’t healing. Not regular healing. This was something else. Something freaky. Asgardian, maybe. Magic, more likely. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. It just made the whole thing worse.

He leaned back, resting against the nightstand, arms crossed over his chest. The bedside lamp flicked a dim pool of light across your shoulder, your hand limp against the blanket, twitching once like you were chasing something again. He didn’t know how long you planned on staying unconscious, but the idea of explaining any of this to anyone, to the team, made his teeth grind.

He should’ve dragged you out by now. Should’ve handed you over. Let them finish what they started. Instead, he was keeping watch like some grumpy old guard dog, jumping every time you sighed.

“Would be easier if you were dead,” he mumbled to himself, but his voice was softer than he meant, and the room was still, and you were still breathing.

Bucky was on the floor, cross-legged and hunched over like a six-foot-tall kindergartener, his voice pitched into that absurd, soft baby-talk tone he’d sworn to Alpine, and himself, he would never use in front of anyone else. Ever.

“You’re just a little menace, huh? A fluffy little, hey, no, don’t chew on that. That’s my sock, you demon, come on, ow, hey, rude.”

Alpine, as usual, gave zero shits about his authority and launched herself at his wrist with the kind of adorable savagery that would’ve made Bob coo and Yelena suspicious. Bucky just let her wrestle with his fingers, tired amusement softening the hard lines around his eyes for the first time in days.

He didn’t hear the footsteps. Didn’t even hear the door creak or the faint rustle of fabric or the wet slide of a towel being hung up.

No, what finally caught his attention was a voice. Your voice. Warm, smug, and just loud enough to freeze the blood in his veins.

“Well, well, Sergeant Barnes,” you said, leaning against the kitchen doorway like you’d been there the whole damn time. “I always knew you had a soft side, but that little baby voice? Adorable.”

Bucky’s head snapped up so fast Alpine bailed off his lap and fled to the couch. He scrambled to his feet with the reflexes of a man who’d been ambushed a thousand times before, only this time, it wasn’t a Hydra operative or a mission gone wrong. It was you.

Standing there like nothing had happened. Dressed in his clothes.

His gray T-shirt hung loose over your frame, sleeves falling just past your elbows. The drawstring of his old sweats was cinched messily at your hips, like you didn’t even try to tighten it properly. Your hair was damp, skin flushed from a shower, and you looked too clean. Too casual. Too smug. Like you hadn’t almost died in his bed. Like you hadn’t been unconscious for seventy-two hours straight.

His jaw locked. “What the fuck—”

“Language,” you said, lifting a finger, smile crooked. “You wouldn’t want Alpine to pick up your bad habits.”

“You, how the hell—” He pointed, flustered, like there was some rational explanation hiding somewhere in the space between you and the hallway you must’ve walked down.

“Nice water pressure, by the way,” you added casually, pushing off the wall and walking toward him like you belonged here. Like the apartment was yours. “And don’t worry, I cleaned up after myself. Put the towels in the hamper. Very polite of me.”

He was blinking too fast now, visibly processing about ten different crises at once. “You were unconscious. You were bleeding. I stitched you up—how the hell did you shower without me hearing it?”

You shrugged like it wasn’t that deep. “Quiet feet. Also, you were distracted. You and Alpine were having a moment.”

Bucky’s hands were clenched into fists, and not the angry, ready-to-fight kind. The panicked, overwhelmed, trying-not-to-lose-it kind.

Then, you tilted your head, that same glint sparking in your eye again.

“You know,” you said, grinning now, “you’re the first one who’s ever seen my face.”

That stopped him cold.

His expression shifted; wariness bleeding into confusion, confusion tangling with something heavier he didn’t have a name for. His eyes dragged over your features like he was looking at something he shouldn’t, like maybe it wasn’t supposed to be a privilege.

“And yet you didn’t kill me,” you added, voice a little softer. “Interesting.”

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, breath shallow, Alpine peeking out from behind the couch like even she was trying to read the room.

You let the silence sit a moment longer, then sighed, stretching your arms overhead like you hadn’t just dropped a live grenade in the space between you.

“Anyway,” you said, spinning on your heel, heading toward the kitchen with zero shame, “I’m starving. What’s a girl gotta do around here to get some pancakes?”

Bucky didn’t say a word as he moved around the kitchen, but his silence was louder than most people’s screaming. Every slam of a cabinet, every muttered curse when he realized he was out of the good butter, every pointed glance your way as he flipped a pancake with far too much aggression, it all said the same thing:

What the hell is happening right now.

You were perched at the small table by the window, legs folded under you like you’d lived there for years. Still wearing his shirt. Still smelling faintly of his shampoo. Like this was just a Sunday morning and not the aftermath of a hostile takeover followed by a three-day coma nap.

He stole another glance at you. You caught it, of course. You caught all of them, and then you grinned.

“What?” you asked, chin in hand, absolutely lounging. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You were supposed to be unconscious,” he muttered, jabbing at the pancake batter like it had personally offended him. “Bleeding out. Dying, preferably.”

“Wow,” you said, mock-offended, “that’s no way to talk to a guest.”

“You’re not a guest,” he snapped.

“Then, what am I?”

He didn’t answer, because he didn’t know. Enemy, maybe. Headache. Puzzle piece from a box he’d thrown out years ago. You were sitting there like a riddle he didn’t have time to solve, all casual confidence and chaotic charm, and Bucky didn’t know if he wanted to lock you up or ask you if you wanted syrup.

He plated the pancakes anyway. Stacked them, buttered them, then dropped the plate in front of you a little harder than necessary. You beamed as you picked up the fork and dug in like nothing was weird about this at all.

Bucky crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter, staring. “You’re not gonna explain anything, are you?”

You shrugged with a mouthful of pancake, then swallowed. “What’s there to explain? I got stabbed. Your apartment’s nice. My mind told me to come here.”

“That’s not normal,” he deadpanned.

“I’m not normal,” you replied cheerfully.

He let out a breath, slow and sharp, like he was trying very hard not to punch something. Probably the wall. Maybe himself.

“Why my place?” he asked finally. “You could’ve gone anywhere. You should’ve gone anywhere.”

You glanced up at him then, not teasing. Just honest. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

The silence hung between you like a wire pulled too tight. Then you scooped another bite of pancake, like you hadn’t just said something quietly heartbreaking.

Bucky sighed, long and low. Then, turned to pour himself a cup of coffee, muttering under his breath the entire time.

“You’re a menace,” he said, not looking at you.

“You fed me pancakes,” you replied.

He turned back, holding his mug, eyes narrowed. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”

You gave him a smile that was all teeth and no apology. “That’s okay. I like me enough for both of us.”

After breakfast, if you could even call your wild, syrup-drenched demolition of three and a half pancakes “breakfast”, Bucky had retreated into silence, the kind of silence that didn’t just fill a room, it watched you. He stood like a statue in the corner of his own kitchen, holding his coffee like it was the last thing tethering him to sense, while you wandered through the space with the gleeful wonder of someone fresh out of a bunker.

You had this habit of reaching for things with both hands. Like your fingertips didn’t trust the world yet but your palms wanted to feel it anyway. You ran them along the grain of the wooden table, over the framed photo on the shelf he thought he’d hidden well; an old picture, black-and-white, of a street corner in Brooklyn. You held it gently, like it might burn you. Then you set it back, reverent.

The living room was your next stop. You padded across the hardwood barefoot—because of course you’d ditched the socks, and of course you were still wearing his shirt, oversized and half-buttoned, paired with his oldest sweatpants tied tight at the waist in a knot that didn’t belong to him.

“Ooh,” you said, dragging out the syllable like it was your first word, “what’s this?”

“That’s a record player,” Bucky said, monotone, not even looking up.

“A what?” you asked like he’d spoken in Morse code.

You crouched beside it, nose practically pressed to the turntable, inspecting it like it was alien tech. Then you spotted the small stack of vinyl tucked into the crate beside it and gasped, actually gasped, as you slid one out. The needle had barely hit the edge of a Nat King Cole album before smooth, warm music filled the space, crackling softly like a memory.

Bucky exhaled hard through his nose, trying very hard to pretend his heart wasn’t doing something weird in his chest.

You kept going. The blanket drawer was next. You opened it, stared down at the folded fabrics like they were treasure, then pulled out the softest one and rubbed it against your cheek with a dreamy sigh.

“This,” you said with absolute conviction, “is the best thing I’ve ever touched.”

“It’s a blanket,” Bucky said again, this time more exasperated.

You turned toward him, standing in the middle of the room now, the blanket draped around your shoulders like royalty, eyes wide, sincere. “You have so many things. It’s like... it’s like you’ve collected cozy.”

That made him pause, because he hadn’t thought of it like that. He just knew what made him feel safe. A soft throw. A record spinning low in the background. The warm weight of Alpine curled behind his knees at night. These were things he clung to, not because they made sense, but because they made him feel like a person.

You danced, yes, danced, into the kitchen next, nearly bumping your hip into the counter as you spun with some leftover rhythm from the vinyl.

Bucky flinched, then glared. “Can you not treat my apartment like a playground?”

“But it’s so nice,” you said, pulling open drawers now like you were hunting for buried treasure. “You have a garlic press! What even is a garlic press? Wait, is this a cheese grater?” You held it up like a weapon. “Do you grate cheese? That’s adorable.”

“You’re going to break something,” he muttered, voice pinched with stress, as he stepped forward and tried to gently tug the cheese grater from your hand. You didn’t let go right away. You just looked up at him with that grin again, playful, wild, dangerous in a completely different way than he was used to.

“I think I’m having fun,” you said softly. “Is this fun? I think this is what it feels like.”

Bucky stared at you. Really stared. Your hair still damp from a shower he hadn’t heard, skin pink from steam, curled in his too-big clothes, standing in his kitchen like you had never known what a home was. He’d seen you rip apart a squad of trained killers like you were walking through a dance routine, and now here you were, cooing at Alpine and smelling every damn spice jar in his cabinet like you were cataloging the world one smell at a time.

“Do you not know how to... live?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You blinked at him, tilting your head slightly like you were considering it. Then you shrugged.

“I know how to survive,” you said. “This feels different.”

And then, like the moment never happened, you gasped again and darted toward the fridge. You opened it, squinted into the contents, then turned back with absolute delight.

“You have actual food in here! Like eggs! And leftovers! Bucky, are you secretly someone's grandmother?”

He groaned into his coffee. “God, please shut up.”

You only laughed louder. And for the first time in a long time, Bucky didn’t mind the noise.

You were on the floor again, legs tucked under you in some unholy pretzel configuration, hair damp, hoodie sleeves rolled halfway up your forearms as you dangled a fuzzy blue mouse above Alpine’s increasingly unimpressed face. The cat, stretched lazily on her back, was pawing at the toy like she was entertaining you out of pity, not necessity.

“You have no idea,” you whispered dramatically to Alpine. “If I ever master mind control on animals, it’s over for you. Over. You’ll be wearing capes. Matching ones. With me.”

Alpine blinked at you slowly, then rolled to her side, unimpressed.

Bucky, still pretending to read the paper he hadn’t actually touched in ten minutes, watched from the armchair. One brow twitched. “You good down there, or do I need to call someone?”

“She likes me,” you replied confidently, shifting to rub behind Alpine’s ear with both hands like you were kneading dough. “She told me.”

“She told you?” he repeated, dry.

You nodded. Dead serious. “Yeah. I can hear her thoughts.”

Bucky dropped the paper completely, eyes narrowing, a flicker of something ancient and curious crossing his face. “Wait, seriously?”

You looked up at him slowly. “Dead serious.”

He sat up straighter. “Okay, okay, what’s she saying right now?”

You paused, one hand pressed against Alpine’s soft side like you were channeling the deepest energy in the universe. Your eyes closed. You inhaled slowly, solemnly. Then you opened your mouth.

“Meow.”

It was delivered with the kind of reverent flatness that made it sound like a holy prophecy.

Bucky stared at you. Just stared. Then, you burst out laughing.

“Meow?” he echoed, incredulous. “You asshole!”

You were wheezing, now doubled over, head against Alpine’s belly like she was your emotional support pillow. “Oh my God, the look on your face. You wanted it to be real.”

“You’re the worst,” he said, but there was a small, reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. He leaned back again, arms folding across his chest. “I thought you were actually pulling some weird psychic crap. You had the voice and everything.”

“I am psychic,” you said through your giggles. “But only when it’s funny.”

Alpine chose that exact moment to get up, walk across your lap, and hop onto Bucky’s armrest like she’d just filed a complaint with management. You flopped onto your back on the floor, hands spread wide.

“You’re both so dramatic,” you muttered. “No wonder you’re roommates.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “She’s not my roommate.”

“She sleeps in your bed, eats your food, and glares at your guests. She owns this place.”

Alpine let out a small chirp, as if agreeing.

You stayed on the floor a beat longer, grinning up at the ceiling like this was the best day you’d had in years. Bucky watched you, that smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth, like maybe he couldn’t quite remember why he hated you so much anymore, or maybe he still did, but it was harder now, with you laying there in his living room, wearing his clothes, pretending to speak cat.

“Do you always act like this when you’re not setting things on fire?” he asked finally.

You turned your head toward him, eyes bright. “No, sometimes I also sing showtunes.”

“Please, don’t.”

“I will if you make me do dishes.”

He groaned, but it was half-laugh, half-resignation, like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Not yet, anyway.

After a while, Bucky had finally convinced you to sit on the couch like a regular person instead of lying on the floor talking to his cat like she was your therapist. You had your knees pulled up, your fingers picking at a loose thread on the hem of his sweatshirt. It hung off your frame like it had belonged to you once in another life. Maybe that’s what got to him most. How you made yourself look at home in a place he still sometimes felt like a guest in.

He didn’t ask any questions at first. Just sat at the other end of the couch, long legs stretched out, arms folded. Alpine was curled between you like Switzerland.

The silence wasn’t awkward. Not exactly. It just hung in the air, waiting. You were the one who broke it.

“You ever think about running away?” you asked quietly, still looking down at your lap.

Bucky glanced at you, brow twitching. “From what?”

You shrugged, still plucking at the thread. “All of it. The whole thing. The job. The expectations. The guilt. The ghosts. You ever think about just… vanishing?”

He didn’t answer right away. “Sometimes,” he said eventually. “But ghosts follow, and they don’t need passports.”

You nodded like you knew that already. “I tried,” you said after a pause. “Vanishing, like years ago. Had a new name, and lived in a new city. Stayed away from fights, from powers, from the whole damn mess. Got a job at a library, if you can believe that.”

He looked over at you again. “You worked in a library?”

You smirked a little, still not quite meeting his eyes. “Yeah. Quiet. Peaceful. Smelled like paper and old wood and safety.”

“What happened?”

You finally looked up. There was something there in your expression, something raw and unguarded. It didn’t scream pain. It whispered it. “They found me.”

“Who?”

You shook your head. “Does it matter? Hydra. SHIELD. The Thunderbolts. Some other three-letter acronym. They always find me. They always want to use me.”

“And…you ran again?”

You shook your head again, slower this time. “No, I just stopped running. Figured if I was gonna keep being hunted, I might as well bite back.”

Alpine yawned between you, completely unbothered by the weight settling into the room. Bucky studied your face, the way the laughter had drained from it, replaced by something older. Sadder. Wiser.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said finally.

You smiled at that, but it was tired. “What did you expect?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. Something colder. Angrier.”

You tilted your head. “I am angry. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like pancakes and fluffy blankets.”

“You’re full of contradictions.”

“So are you,” you said gently. “Metal arm. Soft eyes.”

Bucky looked away at that, jaw tightening like you’d hit a nerve.

You let the silence linger again, then added, “I didn’t come here to mess with you. Not this time. I didn’t even know I was coming here, not really, but when I got hurt… it’s like my body brought me here on its own. And that should probably terrify me more than it does.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. So he said, “You want more pancakes tomorrow?”

You smiled. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I’d like that.”

Bucky didn’t say much when he stood from the couch and pointed down the hall. “Guest room’s second door on the left,” he muttered, rubbing at the side of his neck like the words tasted awkward on his tongue. “You should get some sleep.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Hey, you’re the one patching up your nemesis. I’m just here for the free healthcare and the mystery cat.”

He grunted in reply and turned to head to his own room. He didn’t look back, but apparently, neither did you.

Because fifteen minutes later, when he finally switched off the lights and stepped into his bedroom with every intention of collapsing face-first into his mattress, he found… you. Sprawled out like a damn starfish. One leg tossed haphazardly over his blanket, arms outstretched like you were claiming the entire bed by divine right.

Alpine was curled up on your stomach, tail flicking once like she was daring him to say something. Bucky just stood there in the doorway, jaw clenched, deadpan.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath.

He looked over his shoulder toward the guest room, then back at the sight in front of him. You were already dead asleep, breathing steady, hoodie riding up just a little, revealing the edge of gauze he’d wrapped earlier. Your hand twitched once, fingers curling like you were chasing something in a dream.

“Second door on the left,” he whispered harshly at your unconscious form. “It’s not that hard.”

But you didn’t stir. Not even a snore. Just blissful, defiant sleep, like the chaos you carried had finally shut off for the night. Bucky sighed long and slow, raking a hand down his face. Alpine blinked at him once, then went back to sleep. Betrayer.

Fine.

He pivoted and walked back down the hallway, muttering a string of curses that probably would've shocked Steve if he were still around to hear them. The guest room bed creaked when he dropped onto it, too stiff, too clean, like a hotel room no one ever used. He stared at the ceiling for a while, letting silence settle over the apartment like a blanket, except it didn’t warm him. Not tonight.

He hated how easily you had slotted into the rhythm of this place. Like you belonged here. Like his quiet life wasn’t so quiet anymore.

By the time sleep finally came, it was thin and fractured. He dreamed of moonlight, laughter, and voices he couldn’t place.

The next morning, he woke to the smell of… confusion. That was the only way he could describe it. Something was burning.

He sat up fast, heart lurching before his brain caught up. Then he realized it wasn’t smoke. It was just… coffee. Bad coffee.

He pulled on a T-shirt and padded barefoot into the kitchen, blinking against the morning light. And there you were.

Standing in front of the coffee machine like it had personally betrayed you.

You were dressed in his sweatpants now, rolled up at the ankles, and the hoodie was still slung over your frame like it hadn’t moved all night. Your hair was tied back loosely, a little damp, like you’d showered again, but when? He’d heard nothing. Not even the pipes.

Your fingers hovered over the buttons like they might explode. “What the hell is a ‘descaling mode’?” you muttered to yourself. “Why does this thing have so many buttons? Why does it beep like that?”

Bucky leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a slowly growing smirk. “Need help?” he asked, voice thick with sleep.

You jumped slightly, then turned to him, face lit up like a kid caught playing with forbidden tech. “This machine is cursed,” you said solemnly. “I pressed one thing and now it’s asking me for a cleaning pod. I don’t even know what a cleaning pod is. What are you people doing in the 21st century?”

He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “It makes coffee.”

“No, it makes demands.”

He walked over, reaching past you to tap the reset button and clear the screen. “You’re lucky I don’t make you earn your keep by washing dishes.”

You looked offended. “I washed the forks.”

“There were three forks.”

“It was still labor.”

He glanced sideways at you, then down at the shirt you wore. His shirt. “Did you… go through my closet?”

You tilted your head. “You weren’t specific, so I assumed guest rights applied.”

He blinked. “Guest rights?”

“You’re feeding me, bandaging me, and letting me sleep in your overpriced bed, so I’m practically family.”

His eyebrow twitched. “You’re insane.”

“Probably,” you said brightly, then turned back to the machine, hitting a random button again. It beeped in protest. “Seriously though, how do you use this thing without summoning a demon?”

Bucky just reached over, pressed two buttons, and poured you a cup like it was the easiest thing in the world. You took the mug, eyes wide, genuinely impressed.

“I’m gonna marry this coffee,” you muttered after your first sip.

He shook his head, watching you like you were a storm that blew in, turned everything upside down, and now acted like you owned the place.

Maybe you did, and somehow, that thought didn’t scare him the way it should have.

By noon, the sun was carving soft light through the blinds, slicing the living room into bands of gold and shadow. Bucky had cleaned up the coffee disaster with practiced movements, muttering under his breath the entire time about people who shouldn’t be trusted near kitchen appliances. You had followed him around like Alpine, eyes wide, hair damp, socks mismatched, like you’d never been in a home before. And maybe, in a way, you hadn’t.

That’s how it started. With you leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him dry a mug.

“Do you ever cook?” you asked, nonchalant. Too nonchalant.

Bucky paused, then gave a slow, wary look over his shoulder. “Define cook.”

You grinned. “Like… with fire.”

He stared. “What are you planning?”

“I want to cook lunch,” you declared, stepping toward the fridge with the posture of someone about to win a cooking competition they’d never trained for. “I’ve seen shows. I know the basics.”

“Shows,” he repeated. “Like what, Hell’s Kitchen?”

“More like Nailed It,” you said cheerfully, flinging the fridge open with enough force to make the condiments rattle.

Bucky stood very still, like if he didn’t move, maybe the chaos would lose interest and go away, but of course, it didn’t.

You pulled out eggs, cheese, and something he swore had expired last month, and dropped them dramatically onto the counter. “Voilà.”

“That’s expired.”

“It builds immunity.”

“That’s not how food poisoning works.”

You were already cracking eggs into a bowl, shells half-shattered and suspiciously crunchy. Bucky’s hand twitched toward the trash can, but he didn’t interfere. Not yet. He leaned on the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with an expression that wavered between horror and something too soft to name.

“You know,” you said while aggressively whisking with a fork, “the last time I cooked, the stove caught fire.”

Bucky blinked. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No, I just wanted to be honest.”

He sighed deeply, dragging a hand down his face. Alpine hopped up on the counter to supervise, her tail flicking like a metronome of judgment.

“Okay, step back,” he said finally, nudging you out of the way with his hip. “Before you summon another demon from the coffee machine or burn down my entire block.”

You stepped back with a smug grin, holding the bowl like a trophy. “So what you’re saying is... I’m charming enough to get out of arson charges?”

“No,” he said, cracking fresh eggs with one hand like muscle memory never left. “You’re lucky I don’t have the energy to deal with explosions today.”

You watched him move around the kitchen, calm and precise. Like he’d done this a hundred times. Like it was a ritual, not just survival. For a second, the silence between you was different. Not playful, not sharp. Just… still.

“Did you do this with Steve?” you asked quietly, the question barely louder than the sizzle of eggs hitting the pan.

Bucky’s hands stilled. Just for a second. Then he stirred the pan slowly, like he was buying time before answering.

“Sometimes,” he said finally. “Back in Brooklyn, before the war. He couldn’t cook for shit, but he made good toast.”

You smiled. “That sounds about right.”

“He always burnt bacon,” Bucky added, a ghost of amusement passing over his face. “Said it made it crunchier.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, gently, “You miss him?”

He didn’t answer immediately. “Every day,” he said.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t heavy. Just the truth, laid bare like it didn’t need dressing up.

You nodded like you understood, because you did. Maybe not Steve, but the aching hollow of what was lost. The weight of could-have-beens. “I miss people, too,” you said after a beat, quietly. “Though most of them weren’t exactly Steve Rogers.”

Bucky glanced at you then, a flicker of something passing between you. Mutual understanding. Shared grief, even if it wore different names.

You cleared your throat and clapped your hands once, the spell breaking. “So, pancakes, coffee, and now… eggs. I’m living the dream.”

He smirked. “You’re easily impressed.”

“I’m easily underfed.”

You sat at the tiny table in his kitchen while he plated the food, and for a while, there was no war. No Thunderbolts. No mask. Just two people who had bled in the same world, eating a mediocre lunch in a sunlit apartment.

You didn’t bring up your powers. He didn’t ask why you hadn’t run yet. And maybe that was the point.

Later, when you tried to make toast and somehow still managed to smoke up the kitchen, Bucky handed you a fire extinguisher with zero emotion, like this was just what came with feeding you.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered.

You winked. “Takes one to know one, soldier boy.”

That night, The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional chirp from Alpine as she pawed at the corner of the rug, her eyes flicking up toward you with feline judgment. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, head tilted as you tried to figure out how to use the TV remote, muttering to yourself like the buttons had personally insulted you.

Bucky leaned against the doorway, watching from a distance, arms crossed and jaw tight. He hadn’t meant to stare this long. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure when he stopped pretending to fold laundry and just… stood there, staring at you like you were some damn puzzle he couldn’t solve.

You looked ridiculous. His shirt was too big on you, the sleeves half-rolled and the hem nearly touching your knees. Your hair was still damp from the shower you took that morning, and for some reason, you had clipped one of Alpine’s toy bells onto the collar like it was a fashion choice. Every time you shifted, it jingled softly.

He should’ve found it annoying. Should’ve been furious, really.

Because it had only been three weeks since you’d nearly destroyed his team. Since Ava’s shoulder got dislocated, since Alexei had to be half-carried into medbay, since Bob, sweet, soft-spoken Bob, couldn’t sleep for two nights straight because of whatever the hell you’d put in his head. 

He remembered the look on Yelena’s face when they got back to the Watchtower, all bruises and grit and no answers. He remembered the silence in the debriefing room, the shame curling in the pit of everyone’s stomach like smoke they couldn’t cough up.

And now? You were here. In his space. Wearing his clothes. Using his soap. Cooking horrible eggs. Curling up with his cat like you belonged.

He should’ve thrown you out the moment you passed out.

Instead, he kept checking your wounds, changing your bandages. He let you shower. Let you touch things. Let you stay.

God, he was such a hypocrite.

You laughed at something on the TV, loud and sudden. The kind of laugh that filled a space. Bucky flinched at the sound, not because it startled him, but because it did something else. Something worse.

It sounded real.

You weren’t acting like a fugitive. You weren’t hiding, or planning your next attack. You were… living. And somehow, that made it harder, because if you were a villain, he could hate you without question. If you were a monster, he could put a bullet through your head and call it justice.

But you weren’t. You were just this strange, beautiful, annoying thing that danced through their missions like it was a game and then cried in your sleep when you thought no one could hear. He had seen it. The sweat on your brow, the trembling in your hands, the little sparks of red flaring from your fingertips when the nightmares crawled in. He had sat there in the dark, watching from the armchair while you turned in his bed like something was chasing you, and it made him ache in a way he hated.

It didn’t matter. None of it did.

Because what were they supposed to do? Let you stay forever? Let you make pancakes with expired milk and wear his t-shirts and pretend like you hadn’t almost broken Sentry’s mind in half? Like you hadn’t called them out, him out, for everything he was trying to fix?

He couldn’t keep you hidden. He couldn’t keep this secret.

So Bucky pulled out his phone. Slowly. Like it weighed more than it should.

He stared at the screen for a long minute, thumb hovering over the contact. Walker. Ghost. Val. Hell, even Yelena. He could call any of them. Let them know. Tell them he had you. Tell them you were weak. Bleeding. Vulnerable. Easy.

One press. One word. He could end this.

Behind him, you had flopped onto your side, one arm dangling off the couch. Alpine had climbed on top of your legs, purring like a damn tractor. You were humming now. Off-key. Happy.

Bucky swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to the screen.

Then he tapped the message open and typed out five words.

I know where Bandit is.

He didn’t send it. Not yet. He looked back at you one more time. You were holding the remote upside down and arguing with it. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream.

Instead, he hit send. The message disappeared. And just like that, something in him did too.

The guilt crept in before the knock ever came. Before the comms even lit up. It settled into Bucky's chest like an old friend, unwelcome and familiar, tugging at the edges of every breath he took.

He couldn’t stop watching you.

You were crouched in front of Alpine now, trying to teach her how to shake hands. Your hair was tied up with one of his old shoelaces, and you kept making little “pspsps” sounds while tapping your knuckles on the floor like it was a ritual. The cat wasn’t cooperating. Alpine rarely did. But you didn’t seem to care. You were laughing, eyes scrunched up, voice soft and focused, like the world wasn’t shifting beneath your feet.

Like you didn’t feel the weight of betrayal crackling in the air.

Bucky turned away. He busied himself with pretending to clean the counter, wiping the same spot three times, heart knocking against his ribs like it wanted to break out and run.

He didn’t even hear you get up. He just heard your voice. Low. Calm.

“I liked it here.”

He froze.

You were behind him. Close. Too close.

He turned slowly, eyes meeting yours. You weren’t smiling anymore. Your hands were relaxed at your sides, but something buzzed beneath your skin, like your powers were pressing up against the surface, waiting.

“I liked the couch. The quiet. The cat.” You tilted your head, studying him. “I liked that you didn’t ask too many questions.” 

Bucky didn’t speak. You took a step closer, and the hum in the air changed. Faint red sparks curled around your fingers. Not threatening. Not yet.

“I really liked the shirt too,” you added softly. “Little tight in the shoulders, but soft.”

His throat worked, but nothing came out. Then, you looked at the counter. At the phone, at his face, and you knew. 

You didn’t need to read his mind. You never had to. You were just that damn good.

“Oh,” you said quietly, breath puffing out like a laugh that didn’t quite make it. “You told them.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. You nodded once, more to yourself than to him. Your eyes flicked down to Alpine, still pawing at the air like she didn’t know the room was about to turn inside out.

“I figured,” you murmured. “Four days of kindness? That’s a record for you, right?”

The words hit harder than they should have. He clenched his jaw. “You don’t get to talk like you know me.”

“I don’t need to know you,” you said, eyes never leaving his. “I just needed to know the look you gave me when you brought me soup. Like you were trying to convince yourself I wasn’t real.”

You took another step. He didn’t move, and he couldn’t.

“And now you’re standing here like a man who’s waiting for backup. Like a man who regrets not locking the door.”

Then you smiled. Not your usual smirk, not the teasing kind. This one was tired, like you’d done this a million times before.

“You really think I didn’t hear the moment you made the message?” you whispered, voice just above a breath. “Your guilt's so loud, Barnes. It’s a wonder the walls haven’t cracked.”

He stepped back like he’d been slapped. Then, you did the thing that snapped the air clean in half. You reached out, slow, careful, and pressed two fingers to his chest, right over where his heart was beating too fast.

“You really think I’d stay in a place where I wasn’t already ten steps ahead?” Red light pulsed under your skin. “I came here because something told me to, but I’m staying because you made me want to.” You dropped your hand. “But now?”

You didn’t say the rest. You didn’t need to. The silence that followed was thick with everything you didn’t say. With the sound of sirens that hadn’t reached the building yet. With the weight of choices made too late.

And somewhere beneath it all, Bucky wanted to scream. Not at you. At himself. Because he knew then. He didn’t just betray you, he betrayed the only goddamn thing that had made him feel alive in years.

You turned toward the door without a word, hands clenched, your jaw set tight. The air shifted around you, that strange charge building like a slow breath held too long. One foot stepped forward, the other already following. You were halfway to the hall when Bucky said it.

“You could’ve said something.”

You stopped. It was not loud and sharp, but it dropped  enough like a weight between you, and it hit something deep. You turned slowly, your voice flat. “Said what, exactly?”

He stayed near the counter, arms crossed now, like he needed to hold himself together or else throw something. “That you were leaving. That you used me. That you planned it.”

“Oh, screw you,” you snapped, the words out before you could think better. “I didn’t use you. You let me in. I didn’t ask for that. I was bleeding and half-conscious, and your door just happened to be the only one my body dragged me to.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” Bucky shot back, stepping closer. “You show up out of nowhere, manipulate everyone around you, make me, hell, make me feel something, and now you’re walking out like none of it meant anything.”

“I didn’t ask to feel anything,” you bit out. “You think I came here to make friends? To play house with a man who’s still trying to remember which parts of him are real?”

Bucky flinched, but you were too far in now. The anger was old and bitter, and you’d held it too long. “You think I wanted this? That I wanted to laugh at your dumb voice when you play with your cat? That I wanted to know how you take your coffee or what it looks like when you fall asleep sitting up on the couch?”

He stared at you, unmoving, but his chest was rising fast, shoulders tight like he was ready to swing or scream. “I didn’t ask for this either,” he said through his teeth. “But it happened, and you stayed. Don’t act like that doesn’t mean something.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m safe,” you threw back. “It doesn’t mean I belong here.”

“Then why the hell did you come to me?” His voice cracked then, just a little, but he didn’t stop. “Why me, out of everyone? Why this apartment? Why my couch, my bed, my goddamn t-shirt?”

You didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched thin between you, full of all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t without bleeding.

Then you exhaled hard, bitter. “Because I knew you’d understand.”

Bucky blinked.

“I knew you’d understand what it feels like to be made into something you didn’t ask for. To be hated just for surviving. I thought—” Your voice caught, and you shook your head. “I thought maybe that meant something.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, Bucky muttered under his breath, voice heavy. “So why are you still running?”

You laughed once, but it was empty. “Because the second I stop, they’ll put me in a cage.”

“I wouldn’t let them,” he said quickly, and you turned on him again.

“Oh, come on. You already did! You told them, Barnes. You made your choice. Don’t pretend you’re some kind of martyr now.”

“I didn’t call them for you,” he snapped, louder now. “I called them because you hurt people. Because you messed with Bob’s head so bad he couldn’t talk for a day. Because you played with Ava’s fears like they were cards in your pocket. You messed with my team.”

“They’re not your team!” you shouted. “They’re a bunch of broken toys with government stickers on them. You think I’m the villain? Look at what they do. What you do. You’ve all just been dressed up and rebranded, like that makes you better than me.”

You were breathing fast now. The red light under your skin pulsed, slow and dim but present. Bucky took one more step, and now you were face to face, the space between you crackling.

“You still haven’t told me what you want,” he said, voice low. “Why me? Why now?”

You stared at him, eyes flicking over his face like you could read something there, something honest. Then, finally, you said it. Quiet, but sure. “Because when I close my eyes, you’re the only thing that doesn’t burn.”

And that, for a moment, shut him up completely, but the damage was done. The argument wasn’t finished. It never would be. And neither of you could look away.

Then, Bucky broke the silence. “Then, come with me, please. This is not you.”

Your hands lifted slowly, fingers twitching in rhythm with the red crackle dancing along your palms. Your voice slipped into something lighter, more venomous. “You think because I spent a few nights in your apartment I’ve suddenly forgotten who I am?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Don’t do this.”

“What exactly am I doing, James?” You took a slow step back, but it wasn’t retreat. It was preparation. “Reminding you that I’m not your responsibility? That I’m not your pet project? That I’m not going to become your redemption arc?”

He flinched like the words hit a nerve, which they did. You could feel it. His silence was weighted, all frustration and guilt packed behind clenched teeth.

Then he stepped forward, voice low but sharp. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. I know you’re scared.”

You laughed. Short. Bitter. “Scared? Of you? Of them?” You gestured vaguely in the air, like the ghosts of the Thunderbolts were standing in the hallway waiting for a dramatic entrance. “You don’t get it, do you? I’ve always been the monster under the bed. I don’t fear cages, I survive them.”

“And what, you think that’s all you’ll ever be?” Bucky shot back. “You think this mask you wear, this whole ‘bitch-ass villain’ routine, makes you untouchable?”

“It makes me safe,” you said. “People don’t try to love what they’re afraid of.”

He took another step, so close now that the air between you tensed. “Bullshit. You’re hiding. You’re hiding behind your powers, behind your trauma, behind that damn mask you wear even when there’s no one around to be afraid of you.”

Your fingers flared again, the red light building. “You want me to stop hiding?” you asked, stepping in so close your chest brushed his. “You want the real me, Barnes? You sure about that?”

He didn’t back down. “I want the one who made Alpine a nest out of his own hoodie. I want the one who got excited about a damn toaster. I want the one who—” He stopped himself, looked away for a second like the truth in his mouth was too heavy. “The one who asked for help without asking.”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t let it show. You smiled instead. Wide, empty. “That version of me doesn’t exist.”

“That’s crap and you know it.”

Then, all at once, you shoved him. It wasn’t a blow meant to injure. It was just enough force to spark something. A release. A scream without sound.

He stumbled back a step, then launched forward. You met him halfway, powers humming to life in your hands, but you didn’t use them, not really. It was instinct more than attack. A swing blocked. A shove dodged. His hand grabbed your wrist, and yours gripped the collar of his shirt.

It wasn’t a fight to win. It was a fight to feel.

Breathless, tangled, a mess of boots scuffing on hardwood and breath ghosting close enough to blur the line between anger and something darker. You twisted free, threw a flicker of red across his arm, but he caught your other hand and pinned it against the wall.

“Stop fighting me,” he growled, eyes locked on yours.

“Why?” you hissed, heart pounding. “So you can hand me over with a clear conscience? So you can sleep better knowing you tried?”

“I’m not handing you over.”

You froze.

His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go. “Come with me. I’ll deal with Val, with Walker, with all of them. I’ll make sure you’re not locked away.”

“You really think they’ll listen to you?”

“I don’t care if they do.” He leaned in, forehead almost against yours. “I’m not letting them cage you. I swear it.”

Your voice cracked around the edges, not from pain but from pressure. “I can’t be what you want, Barnes.”

“Then just be real,” he said. “Even if that version of you sets the world on fire.”

- Watchtower, Thunderbolts* Headquarters - 

The briefing room had never felt more claustrophobic. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, faintly flickering like they were just as tired as the people sitting beneath them. The table was a battered slab of steel, peppered with coffee stains, old dents, and the ghost of a knife slash courtesy of Walker’s last tantrum. Everything smelled like burnt caffeine and old antiseptic, like this room never really aired out the missions it failed to forget.

Yelena shoved the door open with her hip and tossed her phone onto the table. She didn’t look at anyone as she dropped into her usual seat, legs crossed, one boot tapping against the leg of her chair.

“Barnes texted me,” she said flatly. “Just now.”

That got their attention.

Walker straightened from where he’d been leaning against the far wall, arms folded, scowling like that might summon answers faster. Red Guardian looked up from the ancient thermos he’d been glaring into for the past ten minutes. Ava appeared in the doorway a second later, wiping black grease from her gloves and glancing around like someone had called an emergency meeting she hadn’t approved of.

“What’d he say?” Bob asked quietly, already reaching for the phone.

Yelena pushed it toward him. On the screen: “Meet me. Midnight. Coordinates attached. Come prepared.”

The words hung in the air like fog. Blunt, and no signature. Just Bucky in his most Bucky form: sparse, serious, vague enough to make everyone nervous.

Ava let out a sharp breath through her nose. “Come prepared? What is this, a duel?”

“Midnight?” Alexei repeated, squinting at the screen. “Is ghost hour. Nothing good happens in midnight.” His accent thickened as he reached for the coordinates and plugged them into the projector on the wall. “Where is this, eh? Some forest? Swamp?”

“No,” Bob said as the map flickered to life. “It’s the old power plant. East sector. City’s been trying to tear it down for five years.”

The image settled into view: a sprawling husk of concrete and metal, fences rusted and torn, transformers collapsed like dying beasts. The main building was half-caved in, its windows dark holes. Everything about it screamed forgotten.

Walker leaned forward, arms braced on the table. “You think he dragged her there to finish it? Finally got the guts to do what the rest of us couldn’t?”

“Or maybe she dragged him,” Ava countered, arms crossed. “Maybe he’s not in control anymore.”

Yelena’s jaw ticked. “He’s not compromised. If he were, he wouldn’t have sent a location.”

“Unless she made him,” Ava said, raising a brow.

Alexei huffed, pacing to the corner of the room. “Bah, she twist minds. Turns strongest man into puddle.” He jabbed a finger at Bob, who had the decency to look sheepish. “Made you cry like baby in corner.”

“I wasn’t crying,” Bob mumbled, but it didn’t sound convincing.

“You were,” Walker confirmed.

Bob ignored them and went back to studying the map. “This place… if it’s a trap, it’s a good one. No power, no signal. Nearest responders are ten miles out.”

“That’s exactly why Bucky picked it,” Yelena said. “If this is his plan, it’s off the books. No outside interference.”

“Or he’s gone full Stockholm and she’s got him dancing around like a puppet,” Walker snapped. “And if that’s the case, we better be ready to put him down, too.”

Yelena stood slowly, her voice sharp. “You say that again, and I will put you down.”

A thick silence fell. The air felt heavier now, pressing into shoulders, settling like a storm waiting for the sky to break.

Ava cracked her neck. “So what’s the move?”

“We go,” Yelena said. “Gear up. Keep comms off. If it’s a trap, we deal with it. If it’s not…” She trailed off, and for the first time in a while, she looked uncertain. “We find out what the hell Barnes is really doing.”

Bob rose to his feet last, his gaze still fixed on the image on screen. The power plant loomed, silent and sunken. There were no answers in the dark, only the promise of confrontation.

The Bandit. Four weeks without a trace. No pings. No sightings. Not even a whisper across any of the channels they monitored, but none of them believed you had disappeared.

People like you didn’t vanish. Why? Because you went quiet before the storm.

The power plant loomed like the carcass of something that used to matter, steel ribs exposed, windows gaping, vines growing where glass used to be. The night was still, the kind of cold that crept under armor and made silence feel louder than any gunshot. Wind whispered through broken vents and rattled loose siding, like the place itself was holding its breath.

They arrived one by one, boots crunching against cracked asphalt, weapons slung, shoulders tight. Walker came in first, shield already drawn, his face pulled into a scowl like the wind had insulted his mother. Ava appeared next, half-phased through the side gate like a shadow with a grudge. Alexei and Bob weren’t far behind, the latter squinting at the sky like he wished it would give him a better excuse to turn around. Yelena came last, eyes sharp and chin high, a knife already in her hand even though she hadn’t spoken a word since stepping out of the van.

They found Bucky standing at the center of the yard, right where the main transformer used to be, half-buried under moss and rust. His arms were at his sides, fists clenched but not raised. He wasn’t pacing, wasn’t on edge. Just… still.

“Barnes,” Walker called out, tone already sour. “You gonna explain why the hell we’re meeting in a haunted scrapyard?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch a little longer, long enough for discomfort to settle in their chests. Then he looked up, face unreadable under the low blue light of the half-moon, and said flatly, “She’s here.”

That got their attention. Bob stiffened. Yelena stepped forward. Walker’s hand tightened on the grip of his shield.

“She’s not armed,” Bucky added, before anyone could raise theirs. “She’s not here to fight.”

“Bullshit,” Ava said instantly. “That’s what she wants you to think.”

“She messed with your head again,” Walker said. “Didn’t she? Jesus, Barnes, tell me she didn’t crawl in and rewrite your loyalty.”

“She didn’t,” Bucky said, his voice cutting clean through the accusations. “I asked her to come.”

That landed like a slap. Yelena’s mouth opened, then closed again. Bob stared. Alexei mumbled something in Russian that definitely included a curse.

“You what?” Ava stepped forward, eyes narrowed, voice dropping low. “You invited her?”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “She came to me. Hurt, and alone. Not fighting, not running. She could’ve turned my brain inside out, and she didn’t. She could’ve killed me already, but she didn’t.”

“You think that means anything?” Walker snapped. “You want a parade because the walking red flag didn’t kill you in your sleep?”

“She’s not what we thought,” Bucky said, jaw tight now. “You’ve seen how she fights. If she wanted us dead, we would be.”

Alexei scoffed. “She did try.”

“She pulled punches,” Bucky replied. “You don’t believe me, fine. I don’t care. But you’re going to listen.”

Ava folded her arms. “This is insane.”

“No,” Bucky said. “What’s insane is we keep pretending this team works, that we’re all on the same page when we can’t even agree on who the real enemy is. She didn’t start this war. We did. We treated her like a monster from day one, and now she’s exactly what we made her.”

“She’s not innocent,” Yelena said quietly.

“No,” Bucky agreed. “But neither are we.”

The wind picked up again, sharp and sudden, rustling through the weeds. A door creaked somewhere in the dark. Bucky stepped back from the center of the group and nodded toward the empty space near the edge of the yard. “She’s going to speak. That’s all. You don’t have to like it. You just have to shut up long enough to hear it.”

Walker muttered under his breath. “This is so goddamn stupid.”

“She’s not touching your minds,” Bucky said, scanning their faces. “No powers. Just words. You wanted a chance to bring her in. This is it. You want justice? Listen to her first.”

Bob, quiet as ever, finally spoke. “And if we don’t like what she says?”

Bucky looked at him. “Then you can do whatever the hell you came here to do.”

No one moved. No one lowered their weapons, either. Trust, it seemed, was still a long way off.

Yelena stared at Bucky like she didn’t know him. “And you trust her?”

“I don’t trust anyone,” he said, voice steady. “But I’ve seen enough to know she deserves a voice.”

He took one step back, arms raised slightly like he was stepping out of the line of fire, and turned toward the broken stairwell that led into the plant’s shadowed heart. “She’s waiting.”

And behind them, far off in the dark, someone, something, moved. You were coming, and none of them were ready.

The shift in the air was subtle at first. Just the faintest stir of something not quite wind, something heavier than breeze and lighter than storm. Then the shadows near the broken stairwell curled, like fabric caught in water, and you stepped out from the dark.

You didn’t swagger, didn’t smirk, didn’t let your presence come with theatrics or flames. You walked like you’d been here before, wearing the mask,  like the world owed you the ground you stood on. The same dark red aura shimmered faintly around your hands, not flaring, not rising. Just pulsing like it knew everyone in the yard already had their weapons half-raised.

The team tensed as one. Ava’s fingers twitched. Bob blinked. Walker lifted his shield without being told. Even Alexei adjusted his stance like he wasn’t sure if this was going to turn into a fight or a funeral.

You didn’t flinch. Your voice, when it came, was low and clean, echoing against the rusted walls like it belonged there.

“I didn’t ask for a crowd,” you said flatly. “But I’m going to say this once, so listen close.”

Bucky stayed where he was, a few feet to your left, silent. You didn’t look at him.

“Back off from my life,” you said, louder now, each word landing like a stone in still water. “I don’t care what story they told you about me. I don’t care what version of me you built in your heads so you could feel righteous about hunting me down. You don’t know me.”

Yelena’s mouth twitched. Ava muttered something under her breath.

You stepped forward once, hands still at your sides, but your stance was anything but passive. “You want to know who I’ve killed?” you asked, tone steady. “Fine. I’ve killed people. I’ve ended lives. But every single one of them was someone who helped build the version of me that you’re all so scared of.”

Silence clung to the edges of the lot. The team didn't move. You let your words hang for a second, then filled the quiet.

“Men who chained me up and called it training. Women who made a living dissecting children like they were test subjects. People who signed off on war crimes and called it science. I didn’t kill innocents. I killed monsters in nice suits who thought no one would ever hold them accountable.”

You glanced at Ava. Then Yelena. Then Walker. “So tell me again,” you said slowly, “how you think you’re better than me.”

Walker opened his mouth to speak, but Bucky shifted just enough to stop him. You noticed. You didn’t thank him.

“This isn’t a redemption arc. I’m not standing here begging for forgiveness or trying to join your little squad of government leftovers,” you said. “I’m here because I��m tired of running. I’m tired of being painted as the villain just because I stopped hiding.”

The silence was thicker now, uncomfortable and raw. You took another breath, calmer, but your eyes stayed locked on the group in front of you. “I survived things most of you would lose your minds over. And instead of help, I got bullets. Instead of a chance, I got a hit list.”

Ava blinked, and for a flicker of a second, her face twitched like maybe, maybe, she felt it too.

You shook your head, almost disappointed. “I am not here to be your friend. I’m not here to be your ally, but I am not your fucking enemy either.”

You turned slightly, facing Bucky without fully looking at him. “I came because he asked me to. Because I thought maybe, just maybe, he was the only one of you not lying to himself.”

Then, finally, you let your voice fall quieter, but not softer. “But if any of you still think you can put me in a cage,” you said, “go ahead. Try.”

And you waited. The silence that followed your words stretched too long to be comfortable, too short to be thoughtful. It clung to the air like smog, and no one moved at first.

Then, finally, Walker scoffed. “Oh, that’s rich,” he muttered, taking a step forward like he just couldn’t keep the disdain in his bones any longer. “You come waltzing in here, mouth full of justifications and victim monologues, and you expect us to what? Nod along? Shake hands and say thank you for the trauma?”

He gestured with his shield, the motion jerky and full of heat. “You killed people. Government officials, agents, entire ops teams. I don’t care if they weren’t saints. They had families. You think your sad little backstory makes you special?”

Ava’s jaw was clenched. Her eyes never left you. “She’s lying,” she said quietly, almost like she was reminding herself. “It’s just another trick. That’s what she does. Gets in your head, twists the narrative. She did it to Bob.”

Yelena crossed her arms. “So what? We just forget Ghost spent two weeks in a med pod after your last stunt?” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp. “You think that’s something we can laugh about now?”

Alexei cracked his knuckles and stepped forward, voice low and firm. “In Russia, we do not negotiate with madwomen,” he said. “Especially not ones who disappear for weeks and come back smelling like trap.”

You tilted your head. “That’s oddly specific.”

He ignored the jab. “You talk good, yes. Very convincing. But words don’t erase what you did to Bob. He could have leveled this whole country when you snapped him.”

Still, Bob said nothing. He stood a few feet behind the others, silent, arms crossed, eyes on the cracked pavement. He hadn’t looked up once.

Walker turned to Bucky. “And you, what the hell were you thinking bringing her here? She could’ve killed you in your sleep. You know what she’s capable of.”

“She already did worse,” Ava said. “She got inside your head.”

“I asked you to trust me,” Bucky replied finally, voice tight but controlled. “That’s all. Just shut up and trust me.”

Walker threw his arms wide. “Trust? Barnes, are you serious? You went dark for five days and came back with her. That’s not trust. That’s a red flag waving on top of a nuclear warhead, dude!”

You didn’t flinch through any of it. You’d heard worse. You’d been called worse, but as the accusations flew, you could feel the thread starting to stretch thinner, snapping close to the edge.

Bucky’s jaw clenched as he looked back at them. “You think I’d bring her here if I didn’t believe there was something worth hearing?”

Yelena didn’t even blink. “Yes. Because you’re Bucky Barnes, and you think you can save everybody. Even the ones who broke everything first.”

Still, Bob said nothing. Not even a breath louder than the wind. And for the moment, it was clear. They didn’t believe you. The moment your mouth opened again, the tension in the air thickened like a thunderclap was waiting to drop.

“You know,” you started slowly, voice low and calm but lined with something that didn’t sit right, “it’s really funny that the team of former assassins and government toys are the ones talking about morality like you ever had it.”

Instant. Like flipping a switch. Every hand twitched toward a weapon. Yelena took half a step forward, hand hovering near the hilt of her knife. Ava’s body glitched for a second, already preparing to phase. Walker’s shield lifted automatically, his stance shifting wide like he had trained for this moment, hellbent on making it count. Even Alexei was ready, shoulders squared, eyes locked.

Bucky didn’t wait. His voice cracked through the rising noise, sharp and steady. “Back off. All of you.”

They paused. Just for a second. Then Walker said, “You hearing yourself right now?”

“I said back off,” Bucky repeated, stepping forward this time, placing himself between you and the rest. “No one moves. Not unless they want this to end the wrong way.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “You sound like him,” she said quietly. “Like Steve.” That landed hard. And she knew it would.

“You’re not Steve, Bucky,” she added, sharper now. “You’re not the guy with the speeches, and the trust-in-people bullshit. Just because she reminds you of what they did to you doesn’t mean she gets a pass.”

“You think this is about a pass?” he snapped, louder now. “You think I’m doing this because I feel sorry for her?”

He looked at all of them, really looked, and it was the first time they noticed how tired he was. Not physically. Something deeper. Like his patience had been peeled down to the bone.

“We’ve been chasing her like a ghost. Mission after mission, report after report, acting like this is some black-and-white crusade when none of us even know what the hell we’re fighting anymore.” He glanced at Bob, still silent in the background. “She broke Bob because the truth hurts. And none of us wanted to hear it. We’re not heroes, for God’s sake. We’re a patch job stitched together by people who don’t care if we live or die.”

Ava tensed, and Bucky held her stare. “I’m not saying she’s innocent. I’m saying you don’t get to decide what justice looks like when all you’ve ever done is follow orders like good little soldiers.”

“And what are you, then?” Walker shot back. “You’re defending her. That makes you part of the problem.”

“No,” Bucky said, calm now, too calm. “It means I’ve seen enough of the problem to know when it’s staring back at me.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, Yelena asked, her voice tight, “What are you saying, Bucky?”

He looked at each of them again. And this time, the line was clear.

“I’m saying leave. Walk away, because if you come for her again,” he said, voice like steel pulled tight, “you’re not just fighting her anymore.”

He stepped back, just enough to stand beside you.

“You’re fighting me.”

“You’ve lost your damn mind,” Walker said again, louder this time, his voice echoing off the exposed metal beams of the old power station. Dust drifted down from the ceiling, stirred by the vibration in his chest. “You think this is noble? This isn’t Rogers standing against the odds. This is you choosing her over the mission. Over us.”

Across the ruined floor, Ghost flickered like static, half-visible and humming with restrained energy. “She didn’t even deny it,” Ava said tightly, arms locked at her sides. “She ripped into us. She played with us like we were toys. You want to talk peace now?”

Alexei stood firm near the rear of the group, arms crossed and face shadowed in the flickering orange light cast by their headlights. “Barnes, you are making mistake,” Alexei muttered, low and sharp. “This woman? She is fire with no hearth. She will burn what is closest first.”

Bucky didn’t blink. He just stood there in front of you, unmoving, the cold breeze from the broken walls brushing at his back. His fists were loose at his sides, but his whole body was tight; shoulders squared, jaw set, like someone preparing to walk into a war they knew they’d lose.

Meanwhile, Yelena turned toward him slowly. She hadn’t moved since she’d arrived, but the tension in her neck said she was two breaths from lashing out. Her eyes were narrowed, not just with suspicion, but hurt. Like something in her trusted him once, and now it was being dragged across concrete.

“You’re not Steve,” she said finally. Her voice didn’t shake, but it cracked in all the wrong places. “I know you miss him, but don’t pretend like he’s here in this decision. Don’t act like she’s some lost soul you can pull from the fire. You don’t even know who she is.”

And all of them, in different stances, different expressions, worn-down, confused, furious, turned toward you.

The temperature in the room dipped. Your powers shimmered faintly at your fingertips again, dark red and whispering low like a song you didn’t remember writing. You tilted your head. Just a little. Just enough to test them.

That was all it took. Instinct took over. Uniforms straightened. Boots slid across the floor for better grip. Shields and weapons came up. All eyes locked on you.

You could’ve smirked. Could’ve flinched. But you didn’t. You stood like the still point in a turning world.

Then, Bob spoke. “I saw her.”

The tension in the air snapped, but no one moved.

Bob took a step forward. His face was unreadable, eyes dim but focused, the way only someone who’d spent time inside the minds of the broken could look. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t posture like the rest.

“I was in her head,” he said. “That day. You think she scrambled my brain? Twisted me up? No. That’s not what happened.”

Ava shifted beside him, her eyes flicking between you both. “What do you mean, you were in her head?”

“She let me,” Bob said simply. “She didn’t force her way into mine. Not like that. It was more like… like she opened a door and left it there. On purpose.”

Walker scoffed under his breath. “And you think that’s a sign of innocence?”

“I think it’s a sign she wanted someone to see,” Bob replied, sharper now. “Not the power. Not the mask. Her.”

You swallowed, but didn’t speak.

“I saw what she remembers,” Bob continued, eyes on the ground for a moment. “The Void. That place where time doesn’t mean anything. Where your thoughts eat each other. She was stuck there. And the worst part?” He glanced up. “She chose it. To keep something worse inside. She locked herself in.”

“I saw the men she killed,” Bob went on. “The ones who built her like a machine. Who tore pieces from her mind so she’d forget who she was. I saw their faces. The ones who called it control. The ones who gave her orders.”

He looked at you again, and you looked right back. “She remembers them every night,” Bob said. “Not because she wants to. Because she has to. It’s all still there. What they did. Who they made her become.”

His voice dropped, and somehow, it hit harder than any scream. “She killed monsters,” he said. “Not innocents. She was one, and then she stopped. And the world punished her for it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was hollow. Like something sacred had been dropped.

Bob took another step back, folding his hands in front of him, head lowered slightly like he wasn’t asking for forgiveness, just patience. “She’s not evil,” he said again. “She’s just haunted.”

The words hung there, unmoving. You didn’t break the quiet. You let them feel it. Let them sit with it. And none of them could look you in the eye.

“No,” Walker said again, quieter now, but still defiant. “You don’t just get to say oops and move on. Not after what she did to us.”

“She didn’t say oops,” Bob replied, eyes steady. “She hasn’t said anything to make you forgive her. She doesn’t expect you to. But this?” He motioned to the team—all of them ready, armor scuffed, weapons charged, hearts pulled taut like bowstrings. “This isn’t justice. This is just chasing pain because we don’t know what else to do with it.”

Ava blinked hard, jaw flexing. Yelena looked down for a second, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Alexei exhaled loudly through his nose but said nothing. No one moved. Not yet.

Bob turned his gaze back to Bucky then, like he was done trying to argue with the rest. “Tell them, man. You brought us here. What do you want?”

Bucky hadn’t taken his eyes off the ground. His fists had unclenched. The anger had drained from his posture, but it hadn’t left him. It never really did. He finally looked up and stepped forward once.

“I want out,” he said simply. His voice didn’t tremble, but it was stripped bare. “I want out of this cycle where we call every threat a monster and never stop to ask who made them that way.”

He turned slowly to face the others. “You think I’m blind? That I don’t see what this is?” He pointed at you, then back at himself. “She’s me. Ten years ago. Broken and dangerous and already on the run from everything she could be. The only difference is someone gave me a second chance, and no one ever even gave her a breath.”

Walker scoffed, but Bucky cut him off with a look. “No, I’m done playing this game. If the cost of being on this team is hunting down people like her without asking and knowing why they’re running, then maybe I shouldn’t be on this team at all.”

Yelena shook her head, voice softer this time. “So that’s it? You just walk?”

“I didn’t say I’d walk,” Bucky said. “But I will leave if it means keeping her safe.” His voice turned steel again. “I’m not handing her over. I’m not letting anyone put her in a cage.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “Not when I know what it’s like.”

The words rang out and hit hard. Bob nodded once, then looked at the rest of the team. “It ends here,” he said, calm and certain. “We’re not dragging her back like a trophy. We’re not feeding another haunted weapon into another war.”

Yelena stared at you for a long, unreadable beat. Then, without a word, she stepped back. Ava followed slowly, her mouth drawn tight, eyes flicking toward Bucky, then toward you, before she finally sheathed her knives. Even Alexei muttered something under his breath in Russian and turned away.

Only Walker stayed planted. “Seriously?” he asked, voice rising. “You all just gonna—”

“Enough, Walke,r” Bob said, and this time the weight in his voice was enough to hush even Walker’s righteous fury.

Another beat passed. One more long moment of not-quite-trust, not-quite-peace. Then, Bucky turned to you, chest still rising and falling hard. “Let’s go,” he said. Not a question. A promise.

You didn’t say anything. You just nodded once and stepped to his side, your powers quiet now, breath steady. Together, you walked into the shadows.

- Seven Months Later - 

The morning was quiet in the way only the countryside could be, with wind weaving through the tall grass like it had nowhere else to be. Sunlight poured soft through the trees, pooling across the porch and bleeding into the open kitchen window, casting honeyed streaks across the hardwood floor. Birds were chirping lazily overhead, like even they weren’t in a rush.

Bucky stood barefoot by the sink, mug in one hand, the steam curling under his nose as he stared out through the window. You were outside already, barefoot in the grass, laughing softly as a few scrappy chickens danced around your feet. You were wearing one of his old shirts again, sleeves rolled halfway up your forearms, and pants too big for you, cinched at the waist with a worn belt that used to belong to someone he couldn’t remember anymore. 

You looked like you’d always belonged there. Like you’d been plucked out of some life that was never allowed to happen and dropped right here, in the one you made for yourselves.

He didn’t speak, and didn’t call your name. He just watched, because this, this quiet, simple morning, was the kind of moment Bucky Barnes thought he’d never live to see.

He used to think if he ever got a second chance, he’d waste it. That he wouldn’t know how to be a person again. Not after everything Hydra had carved out of him, but there you were, in the middle of a sun-washed field, feeding half-tamed chickens like you hadn’t nearly destroyed the world a year ago. Like you hadn’t walked into his life soaked in chaos and fire and made him look you in the eye and feel something again.

You turned your head toward the window then, maybe sensing the weight of his stare, and smiled like it didn’t scare you. Like you hadn’t seen the worst of him. You raised a hand and waved, still holding a scoop of feed, and Bucky’s chest tightened so sharply he had to exhale slowly just to let the air back in.

This life wasn’t perfect. The nightmares still came. The guilt still lingered. He still didn’t sleep some nights. But there was something about you, about your stubborn need to rebuild from ashes, that made him believe there might be a version of the future where he didn’t have to run anymore. Where healing didn’t mean pretending it never happened, but letting it matter and living anyway.

Maybe this wasn’t the life he was supposed to have, but damn it, it was the one he had now. And you were in it.

So he set his mug down and stepped outside, the porch groaning under his weight. The grass was cool beneath his feet as he crossed the yard toward you. You were crouched beside the fence, trying to coax a particularly moody hen into eating from your hand. You didn’t hear him approach until he was only a few steps away.

“You’re not supposed to be up this early,” he said quietly, hands in his pockets.

You looked up, eyes catching the morning light, and grinned. “You always say that, and yet, somehow, I keep waking up before you. Maybe it’s the farm air, or maybe our bed just really sucks.”

His lips twitched, just slightly. “It’s our bed,” he said. “Of course it sucks.”

You stood, brushing your hands on your thighs. “Well, tell that to Alpine. She’s claimed it as her personal throne.”

He took a step closer, then another.

And then he was right in front of you, the scent of sun-warmed grass and coffee still clinging to his skin. He reached up without thinking, brushing a smudge of feed from your cheek with his thumb. But his hand didn’t move away. Not yet. His fingers lingered there, tracing the softness of your jaw, the line of your face he’d only seen half-hidden for so long.

“You’ve got something here,” he said, voice low.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

He didn’t answer. He just leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry. It was slow, and deep, and full of everything he didn’t know how to say. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything but gave all of itself anyway. His hand cupped the side of your face like he was trying to memorize the shape of it, like maybe if he held on tight enough, the rest of the world would stay away.

You kissed him back with that same softness. That same quiet hope.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes stayed closed for a beat longer. Then he opened them and looked at you like he was still trying to believe you were real.

“I used to wonder what kind of life I would’ve had,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Back before everything. Before Hydra. Before the ice. I thought I’d lost any shot at something like this.”

You tilted your head, voice soft. “And now?”

He looked at you. At the field, at the morning sun, and at the ridiculous chickens still clucking around your feet.

“Now I think maybe I had to go through all of that,” he said quietly. “Just to find my way to you.”

[notesofthemountain]

A Foolish Thing

♡ Author’s Note: English isn’t my first language, so I’m sorry if some parts are unclear or awkward. Writing this took more out of me than I expected but I really hope you enjoy reading it. Any feedback or suggestions are more than welcome! Please remember this is fiction, and not everything should be taken too seriously. Thank you so much for reading ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

♡ Content: Angst, Romance, Xu Minghao x Reader, Reader is the 14th member of svt, mentions of alcohol

It hadn't been a good press conference.

Most of the journalists had focused more on your personal life than on your work as an artist or your thoughts on the upcoming comeback.

Even though the guys tried to steer the questions in another direction—and you yourself gave short answers to avoid giving them more to latch onto—the discomfort lingered.

As if your work didn’t matter. Or worse, as if it wasn’t interesting enough.

But it wasn’t just that. 

It wasn’t just the lack of recognition that weighed on you. There was also the growing distance between you and a certain member of the group.

The8. Or, well… Hao.

You used to always be together—the duo everyone recognized, on and off stage. But lately… something had shifted. You tried to hide it in public, smiled like always, kept your composure. But for the fans—and for yourself—it was obvious: something had happened.

And yes. Something had. 

Something you’d been holding back for a long time.

Something that slipped out on a night when your heart was more vulnerable than ever.

-

Flashback:

The dinner had been great. Warm food, cold drinks, and that perfect laid-back vibe that only happens with friends. You were tipsy enough to lose some coordination, but not enough to stop. Another drink didn’t sound so bad.

You were sitting between Jun and Minghao, both of whom were clearly more sober than you—and watching you closely.

“This is your last drink, Y/N. Tomorrow, you’re going to wake up with a hangover that pins you to the bed,” Hao warned, trying to take your glass.

You laughed at him, teasingly. “But I’m perfectly fine! Look at Hoshi—he’s so drunk he doesn’t even know what planet we’re on,” you said, pointing at the “tiger man,” who was hugging Woozi like a toddler while Mingyu filmed the whole scene.

“Even so, sweetheart… do you want to make a fool of yourself again? So we end up with more blackmail videos?” Hao said, nudging Jun to take out his phone like a threat.

“No, no, please don’t! I promise this is the last one!” you grinned, and Hao patted your head affectionately.

Spoiler: it wasn’t the last. A couple more followed—along with your usual excuses: “I have to enjoy myself,” “I’m young,” “Nothing’s going to happen.”And nothing would’ve happened… until it did.

By the time dinner ended, and several members were practically passed out, Hao was one of the few still sober enough to walk you home.

“Look at me, playing the responsible parent again,” he muttered as you walked together. “I’m seriously asking S.Coups hyung for a raise.”

You laughed and wrapped your arms around his neck.

“That’s why you’re my favorite, Hao. Because you always take care of me,” you whispered into his skin.

You didn’t see it, but he shivered. Your breath, your words, your closeness—it all hit him at once.

Once inside, Hao led you to your bed. You collapsed onto your pile of cushions and stuffed animals, smiling sleepily. He pulled a sheet over you, gently stroked your hair once, and whispered:

“Good night, sweetheart.”

But as he turned to leave, you grabbed his wrist and tugged him down until he was nearly on top of you. Your arms clung to him like a koala.

“Don’t go,” you whispered. “Not tonight.”

He froze. Braced himself on both sides so he wouldn’t crush you—trying to keep a little space between your bodies. “I can’t do this again if you’re not by my side,” you murmured against his neck.

You buried your face in the crook of his shoulder. His scent—fresh, warm, undeniably him—wrapped around you.

“What are you saying, Y/N? Don’t talk nonsense" he asked softly. “Don’t say things you’ll regret tomorrow.”

Maybe he was imagining it. Maybe it was just the alcohol—in your system or his. But his heart was pounding.

“It’s not nonsense,” you said, pulling back to look at him. “Being in love with you, Hao… is that nonsense?”

Your eyes were glistening. Cheeks flushed. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it wasn’t.

Minghao swallowed hard. He felt heat rising to his own face. A jolt of fear hit him—because if there was one thing he knew, it was that you didn’t speak lightly. But… what if you didn’t mean it? What if it was just the alcohol talking?

“Y/N…” he whispered, reaching for something to say, to hold onto. But before he could say anything, you had already fallen asleep.

Your slow, even breathing filled the silence—along with his own racing heartbeat. He stared at you for a moment longer. Then, with a lump in his throat, he gently pulled away.

How could he tell you that love had never been a foolish thing to him? That he’d loved you for years. That he noticed everything. That you were the most talented, the most deserving.

But he also knew how the world worked. And that they wouldn’t make it easy.

With his heart clenched, he left your room. But not before leaving a note: “Take something for the headache. And drink water, please.”

If only things were simpler...

-

The next morning, you barely remembered what had happened. But you did notice one thing: Hao had grown distant. All week, he barely spoke to you.

You messaged him a few times, asking if everything was okay. His replies were short. Simple. “Everything’s fine.” But that didn’t explain a thing.

Until that one sentence came back to you: Love, a nonsense? In love?

You knew he wouldn’t forget it. And now, neither would you.

If only you’d kept quiet.

If only those feelings had stayed buried.

If only…

-

Present:

After the interview, you walked straight to the break room, avoiding everyone’s gaze. You could feel their looks—sympathetic, apologetic. Some had even offered you tea, snacks… anything to lift your spirits.

You sank into one of the chairs. Then, you heard the door open—and soft footsteps approaching.

You didn’t need to turn. You knew it was him.

The one who hadn’t said a word to you all day… but whose worried glances had spoken plenty.

“Are you okay?” Hao asked, standing in front of you, his voice laced with worry.

You sighed deeply before answering. Then looked straight into his eyes. You’d seen those eyes so many times over the years… But even just a few days without them had felt like forever.

“Of course not, Minghao,” you whispered. “Of course not.”

“I’m not okay. It’s not the first time they’ve dismissed my work. And I know it won’t be the last. But do you know why I’m really not okay? Because you’re not here. Not really.” Your voice wavered, but you held his gaze. “If you really think what I said wasn’t true… you’re wrong, Hao.”

It came out sharper than you intended—but you couldn’t hold it in any longer. You had to tell him. You had to explain.

“Y/N… you know I love you. You’re important to me,” he began.

“But not the way I love you, right?” you cut in. “I’m just your friend. Just your colleague. That’s what you’re going to say, isn’t it?”

Minghao’s face shifted—his jaw tensed. His expression turned serious. He stepped closer, as if your words had slapped him.

“And how would you know that?” he snapped softly. “Did you read my mind?”

“Y/N, I know I’ve been distant… but that doesn’t mean—”

“Mean what?” you shot back. “You’ve ignored me, Hao! You—of all people—used to always be there. I didn’t need to read your mind. Your actions said it all.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Instead, he took another step forward—close enough for you to smell him. That scent that still undid you.

“Y/N… if only things were that simple. If what you said was true— God, if it is true—then you have no idea.”

He gently took your face in his hands.

“If it were easy, I would’ve already locked you in a room with me and never let you go—not until the sun made us.” His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I’m sorry for pushing you away. But think about our situation.I would never ignore how you feel. Never. But I would give up what I feel, if it meant protecting everything you’ve worked so hard for.”

You looked at him, eyes wide, breathing uneven—your body trembling with emotion.

“If you really mean that, Hao… Why can’t we face it together?” you whispered, your tears starting to fall. “Yes, work matters. But we matter too.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I really am,” he whispered, cradling your face, catching your tears.

“You’re so talented… and if loving you ruins everything we’ve built—” His voice cracked. “Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry, baby.”

“I don’t care about that anymore,” you sobbed, pressing your face to his chest. “Loving you is never going to be an obstacle. Not for me. Is it… for you?”

He held you tighter, shocked by your words. An obstacle? You had never been one. You were everything.

This wasn’t how he’d planned it. He just wanted to cheer you up. Maybe curse at that rude interviewer. Not end up holding you while you cried—because he had made you cry.

“You’re not an obstacle, Y/N. You’re everything to me. I swear,” he said, pressing his lips to your hair.

You kept sobbing, clutching his shirt. He ran his hand over your back, whispering: “I was a coward. A fool. I pushed you away and made you doubt everything. I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

“You have been an idiot, Hao,” you whispered, hitting his chest weakly.

“I know I have. But let me fix it, please. I’ll do anything. I’ll drop to my knees if I have to—just please… don’t cry anymore.”

You slowly began to calm down. The hiccup in your throat refused to leave, but you pulled back just enough to look at him. He wiped your cheeks and kissed them gently.

“Look at what I’ve done to you… I won’t make you cry again. I promise,” he whispered, brushing his lips across your skin.

“So… are you going to stay this time? Or run away again?” you asked, voice trembling.

He smiled softly and pulled you against his chest. “I’m not going anywhere. I love you, Y/N. I always have. And I know now—we can handle anything. As long as we’re together.”

With those words, you hugged him tightly and kissed his shoulder. You let him take care of you.

Yes, maybe things wouldn’t be easy. But you were in love.

And with love… you’d face it side by side.

-

/ᐠ. ｡.ᐟ\ᵐᵉᵒʷˎˊ˗

[kyeomofhearts]

Back For More | J.WW

+ summary: while adjusting to your new life in college, you couldn't help but attract the attention of wonwoo, someone you happened to share a history with.

+ pairing: badboy!wonwoo x fem!reader

+ word count: 4.5k

+ content: badboy!wonwoo, college au, mature language, jealousy, angst, suggestive, possessive wonwoo (yum), teasing, a lot of dialogue for sure, fluff?, please lmk if i missed anything tyyyy!

HC | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

[ᝰ.ᐟ] glad you guys enjoyed part one!!! 🥹 i really appreciate the lovely comments you all left <333 i know this took forever for me to post but i swear i didn't mean to. currently writing part three as we speak so it will definitely come out within these following months or so... anyways, this wasn't proofread so please excuse any mistakes i may have made! as always, don't be scared to comment because i quite literally thrive on your guys' comments and reblogs! :)

Two weeks. Two full weeks of your torture.

Wonwoo was pretty shocked, to say the least. He wasn’t aware of the lengths you would take to ignore him. Sure, it was his fault for going off on you but he was sorry. He knew what he had said to you that day upset you, but he didn't know it was going to end up like this. And now he was at a loss, he wasn’t sure on how to navigate this 'predicament' between the two of you.

Wonwoo obviously knew that he had to apologize to you but he also knew that you needed space. Which is exactly what he did for those first few days after the ‘fight’ had occurred. He gave you space for a day or two but then, those two days turned into five... and before he knew it, two weeks had passed.

Of course, it’s not like Wonwoo didn’t try to talk to you but it was kind of difficult when you would run away at the mere sight of him. It also didn't help that any of his attempts for forgiveness were typically greeted with your indifference, it was as if you had walled yourself off completely.

To make matters worse, anytime that Wonwoo was able to see you, Hyunwoo was right by your side. It was troubling, to say the least. He couldn't quite put his finger on why the sight of you with Hyunwoo stirred such unease within him but it did and he hated it.

Out of everyone on this campus, you were giving Hyunwoo your time and attention? It just didn't make sense to Wonwoo. You barely knew the guy!

Not that he was jealous or anything but… there was something about Hyunwoo that he didn't trust. His easy 'charm' and 'magnetic' personality seemed almost too good to be true, and Wonwoo couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to him than met the eye. He was definitely hiding something.

And so, Wonwoo found himself in limbo, caught between the regret of his past actions and the uncertainty of what would happen between him and you. He hoped for the chance to set things right, to close the gap that had formed between the two of you, but he couldn't help but wonder if it was already too late.

Until then, all he could do was wait for another opportunity.

[...]

To say that you were bored was an understatement. Ignoring Wonwoo for two weeks was beginning to take its toll on you. Life had suddenly become only about your job and classes which was... exhausting.

Granted, you did make it your life mission to ignore him any chance you were given but there was no point in dwelling on that. It was quite easy going no-contact with him considering that you didn't share any socials with him. A small part of you did occasionally miss when you would get randomly bothered by Wonwoo, it was a nice distraction from whatever you were thinking about at that moment.

Other than that...

Life was pretty uneventful if you were being honest with yourself. Your days were usually filled with school assignments and work so there wasn't anything that could help you keep your mind away from Wonwoo. And it didn't help that your friends had gone radio silent on you either.

Some might say that you were taking your pettiness too far but you couldn't help yourself! Sure, you and Wonwoo were not at the level where you could practically share everything with each other but how else were you supposed to react to his obvious injuries? Like... did he want you to just ignore his bruised face and act like everything was fine and dandy? You despised how much this whole situation still bothered you even after a few weeks had passed since it occurred.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to hear Wonwoo out-

"Hellooo? Yn!"

Your head snapped towards the direction where you heard your name come from. Of course, it was Hyunwoo.

"I've been calling your name like crazy! Are you deaf or something?" His voice was laced with annoyance but you could tell that he was trying to play it cool.

You don't know if it was because you were always sleep-deprived but recently, Hyunwoo had been getting on your nerves. Hyunwoo was just too clingy for your liking, always feeling the need to be around you any chance he could. It was bothersome if anything.

“Sorry I was distracted, what did you need?” You tried to sound nice but couldn't help the irritation from slipping into your tone.

Hyunwoo scoffed. "Well, I just wanted to invite you to this party on Friday." He stepped closer to you, there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

He continued, "I know parties aren't really your thing but... please think about it at least?"

You hesitated, your mind automatically going through your schedule. You were definitely open on Friday, but the thought of going to a party wasn't exactly appealing to you. Especially not with the current state of your social life.

You mulled over his proposition for a few seconds.

"Uh, thanks for the invite, but I think I'll pass," you replied, trying to sound casual.

Hyunwoo raised an eyebrow, his playful demeanor turning into one of disbelief. "Pass? Come on, yn, when was the last time you actually went out and had some fun?"

Ugh. His words hit a little too close to home. You knew he was right, but the idea of going out without knowing anyone felt daunting. You knew that there was surely something better you could do on a Friday night but a small part of you was curious about the party. Maybe you should at least check it out, that wouldn't hurt, right?

You looked at Hyunwoo and exhaled.

"Okay fine, I'll go with you," you playfully nudged his arm before continuing, "under the condition that I can leave whenever I want."

Hyunwoo couldn't help but roll his eyes and scoff at your 'terms and conditions', but he accepted it either way.

"Sure, oh and trust me, you won't want to leave, I'll make sure of that," Hyunwoo said as he looked at the time on his phone noting that he had a few minutes left. He patted your back before bidding you goodbye to attend his next class.

You weren't sure if it was you but there was something off about his reply. But before you could dwell on it further, your phone suddenly buzzed with a notification, forcing you back to reality.

[www.onwoo requested to follow you.]

Oh.

Okay, now you have a lot of questions. How did he even find you? Was it through one of your friends? Why now? God you knew this was going to eat you up for the next few hours or maybe even days.

Nevertheless, you accepted his friend request and even went as far as to add him as a friend. That should be okay, right?

You slipped your phone back into your pocket as you got closer to your class. Surely your lecture would at least help you take him off your mind.

Wrong.

When you entered the classroom you noticed that the seating arrangement had been changed. There were a few students still standing at the front who looked just as confused as you. After a few more students came to the class the professor eventually got up to address the situation.

"For those that are coming in, I have changed your assigned seats for the rest of the semester! If you look at the board you will also see that I have grouped you into pairs, and to make it convenient I have sat you with your partner so you do not have to struggle with finding them. If you have any questions please do not hesitate to ask me!"

Okay, this was different but not necessarily bad. You looked towards the board to see who you had been paired with and you felt your stomach drop down to the pits of Hell.

[yn | wonwoo]

If you were going to be honest you completely forgot Wonwoo was even in this class in the first place.

If there was a God out there, then they for sure failed you today. This was very unfortunate for you, but there wasn't anything that could be done about it. So you begrudgingly made your way to your assigned seat, right next to Wonwoo.

You took a quick glance over his figure noting his dark attire. There wasn't anything special about it but just seeing him in a simple black shirt and sweats was doing a lot of things to you. Why was the room hot all of a sudden?

After getting yourself situated in your seat, you felt his eyes surveying your figure. Part of you wanted to turn to see if he was actually looking at you but that would just be another win for him so you decided to keep your gaze on the board. Just focus on the lecture.

"yn." Wonwoo said in a somewhat muted tone, tapping a finger on your arm.

Well, that didn't last long.

You hated how much of an effect his voice still had on you, that deep tone always giving you goosebumps. Surprisingly, you still managed to keep your eyes on the lecture, you wanted to see how far he would go to get your attention.

Though your silence didn't amuse Wonwoo, in fact, it annoyed him. He hated not being able to annoy you, maybe even going as far as to say that he missed talking to you. Of course, he wouldn't have been in this situation had he not snapped at you that day but he was really trying to earn your forgiveness. He was willing to do anything at this point. So he leaned towards you, his cologne invading your senses. God, why did he have to smell so good?

"Can you stop ignoring me? I gave you enough space already," he said in a hushed, irritated tone.

You looked at him, trying your best to not laugh at how desperate he was beginning to sound. His usually calm and collected persona was beginning to crumble down into a hopeless mess. Feeling playful, you decided to torture him just a little bit.

"I don't think I want to, it's been kind of fun not having you around," You whispered back, turning your gaze at the board so you wouldn't have to see his reaction. Just for the fun of it, you decided to egg him on a little further, "Maybe try again later."

As you focused on the board, you could practically feel the tension radiating from Wonwoo beside you. His irritation was palpable, his patience wearing thin as he struggled to contain his frustration.

But despite your playful defiance, a small part of you couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt. Maybe you were being too harsh on him, too stubborn to admit that you missed whatever you had going on with him. Deep down, you knew that ignoring Wonwoo wasn't going to solve anything, that it was only prolonging the inevitable confrontation you both needed to have.

As the lecture droned on in the background, the weight of Wonwoo's presence beside you grew heavier with each passing minute. You could sense him fidgeting in his seat, his frustration simmering beneath the surface as he grappled with your stubborn silence.

Maybe it was time that you stopped pushing him away.

Finally unable to bear the tension any longer, you cleared your throat.

"Okay fine, I'll stop ignoring you but don't think that I have forgiven you yet." Your eyes lingered on his face, his cuts and bruises had noticeably healed but they were still evident.

Wonwoo's tense figure visibly relaxed at your words. Even though it was only a small step, Wonwoo felt as if he had already won the lottery.

After another hour had passed, the lecture had finally come to an end. You didn't have any plans after this so you were excited to just spend the day doing whatever. But just as you were about to slip out of your seat, Wonwoo's voice stopped you in your tracks.

"Wait for me," he said, his voice softer than before.

Seeing Wonwoo like this was quite... weird. His demeanor towards you was a complete contrast to his usual confident self. It was kind of unnerving.

After that, Wonwoo began to gather his belongings, even going as far as gently taking your bag from your hand. He slid the bag onto his shoulder, not caring about the fact that he looked ridiculous wearing his regular backpack with your tote.

"I can carry my bag," you said as you tried reaching for it.

Wonwoo quickly moved away before you could even land a finger on your tote. "Let me carry it for you, please." His tone was sincere this time, almost pleading if anything.

With a reluctant sigh, you began to make your way out of the classroom, allowing Wonwoo to fall into step beside you as you made your way out of the lecture hall. The hallway was relatively quiet, the sounds of footsteps echoing against the tiled floor as you passed by other students.

As you walked side by side with Wonwoo, you couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that gnawed at the edges of your thoughts.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between you like a physical barrier. As you rounded the corner, you stole a glance at Wonwoo, taking in the uncertainty etched into his features. It was strange to see him like this, vulnerable and unsure, but there was also something oddly endearing about it.

"What's going on? You're acting really weird right now," you finally blurted out, unable to contain your curiosity any longer.

Wonwoo's steps faltered slightly at your question, his gaze flickering away before returning to meet yours. "Can't I do something nice for my friend?" he replied, his voice tinged with a tiny hint of defensiveness.

You blinked, taken aback by Wonwoo's response. "Friend?" you echoed, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. It had been weeks since you and Wonwoo had exchanged more than a few words with each other, but even before that, you weren't necessarily sure you could call him a friend. Sure you've known him for the majority of your life but that was really it, growing up your friend groups rarely interacted so it's not like you actually knew anything about him. He just always happened to be there.

Did he seriously consider you as a friend?

Wonwoo's steps came to an abrupt stop, he shifted uncomfortably beside you, his gaze flickering away for a moment before returning to meet yours. "Well, yeah. I mean, aren't we?" he asked, his voice laced with uncertainty.

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken implications and unresolved tension. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, searching for the right words to express the swirling thoughts and emotions that churned within you.

"I don't know, Wonwoo," you finally admitted, your voice quiet but resolute. "I get that we've known each other for a long time but... I wouldn't exactly call us friends."

His face flashed a hint of hurt before he looked away from you. The silence following between the two of you was almost suffocating.

"That's fair I guess." His voice returned to that stoic tone that you had grown accustomed to.

Wonwoo's response hung in the air for a second, thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. You could feel the weight of his disappointment pressing down on you, mingling with your own sense of unease.

"I didn't mean it like that," you interjected hastily, the words tumbling out in a rush. "It's just... weird you know? We've been around each other for so long but I don't know anything about you and you don't know anything about me."

His gaze remained fixed on the ground, his expression unreadable. "I know," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the footsteps of the people passing by. "But we can always change that." Wonwoo was now completely looking at you, his gaze filled with something you couldn't quite pinpoint.

He continued, "Look, I'm sorry I spoke to you that way. I was really irritated by what had happened but I figured that being with you would put me in a better mood," he paused for a second, "I know that it was unfair of me to do that to you and I'll make sure that it won't happen again." Wonwoo's eyes were soft and sincere as he spoke to you.

It was shocking in a way, seeing how vulnerable he was being with you. For someone who usually displayed himself on the 'cooler' side, he really did know how to be genuine with you.

It was also overwhelming. Everything about this felt too intimate for you. From the way Wonwoo was looking at you to the way he voiced out his apology; it was just too much for you.

You had to do something.

Taking a deep breath, you decide to accept his apology, it was about time anyway.

"Okay, fine. I get it, we all have our off days," turning to face his side, you made a playful jab into his ribs, "but if you ever do anything like that again I will kill you." You tried your best to maintain a somewhat serious face but couldn't help but let out a giggle as soon as you saw Wonwoo squirm from your touch.

And just like that, the tension that had once felt suffocating was now gone, as if it had never been there in the first place; or at least so you thought.

What you didn't know was that Wonwoo was completely aware of your little diversion tactic. He noticed the subtle shift in your eyes while he was apologizing to you, he just chose not to say anything. But he'll play along at least for now.

“So…are we officially back to being besties?” Wonwoo decided to say teasingly, his eyes looking at you expectantly.

You stare at him momentarily with an unimpressed look before breaking into a smile. Although you've known Wonwoo for a while, you would have never thought he could joke around like this, especially with you.

And well... it wouldn't hurt if you played with him a little more.

“I’ll say yes if you buy me a smoothie from the stand over there.” You pointed toward the barely visible smoothie stand that was parked a bit farther from the window where you and Wonwoo stood.

It was the same smoothie spot from a few weeks ago only this time they were in a small cart. Although they did have their own shop near the area, the owners would occasionally bring a little cart around the campus to help bring more people in.

Wonwoo let out a low chuckle before asking you, "Do you want the same thing from last time?”

Last time? There was absolutely no way that he was talking about your order from two weeks ago.

You quirked your eyebrow up at him, "…And just how sure are you that you remember my order?"

Okay, to be fair, it's not like you had a complicated order, but it would be surprising if Wonwoo was able to remember it considering that he only heard you order that smoothie once.

Wonwoo looked over to you once again, a small smirk taking over his features. "I'll have you know that it also happens to be my favorite so don't get too excited now," he said in a provocative tone.

Ugh, he was so annoying.

Before you could give his response any more thought Wonwoo had wordlessly started walking toward the smoothie stand, effectively leaving you behind. But rather than following him all the way to the stand you decided to find seating, preferably under the shade. It's been getting hot, you noticed it's especially true when Wonwoo is around.

After finding a spot under the shade you begin to mindlessly scroll on your phone. It wasn't too long after you sat down that a notification got a hold of your attention.

[www.onwoo wants to send you a message.]

Oh god. What did he possibly want now?

[www.onwoo] why didn't you come with me? :(

Before accepting his message request you glanced over to the smoothie stand, the line was pretty long now but Wonwoo had made it just in time to get his order in before the rush. As you were looking at him, he turned his gaze toward you making you immediately look back down on your phone.

[you] it's only a one-man job. also you look ridiculous with my bag.

Wonwoo softly scoffed at your message and looked in your direction. You weren't looking at him anymore but he was still able to see a small smile on your face.

[www.onwoo] i'll have you know that i already had 3 girls compliment me on the bag 😼

You rolled your eyes before shooting back a reply.

[you] i have immaculate taste that's why.

A few chat bubbles popped in and out before they eventually disappeared altogether. It wasn't long after that you heard footsteps quickly making their way toward you.

Just as you lifted your head upwards you heard Wonwoo's confident voice announce his arrival.

“One large smoothie for my little birdy.” He smiled as he spoke, knowing that you absolutely despised that nickname.

You squinted at him in disapproval, “And here I thought that nickname was officially gone for good.”

Wonwoo chuckled at that. He then proceeded to take a sip of your smoothie before officially handing it off to you.

You stayed frozen for a second before grabbing the smoothie and wiping the straw with your shirt.

Absolutely no indirect kisses will be occurring today.

Getting up from your spot, you begin to mindlessly walk toward the closest pathway near you, the weather is pretty nice today. After a few steps, you turned around to see a rather puzzled Wonwoo looking back at you but he still followed nonetheless.

“You’re a little too chirpy today… what happened to the oh-so-serious biker? Hmm?” You playfully poked at him as you said it, enjoying the sweet flavor of the smoothie he had gotten for you.

Wonwoo scoffed softly, holding back his laugh, “He’s still here, he just happens to be in a good mood now that his little birdy is talking to him again.”

But before you can even think of a snarky response Wonwoo continued.

“But if that’s what you’re into then I can always play the part for you,” he said with a smirk, his words smothered in arrogance.

You scoffed, amused by the implication he made. “Ew it’s definitely not like that.”

“Oh, but it can be.” Wonwoo moved closer to you, effectively closing the space between you both. His cologne invaded your senses once again; this time, it was proving much more difficult for you to escape from his grasp. His gaze was unwavering as he looked at your face or to be more exact, your lips.

After what felt like an eternity, Wonwoo finally pulled himself away from you. He smirked at the very flustered state that he had just left you in. It was clear that there was a mutual attraction between the two of you, an attraction you were trying to reject.

It was a challenge that Wonwoo was more than ready to handle.

You cleared your throat, "As fun as it was hanging out after class... I think that it's about time for me to head back home," you said as you recomposed yourself.

Technically speaking, there wasn't anything waiting for you back at your place but you felt that if you stayed a second longer things would definitely escalate between the two of you.

And again, your little stunt didn't go unnoticed by Wonwoo but he also wasn't surprised, if anything, he expected you to pull away like this. That was one of the first things he had noticed when he initially started talking to you, always leaving before things could really develop. It was cute in a way, but he was eventually going to get you out of your shell, it was only a matter of when.

Wonwoo faintly smiled to himself, “Okay but before I let you go, we should come up with a day to start our project together.”

Fuck. You forgot about that.

He continued, “How about this Friday? I have nothing going on that day.” Wonwoo's eyes landed on your figure as you went on your phone to check your work schedule for the upcoming week.

“Ugh, I have to go out with Hyunwoo that day,” you said just as your eyes landed on Sunday, it was completely open.

“…but how about this Sunday? I don’t work that day.” You looked up toward Wonwoo's eyes, hopeful that it could work out.

A million thoughts raced through Wonwoo's head. You're going out with Hyunwoo? Like as in a date or...? No, he has to stay composed.

“That works for me,” he mumbled, his gaze went toward the ground, kicking a few pebbles before looking at you once again, “but what’s going on with you and Hyunwoo?”

You couldn't help but laugh at Wonwoo's question which earned you a scowl from him. God, you were going to have so much fun with this.

“Why do you ask?” This was the perfect opportunity to get back at Wonwoo for teasing you earlier so like the tease that you are, you decided to play dumb with him. “Are you perhaps… jealous?” You said with a loud gasp as a way to rile him up, your hands flying to your mouth for dramatic effect.

You continued, "Don't worry Hyunwoo is just a boy who also happens to be my friend." Wonwoo's face physically hardened at the idea of Hyunwoo being your boyfriend. He knew that you saw him on a regular basis but he had yet to see any real signs that you were actually dating him.

Patting his back in a comforting manner you then explained, "Relax, don't get your panties in a twist. If you have to know, Hyunwoo is just a friend." While it was fun teasing him you most certainly did not want him to get the wrong idea about you and Hyunwoo.

"But if I'm being honest it was kind of fun bullying you, I should do that more often." It couldn't be helped! You just had to add that last part.

Wonwoo rolled his eyes. “Oh wow, who knew you were a sadist.” His tone was playful, an evil grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he played along with your banter.

Your jaw dropped at his comment, huffing out a loud, “Wonwoo!”

He raised his hands up in a surrender, “I'm kidding! I'm kidding… or maybe not.” Which then earned him a slap on his bicep.

“You truly are shameless,” you muttered out loud for him to hear.

By this point, Wonwoo had taken the lead as the two of you walked away from the courtyard. It was only until you were at the school's parking lot that you realized that he had purposely taken you here.

There was a beat of silence before Wonwoo let out a soft sigh. "Would you look at that... my bike happens to be over there..." He nudged you in the direction of where he had parked his bike a few hours prior.

Wonwoo let out another pathetic sigh, "It would be rude of me to just let you walk back home you know?" This time he grabbed a hold of your hand as he led you directly in front of his bike.

Your eyes almost bulged out of your head at the implication that he just made. There's absolutely no way that you are getting on his bike.

"Uh... I'm not so sure this is a good idea Won-"

Wonwoo shushes you and hands you a spare helmet, a shit-eating grin plastered over his stupidly handsome face.

"Just trust me," he says as he slides your tote inside his backpack, "that should hold everything in place." Wonwoo then handed the backpack to you, waiting for you to put it on, his eyes landing on your terrified figure.

This was going to be fun.

[Part Three: III]

[arabella0001]

brattysubbydazai:333

cn: dom/sub undertones (switch), dirty talk, cuff bondage, blowjob, overstimulation, rough fuck

pairing: dazai x reader

fandom: bungou stray dogs

The karakusa pattern on your bookmark had been covered by the other half of the book just as they approached the bar where you were currently working. The Bar Lupin.

Bar Lupin had a cozy, somewhat hidden interior with a counter, stools, and a bartender in a crimson vest. Though, you’d secretly altered that vest; the crimson corset suited you far better. Taneda had no reason to complain.

This bar was a haunt for writers and artists. But not only them. Men with hidden truths gathered here, too. You often wondered if Dazai and his friends had sensed anything about you though.

Still, you’d expected more from Dazai.

The Special Operations Division was an overall mysterious organization, said to be quite powerful and influential. But Dazai’s name wasn’t famous for nothing, was it?

“Hello, darling. What a beautiful sight to behold.”

His bangs framed his face as his narrow, dark brown eyes locked with yours in a moment that felt frozen in time. His smirk mirrored yours, but his gaze alone travelled slowly over your body.

Sakunosuke Oda and Ango Sakaguchi nodded politely, and you returned the gesture.

“Oh, hi Dazai.” You rinsed the whiskey glasses once more, making sure they were spotless. Turning your back to them, you smiled over your shoulder. For now, his attention was only on you, his chin resting in his hands, drinking you in with that excessively unfriendly stare of his. “The usual?”

“You know us well, love.”

“What kind of day is it? Namazaki or Nikka?”

Oda sighed, leaning back in his seat, exhausted.

“Nikka, definitely. Less ice.”

Ango threw him a glance that was nearly approving, while Dazai patted his back sarcastically, his usual smile plastered on his face, eyes still closed in that mischievous way.

Nikka Yoichi whiskey offered a bolder, peatier experience. So their night had been rough. For you? A flavored night, ripe for catching whispers of news.

They often gathered like this to talk, especially during dark times.

Sometimes, it’s hard to be the observer.

A dangerous foreign syndicate called Mimic would soon surface, further complicating things for the Port Mafia. So basically, anything that might sound like a threat to public safety, Taneda would know.

“All three are ready, gentlemen.”

The glasses, two with large king cubes and one with a smaller one, were set in front of them as they continued talking. Your hands moved smoothly, reaching for the book behind the bar, but Dazai caught it before you could slide it under the counter.

An Encouragement of Learning – Fukuzawa Yukichi

⸻

At the end of the evening, as you quietly washed the last round of glasses, Oda and Ango gave Dazai a frowning look but didn’t press him further.

“See ya. I’ll stay for another drink with this wonderful lady. Right, darling?”

Your heart skipped for a second.

Did I miss something? you wondered. But maybe it was just an excuse to sit alone with his thoughts. It was a clever move because once the bar door shut, the rest of the patrons had already disappeared. No noise cluttered the space now. Only the quiet sounds of your every movement remained.

“You alright, Dazai?”

Dazai clasped his hands together, stretching them over his head before letting out a yawn.

“Could be better.” He leaned an elbow on the counter. “Aww, do you actually care how I feel, bella?”

You poured yourself a plain, straight shot and knocked it back, chasing it with water before turning back to him, swallowing fast. When your eyes met, Dazai was almost caught off guard by the fire in your gaze. He didn’t know exactly what you were hiding, or what kind of truth it was. Intriguing.

“Just making conversation.”

He gave you a subtle nod, ignoring the edge in your tone.

“Quite the optimistic book, wouldn’t you say?”Your hesitation wasn’t subtle, nor the way your muscles tensed. “Ordinary people learning and educating themselves to earn autonomy and respect.”

“You don’t agree, Dazai?”

He tapped his lower lip with a finger, stalling. Still, his childish behavior didn’t fool you.

“Oh, but I do, love. Of course I do. Who would I be to argue with hopeful little people?” His gaze grew more serious, though his smirk returned. “I just don’t have that hope anymore.”

“It’s just a reminder to think and act for oneself.”

He took a small sip, then swirled the drink in his glass, letting the liquid roll gently over the still-whole ice cube.

“Don’t you ever want to stop doing that?”

Now you were the one leaning on the counter, resting your chin in your hand.

“And what do you propose?”

⸻

Your plans were on a tight schedule, but I think you still managed to squeeze in a makeout session with Dazai between alleyways, behind the bar.

Dazai was leaning against the wall, head tilted slightly to meet your lips, while his bandaged hands got to work. One lifted your leg, resting it against the right side of his hip, and the other mirrored yours, cupping your cheek.

You could feel his arousal, his cock straining against his black, cloth pants. You pressed into him to give some relief through friction, rolling your hips into his. Dazai moaned into your lips, and the sound sent a thrill straight through your body.

“Tell me, bella,” he dragged his lips over yours before moving to your earlobe, leaving wet kisses down to your neck. “Doesn’t it feel good to lose control?”

Your lips lifted slightly, dragging his between your teeth, kissing him softly like a sweet reward before whispering against him.

“I think you misunderstood me.” Your gaze shattered his unsheathed bravado, punctuated by the way Dazai’s breath hitched when your hands slid down his chest, your fingers brushing the taut skin beneath his elegant shirt until they landed on his bulge, stroking him slowly through the fabric. “I’m not the one who’s going to lose control tonight.”

Dazai’s smile was wicked; tempted to argue, but his curiosity weighed heavier.

⸻

The clothes were thrown off quickly once you reached your apartment, and while your fire was focused elsewhere, you missed the subtle way Dazai scanned your room for any trace of spilled information, clues that might support his probably-true theories.

Dazai’s gaze, aside from lustful, was also intensely mysterious like it was warning you that you didn’t really know who you were fucking, and maybe you should be afraid. The bandages hidden beneath the shirt he hadn’t removed were a morbid curiosity of yours that only deepened the fear, but his voice contradicted it all.

“Just as beautiful as I expected, bella.”

Dazai didn’t get much of a chance to touch you though. You let him kiss you again, his mouth soaked in whisky and cigarettes, with a lingering sweetness from the flavored alcohol invading yours. His hands cupped your breasts, fingers pinching your already-hard nipples until he made you moan this time. Your hands found the back of his head, tugging his wavy brown hair until you pushed your palms against his chest and shoved him onto the bed.

He chuckled, sitting up near the edge and spreading his legs to make room for you as you climbed on top of him.

“What are you trying to prove, my darling?”

His hand grabbed your loose hair at the back, tugging until your neck was exposed for him. His bites were exactly the push you needed to flip the dynamic. For now, you let him touch you however he wanted, his other hand slipped between your bodies, and his middle finger began to move over your clit.

You thanked him with a moan, but nothing more. Resisting the urge to ride his hand, you tried to coax him into doing more about the wetness between your legs. You both inhaled sharply, Dazai watching your parted lips as your breathing grew unsteady.

“Mhmm, I’m flattered.” His hand in your hair pushed your face toward his lips, but he didn’t kiss you. His fingers sped up, then stopped suddenly, edging you on purpose before he shifted to your entrance, pressing but not quite punishing. “Now, are you going to stop trying whatever it is you’re doing so poorly?”

He didn’t wait long for a reply, savoring the way your body struggled not to tremble against him. But he was a gentleman, so he couldn’t possibly leave you without his fingers fucking you. You buried your moans into his shoulder as Dazai pulled you closer, holding you steady while his fingers pumped in and out aggressively.

Your sounds distracted him and that was exactly your intention. Your hand slid subtly behind the headboard, retrieving the handcuffs from your improvised stand. You kissed him, keeping him from noticing what you held, though he probably suspected. Your hands moved smoothly, securing his wrists behind him with a soft click once the cuffs locked.

He let you believe you’d done it all on your own, just so he could show you that you weren’t going to get what you wanted. Dazai had it on his bucket list to be tied up by a beautiful lady in this lifetime, especially one as pretty as you. But he’s convinced it’s not going to play out the way you intend.

Your hands moved slowly across his body, yet Dazai didn’t betray himself because not a single sound escaped his lips. Still, you could see his muscles tense beneath your touch, especially between his thighs.

His soft sighs were music to your ears, but the smirk on Dazai’s face needed to be erased.

You gripped his thighs abruptly and pulled him closer, drawing a gasp from him as your hand returned to his cock after you’d undressed him.

“Pretty.”

Dazai smiled through shallow breaths.

“Yeah? It’s all yours, baby.”

“Mhm. I know, Dazai.” Your tongue traced slow, deliberate circles across his abdomen. You exhaled softly against the base of his cock without touching him. “Want me to keep going?”

“Of course, my lady.” He still felt in control. In fact, he even spread his legs a little wider to make it easier for you.

You wrapped your hand around his cock, stroking him languidly up and down. You quickly found the rhythm that made his moans louder, and just when his body began to tense in that delicious way, you pulled away, resuming your slow pace. Dazai let you do as you pleased for now, at least he was being touched by someone as lovely as you.

His hips jerked when your thumb brushed over the tip, smearing the bead of precum that had leaked out. He fought the urge to thrust into your hand, legs trembling from your consistent teasing.

“Y/N.”

Dazai’s voice was strained with irritation, though his moans continued. His eyes told you he could break free whenever he wished. You smiled wide, determined to prove him wrong, then dragged your tongue slowly over the head of his cock. You pressed teasing kisses all over the length of his shaft, then gave a single wet stroke down and back again.

His veins stood out starkly beneath skin that was soft like silk. But what you loved most was the taste—despite the faint hint of cigarettes, he tasted clean, almost deliberately so, as if he’d prepared for this. The thought made you jealous, so your lips finally wrapped around the head of his cock. You pushed forward, taking more of him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue and deep into your throat.

Dazai groaned, resisting the urge to buck his hips because he knew you would stop if he did. That wasn’t obedience, he thought. It was self-interest.

You sucked him for several seconds before pulling away, a thin string of saliva stretching between your lips and his cock. You kept a firm grip on him as you dragged your tongue slowly up the shaft again, teasing, languid. You licked up to the tip, flicking your tongue over his slit, playing with it.

“You’re so talented, bella. The best I’ve had.”

Dazai thought he’d won you over with that, hoping to coax more pleasure from you. But when he realized he’d made a comparison, your look told him he’d fucked up.

Your mouth found his cock again. Halfway up the length, you plunged forward, taking it deep. Again. And again. Using your mouth to stroke him. You settled into a rhythm, gagging yourself slightly as you worked. Dazai’s lips were full of praises and moans, drunk on the sheer ambition with which you sucked him.

Until you stopped.

His eyes widened when you stopped just before he could come. His trembling limbs and whispered pleas were not part of his plan. He twitched and whimpered beneath you, fighting the wave of overstimulation and pleasure. He wanted this, he needed this so badly it drove him mad.

“Would you like to cum now, Dazai? Do you think you’ve earned it?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His mind was primal now, overrun by your control. Your control over his body and his pleasure.

You hummed as you continued stroking him, tightening your hold. Precum dripped steadily from him, slicking your hand as you focused your movements on his sensitive tip.

“Can I finish now?” Your mouth was no longer warming his cock, only your hand stroking him slowly. Exasperated, he gave you what you wanted “Let me cum, sweetheart. I’m a good boy now, aren’t I?”

You smiled darkly at him, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“Please, bella.”

His toes curled into the sheets, warmth flooding his chest, spreading like fire. You chuckled at the sight of him.

“Aww, poor Dazai finally broken? Please what, baby?”

You’re going to pay for this. That thought bloomed in his mind, but the logical part of him was long gone when he repeated himself.

“Please make me cum, bella.”

You began working your way back up his cock, your lips wrapped tight around it until your nose was pressed to the soft hair at his groin. You looked up at him with tearful eyes.

His face was flushed, hands straining against the restraints, that usual smug smile nowhere to be seen. He throbbed in your mouth from the sheer sight of it. So erotic, so beautiful. That he spilled down your throat within seconds.

The thick head of his cock pulsed against the back of your throat, releasing wave after wave as your nose flared with the effort of sucking and swallowing.

“Ah! Oh my fucking—Bella, it’s enough—”

His cock began to soften as he caught his breath, but you weren’t done. You kept stroking him, overstimulating him until he hardened again.

“Y/N, alright, fine—I’ll do what you want, just stop—”

You rose, settling onto the bed beside him and giving him a short break, until one of your hands locked around his throat. You kissed him, squeezing the air from his lungs as you began to lower yourself onto him, holding his cock in your hand and easing it inside you.

He slid in with little resistance. Both your mouths fell open. His body trembled beneath you from the overstimulation, but Dazai found himself liking it, surprisingly so. And the way you squeezed his throat? It only aroused him more.

You felt so good he lost his filter.

“I want to touch you, my beautiful girl. Let me. I promise I won’t—”

You whispered against his lips while riding him harder and harder.

“Promise?”

His pupils were wild, but they matched yours.

“Yes, bella. I promise—”

You paused your movement, untying his wrists.

Dazai immediately broke his promise.

He leaned over you, darker eyes glinting with threat in the best way. His breath grew heavier as he slotted himself between your legs, raising them and thrusting his cock into you in one swift, punishing stroke.

Finding his rhythm which was slow and deep, yet punishingly hard each time his hips snapped, Dazai slipped his fingers between your lips and dragging it gently. He pulled out completly, but he successfully silencing your mewls as he thrusts his cock back inside of you. You cried out, hands instantly darting out to his shoulders when he leaned over you to hold on for what's to come next. His lips placed to your ear whispering absolute filth just drove you insane. .

“You happy, bella? Happy with what you’ve done to me?”

His fingers found your clit, circling fast enough to steal your breath. His thrusts grew violent, shaking the bed, but Dazai didn’t care anymore.

“Dazai, fuck. You’re so deep—it’s too much—”

He let out a breathless laugh, hot air brushing your face.

“Too much, baby? Funny, it wasn’t too much before.”

His relentless thrusts made your eyes roll back as his fingers moved faster and faster. You came so hard, screaming his name that you barely remembered the moment after. You wrapped your legs around him, desperate to keep him close.

“Dazai, cum in me. I need to feel it.” You groaned. “Pills. I’m on the pills—”

“And how do we say it, bella?”

He sucked on a tender spot of your neck, making you hiss.

“Please, Dazai.”

His wicked smile returne, happy to give you what you asked for.

You locked your legs tighter around his waist as he drove into you harder, grinding deep. You shook beneath him, thighs twitching, hands tugging at his hair like you didn’t know whether to pull him in or push him away.

Dazai held your face still, cupping your cheek, his forehead resting against yours. He’s jerking as his dick throbs deep inside you, the head swelling just before he spills, moaning into your open mouth like he's losing his mind.

And both of you knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

His lips brushed yours, wet and messy, then he leaned in again, tongue hungrily invading your mouth after that shattering orgasm. You panted into each other, your bodies trembling.

He pulled back, slowly sliding out until the tip caught at your entrance, slick with your release and his. Dazai exhaled deeply as he lay down beside you on his back.

After a few minutes of silence, Dazai didn’t look at you. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

“I hope you know you’re not leaving this room until you tell me why you’ve been following me.”

You turned your head toward him, studying the seriousness in his eyes.

“What makes you think I’m only following you? Got something to hide?”

He turned his head toward you, his slender fingers gently brushing your cheek.

“We all have something to hide, bella.” His gaze returned to you. Not just any gaze. The kind that made your breath freeze, like one wrong step could kill you. “You’re dear to me. Don’t make me change my mind.”

[potatipejr]

"So I have this cat"

Spencer Agnew x reader

Summary: You accidently give Spencer a hickey and your secret relationship may not be so secret anymore....

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: Guys it's summer, I'm unemployed and so so bored. Please send me requests. This is a first for me.

You and Spencer hadn’t meant to keep things a secret.

But when the first kiss happened after a long night of editing and tired laughter and his fingers curled gently around your wrist and your forehead leaned against his; it felt too fragile to announce, too precious to hand over to a group of colleagues who would absolutely turn it into a circus act. 

So you didn’t.

For four months, you let your relationship live in the quiet spaces: the gentlest of touches under the editing desk, the silent glances that said words across meeting rooms, the shared playlists and inside jokes and coffee orders memorized down to temperature. As the weeks went on, their comfort became evident to them both. They did what they could to avoid anything that even dwindled on the term public relationship, they liked the way things were. It was a secret. But it was theirs. Whatever you would call it.

You weren’t hiding. You were just… holding something close. And it worked well enough.

Until Spencer walked into work with a hickey.

It had been an interesting morning. He was already ten minutes late, but he didn’t care. How could he when he had woken up to the blissful expression dawning on your face? He watched you for a moment and then with a sigh, he leant forward and kissed you. His lips were soft and a little dry against your own, but it is a proper kiss: sweet and affectionate. You brushed your tongue across his lips, asking permission which he merrily obliged to. It was a deeper kiss now, still sweet and lazy in its exploration until you had to break awake, seeking oxygen.

He pulled back, forehead against yours. 

“That is the best way to wake up.” you decided, some finality in her tone. 

“There are worse ways to wake up.” He agreed with a hum. 

A few careful moments passed with you just staring into each other’s eyes. Your hand continued to move in the hair on the back of his head and one of his hands was trailing up and down your spine, causing goosebumps to erupt on your skin. He hated the idea of leaving this bubble of warmth that was created in his own home. The world outside the bed was colder and he already knew he had to resist the urge to immediately climb back into the bed and into your arms. 

Still groggy from your early-morning kisses, it certainly didn't help when you’d pulled him back into bed, whispering a smug “Five more minutes won’t kill you.”

Five turned into ten and ten turned into twenty. And a lot of those minutes had been spent with your lips on his neck.

Neither of you noticed what you’d left behind.

Now fully acknowledging the consequences of your morning endeavours, Spencer had barely thrown on his Legacy hoodie and bolted out the door. Thus, he wandered into the Smosh office bleary-eyed and gnawing on a half-eaten granola bar, expecting to coast under the radar.

He should’ve known better.

---------------------------------------------------------

“Yo, Spence,” Angela called from the kitchen, her eyes narrowing. “Did you get attacked by a vampire this morning?”

Spencer blinked. “Huh?”

Courtney leaned over the couch with a grin. “You’ve got something on your neck there, bud.”

Confused, Spencer’s hand made his way to his neck. His fingers found the warm skin just beneath his ear; tender and unmistakably marked yours.

His heart dropped. “Uhm..”

Still half-asleep and caught off guard, his mind scrambled for something - anything - that might appease the office gossip hounds, at least for now.

“Cat,” he blurted. “It was my cat.”

Courtney raised an eyebrow. “Your cat… gave you a hickey?”

“No! No, no, nooooo,” he said too quickly. “She.. you know.. pounced. She’s got this weird habit of jumping on me when I’m asleep. Sharp claws. You know how cats are, right?”

“Sure,” Amanda said slowly, joining the scene with a knowing smile. “A surprise feline ambush. Classic.”

“Looks like a mouth, dude.” Angela said bluntly. “Not paws.”

“It’s just a bruise!” Spencer insisted, voice cracking a little. “A really mild bruise from, uh… enthusiastic cuddling. With a cat. My cat. You know my cat, Cleo.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then the laughter erupted.

“Oh my god,” Courtney wheezed. “You are the worst liar.”

Oh God, Spencer was already dreading this day. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You walked in an hour later, iced matcha latte in hand, humming absently under your breath and having no idea you were walking into an ambush.

Angela met you at the door with a smirk. “Hey! Quick question.”

“Uh oh,” you said. “That’s never a good start.”

Amanda cornered your other side, “Any idea who Spencer’s seeing?”

Your heart hiccupped.

“Wh-what?”

He’s got a mystery hickey,” Courtney added. “And he’s blaming it on his cat which, for everyone’s sake, I really hope isn’t true.”

You glanced toward the editing bay. Spencer hunched over his desk, red-faced and painfully still. Definitely not listening to Alex who was swinging around some board game and excitedly talking about it.

“I have,” you started, voice wobbling. “No idea.”

You practically ran to your desk, face flushed and pulse pounding. You slumped into your chair, hiding behind your monitor like it could somehow shield you from the smirks and raised eyebrows being traded across the office. Your fingers trembled slightly as you grabbed your phone, typing with furious urgency.

meet me in the hallway. now.

You hit send before you could second-guess it, watching the little "Delivered" bubble pop up like a lifeline. You didn’t know what you were going to say when you saw him. You just knew you needed to see him. You needed to talk.

“They saw it?” you hissed.

Spencer winced, his shoulders curling inward like he could physically shrink from the memory. “Immediately,” he admitted, voice low and apologetic. “Like, the second I walked through the door. I swear Angela didn’t even say hi, just launched right into, ‘Did you get attacked by a vampire?’" He mimed the air quotes helplessly. "She needs to learn some manners, by the way."

You groaned, glancing around as if someone might still be eavesdropping. “And your excuse was… your cat?”

“I panicked!” he whisper-shouted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “It was the first thing that came to mind!”

Your mouth dropped open in disbelief, hands flying to your hips. “Spencer. No one on this earth would believe that a house cat gave you a perfectly round, purple hickey right under your jaw.”

“I know!” he hissed. “I’m realizing that now, okay? It’s your lips that were right there, and I didn’t exactly think to double-check the damage before running out the door!”

You narrowed your eyes, heart still hammering from the sudden chaos. “This is so bad.”

“It’s not that bad,” he said hopefully.

You gave him a look.

He immediately backtracked. “Okay. It’s terrible. It’s really, really terrible. I am never going to hear the end of this.”

You both stood there for a moment, silent but brimming with mutual dread with the tiniest hint of amusement curling at the corners of your mouths, because of course it had to be this that outed you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By noon, things had escalated.

Courtney had created a whiteboard titled “WHO GAVE SPENCER THE HICKEY?”

Angela was placing bets.

Amanda had compiled a list of “likely suspects” with categories like “Production Team,” “Art Department,” and “Unhinged Fans.”

You were barely surviving. Every question felt like a loaded trap, every sly glance like a spotlight burning straight through your barely maintained composure. It was like walking through a minefield of smirks and half-whispered theories, your nerves fraying with each passing moment. The air around you buzzed with speculation, and you could feel it pressing against your chest. You tried to focus on your work, fingers typing nonsense because your brain was too busy playing defense. The secondhand anxiety clung to you like static, building every time let their voice drop in mock secrecy. It wasn’t just teasing; it was scrutiny, and it made your skin itch with the unbearable need to either scream or sprint out the nearest exit.

You had to talk to Spencer.

“I can’t take it anymore,” he groaned, raking both hands through his hair like he was considering actually yanking it out. His eyes were wild, a little glassy with embarrassment. “I feel like I’m in a bad sitcom. Laugh track and everything. I’m just waiting for someone to trip me and land in a cake.”

You leaned back against the hallway wall, arms folded, lips pressed tightly together. “I mean… you kind of started it.”

Spencer turned to you, scandalized. “By liking you too much?” he whispered dramatically, eyes wide with mock-pleading.

You gave him a flat stare, but your lips twitched at the corners. “Stop,” you muttered, pushing lightly at his chest. “I’m already freaking out enough for the both of us. I’ve spent all morning dodging questions and pretending I don’t know what your neck looks like.”

He sighed, stepped forward and leaned in until his forehead pressed gently against yours. The contact was grounding, familiar, safe.

“Should we just tell them?” he murmured. His breath was warm against your cheek, and despite the absurdity of the day, it made your heart flutter in that annoying, traitorous way it always did around him.

You hesitated, the weight of the decision suddenly pressing heavy on your mind. You thought about the teasing, the questions, the jokes that would never stop. But then you looked at him, really looked at him. Red-cheeked, tired-eyed, and still willing to stand beside you through the chaos he helped create.

“Are we ready for that?” you whispered, barely audible.

He gave you the softest smile. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I want to be.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat tightening as you nodded slowly.

Right on cue, as if she knew what she would be stumbling upon, Amanda walked right into the two of you in the hallway.

A sly grin creeping across her face. “You two seem cozy.”

Spencer froze. You turned bright red.

Amanda dramatically gasped and pointed. “IT’S YOU!”

You opened your mouth, ready to deny, deflect, or just make a run for it, but Spencer beat you to it. “Alright! Fine! I made out with my - my partner! This morning! Before work! In bed! It wasn't my cat!"

The hallway went quiet. Dead quiet.

Then Angela popped out of the kitchen. “What?”

Spencer blinked. “Wait. Did I say that out loud?”

You groaned into your hands. “Oh my god.”

Amanda pointed between you both, wide-eyed. “Wait. That partner?”

Spencer muttered, “There’s only one.”

Amanda looked between the two of you. “Are you serious?”

You sighed, stepping forward. “Yeah. We’ve been dating.”

Courtney walked around the corner with perfect timing. “Since uh when?”

Spencer scratched the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing a little as he avoided eye contact. “Four months?” he offered uncertainly, like he was testing the truth of the statement as much as anyone else.

Amanda’s eyes went wide, and she gasped. “You absolute liars! All those late-night editing sessions?” Her tone was equal parts shock and amusement, like she was uncovering a juicy secret she’d been dying to know.

Angela snorted, folding her arms with a smirk. “Yeah, and the snack swaps? The weirdly intense trivia chemistry you two have going on? Actually, it doesn't surprise me now I'm thinking about it.” She glanced pointedly between the two of you, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Courtney held up the whiteboard with a triumphant grin. “This makes all my data meaningless,” she declared, tapping the title “WHO GAVE SPENCER THE HICKEY?” as if it were some grand conspiracy finally solved.

You couldn’t help but laugh despite yourself, the tension breaking a little with the ridiculousness of it all. “We just… didn’t want to deal with the circus,” you admitted, shrugging.

Spencer matched your shrug with his own, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Turns out,” he said, “the circus comes to you whether you want it or not.”

The room filled with chuckles and knowing glances, and for a moment, the secret didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Amanda smirked. “So. Was the cat real?”

Spencer deadpanned. “The cat has an alibi.”

Later that afternoon, when you were both back in the editing bay, Spencer leaned close and nudged your knee with his. “Feels kind of nice,” he murmured. “Not hiding.”

You smiled. “Even if everyone thinks your cat’s a kinky little gremlin?”

He laughed. “Especially then. In hindsight, there are better ways to confess you are in a relationship. Like literally any other way.”

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together beneath the desk.

“Next time, just let me check your neck before you leave.” She smiled up at him and his head tilted slightly, his attention fixed on her.

“Spencer.” You said. 

He responded, your name came out in a long, soft whisper. 

Spencer closed the gap between you. His lips landed softly against yours. It was sweet, soft, but very real.

And when Amanda walked past the door, she didn’t even blink.

She just called out, “Tell your cat to use protection next time.”

[000-pawz]

solace (m.jh) ˚ · .

myung jaehyun x fem!reader, smut (mdni!!!), very soft, did i mention this is soft, slight angst, jaehyun is exhausted :(, (emotional) hurt/comfort (?)

warnings: sub!jaehyun, softdom!reader, slight dumbification, "puppy", handjobs, nipple play, drool, finger sucking (?)

wc: 2.6k+

a/n: i wrote this on autopilot... i love u puppy jaehyun <3 (i tried to edit it but im sleepy so i may have missed some things ^___^)

he doesn’t usually come to you like this. you knew something was wrong from the moment he asked if he could stay at your place after his schedules instead of coming over in the morning like you had discussed. and when he climbs into your bed that night, he doesn’t say a word; instead, he simply cuddles up to your side and rests his forehead on your shoulder with a sigh so heavy, his entire body melts into the sheets afterwards.

you know jaehyun’s been tired lately. you notice everything. his smile seems weaker, his eyelids are drooped, and he spends most of his time spacing out with his gaze focused on nothing and everything all at once.

you notice it all, except, you aren’t sure what you can do for him. when he got home early tonight, he barely looked you in the eyes before falling into your arms with tears brimming at his waterline, his hands shaky as he gripped the back of your sweater; as if you would crumble away and disappear if he ever let go.

“‘m so tired,” he whispered into your ear before he buried his face in your neck, his tears leaving a damp trail against your skin. you held him back even tighter, pressing a soft kiss to his own neck in return. you knew that he didn’t want you to respond. not yet, at least, so you gently shushed him instead, swaying your bodies back and forth in an effort to soothe him.

you had persuaded him to take a shower while you made him something to eat, his face pale from the lack of meals he’s been having recently. and when he emerged from the condensated bathroom, his eyes were dull and empty, any trace of their usual flicker gone. you asked him about his day and he gave you a limp smile and airy puff of laughter, shrugging as he pushed the food around on his plate.

“it was okay. i got a lot done today.” his eyes flickered up to yours, unreadable and cloudy, and you gave him a gentle smile of your own, placing your hand on top of his.

“i’m proud of you. you always work so hard. you’re amazing.” the words tumbled out of your mouth and you hoped they would stick. lately, you feel as if the praise goes straight through him, swallowed up by the abyss of his own thoughts. 

you want to pick at his brain and see what he’s thinking—what you can do to make it better—but he always brushes it off with a little “i’ll be fine. i just need to rest, that’s all.”

but when he presses his body further against yours under the sheets, his hand trailing to grasp the end of your shirt in his fist, you know it’s more than that. it's been more than that for a while.

“jaehyun,” you whisper into the dim room, only illuminated by the glow of the moon and your tiny nightlight plugged in on the opposite wall. 

he hums in response, his head tilting slightly to gaze at the side of your face. you turn your own head to face him, reaching up to brush the strands of hair out of his vision. in the dim light, he looks even more tired; and now that it’s just the two of you alone, he doesn't hide anything. his eyes are glossy, his bottom lip trembles, and the heights of his cheeks are flushed red. you want nothing more than to take all of his pain away.

“how can i help you, baby?” you ask quietly, your hand moving down to rest on his warm cheek. his eyes flutter shut at your touch, his fingers gripping tighter at the fabric of your shirt. “what can i do to make it better?”

jaehyun is quiet for a while, but you know he isn’t asleep. his breathing is too heavy and his body is too tense, so at his silence, you trail your fingers up into his hair to massage his scalp, subtly tipping his head back a bit. he lets you maneuver, his body sinking into your touch. 

“i… i don’t know,” he mumbles before his eyes open again, meeting yours in the limited light. they’re pleading, shiny, desperate. your stomach churns. “i’m so tired, but i can’t stop thinking. i don’t want to think anymore.”

you hum in acknowledgment, moving closer until your mouth is right above his. he watches your every move with a bated breath, his adams apple bobbing when you move your hand to his chin, your thumb brushing across his lower lip slowly.

“then let me do the thinking for you. would you like that?”

jaehyun makes a small sound at your words, something quiet and airy, his lips parting as your thumb continues to trail across his lips. he doesn’t respond other than his tongue peaking out to invite your finger inside, his eyes slipping shut again as his lips close around your finger. his mouth is warm and wet, the sight of his glossy lips around your digit making your skin heat up. 

he’s so pretty like this, docile and receiving, his tongue swirling around your thumb as you delicately push it further into his mouth. his hand shakes from where it’s holding onto your shirt, his grip loosening to sneak his fingers under the fabric instead. they splay out against the skin of your hip, grounding and present.

when you pull your finger out of his mouth, he whines softly, his eyes opening ever so slightly to watch what you’re doing. you give him a small smile before pushing at chest so he can roll onto his back. his shirt rides up a little at the motion, exposing his soft belly and faint happy trail, yet his eyes remain completely fixated on you.

“i asked you a question, puppy…” you start slowly as you straddle his waist. “do you need me to think for you? is puppy done using his brain?”

something warm fills your chest when jaehyun’s hips involuntarily jolt at your words, bouncing you a little in his lap. he looks completely ruined already and you haven’t even touched him yet. his chest rises and falls quickly, his bottom lip coated in a layer of drool. he looks so enticing, you can’t resist the urge to lean down and capture his lips in a kiss before he can even speak.

he moans into your mouth when your tongue swipes across his and his hands shoot up to grip at your thighs that cage him against the bed. it’s pathetic, the way he pants as you drag your teeth across his lip, your hands resting over his chest to steady yourself. and when you break away, he chases after you like he’s been deprived of your taste for centuries.

“answer me,” you mumble, and that’s when jaehyun finally nods through his foggy mind, his hair bouncing with the movement.

“yeah. yes, please, don’t wanna think, please,” he whimpers, his nails digging into your skin. he's incredibly hard beneath you, twitching through his thin pants. with mercy, you place one final kiss to his lips before sitting back up. 

your fingers hook underneath the hem of his shirt, slowly dragging it up until his hard nipples are exposed to the cold bedroom air. you bring a hand down to circle one with your pointer finger and jaehyun’s entire body twitches at the stimulation, his cock fighting against the restraint of his underwear in interest. that’s when you press down even harder before flicking the bud, watching the way blood rushes to his chest the more you play with him. 

you do the same to his other nipple simultaneously and it doesn’t take long for jaehyun to be reduced to a squirming, whining mess, his head tipped back against the pillows. you lean down to lick at one of his nipples before blowing cold air on it, a soft ‘ah’ escaping his lips at the action. 

he’s trembling already, your fingernails lightly dragging down the expanse of his abdomen until you reach the waistband of his pants. he’s watching you again, his eyelids hooded and heavy, his lips parted as he breathes heavily, bombarded with anticipation. a piece of art.

you pull his waistband and underwear down in one swift move, his leaking cock slapping against his skin with the motion. he’s so wet and so thick, his tip leaving a dripping trail of precum against his lower stomach, shiny and throbbing. it's cute how his cock squirms as soon as it touches air, his flushed tip spurting weak droplets when you gently trail your finger down the vein on the underside of his dick. 

“oh baby, your cock is so big. sucks that you don’t know how to use it, hm?” you speak sweetly, picking up his cock with your thumb and pointer finger before letting it drop back down. jaehyun’s hips buck at the impact, whining quietly as he grips your thighs even harder. 

“dunno how…” he mumbles, tears brimming his glossy eyes. he tries to buck his hips up again, but you seat yourself further on him, holding him down. you glide your fingers through his precum before spreading it over his head curiously. his breath hitches at the feeling, his cock jumping ever so slightly, but it’s too heavy to off of his stomach all the way, twitching pathetically. 

“that’s okay. i’ll help you cum, okay?” your voice is soft as you lean in to his ear, kissing right below it before trailing your lips to his cheek, placing a tiny kiss there too. “doing so well for me, puppy. you’re always so good for me, aren’t you?”

“good… ‘m good…” he repeats mindlessly, his voice sounding far off and light. you smile a little, tapping his cheek right over the kiss you just left against his skin.

“open up.”

he parts his lips automatically and you bring two of your wet fingers up to his mouth so he can taste himself. his eyes slip shut when you press down on his tongue, his moans quiet and muffled. one of his hands leaves your thigh to grab onto your wrist, his tongue desperately swirling around your fingers, trying to push them further into his mouth. drool escapes the corners of his mouth when he closes his lips round your digits, his cock twitching in between your bodies. 

“you like your mouth being stuffed, hm?” you mutter as you slip another finger into his mouth, slightly in awe as he meets your eyes with a small nod, practically gagging around your fingers. you're sure you’ve soaked through your panties by now, the sight in front of you gathering butterflies in your stomach. 

you finally bring your other hand down to his neglected cock, wrapping your fingers around the base. they can barely circle all the way around; he’s hot and heavy in your palm, his pre dripping onto your fingers like a faucet. 

he’s already a moaning mess when you squeeze his dick as you stroke him slowly, the vibrations of the sound shooting up your arm. his hair falls into his eyes, but he never breaks eye contact, his gaze spacey and yet full of so much devotion, it goes straight to your core. his chest is red, the flush shooting up his neck and face, the tip of his nose blushed and his eyelashes clumped together with tears. 

you keep your fingers in his mouth as you pump his cock, running your knuckles over his head slowly. he tries to fuck himself up into your fist, but eventually gives up, succumbing to whatever you decide to give him. he’s completely at your mercy, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the inside of your wrist as he continues to hold onto your arm, his other hand leaving fingernail indents on the soft skin of your thigh. 

you can tell he’ll cum fast; he’s usually sensitive on nights like these, pent up from all the stress he accumulates during the day. you can’t help but to coo at the sight of his eyes squeezing shut, trying his best to hold out for you. but tonight is about him. it’s all for him.

“want you to cum for me, puppy. can you do that? can you make a mess for me?”

jaehyun moans loudly at that, his back slightly arching off of the bed when you speed up the pace, wet sounds echoing off the walls, his dick slippery and bright red at the tip. you take your fingers out of his mouth to cup the side of his face, gazing down at him with so much adoration, you think you could burst from it all. he’s gorgeous, taking it all as his body writhes against the sheets, his cock begging for a release.

“close…,” he gasps, placing his hand on top of yours before burying his face in your palm, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your skin. “can i cum? please, please, i’ll make a mess for you… puppy will…”

you smile down at him, circling your palm against the tip of his cock in a way that makes him literally sob, tears rolling his cheeks at the action. his body racks with shivers as his hips messily thrust up into your hand. you mentally savor the image before giving him mercy, brushing your thumb over his cheek soothingly.

“you can cum, puppy.”

as soon as you utter those words, jaehyun breaks, his entire body tensing up as he reaches his high. he’s mumbling all kinds of words, whining and whimpering as streams of cum paint his stomach and chest, thick and white as it rolls down his body. 

“love you, love you, love you so much,” he rambles, trembling as his cock continues to spurt tiny bits of cum until it goes limp, twitching against his stomach, worn and wrung out. 

when you pull your hand away from his cock, he’s still crying into your palm, gasping and clutching onto your wrist tightly. you gently shush him as you lean in to kiss the tears away from his cheeks. you don’t even care that your clothes and sheets are now covered in cum. he’s completely worked up, his eyes squeezed shut as he quietly sobs. 

“oh, jaehyunnie,” you coo, trying your best to brush his tears away. “i’m right here, baby. it's okay. let it all out.”

you lean down to hug him, wrapping your arms around him, chest to chest. you feel his rapid heartbeat through your shirt, his body still slightly shaking and twitching with aftershocks of his orgasm. 

“i love you. i love you,” he hiccups through his tears, burying his face in your neck as he wraps his arms around your waist. you smile, squeezing him even tighter.

“i love you. i’m so proud of you,” you say, reaching up to pet his hair. 

you hold him until his tears finally simmer down into sniffles, pulling back to cup his face. his eyes are red and watery, his cheeks stained with salty tears, but to you, he's the most gorgeous person you’ve ever laid eyes on.

“i love you,” you repeat—just to make sure it really sticks this time—before pressing a long kiss to his lips. he melts into you at that, a lopsided smile on his face when you break apart. 

“thank you. for everything,” he whispers. you shake your head with a smile of your own, kissing the tip of his nose.

“thank you for coming to me. i’m always here. i’ll always be here.”

you both bask in silence for a bit, taking in the quiet stillness. and then, after a while, jaehyun taps the small of your back, searching for your eyes in the limited lighting of the room.

“can i eat you out now…? please?”

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