#it's not about noticing cracks in the writing

[lvl1l1]

Yes hello I will sell my soul to you if you give us a “who did this to you” type reaction with the love and deep space boys WAIT walk with me their lover calls them trying not to cry asking them to come get them they show up BAM they see them with bruises barley holding it together the ask what happened BAM AGAIN tears just crying as they explain that someone they kind of knew made a pass at them and when they were shut down they hit them yeah they are a hunter but they were so stunned who’s losing it and about to commit a crime and who’s silently about to actually ruin their whole life for hitting their princess that the boys would love and die for

All seriousness I know I made light of the reaction but I fully understand the serious implications of it if you don’t feel comfortable or that this is maybe to heavy to post feel free to ignore it I couldn’t find any rules about what you wouldn’t write for I hope this request doesn’t make you uncomfortable or is triggering in any way and if it is I sincerely and deeply apologize

“Who did this to you?”

Or: LaDS men when someone hurts you

pairings: Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb x Reader

WARNINGS: assault, harassment(please lmk if I missed smth)

content: hurt/comfort

a/n: someone tell me if the new format looks better

Xavier

The apartment was so quiet without you there.

Xavier was lying in bed, awake for a change.

He originally planned on taking a nap but as he noticed your side of the mattress being cold and untouched, he couldn’t fall asleep.

Sleep refused to come to him, while you were still out with your friends.

He couldn’t resist the unease in the back of his mind, gnawing at him.

He kept his phone close, just in case you needed him.

He finally felt his eyelids getting heavier, when the shrill buzz of his phone brought him back.

Your name lit up the screen and he instantly sat up.

His lips curled up into a small smile.

He picked up, anticipating your sweet voice.

But the moment he answered, all he was met with, were soft, broken sobs.

He felt the blood in his veins freeze.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

His voice missing its usually composure.

His was already moving before his mind had even caught up.

His posture was rigid as he got off the bed.

“Xavier, can you come get me, please?”

Your voice cracked, barely being above a whisper.

Before you could even hear his reply, Xavier already teleported across the city, he couldn’t be bothered to grab a jacket or change his clothes.

The moment he appeared before you, his heart broke.

You were standing under a flickering streetlight, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as if to hold yourself together.

Tears were running down your cheeks and there was a slight tremble throughout your body.

But what made his hands curl into fists, were the bruises on your face, ugly, purple marks marking your perfect skin.

He didn’t move at first.

He couldn’t.

The fury raging inside of him was dangerous, violent.

He felt, that if he moved a muscle, he’d lose the weak grip he had on his restraint.

His jaw was locked, eyes raking over your form, taking in all your injuries.

His voice came out quietly, deathly calm but laced with barely contained anger.

“Who did this to you?”

You sniffled, forcing out the words,

“I thought he was a friend. The others left, we were standing here together and then-“

You interrupted yourself by choking on your words,

“He was-“

You inhaled deeply, trying to pull yourself together,

“When I rejected him, he got angry. He hurt me.”

The world around Xavier blurred momentarily, he felt consumed by the rage running through him, his ears were ringing.

But louder than that, was the sound of you, crying.

That’s what pulled him back.

You first

You were always first

He approached you, slow, careful steps, with his arms open but he wasn’t forcing you.

He was waiting, waiting for you to come to him.

You stumbled forward, collapsing into his chest.

The way he held you was oh so tender, one hand caressing the back of your head, the other drawing soothing circles into your back.

He was shaking now, not out of anger but the overwhelming desire to protect, to heal, to be enough to make all your pain go away.

“I’m here.”

He whispered into your hair,

“You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you again. I swear to you.”

Your sobs only came out stronger and he simply held you tighter, encouraging you to let it all out.

Minutes passed like that. Hours, maybe. Time didn't matter.

Once your cries finally turned softer, becoming hiccuping breaths, he pulled back just enough to tilt your head up.

His usually bright eyes were burning with something darker, colder.

“His name. Tell me.”

His voice was low, dangerous

You hesitated but you knew Xavier.

You knew he wouldn’t let this go, not when it came to you.

You whispered the name and watched Xavier’s expression harden into something even more terrifying.

“Let’s get you home.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, brushing away any left over tears.

“I’ll have to go for a bit after.”

There was a finality in his words, a promise.

You grabbed onto his sleeve weakly,

“Xavier, don’t. It’s not worth it.”

He looked down at you, pausing and his gaze softened again.

“For you,”

His voice a murmur,

“there’s nothing I wouldn’t do.”

In the blink of an eye, he brought you home, before turning.

The night swallowed him up, like a silent predator.

He was going to hunt down the man who dared to hurt the one who was most precious to him.

Zayne

Zayne stepped out of the hospital, watching as the last golden rays of the setting sun stretched across the city.

It had been another long day and he couldn’t wait to see you again.

Just as he reached his car, his phone buzzed up.

A smile immediately curled onto his lips, as your name flashed on his phone screen.

Maybe you had finished up shopping just in time for him to come pick you up.

He answered on the first ring,

“Hello, darling-“

But he stopped mid sentence, when he heard a soft sniffle.

His heart plummeted.

Your name softly left his lips,

“What happened?”

His voice was sharp with panic now, he felt his muscles tensing.

Fighting your sobs, you tried to explain, while tripping over your words.

You ran into this guy you barely even knew.

At first, it seemed harmless enough, just engaging in some casual small talk with him.

Your answers were short and clipped, trying to be polite.

Then, when you tried to leave, he wouldn’t let you.

He blocked your way, getting increasingly more aggressive when you made it clear you weren’t interested.

Zayne tighten his grip on his phone, something tightening in his chest as he heard how the situation had escalated.

How you had gotten hurt.

You sounded so small. So scared.

“I’m on my way.”

He said firmly, getting into his car.

“Stay on the phone with me, alright? Tell me where you are.”

You gave him the name of grocery store, telling him you were waiting in the parking lot.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, as he weaved through traffic, dreading every second he wasn’t by your side.

You kept talking.

Or rather, he kept you talking.

His voice was low and steady, even when you fell silent, he didn’t rush you, didn’t push.

Just making sure you knew he was there.

When he pulled into the parking lot, his breath caught in his throat.

You were sitting there, curled up on the curb.

Bruises visible on your skin, he noticed your wrist swelling from afar and the blood drying on the corner of your mouth.

But what really got him, was the hollow look in your eyes.

He wasted no time getting out of the car, he crossed the distance with long strides.

The moment you lifted your head and saw him, the tears started back up and you let out a broken sob.

You got to your feet, feeling almost apologetic.

“I’m sorry, Zayne. You’ve been working all day, I shouldn’t have dragged you here-“

He cut you off, his hands cupping your face gently, so carefully as to not hurt you further.

“Don’t. Don’t apologise for needing me.”

You could hear the emotion in his voice,

“I’m glad you called. You could never be a burden. Never.”

You finally let your body relax, falling into him and he caught you, arms wrapping around you, securely.

You two stayed still like that for a long moment, he was holding you safe against him and you clung to him.

He pulled back slightly, he brushed your hair out of your eyes, tenderly.

"Let’s get you taken care of."

He said softly.

He lead you to his car, opening the door for you and helping you in, a display of gentle care that made your eyes well back up.

The drive to the hospital was filled be a comfortable silence.

He kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other rested on your knee in a silent reminder, showing you that he was by your side.

As soon as you arrived, Zayne parked hastily.

He held your hand as he helped you inside.

His face was grim and his whole body was tense but every time he looked at you, his gaze softened.

Once inside, he immediately called over Dr. Greyson.

After a few short, urgent words, Greyson took you under his care, leading you to a hospital room.

Zayne squeezed your hand before letting go.

"I'll be right here."

He said, voice low but certain.

As the door shut behind you, your boyfriend stood still before it.

He could feel his usually steady hands clenching at his sides.

His mind was racing, needing to make sure the man who did this to you would never come near you, or anyone else for that matter, again.

He sighed, thinking of how to best comfort you later.

Zayne would take care of everything.

You were safe now.

Rafayel

Rafayel stood off to the side of the gallery’s floor.

He thought tonight’s exhibition to be especially insufferably boring, the pretentious crowd leaving him annoyed.

He would’ve flat out refused Thomas if it hadn’t been for your soft kisses earlier that evening and your promise that you’d be fine hanging out with your friends.

That, however, didn’t stop him from mourning the time he knew he could’ve spend together with you instead.

All night, his mind kept drifting to you, your smile, your hand that had lingered on his cheek as you said goodbye.

He kept checking his phone, hoping for a message from you.

Nothing yet.

Some keen socialite kept trying to converse with him, throwing buzzwords around that he couldn’t care less for.

His phone finally vibrated against his palm.

Rafayel didn’t excuse himself, he simply turned and left, not sparing them another glance.

He lifted the phone to his ear, a grin pulling at his lips.

Then, he heard you.

You were crying.

His playful demeanour vanished in an instant.

He felt his heart constricting in his chest and his body snapped to attention.

“Where are you?”

His voice was low and commanding, not leaving any room for arguments, sounding like he was ready to tear through anything that stood in his way.

You managed to choke out your location through your sobs, somewhere a few blocks away from the location you had initially met your friends at.

You softly asked if he could pick you, not wanting to cause him any trouble.

“Trouble?”

He echoed darkly,

“I’m on my way already. Find a store and stay inside. Don’t leave until you see me.”

Rafayel hung up without another word, heading straight for the exit, ignoring the confused calls from the people around him and Thomas’s protests.

Non of that mattered. Nothing aside from you mattered.

The drive to you was a blur of red lights and the sound of cars honking, nothing that made him slow down.

His hands clenched around the steering wheel so tightly, the leather was creaking under his grip.

It was like the only thought on his mind was you.

You were standing by the door of a small convenience store, when he finally pulled up.

Your eyes were wide and red from crying.

Once you spotted his car, relief washed over your posture and Rafayel was out of the car and by your side in seconds.

He reached for you, one hand gently wrapping around your elbow and the other ghosting above your waist as he looked you up and down.

Bruises. Bloody fabric. The fear still lingering in your wide eyes.

Rafayel’s jaw clenched so hard the thought his teeth might end up cracking.

His body and mind were screaming for him to do something, to destroy someone but he forced himself to stay soft and gentle with you.

“What happened, cutie?”

He asked in a low tone,

He noticed the way you hesitated first but then you opened up.

You told him how your friends had all left one by one until you were alone with a man you barely knew.

You tried to leave before things got weird, but things ended up getting weird anyway.

He started making gross, inappropriate comments and when you tried to shake him off, he followed.

And lastly how when you turned him down for good, he decided to hurt you.

Rafayel didn’t interrupt you once as you were speaking.

He listened in silence, drinking in every word, every tremble of your voice and every tear that slid down your cheeks.

Once you finished, he pulled you into his arms, the way he touched you was so soft, so careful, almost reverent.

Like he was afraid any amount of pressure could hurt you.

As he held you close, he pressed his face into the top of your head, inhaling deeply.

“I got you.”

He murmured.

“I’m not letting go.”

He wasn’t pushing for the man’s name, not yet.

He wouldn’t ask for details he could find out later.

Right now, all you needed was him.

He carefully lead you to his car, helping you settle in.

You two spend the rest of the night relaxing.

Once you had gotten back home, he took all the time in the world to tend to you.

He gently cleaned the scrapes on your arms and knees.

He gave you one of his sweaters, having it frame you like a shield.

He made you drink water, brought you warm towels and curled around you on the couch.

Once exhaustion overtook you, you drifted off to sleep, leaning against him, your fingers curled loosely in his shirt.

And only when he was certain, that you were fast asleep, your breathing steady, did Rafayel slowly and carefully remove himself from under you.

He made sure to tuck you in properly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

And then his expression hardened into something sharp and dangerous as he picked up his phone again.

No one would hurt you and walk away.

He’d make sure of that.

By morning, that man would regret ever laying a hand on you.

Sylus

Sylus was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth while the meeting was dragging on.

The men sitting across from him kept talking and talking about things he could easily fix in his sleep.

His mind was elsewhere, with you.

He couldn’t wait until this was done and he could get home, grab a bottle of something decent and have you curl up against him, just as you had planned.

Thinking about you, waiting for him, a sleepy smile grazing your lips, was the only thing keeping him from snapping at the idiots in the room.

Then his phone vibrated in his jacket’s pocket.

He knew it was you but that thought didn’t exactly excite him.

As he read your name on his phone, he straightened.

You never called him while you knew he was working, not unless something was wrong.

Sylus quickly lifted his hand, silencing the man who was mid sentence.

He stood up casually, answering the call with his usual teasing charm.

"What's up, kitten?"

The moment your broken sobs reached his ears, his expression shifted.

You were crying so hard you could barely breathe.

He didn’t care about anything else but you, didn’t care for the men hearing the desperation in his voice,

“Talk to me, love. Breathe. Tell me what’s wrong.”

It took you a few seconds, your voice shaking but you finally managed to gasp out,

“Can you please come pick me up?”

He stalked out of the room, offering no explanation.

“I’m coming.”

There was no need for Sylus to ask where you were, you had stayed late at the Hunter’s Association to finish some reports.

He was familiar with your routine.

He quickly send Mephisto to your location.

On his way, he broke more than enough traffic laws as he ripped from the N109 Zone to Linkon City.

Your broken sobs kept replaying in his head and it caused him to lose focus multiple times, you were the only thought running through his mind.

When he finally screeched into a street near the Association, his gaze locked onto you immediately.

You were sitting on the sidewalk, looking so small.

Mephisto was protectively perched near you.

Luke and Kieran look out from the car, feeling bad seeing you like this.

Sylus moved without thinking.

He dropped to his knees right in front of you, the expression he was wearing was heartbreakingly soft.

One of his hands landed on your leg.

You looked up at him with tired and red rimmed eyes, a weak smile tugging at your lips,

“Hi.”

You whispered hoarsely, voice weak.

His chest tightened as he looked at you.

The desire to tear the city apart burning inside of him.

He controlled himself,

“Ready to go home, kitten?”

You nodded, lips trembling.

Sylus helped you up, wrapping an arm around your waist, holding you as if you were made of glass.

Once you were standing again, you quickly covered your mouth with your hand and started sobbing again.

Sylus was hurting with you.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, whispering calming things, trying anything to ease your pain.

You clung onto him as he lead you to the car.

Once you were both settled in, Luke took off, driving back to the N109 Zone, while Kieran was glaring daggers out of the window.

You two were sitting in the back together and he was cradling you against his side.

His fingers brushed through your hair.

When you gained the strength to open up, you did.

While your voice was hitching here and there, you told him about the man, some guy you only knew through mutual friends, who ended up cornering you once you left the association’s building.

You told about how he kept pestering you, making disgusting comments, refusing to leave you alone.

How, when you finally turned him down firmly, he got violent.

Sylus listened to every word, not interrupting you once.

He didn’t ask for the guy’s name.

He didn’t need to.

He already had everything he needed.

For now, you were all that mattered.

Arriving at the base, Sylus carried you inside like you weighed nothing.

He set you down on his bed, covering you with the soft blanket.

He cleaned your wounds with a patience he wasn’t known for.

His touch never hurt.

Every single one of his movements was an unspoken promise,

“No one will ever hurt you again.”

He stayed close all night.

Held you until you felt better.

Ran his fingers through your hair until morning came and you fell asleep, curled up in his arms.

And once he was sure, absolutely sure, you were truly asleep, did he slowly pull away.

He softly kissed you on the lips.

Then, he straightened.

Rolling his shoulders, his eyes turned dark.

He wasn't going to leave this to his men.

No, Sylus was going to personally make sure that bastard understood exactly what it meant to touch what belonged to him.

By morning, the world would be free of one more pest.

And Sylus would be back before you had even woken up.

Caleb

Night was just starting to roll around when Caleb finally returned home.

His uniform felt suffocating after such a long day.

He was halfway through unbuttoning his coat, when his phone buzzed.

Your name lit up his screen.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He figured you and your friends must've wrapped up earlier than expected, and you needed him to come pick you up.

He picked up immediately.

But the moment he heard your voice, that smile crumbled.

You were crying, not the usual soft sniffles from watching a sad movie or dropping your snack.

This was gut wrenching, helpless sobbing.

Caleb stilled, his body tensed, something deep inside of him breaking at the sound of your pain.

“Hey, hey,”

He quickly said, voice gentle.

“What wrongs, pips? I’m here.”

You were stumbling over your words, hiccuping,

“Do you think you could pick me up now?”

You sounded so small, so weak.

“Of course.”

He answered without hesitation,

“Stay where you are and keep your location on.”

Not that he needed it.

He already knew where you were.

Near the old library.

He always kept tabs, not because he didn’t trust you, but because he needed to make sure you were safe in a world that wasn’t always.

Caleb wasted not time, not even bothering to change out of his uniform.

The streets were relatively empty but even if they weren’t, it wouldn’t have changed anything.

Caleb wanted to get to you as quickly as he possibly could, that meant ignoring speed limits and red lights.

When he spotted you, his heart broke.

You were sitting on a pair of steps, rubbing your eyes sore.

You looked up when you heard the screech of his tires and the slam of his car door.

Caleb was running towards you.

He stopped a few steps away.

His purple eyes roamed over you quickly, taking in the bruises that were forming and how disheveled you looked, the way you were shrinking in on yourself.

His eyes darkened, hands balled into fists at his sides and his muscles were flexing under his uniform.

“Who did this?”

Voice rough, barely a restrained growl.

His whole body was screaming for violence, to hurt someone back, inflict what they had done to you.

You shook your head, tears spilling again.

Caleb instantly softened.

The fury on his face was replaced by a loving look.

"Come here."

He murmured, stepping forward.

His arms pulled you into an embrace, so carefully that it made you feel like the most precious thing in the world.

And to him, you were.

You leaned into him, your sobs were muffled and he was whispering sweet nothings against the crown of your head.

You pulled back just enough to speak, your voice trembling.

You started explaining,

how your two friends had to leave early and how the guy one of them had brought along, had stayed behind.

At first, it wasn’t too weird.

A few uncomfortable jokes, some flirting you politely brushed off.

But it didn’t stop, even when you mentioned Caleb, your boyfriend.

He just became more aggressive, more persistent.

Until you tried to leave, that’s when he became physical.

Caleb didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

You knew what he felt through his arms tightening around you.

Showing his anger, how he was hurt for you, telling that no one would touch what’s his.

The kiss he pressed to your forehead was grounding.

He lead you into the car, buckling you in himself.

Once you two were back in his apartment, he ran you a warm bath.

He was staying close, helping you clean up if you as much as asked.

He fetched you some soft towels, your favourite hoodie of his, anything that he knew would comfort you.

He was sitting right outside of the bathroom door while you soaked, close for you to call his name so he could be there in an instant.

Later, as you were curled up in his bed, wearing his hoodie, lying under a mountain of blankets, Caleb sat beside you.

He was reassuring you, squeezing your hand that was holding onto his.

He kissed your knuckles, he lingered, murmured promises against your skin.

He whispered,

“I won't let anyone touch you ever again."

You eventually drifted off to sleep, coaxing you to.

And once he was sure, Caleb stood from the bed quietly, moving like a ghost.

He headed straight for his office.

He overlooked his screens, fingers flying over the controls, looking into camera footage, facial recognition, movement trackers.

It didn’t take long to find that bastard.

Caleb’s eyes were cold as he tapped a finger against his cheek, calculating.

Joining the fleet and ever had taught him how to fight in ways that left no witnesses, no survivors, no traces.

The man who hurt you would find his life dismantled piece by piece.

His reputation, his finances, his freedom, all gone in the blink of an eye.

No one could protect him from Caleb’s wrath now.

And when Caleb finally returned to bed, slipping under the covers and pulling you close to him, he softened once again.

He held you, trying to make you feel his silent promise.

The promise that no one would ever hurt you again.

Not while Caleb was still breathing.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Your Ghost Knows Me

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Bucky’s activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: mind control; non-consensual behavior (not sexual but bodily autonomy themes); possessive behavior; gun violence (implied, not graphic); threats of violence; emotional manipulation (unintentional); PTSD; trauma responses; forced proximity; mentions of Bucky’s past; Hydra

Author’s Note: I'll never get tired of a possessive Winter Soldier!! Honestly, I should write about him more often. Anyway, this absolutely iconic request is from my sweet dear!! Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

There is always something quiet about Bucky when he looks at you before the mission begins. Quiet in the way thunder is quiet just before the crack. As if he is holding something inside himself too loud for the world.

You always say his name and he would look at you like he’s afraid to blink.

You don’t think you’re supposed to notice the way he hovers at your side. You’re not supposed to feel his shadow, stitched to your steps. But you do. You always do. Because Bucky Barnes does not know how to stay subtle. Not with you. Not when he thinks you might not make it out of this alive.

Your mission is to break into an old Hydra base with heat still humming through the walls and ghosts still hanging from the rafters.

The team drops in like rain. Controlled chaos. Clint on the left flank. Sam from above. Steve on the right flank. Nat somewhere in the dark.

You are light-footed and fast and smart and alive. Bucky stays behind you. Always behind you. Watching your six. He never lets you fall.

And you get the proof of this for the thousandth time when he throws his arm out and grabs your vest to yank you back hard enough to make you gasp. Your heart stutters in your throat. You stumble, twist, spin - and crash into him.

There was a tripwire. You almost walked into it. And Bucky saw. He sees everything.

“You okay?” He breathes, voice low, not quite touching worry but brushing the edges of it.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Thanks.”

He nods. Says nothing. Keeps moving.

You press forward into the maze of concrete and metal that is the Hydra base, gun raised, heart playing the drum in your ribs.

Bucky slows.

You glance over at him. “What is it?”

He stares at a rusted door, barely ajar. A soft static pulses from within, like an old radio dying in slow motion. The sound crawls down your spine. Your skin prickles.

“Bucky,” you start, reaching for him. “Let’s move.”

But he’s already walking toward that door with narrowed eyes.

The room is dark. Cold. Frost is on the walls like a memory that won’t let go. A machine in the corner makes low noises. Wires twitch on the floor like veins ripped from a corpse. The air stinks of metal and mildew and something old. Something wrong.

And then it speaks. A voice, thick with static, seeps out of the machine. A voice you don’t understand. Not really. You can’t make out the words, but you know them. You know what they mean.

“Желание. Ржавый.”

You spin around, heart rushing up to your ears, calling his name, but it’s too late.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Bucky stands frozen.

Stone. Steel. Silence.

His face is slack. That haunted stillness takes over.

He isn’t gone. But he isn’t Bucky anymore.

“Печь.”

His eyes go distant. Flat. His face cracks into something you’ve only seen in nightmares. No fury. No fear. Just absence.

“Доброкачественный.”

“No,” you breathe. Your heart forgets how to beat. “Bucky,” you basically yell at him. Nobody even knew there were still functioning systems here. But they’d been waiting. Planning.

“Девять.”

“Bucky please snap out of this.” You know it’s useless. You don’t know why you say it.

“Возвращение на родину.“

Your hand trembles around the grip of your weapon as you force yourself to jump out of the shock your limbs are locked in. You raise your arm and aim. You pull the trigger. One.

“Один.”

Two.

“Грузовой вагон.”

Three.

Four times.

The machine sparks. Cracks. Screams. A dozen red lights blink and die like stars going out. The voice cuts out, perhaps wanting to give a command, a final breath of Russian strangled by silence. And it slams into the room like a body.

For a heartbeat, for a breath, you think it’s over.

You hope it’s over.

But his name dies on your tongue when you turn back to him.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe like a man. He doesn’t look at you - he tracks you, the way a sniper does. As if you’re a piece of intel.

Sam’s voice crackles over the comms. “Hey. We heard something. Everything good over there?”

You can’t answer right away.

Your voice is lost.

Because Bucky Barnes is gone.

And the Winter Soldier is standing in his place.

It takes you a minute to explain your situation and you hear the tremor in Steve’s voice when he tells you they’re on their way.

You try to breathe around the panic growing like thorns in your chest.

You whisper his name, again and again, as if it’s a spell that might pull him back. But the Winter Soldier does not know your voice.

Does not know you.

And when Steve finally rounds the corner, face pale, shield up, Bucky growls.

Low. Subhuman. A warning without words.

“Woah, woah- easy,” Steve says, holding up a hand. He looks at you. “He’s- He’s not gone. We’ll fix this. We can bring him back.”

You don’t know how promising he tries to make this sound.

But Bucky shifts his body, in front of you.

He plants himself between you and everyone else, like a wall, like a weapon.

Like a threat.

No orders. No hesitation. Just instinct.

He scans Steve’s hands. Sam’s gun. Natasha’s eyes.

Every time someone even twitches in your direction, he angles his body tighter around you, metal hand flexing. His breathing is shallow. Sharp.

He has no words. No explanations. He doesn’t seem to need them.

You try to take a step forward, away from his back. He moves with you. You stop. So does he.

“Please,” you whisper. “Bucky. Come back.”

But he doesn’t flinch.

Not for the begging in your voice. Not for the heartbreak in your eyes.

But you know he doesn’t hear you. He only hears the ghosts in his blood. The machine in his brain. The purpose Hydra seared into his bones.

“Alright, this can’t-“ The moment Sam takes a step forward, Bucky moves.

He grabs you. Not roughly, not violently, but fully. As if the air between your bodies has never existed. As if he’s made of magnets and you’re the only thing that ever pulled him north.

His metal arm anchors around your waist, his other hand at your shoulder, your spine, your hip - everywhere, all at once. He places himself between you and the others again and makes sure to keep you there as if you are a holy thing. His breath is ragged. Feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries. There is something pained in his tone. Also something warning. “Let her go.”

But he doesn’t listen.

Because there is nothing left to listen to.

No more commands. No more codes. No more voice in his ear.

So he seems to have written a new directive into his mind and that is you.

You are the mission now. You are the purpose, the protection, the last thing left when everything else burns.

His hand is wrapped around your wrist so tightly, it makes your breath hitch. But you don’t pull away. You can’t. There is something in his eyes. Something not Bucky but not nothing either.

Not the soldier.

Not the man.

Just this animal of loyalty. Of violence. Of need.

You try.

God, you try.

You speak to him in pieces. In whispers. In words coming from trembling lips and bruised hope.

“Bucky,” you plead.

Soft. Like maybe softness will do it. Like maybe he’ll come back to the sound of your voice wrapped in love instead of command.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t let anyone near you.

Not Steve, who takes one careful step and ends up with a knife lodged in the floor in front of his foot.

Not Sam, who reaches out and gets a warning growl that raises the hairs on your arms.

Not Natasha, who tries to circle behind, quiet as a whisper - and is met with the barrel of Bucky’s gun aimed clean between her eyes.

You frantically call Bucky’s name.

“Hey- easy,” she says, voice low. “Nobody wants to harm your girl, Barnes.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip on you, fingers locking around your arm like a shackle. You try to find a piece of Bucky still breathing in there.

But all you see is possession.

He steps back into the shadows, pulling you with him, shielding you with his body as if the world is trying to take you and he’s the last wall still standing.

No one sees you now.

Because he won’t let them.

He moves you behind crates. Walls. Corners. Shadows. Always putting something between you and them. Always hiding you. Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

Out of possession.

Out of protection.

Out of a command he gave himself.

You are a mission. A precious object. A singular order sculpted into the ruins of his memory.

You hear Steve’s heavy sigh. His quiet and deep voice. The pain in it. “We need to sedate him.”

The next thing you pick up is the click of a safety releasing.

Bucky’s gun is pointed and ready.

He would kill for you right now.

He would kill them.

All of them.

Within the blink of an eye.

For you.

“No,” you croak out, voice breaking. It feels wrong to call him Bucky. It feels wrong to call him Soldat. “Please don’t! Don’t do this!”

You don’t know if it’s something in your voice or something in your tense stance against his back, but he slowly lowers his gun, slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Empty.

Unreachable.

But somehow not cold.

And then his hand rises. Flesh fingers trace your jaw. So gently it nearly breaks you.

It’s not affection. It’s assessment.

He’s checking. For wounds. For weakness. For threats, you might be hiding beneath your skin.

You breathe as if forgetting how to.

You try to shift. Just a little. Just to look behind him. Just to meet Steve’s eyes, Sam’s, Natasha’s, Clint’s - who finally got his ass here as well.

But Bucky moves. Fast.

A hand around your chin. Tilting your face back toward him.

Eyes narrow. Jaw locks.

You know what it means.

He doesn’t want you to look at them.

He doesn’t want you to speak with them.

He doesn’t want you to think of them.

You are his now.

Because something in his mind burned the world down and left you standing in the wreckage, and he needs something to hold onto. Not just anything. Not just anyone. You.

You try again.

Whispers, again.

“I have to talk to them-”

He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.

“No,” he growls. Not language. Not word. Just a sound scraped from somewhere too deep and too far gone.

You flinch and he feels it.

His grip grows stiff.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he doesn’t let you go.

You catch the glint of Steve’s shield out of the corner of your eye.

They haven’t moved in minutes.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

They don’t want to hurt him either. But they will if they have to.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t come closer. Don’t- don’t try to talk to me, he- he doesn’t want that.”

You hear Sam lower his weapon, just a hair. “We can’t leave you like this.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to pull Bucky into your arms and shake him until something clicks and he remembers you. Remembers himself.

But the Winter Soldier only seems to be remembering his duty. Violence shaped into protection.

And right now, that protection looks like isolation.

You. Alone. Tucked behind crates and corners and silence and his broad shoulders.

You speak anyway. Because you have to. Because he’s in there somewhere. Because he might not hear the others, but maybe he can still hear you.

“Bucky,” you speak. Swallow. “They’re not the enemy.”

His hand twitches on your arm.

“They’re your friends.”

He tightens his grip.

“They’re my friends.”

He releases another deep and gravelly sound.

His body is tense, electric, fury held in the cage of his bones.

“Please,” you say. You hate the sound of your own voice now. You sound like you are shattering in slow motion. “You don’t have to protect me from them. You don’t- I’m not-”

You breathe out shakily.

Your lip trembles. Your eyes sting.

Because he’s looking at you as if he would kill the whole world to keep you safe. And he doesn’t even remember who you are.

You press your forehead to his chest. His body doesn’t move.

He’s breathing faster now. His pulse thrums under your cheek.

But he lets you stay there.

That has to be something.

Behind Bucky, someone whispers your name. Carefully. Cautiously. As though if they say it wrong you’ll be ripped out of this moment and Bucky will hunt them all down.

You lift your head.

Bucky sees it.

Sees the way your eyes pull toward Sam’s voice.

Sees the way you’re still trying to hold onto them. Still reaching.

He doesn’t like that.

He hates that.

His hand finds the back of your neck. He pulls you into him, hides your face in his chest. Your shoulders lock. His body shields you like a fortress of flesh and metal and confusion. As if your gaze is a window, and he is closing the shutters.

You are not theirs anymore.

And he will not let you be.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hi!!!! I'm currently indulging in your adorable fluff fics about our beloved COD men!! They are FREAKING ADORABLE.

Could you write one imagine with just pure cute, domesticated fluff? Like married life/life w kids or smth with TF141. I'm up for anything haha. It's okay if u don't want to ! 😄<33

I did have someone request domestic fluff not too long ago, but I couldn't help myself. I had to jump on your ask, anon, and write some more domestic fluff!! You can read that other domestic fluff imagines fic here. I incorporated some dad!141 here with Ghost and Price. The whole thing is just softness and sweetness. Enjoy!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: domestic fluff, dad!Price, dad!Simon

Word Count: 800

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

This isn’t John’s thing, but he’ll do it for his daughters.

John sits at one end of the table while you sit on the other, your two daughters seated on either side. His three favorite girls are all dressed up. You’re decked out in a witch’s outfit, something you found stowed away in a storage bin. His two daughters with you are dressed up like their Dungeons & Dragons characters. One, a wood elf ranger. The other, a half-elf cleric.

John isn’t dressed up, but from the character sheet you’ve put in front of him, his name is Gurlak, a half-orc barbarian. Rip and tear. Punch and smash. Easy. He can do that.

Family board game night has become Dungeons & Dragons night. The girls’ school started a club, and now they’ve brought it home, completely obsessed with it.

“From the dark,” you begin, lowering your voice. The girls lean in, eyes wide. “Yellow eyes peer back at you.”

The girls giggle, the youngest bouncing in her chair.

John smiles, and sighs with contentment. He wishes every night could be like this.

Your hands raise high above you, and then smack against the table. The girls jump, startled.

“Roll initiative!”

John "Soap" MacTavish

It’s early, and Johnny is determined. Upstairs, your alarm is off, silenced on purpose.

Before him on the kitchen counter is everything he needs to prepare breakfast. Eggs, bacon, batter for pancake and waffles, fresh fruit, shredded potatoes—an endless list of items that covers the granite countertop in a sea of colorful boxes and containers.

With the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips, Johnny begins warming pans and popping slices of bread into the toaster. He melts into the work, slicing fruit, placing bacon in the pan to sizzle. Johnny’s minds drifts, and with his back turned to the stove, he doesn’t notice the bacon fat as it urges toward flame.

It’s the whiff of something burning that distracts him from turning a strawberry into a flower. Then the shriek of the smoke detector.

“Hells,” he mutters, snagging the smoking pan and dumping it into the sink. He opens the window.

“What’s happening?” You rub at your eyes, sleep lacing your tone.

Johnny shrugs sheepishly. “Making you breakfast? Burning the house down?”

You blink, and then laugh, rushing to turn the vent fan on, the two of you laughing as you clear the house of smoke.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle awakens in the dark. Immediately, without even having to turn over, he knows you’re not in bed. That familiar weight is missing.

With a slight twist, Kyle reaches out, finding only coldness. Stretching, Kyle sits up, glancing around the silent bedroom. All is still and dark. The bathroom door is cracked, but the light isn’t on. Slowly, with sleep still clinging to his muscles, Kyle guides himself from bed, heading for the door. Out in the hall, he walks toward the living room, knowing that you might be curled up on the sofa, completely absorbed in a book.

But you are not on the sofa with your book and blanket.

Kyle finds you in the kitchen, the double doors of the refrigerator standing open, the harsh light bathing you in its glow.

“Midnight snack?” asks Kyle.

You pop your head out from around the door, chewing on something. Kyle snorts and saunters over, coming up behind you. Wrapping his arms around your waist, he places his chin on your shoulder.

“Willing to share?” he murmurs.

“Not if it’s ice cream,” you reply.

Kyle smiles, and places a kiss your neck. You lean into him, and Kyle pulls you closer.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Dinner is always chaotic, but everyone sits at the table.

Simon forks up some of his lasagna, popping it into his mouth as he grabs the plate of his youngest. Using the child-size plastic knife and fork, he starts hacking away at her portion of lasagna, cutting it into smaller pieces. She watches, pointing and directing while chewing on her garlic bread when she thinks Simon isn’t cutting the pieces small enough for her liking.

The two middle children fuss and argue at each other from across the table. They both want the bottle of salad dressing, but only one manages to snag it before the other. She shakes the bottle, pops the tab, and a massive wad of ranch splatters across her plate. Her sister laughs in her face, and then complains loudly when half of the smeared ranch ends up on her plate.

Simon glances up, finds you in conversation with the oldest as she shows off her report card. His heart flips, surges, becomes so full that it’s prone to bursting. Most of his life, a family seemed a distant, unobtainable dream. But surrounding him is all he cares about in this world.

He couldn’t be happier.

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @xllizs @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3 @sans-chara @all-by-myself98 @hisuccubus

@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving @carbonnite-copy @sobbangchan @codeseven

@youre-a-wallflower-charlie @tiredmetalenthusiast @sporadicpizzainternet @tessakate @mistresssolana

[cameronsbabydoll]

I AM SO OBSESSED W SCC RAFE YOU HAVE NO IDEA!!! could you write something about scc reader overheard someone saying that rafe is cheating? maybe they said rafe was checking someone else out. and scc just assumed it was right and swallowed it because she never questions rafe but he noticed she’s putting up distance between them and the kids also noticed then how would he react? I LOVE ME SOME GOOD ANGST

cw: mentions of cheating but it’s not true also use of the word “bitch” by rafe

you weren’t even supposed to hear it.

just passing by — holding your baby’s bottle in one hand, laundry basket tucked against your hip — when you heard it. rafe’s name. a hushed laugh. something like, “he was totally looking at her ass.”

you froze.

you didn’t ask. you didn’t say anything. you just swallowed it down. like everything else.

because you never ask rafe questions like that. you never pry. never accuse. and if he was? what would you even do?

so you just… started pulling back. gently. subtly.

you didn’t sit close on the couch that night. didn’t text him during the day like you usually do. didn’t even say anything when he came home late again. just smiled a little. nodded. said “okay.”

but he noticed. immediately.

“what’s with you?”

you shook your head. “nothing.”

“you’re actin’ different.”

you waved him off. “i’m fine, rafe. really.”

and the kids noticed too. especially your daughter — perched on the arm of the couch while you fed her baby brother, frowning as she whispered, “mommy, why didn’t you wait for daddy to come home tonight?”

rafe hears her. his jaw sets.

he doesn’t say anything right away. but his eyes don’t leave you.

and eventually—when you’re folding towels in the bedroom, trying to keep it together—he steps in, shuts the door behind him, and says, low and sharp,

“what the fuck did you hear?”

you blink. flinch. try to shake your head again, but he’s already walking toward you.

“you’ve been off all week. won’t even look at me. won’t touch me. won’t let me near you. so tell me what the fuck happened.”

“…someone said you were looking at another woman.”

you say it so quietly. like it hurts to admit. like you already convinced yourself it was true.

and that pisses him off.

“you think i’d cheat on you?”

“…i don’t know.”

“you think i’d throw away all of this for some random bitch at the bar?”

you look down. your throat feels tight.

and his voice drops—less angry now, more sharp and hurt.

“so that’s all it takes? some nobody says somethin’ and now you don’t trust me?”

you whisper, “i didn’t want it to be true.”

and that’s what stops him.

because your voice cracks on want, and your hands are shaking as you fold the last towel, and he can see it now—how scared you are to even ask him if it was true.

he exhales through his nose. jaw clenched.

and then he’s pulling the towel out of your hands, tossing it on the bed, dragging you into his arms. wrapping you up even when you go stiff.

“if i wanted someone else, i wouldn’t have married you.”

he grips your chin, makes you look up.

“don’t you ever let someone get in your head like that again. you hear me?”

you nod. still a little unsure. still holding back.

but when he kisses you — slow and firm and low against your lips — you feel your knees go soft again.

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤADDICTIONㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Roy Harper x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

It doesn’t start pretty. It starts with you pissing him off.

You were a little too mouthy for his taste, too unimpressed by his sharp aim and cocky grin. He didn’t like the way you looked right through him, past the sarcasm, past the good-ol’-boy act. You saw something in him — the anger, the brokenness, the bleeding parts he covered with jokes. And you didn’t flinch.

That’s what did it.

You didn’t flinch.

Roy is used to flinching. People either pity him or write him off, tired of his rehab records and near-death decisions. But you? You looked him in the eye and told him to shut up when he was being annoying. You called him out when he was hiding behind jokes. You treated him like he mattered — not because he was Arsenal, not because he was a hero — just because he was Roy.

He’s not used to being seen.

At first, he tells himself he just likes being around you. That’s all. Normal stuff. You make him laugh. You keep him grounded. You don’t try to fix him, and that feels better than any rehab or therapy ever has.

But then he starts thinking about you too much.

Your voice gets stuck in his head like a song. He catches himself texting you dumb memes just to make you smile. Starts checking your social media at 3am when he can’t sleep. Starts memorizing the way you talk, the things you like, the stupid brands of candy you eat.

He’s already obsessed, but he doesn’t admit it yet.

Until someone flirts with you.

That’s when the mask cracks.

He’s not calm. He’s not cool. He’s not normal about it. He gets snappy, territorial. Not in front of you — he respects you too much for that — but the guy who flirted with you? Roy breaks three of his ribs during sparring and calls it an accident. No one believes him.

When he finally realizes he’s in deep, it scares him.

He’s been through hell. Lost people. Made mistakes. Done things he can’t take back. He doesn’t deserve something soft and kind like you. But that doesn’t stop the obsession from growing.

He starts doing things behind your back. Quiet things. Dangerous things.

He finds out where you live — not in a creepy way, he tells himself — just in case you ever need him. He follows you home a few times, watches from rooftops just to make sure you’re safe. No one sees him. He’s too good for that.

He tracks the people in your life. Your coworkers. Your friends. That ex you never talk about? Roy knows everything now. And if any of them ever hurt you — they won’t even know it was him.

He loves you quietly, violently.

He keeps little pieces of you. Things you leave behind. A pen you forgot. A coffee cup you tossed. You never notice they’re missing. He keeps them in a drawer, like trophies. He knows it’s not healthy. He doesn’t care.

He starts writing texts he never sends. “I miss you.” “I want you.” “I love you.” Then deletes them. You’re too good. Too normal. You’d run if you knew how deep it went.

But God, when you smile at him like you mean it? When you touch his arm, or lean your head on his shoulder after a long day?

It makes him feel real.

So he waits. Watches. Obsesses. Protects.

And the day you say, “Roy, I think I love you,” his whole world shifts.

Because now it’s not just obsession. It’s permission.

And he’s never letting you go.

It’s different now that you love him.

Now he doesn’t have to hide the way his eyes linger too long. Now he can trace your jaw with his fingers and call it affection, not fixation. Now he can sleep in your bed and press his face into your neck like he’s trying to inhale you. And he does. He does.

But obsession doesn’t get softer when it’s fed. It gets louder. Hungrier.

At first, he tries to be normal. Dates. Sleepovers. Stupid inside jokes. He gets you flowers — steals them from a villain’s estate, but hey, they’re still pretty. You make him laugh. He makes you feel safe.

But that voice in his head — the one that says you’re his, only his — never shuts up.

You don’t notice how he starts pulling you closer whenever other guys are around. How his hand finds your waist just a little too tightly when someone looks at you wrong. How his eyes go dead-cold when someone makes you laugh in a way he thinks only he should.

He tells himself he trusts you. And he does.

It’s everyone else he doesn’t trust.

You go out with friends? He hacks traffic cams to make sure you get home okay. You text someone at midnight? He finds out who it is in five minutes flat. You talk about an old friend a little too fondly? He looks up their location, just in case he needs to pay them a quiet, final visit.

Roy doesn’t threaten people. He doesn’t have to.

One look — that look — and people back the hell off. They know.

He’d bleed for you. Burn cities for you.

But here’s the twist: around you, he’s soft.

He’s the Roy you adore — grinning, rough-around-the-edges, all charm and chaos. He kisses you like he’s starving. Carries your stuff even when you say no. Keeps a stash of your favorite snacks in his bag during missions.

He gets nightmares sometimes — ugly ones. Stuff from his past. And when he wakes up shaking, you’re there. You hold his hand. He doesn’t tell you he dreams about losing you. About your body cold in his arms. About reaching you too late.

That’s his greatest fear. That he’ll fail you like he failed everyone else.

So he prepares.

He trains harder. Stockpiles weapons. Sets traps around your apartment you don’t even notice. Encrypts your phone so no one can track you. Puts a tracker in your necklace — the one he bought you for your birthday — just in case.

You’re his world. His second chance. His religion.

And the thing about Roy is this:

Once he loves you, he loves you with everything — the good, the broken, the violent.

So if anyone hurts you, even once?

They’re not disappearing.

They’re never being found.

You try to pull away.

It’s subtle at first. A hesitation before you kiss him goodnight. A pause before you answer his texts. You tell him you’re just tired, that work’s been rough, that you need space.

And Roy? He nods. Smiles. Says he understands.

He doesn’t.

Because love isn’t supposed to feel like this. Like slipping through fingers. Like drowning with your mouth still open. You’re his everything. His only anchor. And now you’re pulling away like you don’t know what you mean to him.

You have no idea what that does to a man like Roy.

He’s not someone who can let go. He never learned how. Everyone in his life either left or died. And if you leave—

No. He won’t survive it.

So he starts clinging harder. Calling more. Showing up unannounced. You say you're busy, and he just laughs it off. "Busy with what? Need help?" His tone is light, joking — but his eyes don’t blink. They watch.

You say you’re going out with friends, and ten minutes later, there’s a red motorcycle parked across the street from the bar. You never see him. He’s not here to ruin your night.

He’s here to protect what’s his.

You belong to him.

You just… forgot for a second.

Maybe someone told you you deserve better. Someone said he’s intense, possessive, obsessive. Maybe you believed them. But he’s already rewriting the narrative in his head.

They’re manipulating you.

They’re trying to take you from him.

And he won’t let that happen.

You wake up one morning and your phone’s wiped clean. A “random glitch,” your carrier says. You lose contact with half the people you were just starting to reconnect with. Friends disappear. Exes block you.

Roy’s arms are warm when he holds you through it. “People are shitty sometimes,” he says. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

He means it.

Even if you scream. Even if you run. Even if you beg.

Because if you try to leave — really leave — he’s not above burning the bridges behind you. You can hate him. You can cry. You can throw things. But you will still be in his bed, still wearing the chain around your neck with the tiny GPS inside, still breathing because he keeps you safe.

He kisses your forehead one night, right after you told him, “I need space.”

His voice is soft, barely a whisper:

“You just need me.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

Hello! If its alright, could I request a Bucky Barnes or a Peter Parker x Reader where Reader, his s/o, wakes up from a nightmare based on past trauma fears and stuff and whoever you pick to write for comforts them? Thanks so much!

a/n: i went with bucky! that was just the mood for today. also as someone with ptsd who has my entire life had stuff also haunt me in truly horrifying nightmares, this hits home. if only i had a super soldier sleeping beside me that could hold me...

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist

Even well after your trembling form had snapped you up to a sitting position, it still clung to the memories your slumbering mind had just forced you to relive. 

Stirring in the bed beside you, the deep and groggy voice of your partner then quietly tried to penetrate through your haze, “Y/n?” 

Though when a stifled sniffle found Bucky’s ears, you felt the mattress dip beside you as he sat up as well. His palm found your spine in a gentle touch before you twisted to meet his gaze in the dark. 

Noticing the strangled breath that your body fought to suck in, his head tilted slightly before he uttered, “breath, sweetheart,” capturing your hand as you continued to hyperventilate, “here,” and he placed your palm on his chest, letting you feel it rise and fall steadily beneath your touch. 

Eventually, as he repeated the pattern over and over for you as a guide, your rapid heartbeat finally began to slow as your erratic breath did as well. 

As your tired eyes fluttered back shut, tears still rolling down your cheeks, you melted forward till your forehead pressed against Bucky’s.

“What happened?” he asked quietly, his hand still clutching your own. 

“Nightmare…”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he offered, his other palm shifting slightly to draw a comforting pattern on your back. 

“No,” you tilted back a bit, your head faintly shaking, “it’s the same as always. When I start to hope that I'm beginning to put it behind me, it just kicks down the door and demands that I relive it all again.”

Glancing back at you, he sucked in a pained breath before he uttered, “I wish there was something I could do.” 

A soft smile then began to crack through the nightmare’s lingering effects as you tangled your arms around his shoulders and hugged him tight. Instinctively, Bucky soon scooped your legs over his lap to cradle you even closer to his frame. With your cheek pressed against his comforting warmth, you then replied softly, “you already are…”

© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[bimbowshmimbow]

𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞

⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢ ﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉୨♡୧﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

dadsbestfriend!joel x freader!

Summary: She’s been in love with her dad’s best friend Joel Miller for as long as she can remember. When she comes home for the summer and sees him at a family cookout — older, rougher, and more gorgeous than ever — the tension between them finally snaps.

Warnings: [18+ only] explicit sexual content, age gap (legal), praise kink, dirty talk, slight roughness, mutual pining, Joel being a soft but filthy man, reader being absolutely wrecked (in the best way).

Word Count: — probably around 2.5-3k words

First time writing Joel and I’m absolutely unwell about him. Please leave a comment or reblog if you enjoy!

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, spilling a lazy orange glow across the backyard.

Laughter and the smell of grilled food filled the air, but she hardly noticed any of it.

Not when she spotted him.

Joel.

He was standing by the porch, a bottle of beer loose in his hand, wearing a worn denim jacket that clung to his broad shoulders.

The years had been good to him — roughening him up in all the ways that made her chest ache.

Her heart stumbled in her chest, pounding hard against her ribs as if trying to escape.

He hadn’t seen her yet.

She almost hoped he wouldn’t — hoped and dreaded it all at once.

Because seeing him again after all this time felt like being cracked open.

Raw. Exposed.

She tried to play it cool, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, pretending to be fascinated by the ice in her glass.

But it was impossible to ignore the way his gaze found her in the crowd like a magnet snapping into place.

Those dark, familiar eyes dragged over her — lingering in a way that made her skin spark.

Made her knees weaken, just a little.

Joel froze for half a second, the easy smile he’d been wearing faltering.

And then it softened — something warmer, something quieter — lighting up his whole face in a way that made her stomach twist.

“Well, look at you,” he drawled, voice rough like gravel, but the kind that slid under her skin and stayed there.

She tried to smile, but it came out shaky, breathless.

“Hi, Joel,” she managed.

He moved toward her, slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world.

Like he was soaking her in.

Up close, he smelled like cedar and sun and something distinctly, maddeningly Joel.

“Been a while, hasn’t it?” he said, voice dropping a little lower.

She nodded, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out something stupid.

Because up close, he looked even better than she remembered — a little older, a little rougher, with lines around his mouth that made her wonder how many times he’d smiled, and whether she could be the reason for it.

Joel’s fingers brushed her elbow lightly, just for a second — a touch so casual it shouldn’t have made her feel like the ground tilted under her feet.

“You grew up,” he murmured, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

And something about the way he looked at her then — not like a kid anymore, not at all — made her blood heat dangerously.

The noise of the cookout faded into a distant hum.

It was just the two of them now, trapped in a little bubble of memory and longing and too many things left unsaid.

She barely realized she was moving until they were standing even closer, barely a breath between them.

And Joel was looking at her like he wanted to say something — or do something — that he shouldn’t.

“Missed you, kid,” he said hoarsely.

Kid.

The word hit her like a slap and a caress all at once — a reminder of who she had been, and maybe who she wasn’t anymore.

“You don’t have to call me that,” she whispered, lifting her eyes to his.

Joel’s gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there for a beat too long.

His jaw tightened, like he was fighting something — fighting her — but there was no mistaking the way his hand hovered, trembling just slightly, like he wanted to touch her again.

Properly this time.

Joel’s mouth tugged into a half-smirk, the kind that always used to get her into trouble — the kind that still made her thighs press together under her sundress.

“You givin’ me orders now?” he teased, voice low and warm, setting her nerves on fire.

“Maybe,” she said, feeling braver than she should.

“Somebody’s gotta keep you in line.”

Joel chuckled — a deep, rough sound that made her chest flutter.

He tipped his beer bottle toward her slightly in a mock salute.

“Good luck with that, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Her stomach flipped.

She could’ve sworn there was a glint in his eye — something sharper, something hotter — but maybe she was imagining it.

The music from the speakers shifted to something slower, smokier, and Joel’s gaze held hers, dark and heavy.

For a second, the world shrank again, just like it always did around him.

“You wanna get outta here?” he said suddenly, voice a little rougher.

Her breath caught.

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

Not teasing.

He meant it.

“Where would we even go?” she asked, half breathless.

Joel’s mouth quirked up again, but there was something darker behind it now — something dangerous and sweet.

“Don’t care,” he said.

“Long as it’s just you and me.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

Not really.

She slipped her hand into his — and the feel of his calloused fingers closing around hers almost made her knees give out — and let him lead her around the side of the house, away from the noise and the people and the eyes that might have seen too much.

They end up in an old tool shed tucked away behind the house, half forgotten, mostly empty now except for the smell of wood and oil from the summer heat.

The door thudded shut behind them and it was just the two of them again, the walls too close the air too thick.

Joel turned to face her, still holding her hand.

His thumb brushed over her knuckles absentmindedly, but his eyes were anything but casual.

They dragged over her face, her mouth, her body, slow and hungry.

“You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me, darlin’,” he said thickly.

“I think I do,” she whispered back.

Joel’s hand lifted, brushing a stray curl from her cheek — so gentle it made her chest ache.

His thumb lingered at the corner of her mouth, and she swore she could feel the way he was shaking.

“You sure about this?” he asked roughly.

She nodded, heart hammering so hard it hurt.

“I’ve been sure for a long time.”

Joel groaned low in his throat — the sound of a man losing a battle he’d been fighting too long — and then his mouth crashed into hers.

Joel’s mouth crashed into hers — rough and hungry — but even then, he held back, his hands cupping her jaw so carefully like he thought she might break.

She whimpered against him, and he cursed softly, pulling back just enough to rasp, “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” she breathed instantly, no hesitation. “I want you.”

That was all he needed.

Joel’s mouth was back on hers in a second, more urgent now, his body pressing her back until she bumped into the workbench behind her.

His hands skimmed down — strong and a little shaking — gripping her waist, her hips, pulling her flush against him.

She could feel him — hard against her belly — and the desperate, low sound he made when she shifted closer had heat flooding through her.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

“I think I have an idea,” she whispered, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt, her fingers grazing the warm, solid skin of his stomach.

Joel groaned, dragging the shirt over his head in one motion and tossing it aside.

The sight of him — broad chest, a dusting of dark hair, thick arms — made her thighs press together, aching for him.

“Pretty little thing,” he muttered, palms sliding down her sides to her thighs.

“You wore this fuckin’ dress just to kill me, didn’t you?”

She grinned breathlessly. “Maybe.”

Joel growled — an honest, rough sound — before gripping the hem of her sundress and dragging it up slowly, like he was unwrapping a gift he’d been dying to open.

His knuckles brushed up her thighs, pushing the fabric higher, higher — until the dress bunched around her hips and he hissed softly, seeing the little scrap of panties she had on.

“You’re fuckin’ dangerous,” he rasped.

Before she could even reply, Joel lifted her — like it was nothing — setting her down onto the workbench, the wood cool against the backs of her thighs.

He stepped between her legs, pushing her knees apart with his hands, rough and tender all at once.

“Last chance,” he said, voice almost breaking.

“You want me to stop, you say it. Otherwise…” His thumb brushed over the waistband of her panties.

“I ain’t gonna be able to.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered fiercely.

Joel’s mouth crashed into hers again — almost desperate now — while his hands slid under her panties, tugging them down her legs and letting them fall to the floor.

He dragged his fingers along her slick heat, growling low at what he found.

“Christ, baby,” he muttered against her mouth. “You’re already so fuckin’ wet.”

She moaned when one thick finger slid through her folds — teasing, circling — not quite giving her what she needed.

“Joel,” she whined softly, hips rocking toward his hand.

He chuckled — low and filthy — pressing a kiss to her throat as he pushed one finger inside her, then another, stretching her carefully.

“You’re so tight,” he said hoarsely.

“Goddamn, sweetheart — you’re squeezin’ me already.”

She clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he fucked her slow with his fingers, curling them just right until she was panting, her head tipping back.

Joel kissed up her throat, her jaw, her cheeks — almost worshipful — murmuring against her skin.

“Good girl… takin’ me so good…”

The coil in her belly tightened hard, her whole body trembling.

“Please,” she whimpered. “Need you.”

Joel groaned — pulling his fingers free, kissing her again to swallow her needy sounds — and reached for the button of his jeans, shoving them down just enough to free himself.

When she caught sight of him — thick, flushed, leaking at the tip — she whimpered, hips rolling unconsciously toward him.

“You sure, baby?” he rasped, the head of his cock nudging her entrance.

“Joel,” she gasped. “Please.”

He grunted, lining himself up and pushing in — slow, careful, watching her face the whole time.

Stretching her open, filling her up so good it hurt in the sweetest way.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, sinking deeper. “You feel so good, baby. So fuckin’ good.”

She whimpered, clinging to him, feeling like she was coming apart around him.

Joel pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, then thrust back in — a little harder — setting a rhythm that made her head spin.

The workbench creaked under them with every thrust, and she couldn’t even be embarrassed — too far gone, too full of him.

Joel kissed her — messy, hungry — his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, fucking into her like he couldn’t help himself.

“Been wantin’ you for so goddamn long,” he panted against her mouth. “Dreamed about you — fuck — every goddamn night.”

“Me too,” she gasped, her body clenching around him.

Joel groaned, the sound ripped out of him, and suddenly his hand slid between them, finding her clit and rubbing tight, perfect circles.

It was too much.

The stretch of him, the way he touched her like she was precious, the filthy things he growled against her skin.

Her orgasm rocked her frame, blinding white and shaking, her whole body locking up as she cried out his name.

Joel cursed, hips stuttering as he chased his own release, then spilled inside her with a broken, desperate groan — pressing his forehead to hers, trembling.

They stayed like that — tangled up, sweaty, breathing each other in — for long minutes, the only sound their ragged breathing and the distant thump of music from the cookout.

Joel kissed her forehead, her cheek, her jaw — soft and reverent.

“You okay, darlin’?” he murmured, still buried inside her.

She smiled lazily, boneless and full of him.

“Never been better.”

Joel huffed a soft laugh, nuzzling her nose with his.

“You’re mine now, you hear me?”

“Always was,” she whispered back.

AHHH okay.. so this was my first ever writing something properly! just seeing how this goes.. please feel free to give me any feedback!

I’ve been thinking about doing fluffy blurbs!! Going off of this! And one day I wanna do a proper fic!

[bingbongsupremacy]

Post-It Notes

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader

Warning: None that I can think of

Summary: Steve starts leaving Post-It notes around the compound to encourage the Avengers. You’re the only one who writes back. Neither of you ever mentions it out loud -but deep down, you know the notes mean more than they should. Are you finding love in the middle of your chaotic life... or are you just misreading Steve’s kindness? +Bonus Stuff at The End (Notes, Steve's Reaction, After you're together)

No details of the reader's appearance, race, weight, etc.

*Not Proof Read*

It starts because Steve is trying.

Trying to be better. Trying to be enough.

The compound has been heavy lately. Too many missions, too many close calls, too many days where people come back with haunted eyes and blood on their boots. The usual buzz of laughter and noise has calmed into a tense silence.

Steve sees it, the weight pressing down on all of you. So he starts leaving Post-It notes.

Little things. Encouragements. Reminders that somebody sees you.

"You're stronger than yesterday."

"Thanks for having my six today."

"You matter more than you know."

You find one stuck to your laptop after a long mission, and your chest aches so badly you have to pretend you’re just tired.

Because it’s been a long time since anyone said something like that to you-without expecting something in return.

At first, everyone thinks it’s cute.

There’s teasing. Eye-rolls. Laughter.

Clint wears one on his forehead for half a day. Nat rips one in half and deadpans, “Look, now it's a 'half-assed compliment.'” Sam pins one to a dartboard and throws knives at it for practice.

And slowly, quietly, the notes stop appearing for everyone else.

Not because Steve stops writing them. Because no one answers back.

Except you.

You’re the only one who writes him back. You don't even really mean to, at first. It's instinct- this ache in your chest spilling over in ink.

One morning, when he's busy training with Bucky, you tuck a note under the handle of his shield.

"You’re doing a good job too, you know."

The next day, there's a note waiting on your coffee mug:

"I’m trying. Thank you."

After that, it's just you and him.

A secret conversation nobody else knows about, carried out in scribbled handwriting and curling edges of sticky paper. A secret conversation that's built up to mean a lot for the both of you.

Some mornings you wake up to find one on your door.

"Hope today is kinder to you."

You leave one tucked into the crack of the training room door:

"It never is. But you make it bearable."

The notes shift- slow and tender, almost too tender. You two begin to dive into a different area of your relationship, one deeper and softer. Unexplored territory neither of you have dared to enter before. One that shines light on vulnerability from the both of you.

They start to say the things you’re too afraid to say out loud.

The things that weigh on your mind when the halls are too empty and the world feels too big to survive in. Personal things you've never shared before.

The notes feel like a conversation between different versions of yourselves -the braver, softer ones who aren't so afraid to be seen.

In person, you and Steve never talk about them. You don't acknowledge them. You don't elaborate. You just keep moving through life like the conversation never happened.

But you know.

You both know.

Maybe it’s because the notes make it easier. Easier to open up. Easier to say the things you’re too scared to say out loud.

There’s none of the pressure that comes with looking someone in the eye and trying to be brave. None of the fear that they’ll see right through you -see how fragile you really are underneath it all.

Maybe it's because, deep down, you're still terrified of being vulnerable with another person.

And maybe he is too.

Neither of you really knows how to start the conversation. So you don't try.

You just keep writing.

And somehow, that becomes enough.

Weeks pass.

You almost don't notice when you start carrying the notes in your jacket pocket. It's become something so natural and comforting -a way to cope with the harsh world.

You read them over and over when missions go bad, when your hands are shaking too hard to hold a gun steady, when you feel like you don't deserve to be here. You find comfort in them in the middle of the night when the world is silent, but your mind is not.

The words are always simple.

Never elaborate. Never heavy-handed.

Just real.

And they always find you when you need them the most.

You don't realize how much it means until one day, one awful day, there isn't a note.

Not on your laptop. Not on your door. Not anywhere.

Just silence.

The kind of silence that eats at the hollow spaces inside you.

You try not to let it get to you. You fail.

Maybe it was stupid to think this meant anything.

Maybe you were just a charity case to him.

Maybe you’ve been reading too much into scraps of paper and wishful thinking.

But then, just as you're about to crumble under the weight of it all, you find one.

Not neatly placed, not obvious.

Crumpled. Half-shoved under your door. Like it was left in a hurry. Like he almost couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Your hands tremble as you unfold it. Your heart pounds, nervous to see what's inside.

It's just four words.

Scrawled in handwriting you know better than your own name by now:

"Please don't give up."

You sit down hard on the floor, clutching the note like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

Because he saw you. Even when you thought no one did.

Because somehow, Steve Rogers, the man who carries the whole damn world on his shoulders, still had room to carry you, too.

That night, you leave him a note.

You don't sign it.

You don't have to. You know he'll know it's you.

You stick it to the outside of his door and pray he finds it before anyone else does.

"I wasn't going to... but only because of you. You make me happy. Steve, you mean the world to me."

You don’t sleep that night, too busy tossing and turning as you anxiously wait to see what happens.

You tell yourself you’re not waiting for a reply.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t answer. You're lying.

Morning comes, gray and sluggish, and there's no note waiting for you.

Just a yawning, hollow ache in your chest you can’t quite fill.

You feel disappointed. Maybe you had read the situation wrong. Maybe you shouldn't have exposed your heart so much to the man. It felt right in the moment-natural. But maybe it was too much for the soldier to handle.

You go through the motions anyway. You have to.

Training. Weapon checks. A mission briefing you barely hear.

Oh, the mission debriefing.

You’re sitting across from Steve in the debriefing room, trying to act like nothing’s changed, trying to ignore the way your heart still stutters when you think about the note you left for him. It’s harder than you thought it would be.

He’s sitting there, too -still Steve Rogers, still wearing that perfectly calm, unreadable expression like he’s the last person in the world who could possibly be nervous. You’re probably projecting. He’s probably fine.

You’re not fine.

Your fingers drum softly against the table, your gaze shifting between the notes scattered in front of you, the faces of the other Avengers, the screen showing the mission brief. Anything but him.

It’s been hours since you left the note.

Hours since you put yourself out there, so far out, you almost can’t see the shore.

But here you are, sitting across from him, trying to act like nothing’s changed.

Like, there was no unspoken admission of everything between you in that tiny yellow square of paper.

And he hasn’t said anything.

Neither of you has mentioned it.

You almost wish he would. You almost wish he’d do something, a single glance, a soft laugh, some acknowledgment that the elephant in the room isn’t just suffocating you.

But he doesn’t.

And you’re not sure if that’s worse.

Instead, he’s talking about the mission -mission details, coordinates, all the tactical stuff that’s so second nature to him.

You’re nodding along, your mind only half in the room.

How could it be?

How could you pretend you’re not tangled up in the mess of whatever happened between you two?

You look at Steve -really look at him this time.

He’s focused and determined. Serious.

And yet...

It’s like there’s something in the air between you.

Something that’s heavy, like it’s waiting to fall.

He has to feel it. Right?

But neither of you is going to say anything. Not here. Not now. You don’t know if you’re scared of what it would mean if you did.

Or if he is.

You take a small breath and force your focus back to the mission details. You have to focus. This mission is important, and this is what you do, right? You’re an Avenger. You can compartmentalize, you can handle this. You’ve handled worse. Lives depend on you. You can't fuck up.

That's so much pressure. It's suffocating, stacking on top of the stress with Steve. But there's nothing you can do about it. This is your job.

But it’s harder when the person across from you is Steve Rogers -someone who somehow changed everything with a few quiet notes. Someone who isn’t supposed to make your heart race just by walking into the room. Someone who isn’t supposed to make it feel like the world has stopped just because he didn’t say anything at all.

This is all too much.

A small part of you wonders if you’ve made a mistake. Maybe you shouldn’t have left that note. Maybe you shouldn’t have let yourself be so vulnerable. It was too soon. He's probably weirded out. He probably doesn't feel the same. The friendship is ruined over one little note -a note with big words.

But then the tiniest thing happens.

His hand moves slightly toward the pile of notes in front of him -the ones you left out for the mission brief -and just before he grabs one to make a point, his finger brushes against the corner of your note. You know it’s yours. You can tell by the way the edge is slightly crinkled from being tucked into the pocket of his jacket. The one with your handwriting.

He doesn’t look at it.

He doesn’t acknowledge it.

He just… moves on. Like it's nothing. Like your words were forgettable.

But that small moment? It shatters you.

Because you know, deep down, that he saw it. That he felt it. That the note meant something to him, too. But you’ll never know if it’s the same thing it meant to you.

You bite your lip, trying to keep the flush from creeping up your neck. You can’t look at him. You can’t do this.

But somehow, you do.

Just for a second, your eyes flick to his face. And there it is -just barely visible, a shadow. A flicker. Something in the way his jaw tenses. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re imagining it.

Maybe it's everything.

The words you almost say -the words that almost leave your mouth, they die in your throat, buried by the tightness in your chest. So you keep your gaze low, nodding along with the others, trying to act like the weight of the world isn’t in your heart. Trying to act like everything’s normal, even though it’s not. You know it. He knows it.

And neither of you is brave enough to speak.

Later that afternoon, you're still thinking about it.

And you tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself that maybe it meant more to you than it ever did to him. Maybe you made the whole thing up in your head. Maybe—

When you get back to your room, there's a Post-It stuck crookedly to your door.

You stop breathing.

You peel it off with shaking fingers, heart rattling so loud in your ears you almost miss the words.

"Roof. Midnight. — S"

Just that. No smiley face. No little joke.

Just a place and a time, like an order you could disobey but never would.

You almost don't go. You almost convince yourself it’s safer to stay inside, stay in your room, stay tucked away behind all the walls you built around yourself. In here, you can predict what happens next. You'll binge-watch a show and try to drown the pain in your chest with distractions. Out there -on that roof...there's no telling what's next. In here, things are safe.

But the thing is -you don’t want to be safe anymore.

You want him.

You climb the stairs to the roof just before midnight, the compound quiet around you. The sky is clear and sharp above, stars scattered like someone spilled salt across black paint.

He’s already there. Leaning against the railing, looking up at the sky like it’s speaking a language only he understands.

You stop a few feet away. You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

The silence is deafening. And for a second, you think maybe you’ve made a mistake. Maybe he’s here to tell you it was nothing. That you misread everything. Maybe he's here to let you down softly before building up another wall.

You turn the Post-It over and over in your pocket with clammy fingers, wishing you were braver and knew where to start.

But then...he looks at you.

And in that moment, you realize: He’s just as scared as you are. There’s something raw in his eyes. Something almost broken. His face isn't the way it was earlier in the debriefing. His usually calm expression is more tense and nervous.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a crumpled stack of yellow notes.

Yours.

Every single one. He kept them. He kept all of them.

Your throat burns.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” Steve says finally, voice rough. He looks down at the notes in his hands. His thumb gently caresses the Post-it note on top of the stack, so careful like they're made of glass. “Any of it.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He huffs a laugh -bitter and soft. “I can fight armies. I can stand in front of bullets. But when it comes to you... I just-I didn’t know how to start.” His eyes meet your gaze.

You take a shaky step closer.

The air between you feels electric, thrumming with everything unsaid.

“I didn’t either,” you whisper. “I still don’t.”

His hand tightens around the notes.

"You made it easy," he says. "You made it feel like... maybe it was okay to be scared. As long as I wasn’t alone in it."

You feel something inside you crack, something old and brittle and terrified -and you step forward again until you're close enough to touch.

You’re shaking.

So is he.

Very carefully, like he’s afraid you might shatter, Steve lifts one hand and brushes a knuckle along your cheek.

“You’re not alone,” he says.

And this time -this time, you believe him.

You surge forward and wrap your arms around him, burying your face against his broad chest. His body radiates warmth and comfort. Immediately, you feel safe.

Steve lets out a soft, broken sound and pulls you in tighter, like he's been waiting forever for this.

Neither of you says anything else.

You don't need to.

Because you both know. You always have.

----

Extra's

The Notes

In The Beginning (Before You Respond)

"You’re doing great. Don’t forget to take care of yourself today. — S"

"Coffee's on me. Kitchen, top shelf. — S"

"That report you turned in? Impressive. Don’t sell yourself short. — S"

"Training room at 4? I’ll save you a punching bag. — S"

When You Begin Replying

"Bad day? You’re stronger than you think. — S"

"Maybe. Sometimes it feels like I'm barely holding it together. But it helps, knowing someone thinks I can. — You"

"Sometimes even heroes need a break. Hope you’re giving yourself one. — S"

"Working on it. (Still figuring out how to not feel guilty when I take one and how to remember.) Thanks for the reminder. — You"

"The way you handled yourself yesterday… you remind me why I believe in people. — S"

"I don't always believe in myself. It means more than I can say that you do. Thank you. Really. — You"

When Feelings Develop and Vulnerabilities are Shared

"Some nights I wake up gasping. Still stuck in old battles that aren't mine anymore. Hard to remember I’m safe. — S"

"You’re not alone. I still get nightmares too -about mistakes, about people I couldn’t save. It doesn’t mean we’re weak. It means we remember. — You"

"I worry sometimes that remembering makes me dangerous. Like I’m just waiting to crack apart. — S"

"I think the fact you worry about it means you won’t. You care too much. You feel too much. That’s what saves you. — You"

"I never learned how to ask for help. Old habits die hard, I guess. But lately... I think I'd like to try. — S"

"You don't have to do it alone anymore. You never did. (I'm still learning too. Maybe we can figure it out together.) — You"

"I saw the way you looked out for everyone today. You don’t even realize it -how steady you are. You’re the strongest person I know. — S"

"I'm scared most days that I’ll never be enough. That one day, someone will see through me and realize I’m not who they thought. (Thank you for seeing me anyway.) — You"

"You are more than enough. You’re extraordinary. — S"

The Notes That Made Both of You Wonder if There Could Be More

"You light up a room without even trying. Not sure if you know that. — S"

"You’re more than just your shield, you know. I hope you see that the way the rest of us do. (The way I do.) — You"

"I feel a little less lost when I’m around you. Strange, huh? — S"

"Don’t tell anyone, but... You’re kind of my favorite Avenger. — You"

"I’m starting to think books are better when you’re the one who recommends them. (Or maybe it’s just because they remind me of you.) — S"

"Strength isn’t just muscles and grit. Sometimes it’s quiet and steady and shows up when no one’s watching. That’s the kind of strong you are. — You"

"You make the hard days softer. Just thought you should know. — S"

Steve's Reaction To Your Note:

The hall is quiet when Steve gets back to his floor.

It’s late enough that most of the lights are off, the compound humming softly around him like a sleeping giant. He rubs the back of his neck, exhausted -physically, emotionally. He’s not even sure why he checks his door.

Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s hope.

And there it is -a small square of yellow, stuck crookedly against the wood.

He peels it off carefully, thumb brushing over the crumpled corners and familiar handwriting.

"I wasn't going to... but only because of you. You make me happy. Steve, you mean the world to me."

Steve stares at it for a long time. Long enough that the words blur together.

He sinks down against the door, the note clutched tight between his fingers like it might disappear if he lets go. His heart pounds quickly.

He can't believe what he's reading.

His chest feels too small, too tight, like there’s not enough room for everything suddenly crowding inside it.

Because he knows what she’s saying. God -he knows.

It’s not just about the notes. Not just about the inside jokes or the good mornings or the careful, clumsy affection that’s been blooming between them like a secret garden no one else can see.

It’s about her. Her heart. Her hurt. Her hope.

It’s about the way she trusted him enough to say it -even if she couldn't say it out loud.

And Steve...

He feels like he’s been standing at the edge of a cliff for months now, too afraid to jump. Too afraid to fall.

But she jumped first. She jumped for him.

He swallows hard, blinking up at the ceiling like maybe that'll stop the burn behind his eyes. It doesn’t.

Carefully, reverently, he folds the note and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket, right over his heart.

Then he pulls out a fresh Post-It, his hands only shaking a little, and scribbles three words:

"Roof. Midnight. — S"

Simple. Plain.

But it’s the start of something he’s been too afraid to reach for. Until now.

Steve's heart pounds louder as he walks closer to her door. When he's finally in front of it, he's so close to pressing the note on it, when fears fill his mind.

What if he's misreading the situation? What if she doesn't like him the way he's thinking she might? What if he ruins everything they've built between them?

Steve's thoughts get the best of him. With the note in his hand, he turns back around to his room. As the distance grows between her room, his heart sinks lower. He's unsure. He's...scared.

Steve makes it to his room, setting the Post-it note on his desk. He sits on his bed, staring down at the small piece of paper with his writing. He'll decide tomorrow if he should leave it for her or not.

Tonight, he'll go through her notes again and make sure he's not reading this wrong.

After They're Together

The Post-Its don't stop after you and Steve finally find your way to each other. If anything, they multiply.

Now they're not hidden anymore. They're not careful or scared. Now they’re everywhere -like tiny, living proof of your love for each other.

You leave some for him. Next to his shield, waiting for him before training.

"The world is lucky to have Captain America. I'm luckier to have you. — You"

On his favorite hair gel, you bought when you noticed he was running low.

"Thinking of you. I hope your day is wonderful, just like you. -You"

Next to the breakfast you make for him.

"I love you more than the moon and the stars. Never forget that. -You"

Inside his pocket before a mission:

"Come back to me. (I believe in you.) — You"

He leaves them for you. On the cup of coffee he sets out for you every morning.

"Love you more than caffeine. (And that's saying something.) — S"

On your dresser, near your mirror.

"You're beautiful, even when you think you're not. Especially then. — S"

Tucked under your pillow on a rough day:

"You don't have to be strong tonight. Let me hold you. — S"

In your sketchbook, slipped between the pages:

"You make the world better just by existing. I hope you know that. — S"

Sometimes you find them in your shoes, or taped to the door, or tucked between the pages of a book he knows you’re reading. Sometimes he finds yours in his wallet, his glove, or the inside of his gym bag. You two leave them everywhere.

They're sloppier now, the handwriting messier, rushed -because there’s no more fear weighing down your hands. You don't have to be perfect for each other. You just have to be.

And when he kisses you goodnight, you swear you can still feel every unsaid word from all those early notes written against your skin.

Still there. Still unfolding. Still yours

[pilotingdreammsss]

Happy birthday! (Sorry if I'm late.)

I have a writing request if that's okay. You don't have to if you don't want to.

I want Platonic Yandere Dark Cacao Cookie vs Platonic Yandere Pure Vanilla vs Platonic Yandere White Lily with a shy and timid reader.

I just want those three as rivals if that's okay.

Again, you don't have to if you don't want to. I'm just bored.

-❄💗🖋

Hi anon! I don't think I'll do your request justice...! But I'll try anyway... these WILL be headcanons since I don't think writing for so many characters is in my capabilities.

A/N: Don't massacre me. I can't really write PV, which SUCKS cause he's immensely popular at the moment. LOL.

Warnings: Obsessive/possessive behaviour, unhealthy power dynamic, implied violence, yandere behaviour. Continue at your own discretion.

Pure Vanilla Cookie, I feel, would be the lesser involved than the other two in terms of the rivalry. He's less concerned for his rivals and more concerned about you getting caught up in the crossfire. Usherings to the healer's tent, unprecedented check-ups at your home, and borderline stalking ensues.

He's convinced himself it's for your health, but he knows deep inside that he's also keeping tabs on the two others. He knows it's wrong to police your life.

He wouldn't dream of resorting to violence, not unless you're involved at mass. Even then, he remains someone who would rather resolve conflicts through talk. He doesn't like hurting people, but he will if they're hurting you.

His interests at most clash with Dark Cacao Cookie - whilst PV would much rather have you freely roam through life (with his supervision, of course). Dark Cacao Cookie wants you static in the Citadel. The two never resort to violence, at least not in your presence, remaining vaguely civil so as not to scare you away.

Pure Vanilla Cookie is much more tame - but his strange helicopter-like supervision is not entirely unlike him. You chalk it up to protectiveness. He knows you're so soft after all. You haven't the heart to tell him to leave you alone after so long.

"Something felt wrong, so I arrived to check on you, friend."

"Stay weary around Dark Cacao Cookie... I fear he may be a bad influence."

"Your wounds... let me heal them for you."

Dark Cacao Cookie is a different story - the weak have no place in such a dangerous world. When you'd become acquaintances, what first stood out to him was how timid you were. Mild - it was admirable, but her feared that he couldn't protect you as a friend. Left-over anguish from the estrangement of his son had seeped into the cracks of all his relationships.

Dark Cacao Cookie keeps a watchful eye on all your other relationships.

You notice his hold on his sword grow tight as you meddle with Pure Vanilla Cookie and White Lily Cookie. Warnings to stay away from them are frequent, though you shyly wave them away. It angers him a little, as he's convinced that he should be your sole protector.

Because the world will scar you - or so he's convinced. His traits appear as protectiveness, and, in dire situations, they're almost forceful. You admit to him that he scares you a little, and he appears wounded. The behavior is embedded into him so deeply that he doesn't know how to stop... He needs to place himself between you and 'dangerous influences'.

He wants you to stay in the Dark Cacao Kingdom - not entirely in the Citadel - but close enough. He wants to protect you, given danger arises. The Watchers are instructed to keep some eyes on you. You sometimes catch Caramel Arrow Cookie changing her usual routes to pass your home and make sure you're safe. Dark Cacao Cookie doesn't see her as a rival, so you make leisurely small talk sometimes.

Though, when the ancient's unsavory traits arise as topics in conversation, she grows protective. She'd been fed the same rhetoric by the king that you needed to be protected, and that what he did for you and the kingdom was for good.

"White Lily Cookie could be dangerous. You know of her past."

"Feral cream wolves have been spotted at the borders of the markets. I insist to come with you."

"This is to protect you."

White Lily Cookie has different motivations than the other two. Though the other two believe they assert themselves as protectors in your life, she sees you as a source of penitence for her sins. Her immense clinging grows overwhelming at times. She's with you whenever she can be. Though you admittedly enjoy her company, you wish she'd leave you alone some days.

Any signs of abandonment would have her spiral and cling harder than before. Interactions with Pure Vanilla and Dark Cacao Cookie have her on edge.

She's less inclined to violence than Dark Cacao, though more inclined than Pure Vanilla. Despite this, she doesn't want to, in fear that you'll see her as Dark Enchantress Cookie. Her behavior manifests in subtle possessiveness. Grabbing your wrists and hands when you linger with other friends for too long, pulling you away from groups, worried glances when she has to leave...

She, too, is timid. However, she takes the more outspoken role, particularly if you're in peril. She'll speak for you somedays. You're confused about whether to be grateful or if you don't appreciate the gesture.

Conclusively, her guilt drives her actions. Her guilt over the past, the guilt when she harms you, even if by accident. Holding you close lessens the guilt, and when she succeeds as a friend, she feels temporary freedom from it. You have to walk on eggshells around her if you don't wish for her to spiral.

"I'm a good friend, right?..."

"They're pulling you away. Please don't go!..."

"I feel lighter around you."

A/N: Biggg post. I hope I didn't do the request too dirty lol XP. I also have exams, which is why it took so long.

[ijustwannabecool]

Two Seats Apart

Harry Styles x Reader

Summary... You’ve never spoken. Not once. But for eight months, he’s sat two seats away on the 8:42 train, and somehow—he feels familiar. Then one day, he leaves behind his journal. And in it? You. Now, everything is about to change.

Trigger Warnings: None—just soft, warm feelings and lots of eye contact

A/N: For anyone who’s ever fallen in love with the possibility of a stranger. I hope you guys enjoy this ordinary!Harry fic. Let me know what you guys think. If you like it please comment and leave me feedback. As always, requests are open :) Have a beautiful day today.

If you like this fic please reblog, leave a comment, and leave a like.

Happy reading.

You don’t know his name. You’ve never heard his voice. But you know the shape of him in your periphery better than most things. The curve of his shoulder in a wool coat. The way his fingers hover just above the page before he writes, like he’s asking permission from the paper first.

You know he likes chamomile tea. That he reads fiction—literary, sometimes thrillers—and switches to poetry on Fridays. You once caught the title of a collection, its spine cracked and pages dog-eared: The Sun and Her Flowers. It surprised you.

So did the small flower doodles that lined the edge of one page you accidentally glimpsed when he turned it too far.

For eight months now, he’s been two seats apart on the 8:42 train into the city. Not beside you. Never that bold. But not across the aisle either. Close enough to hear the soft scratch of his pen. Far enough to remain a mystery.

You’ve never spoken. But in a strange, quiet way… he feels familiar.

There are days when your eyes meet by accident in the window’s reflection. Days when he offers his seat to someone else—always with a soft smile, a quiet nod, never words. Days when you wonder if he notices you too.

And days when you know for certain that he does. Like today.

——

You started taking the 8:42 because it was the only time your nerves settled.

After the move. After the breakup. After the kind of year that left you cracked in quiet places.

The earlier train was too hectic. The later one too full of people who’d already had too much coffee and not enough patience. But the 8:42? It felt still. A breath between worlds.

The job you commuted to—children’s publishing—was both a dream and a challenge. Quiet offices, messy manuscripts, and your favorite part: stories that reminded you to believe in magic again.

And somewhere between chapter submissions and deadline emails… you noticed him.

——

The rain had been half-hearted all morning. The kind that misted instead of poured. Still, it clung to your hair and coat as you stepped onto the platform, coffee in one hand, umbrella folded under your arm.

You saw him immediately.

He was already on the train, leaned against the window with his eyes closed, earphones in. The collar of his coat was turned up, curls damp against his forehead. His lips moved ever so slightly, like he was mouthing lyrics. Or words he hadn’t yet written.

You took your seat. Your usual one. Three rows down, two seats across.

And the routine began. Train lurches. Announcements drone. The rhythm of the tracks settles in.

You steal a glance. Just one. Maybe two.

He’s awake now, journal open on his lap. His pen glides across the page like it knows where it’s going. Like it’s been here before.

You wish you had that certainty.

Your stop nears faster than usual. Time, for all its consistency, seems to bend when he's around.

You stand, tucking your book into your tote, adjusting your coat. The train begins to slow, that familiar squeak of brakes signaling the end of another almost-meeting.

You glance toward him one last time before the doors hiss open.

He’s looking out the window.

He never looks at you.

——

It’s not until the train is pulling away behind you that you realize it.

He left something behind.

You see it through the glass—his journal, still nestled into the space between the seat and the window. Half-covered, half-forgotten. Your heart does something funny, like it’s tripping over itself.

You could leave it. You should. But curiosity wraps around your ankles like a tide.

You step back into the station. You wait until the next round of boarding is done. And then you slip back onto the train, now mostly empty, and walk quietly to where he always sits.

The journal is still there. Still open. Still warm from where he’d been.

You pause.

Then you slide it toward you.

The page is filled with handwriting—messy but beautiful, slanted slightly right, like it’s always leaning forward. There’s a sketch of something in the margin. A coffee cup. A scarf. Your scarf.

Your breath catches.

You read the words slowly, carefully, like they might disappear if you blink too fast.

She always chooses the same seat. Three rows down. Across from me. The green scarf. The way she hums sometimes, too softly for anyone but me to notice. The way she looks up when the train crosses the bridge, like the river might finally answer her questions. I want to say hello. But I don’t want to ruin the silence. The silence where she exists most beautifully.

You stare.

This can’t be about you. It couldn’t.

And yet…

Tucked into the spine, almost hidden, is a smaller piece of paper. A note, folded twice. You unfold it with shaking fingers.

If you’re reading this, then I forgot my journal. And that probably means this was meant to happen. I’ve been writing about you for months. I thought I’d keep it all to myself. But now… maybe tomorrow, I’ll say hello. – H.

Your hand clamps over your mouth. Your heart? A mess of thunder and flutter. Your brain? Useless. Spinning.

You fold the note and place it carefully back between the pages. You press the journal to your chest, unsure whether to scream or cry or laugh.

You know one thing, though—one absolutely certain thing:

Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

——

He doesn’t mean to leave it.

The journal. The damn journal.

He realizes it too late—two stops too far, heart plummeting somewhere around the back of his throat. He’s halfway to the café, rain curling at the collar of his coat, when he freezes mid-step.

“Shit.”

People move around him, umbrellas clashing, shoes scuffing against wet pavement. But his world is suddenly still. Loud with panic.

He left it on the seat.

His mind replays it on loop. The way he’d tucked it under his arm, distracted by the last line he’d written. The way his fingers lingered too long on the note he tore from the back. The way he looked—really looked—at you for the first time that morning. Not through the glass. Not sideways.

You were laughing at something on your phone. Hair falling forward, scarf bunched under your chin, lips pressed together like you were trying not to smile too much.

He wonders if you were laughing at something someone sent you. He hopes, stupidly, that it wasn’t a boyfriend. (He tells himself it doesn’t matter. He’s lying.)

The thought that you might find the journal makes him nauseous. And exhilarated.

Because he wrote about you.

God, he wrote about you.

And now you know.

——

The journal is still in your bag.

You haven’t opened it again. Haven’t dared to read more than that note. Haven’t let your mind spiral into the million different ways this could go wrong—or right.

You don’t know what to expect when you board the train the next morning. If he’ll be there. If he’ll look at you. If he’ll speak.

But when the 8:42 rolls in, and you step into your usual carriage, there he is.

Two seats away.

Except this time, he’s not writing.

He’s watching you.

The look in his eyes is gentle. Hesitant. A question wrapped in hope.

You meet his gaze.

And for the first time, you smile.

You slide into your seat, fingers curled around the edge of the tote where his journal sits. He looks down, then back up, lips parting as if to say something—but he doesn’t.

The silence stretches. Not awkward. Not empty.

Just full.

At the next stop, a folded piece of paper lands in your lap.

You glance up. He’s facing forward, pretending he didn’t just pass you a note like a boy in a school hallway.

You unfold it slowly.

I know this is insane. I didn’t mean to leave it behind. But then again… maybe I did. Maybe I just didn’t want to hold it all alone anymore. You don’t have to say anything. Just… if you don’t want me to write again, don’t reply. But if you do... if you’re even a little curious—leave a note on the seat tomorrow morning. I’ll wait for it. I’ll wait for you. – H.

You read it twice. Then again. Then tuck it gently into your pocket.

And you don’t hesitate.

——

That night, you stay up later than usual. The lamp on your bedside table glows soft and golden, and the words come quicker than you expected.

You don’t try to sound clever. Or poetic. Or perfect.

You just… write.

I don’t know why I noticed you first. Maybe it was the way you always offer your seat. Or how you tap your fingers to some rhythm I’ll never hear. I don’t know what this is. But I think I’d like to find out. I’ll leave this here. Same time. Same seat. – Y/N

——

The next morning, he boards the train earlier than usual.

Heart racing. Hands in his pockets. Hope coiled like a spring inside his chest.

And there it is.

A folded note. Sitting exactly where you promised.

He exhales.

Something loosens in his chest.

He reads your words three times before daring to smile.

You replied.

You replied.

He spends the entire ride writing back.

——

That week becomes a blur of letters.

Tiny pieces of folded paper, slipped under armrests. Descriptions of favorite songs, dreams too big to say out loud, little anecdotes that feel like secrets.

He tells you about his love for rainy mornings and black-and-white films.

You tell him how you once cried in public because a stranger sang your favorite song and it felt like magic.

He says he used to play music, but doesn’t anymore.

You ask why. He doesn’t answer—yet.

The words pile up. So do the feelings.

You start dressing with him in mind. He begins saving you a seat—closer now. One row apart.

And still, not a single word is spoken aloud.

Until Friday.

The train is late. People are restless. You’re standing by the door, heart thudding.

Then you feel it—his presence. His warmth behind you.

You turn.

He’s holding a note, but not offering it.

Instead, his voice breaks the quiet.

“Hi.”

You blink. He smiles. Soft, crooked, unsure.

“I figured it was time,” he says, voice low. “To actually say it.”

Your breath catches. “Hi,” you say back.

And for the first time, it’s not paper holding your words.

——

You’ve spent weeks reading his thoughts like stolen poetry. Now you’re sitting beside him for the first time, and you can’t think of a single thing to say.

He’s real. He’s right here. And he smells like cedarwood and morning rain.

Your knees are almost touching. His hand rests on the journal in his lap, thumb tracing over the edge of the leather cover. Yours are clutched tightly around a paper cup of tea you barely remember buying. Everything is too loud inside your head and too quiet between you.

“So,” he says, a little nervous, “we’re talking now.”

You smile. “We are.”

He chuckles softly. “Not as romantic as ink and paper, is it?”

“No,” you admit. “But it’s nice. Different nice.”

The pause that follows is soft. Not awkward. Just full. Familiar.

You glance at him. “Harry,” you say gently, tasting the name for the first time in your mouth. “That is your name, right? H?”

He smiles—warm, bashful, with that little dimple like a comma at the end of his grin.

“It is. Harry Styles. And yours is…?”

You tilt your head. “You mean you’ve been writing about me for months and didn’t know my name?”

He bites back a laugh. “I didn’t want to assume. Figured if you ever wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”

You offer your hand. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

He takes it. Holds it gently, like it’s fragile or sacred. “Hi, Y/N.”

Your heart does something stupid and syrupy.

“Hi, Harry.”

——

He’s never been more terrified than in the moment your fingers touched his.

Because now it’s real.

This girl—the one he watched from two seats away for almost a year, the one who unknowingly filled his journal and his mornings and his mind—is holding his hand. Saying his name. Smiling like maybe she’s felt it too.

He doesn’t want to scare you. Doesn’t want to rush this. But he also doesn’t want to go back to silence.

So he says the thing he’s been thinking for days now.

“Would it be too forward if I asked to walk you to wherever you're going after this?”

Y/N looks down at their still-joined hands and shrugs, playful. “That depends.”

“On?”

She glances up. “If you’ll keep writing me letters.”

Harry grins. “Even if we talk?”

“Especially if we talk.”

He nods. “Deal.”

——

The rest of the ride feels like a blur. A blur wrapped in slow smiles, shy glances, and questions like tiny paper cranes unfolding between you.

He asks about your favorite breakfast. You tell him about your obsession with bookstore cafés. He lights up when you mention poetry. You light up when he says he used to sing.

He tells you he stopped because life got loud and messy and he didn’t know how to make room for it anymore.

You tell him maybe he didn’t have to make room—maybe the music was always still in him.

He goes quiet then. But not because he’s uncomfortable. Just thoughtful. As if something you said tugged on an invisible thread deep inside him.

When the train slows into the city, neither of you stands right away.

People move around you. Rush. Push. The world spins.

But you two? You sit in the stillness. And you stay there until the carriage empties.

——

You walk together to the end of the platform. He’s close enough that your scarf brushes his wrist, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s going to take your hand again. You kind of hope he does.

When you reach the stairs, you stop.

“This is me,” you say, nodding toward the east exit.

He points in the opposite direction. “And I’m that way.”

A beat passes. Then another.

You rock gently on your heels. “Well…”

“Wait,” he says, a little breathless. “I—can I see you again?”

Your eyebrows lift, teasing. “We see each other every morning.”

“You know what I mean.”

Your smile softens. “Yeah. I do.”

And then you lean in—just enough to kiss his cheek. It’s featherlight, a brush of a promise.

“I’ll be two seats apart tomorrow,” you whisper. “Unless you want to sit next to me.”

You walk away before he can answer, scarf trailing behind you like punctuation at the end of a beautiful sentence.

And behind you, you know—without looking—that he’s smiling.

Because for the first time in a long time, it feels like the story is just beginning.

——

Epilogue: One Month Later

The train feels different now.

There’s laughter where silence used to be. Shared playlists through split earbuds. Hands brushing, then holding. Notes still passed, still folded, still filled with little thoughts—because some habits are worth keeping.

Y/N reads today’s one while sipping tea:

I used to think my favorite part of the commute was the quiet. But then you looked at me, and now it’s the part where you smile. – H.

She tucks the note into the back of her journal—the one he bought her last week, soft-bound and navy, with her initials stamped in the corner.

And then she looks over at him.

He’s already watching her. Of course he is.

She leans her head on his shoulder.

And this time, there are no seats between them.

The End.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this story. Let me know your feedback.

[rizdoodles]

This bird is cooked 🦅🥏:

Here's how it goes in broad terms (I hope it's understandable, sorry if it isn't):

I'm sure that at some point, Jade noticed the subtly anxious look on Pépito’s face, as she didn’t dare tell him she was planning to leave the club.

He asked her if something was wrong. Lost in thought, Pépito looked uneasy. She said she wanted to tell him something but just couldn’t find the words.

To reassure her, Jade gently placed a hand on her shoulder and told her that no matter what, he wouldn’t blame her and would be there to listen.

Encouraged by his words, Pépito gathered her courage and admitted that she was planning to leave the Mountain Lovers Club to join the Magift Club. She immediately tried to defend herself, saying it was a stupid idea, that she didn’t want to leave him alone, and that it felt selfish of her.

Hearing this, something cracked inside Jade. He was genuinely saddened by the idea of her leaving the club, but he kept his composure and wore a calm, understanding expression, hiding his feelings behind it. Naive as she was, Pépito believed he was only moved by her honesty.

Jade told her that he didn’t want her to force herself to stay in a club where she wasn’t truly happy and that he’d rather see her have fun in the Magift Club, especially since she was pretty talented at it.

Those words instantly eased Pépito’s anxiety.

She beamed with joy, happy that he understood her, completely unaware of the pain it caused him deep down. To her, he was simply happy for her, her naivety keeping her from seeing the sadness stirring inside him.

As a thank-you, she gave him a hug, catching him off guard.

...

Later, Jade was in a bad mood, a little down, but he still had to attend his club's activities.

So, he left his room to go on the scheduled hike.

To his surprise, he found Pépito already waiting, dressed for the hike, carrying a backpack twice her size and holding a plant guidebook.

She pointed to a picture and said, "Look! That’s what you taught me!" [insert a random plant fact Jade had once told her, just to show she remembered everything, even if she had only half-listened at the time].

Jade let out a quiet laugh, realizing that about 40% of what she said was wrong, but he was genuinely touched that Pépito had tried so hard to impress him, even if deep down, it reflected a bit of misunderstanding.

Dude! That took so long! WOOOO sorry, I didn’t have time to draw it so I decided to write it instead😭

[fadedpiink]

after everyone's asleep

txt x gn!reader

somewhat specific nights with txt

genre: fluff / comfort / slice of life / soft boyfriends / established relationship. warnings: none. just soft and warm. just the kind of night where the world slows down and you remember what it feels like to be safe.

author's note: this has been in the drafts for 2 weeks cus i wasn't sure if i liked it fr BUT this is my first time writing for txt/kpop in general! :3 so lmk what u guys think

soobin — windows cracked open, the sound of crickets and a soft breeze sneaking into the room. you’re both tangled in a mess of limbs, too lazy to fix the blanket even though it’s half falling off the bed. soobin’s voice is sleepy, low and mumbly.

“why’re you still awake... come here.”

his arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer. his cheek rests against the top of your head, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. the moonlight slices through the blinds, but neither of you move to shut it out. it’s quiet. peaceful. the kind of night where the world could end and you wouldn’t even care, not as long as you’re in his arms.

yeonjun — the air conditioner is humming but his body is always warm against yours, especially when he lets you steal his oversized t-shirt to sleep in. his hand finds yours under the covers and absentmindedly squeezes it, his thumb brushing over your knuckles like muscle memory.

“you’re comfy,” he mutters, half-asleep, “think i’m gonna keep you forever.”

you’re both stretched out on the couch, feet tangled under the throw blanket, some random drama playing on mute because the real entertainment is whispering nonsense back and forth until one of you drifts off. the room smells like popcorn and laundry detergent. safe. soft. home.

beomgyu — your window is open and the fan’s blowing but the summer heat still sticks to your skin, so he’s sprawled on the floor, you curled up next to him, both too lazy to move. every so often his hand reaches out to brush against yours, like he just needs to remind himself you’re there.

“wanna go get ice cream,” he mumbles, staring at the ceiling. “it’s 1am.” “...so?”

the night feels endless, like you’re both the only two people alive. your laughter fades into soft humming, and eventually into silence, both of you just existing together in the glow of streetlights sneaking through the curtains.

taehyun — soft lo-fi playing from the speaker, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, and his hoodie hanging off your frame because he noticed you shiver once. your legs are tangled under the blanket, arms free, and he’s holding your hand under the pillow like it’s second nature.

“are you warm enough?” he asks, brushing your cheek. you nod. “are you?” his lips twitch into a tiny smile. “i am now.”

the night passes slow, calm, full of quiet conversations about nothing and everything. the kind of night you wish you could bottle up and save for when the world feels too loud.

huening kai — the windows are fogged up from the rain, the room dim except for the string lights he insisted on hanging. he’s laying on the floor with you, both staring at the ceiling like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“do you think the stars miss us when it rains?” “what?” “just wondering.”

he turns his head and smiles at you, soft and sleepy. your hands find each other in the space between. the rain taps against the glass, steady and slow, and you both drift off right there on the floor, warm skin against warm skin, hearts beating slow and safe.

masterlist hope you enjoyed! please like + reblog to show support, and feel free to leave feedback and comments through rb tags or anon messages!

© fadedpiink 2025

[wingedhallows]

band au!nat!!!!

𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 band! nat scatorccio x reader / 0.9k words ⋆ 𐙚 ̊. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 none ⋆ 𐙚 ̊. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 OKAY!! this was fun to write, tbh. thank u for the request !!

♡︎ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ♡︎

You're not exactly sure what makes you say yes. Maybe it’s the way Natalie Scatorccio stumbles over her words, twisting the sleeve of her hoodie in her fingers, chewing at the corner of her lip like she's terrified you might laugh at her.

Maybe it’s the way her eyes, usually so sharp and electric, go soft and flickering when she asks if you want to come watch them practice.

Either way, here you are — standing outside Shauna's house, clutching your jacket a little tighter around yourself, your breath fogging in the cool evening air.

Music leaks through the walls — a messy, pulsing thud of a bassline and the distant crack of drums. You take a breath and knock

The door swings open almost immediately, and there she is.

Natalie.

Her blonde hair is half tucked under a beanie, a guitar strap slung over one shoulder, her Doc Martens untied and scuffed at the toes. She looks like every garage-band daydream you’ve ever had, and somehow, she still looks nervous.

"Hey," she says, voice a little breathless, like she’s sprinted to answer. "You came."

You smile, warmth blooming under your skin. "You invited me."

"Yeah," she says, blinking like she can't quite believe it worked. Then, rubbing the back of her neck, "Uh, c'mon in. We're just getting started."

Shauna waves at you from the living room — her bass resting against her hip — and Van gives a two-finger salute from behind the drum kit. Misty’s fiddling with some wires near the amps, her glasses slipping down her nose. It’s chaotic, a little out of tune, and somehow... perfect.

Natalie leads you over to the ratty couch shoved against the far wall. "You can, uh, sit here. It's not like, super clean, but..."

You plop down with a grin, not caring at all. "Looks great to me."

The practice kicks off messy, a little loud and a lot passionate. Covers, half-songs, Shauna and Van arguing over the tempo while Misty insists she can "totally make a fog machine work if someone lets her try."

But then — after about an hour, once the chaos settles into a loose kind of rhythm — Nat catches your eye across the room. She gives a little nod, almost like she’s working up the courage to jump off a cliff.

"This one’s... new," she says, voice a little scratchy, turning the mic stand toward her, knuckles whitening around the neck of her guitar. "I kinda... wrote it." Her gaze flickers to you for a heartbeat and away again. "Uh, it’s for someone."

Your heart trips over itself, warmth blooms in your chest.

She strums once, adjusting the tuning with a twist of her fingers. Then again, a softer, sweeter sound filling the room.

The song unfolds like something secret — slow and a little rough at the edges, her voice threading through the chords with a raw, unpolished kind of beauty. The lyrics aren't complicated. They're simple, honest, like she’s peeled them straight out of her chest. Little lines about stolen glances and wanting to say something but never quite finding the right moment. About how sometimes the best thing you can do is hope that person notices you back.

And even though Natalie never once looks directly at you while she sings — keeps her gaze stubbornly fixed on the fraying rug beneath her boots — you know.

It’s for you.

The world outside the living room slips away, melting into the background until there’s only her voice, her guitar, and the weight of something new and trembling between you.

When the last chord fades, there’s a beat of silence. Even Van doesn’t immediately crack a joke.

Nat mumbles something about "working on the bridge still" and ducks her head, cheeks visibly pink even from across the room.

Practice wraps not long after. Shauna bails to drive her sister somewhere, Misty declares she’s "engineering the fog machine for next time," and Van winks at you before sauntering out with her drumsticks tucked in her back pocket.

Which leaves you and Natalie.

She hovers by the door, picking at the hem of her hoodie, her hair falling into her eyes. "Thanks for... uh... coming. I know we’re kinda — messy."

You stand up, heart still doing somersaults from the song. You step closer, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. "It was perfect."

Natalie swallows hard, her throat bobbing. "I, uh — that song — it was... for you."

Her voice is so quiet you barely catch it. She finally looks at you, really looks at you, and for once there isn’t any armor there. No smartass grin or cocky shrug. Just her, wide open and waiting.

You smile, so full you think you might burst, and before you can overthink it — before you can let yourself chicken out — you lean in and press a kiss to her cheek.

Warm and quick and a little shy.

Nat goes stock-still. You can feel the way she holds her breath, like even breathing might shatter the moment.

When you pull back, her face is bright red and she looks absolutely, beautifully wrecked.

"I’ll see you at your next show," you say softly, smiling.

Natalie blinks at you, dazed, and then grins — the kind of grin that makes you feel like you could float all the way home.

"Yeah," she says, voice cracking a little. "Definitely."

You step out into the night, the door swinging shut behind you, your heart beating to the rhythm of a song that’s written just for you.

[reality-shitting]

I think I cracked my personal puzzle regarding consciousness and shifting.

First things first, no, I did not have a full shift. I'm shifting before the 30th however, because I said so.

So! What happened?

Well. I was just sitting around last night, wondering about some questions I had still regarding our practice. I was asking myself "How come we never see any posts from shifters 'clones' while the consciousness has shifted?"

(Note: I hate the clone term and I know it's inaccurate, but I'm writing this on my lunch so I'm on a time crunch and it's the first way I could think of to describe it. Anyways.)

And then I said, well, what if we do? Who's to say the me here isn't still posting about shifting and how I've never done it, while *I* am actively in my DR? If my consciousness is in my other reality, does that mean the old me is not conscious? No, that me is still conscious, still aware. But then if the old me is still conscious, does that mean I am *not* consciousness? I don't necessarily think so. I think I've come to realize that the radio analogy feels like the closest explanation.

If you haven't heard the radio analogy, it's essentially that your "original" self (again, not accurate but the best wording for a crunch) and your DR self are two different radio stations. You, as a consciousness, need to tune your frequency from the first you to the next. So you turn your dial, move through the static, and now you're on your preferred station.

I'm a very visual thinker, so I think it'd be better if I demonstrated what I'm saying with a picture.

This is our current reality. You are "here". You are witnessing your life as person A. You may notice that there's a little dangle beneath you, connecting you to your body. That is Consciousness. (Pretend person B has it too, I forgot it in this one lol)

This is when you're tuning your frequency. This is you in the process of shifting. You're in-between, here and there. Both a and b are connected. This is where "mini" shifts, memories and other senses from World B download into consciousness A. This is why I believe @/kerryshifts could see reality warping and molding around them.

The channel has changed. You have fully shifted. You are witnessing your life as person B. You are connected to that life, that awareness. Notice how when you shift, the connector on A isn't gone. Person A is still aware, still has consciousness, still has awareness. This is why you don't end up in a comatose/unconscious state when you shift from awareness to awareness. Life goes on as usual, even if you are not witness to it.

So are you the awareness, the consciousness or something else?

I think, and this is me, that either the awareness/consciousness stays within the body, in a sense. One of them is mental and linked to the brain's perception of reality. The other is the spiritual perception of reality, what we may refer to as a ghost or spirit. The spiritual observer is what I think we are. We are the radio waves traveling through the air, connecting from one antenna to the next. I could absolutely be wrong and I'm still working through this part, so absolutely feel free to give your own interpretation in replies/rbs.

So! I've cracked my own understanding of shifting. What do I do with this information?

...I don't know!

I feel as though I've cracked the lament configuration and all it did was spit out confetti and a $5 coupon for little ceasers. I have been given the key to unlocking the universe and now need to find the door. I've been given a cryptic message from a loved one just as they die. I have solved one piece of the puzzle, but I'm missing the other half. I have. No clue how to translate this in my journey. It's both eye opening and exhilarating but also anti climactic. I've climbed a mountain, just to find a brick wall upon my descent. A map that leads to treasure, yet has no directory.

But, progress is made in chunks. And I'm very pleased with holding the key. Now I just need to create the door.

[moonlitsmile]

saw u were looking for requests !

if ur free could u write some chishiya smut. something like academic rivals, idm if it's in the borderlands or not. maybe something like where the reader and chishiya are always competing to be smarter and it ends with smut?

Mind games

chishiya x f!reader

꣑୧ — 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and Chishiya have always been rivals, constantly trying to outsmart each other. But when a heated argument turns into something more, you find a new way to settle the competition. This takes place during the chaos during the witch game at the end of season one. (Let’s pretend that chishiya knew momoka stabbed her self even tho he didn’t)

❦- female reader, mentions of guns, blood, tasing, p in v sex, unprotected sex, afab reader, making out, hair pulling, teasing, enemies to loverish, slowburn, tension?, risk of getting caught, very unrealistic I’m sorry, lmk if I missed anything

The Beach was in chaos. Screams echoed through the halls, gunfire cracked the night open, and the air was thick with smoke and the stench of blood. Outside, bodies littered the sand, thrown into the fire, and some burned, others still twitching where they had fallen.

But you barely noticed. Not when Chishiya was standing in front of you, lips curled into that insufferable smirk, eyes glinting with amusement despite the massacre happening around you.

“Figured it out yet?” he asked, leaning against the wall with that irritatingly calm posture, as if this were just another puzzle to solve.

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I was ahead of you five minutes ago.”

He chuckled. “Oh? Then why are you still here arguing with me instead of winning?”

Because you couldn’t stand the thought of him being the one to claim victory. It had always been this way, one outsmarting the other, competing for the upper hand. Whether it was test scores back home or survival tactics in this twisted game, you refused to let him be the smarter one.

“We both know you’ve been trailing behind me all night,” you shot back, stepping closer. “Or maybe you just enjoy watching me work?”

He tilted his head, gaze flicking over you with something unreadable. “Maybe I do.”

The tension was different this time, no longer just the sharp edge of rivalry, but something else, something just as dangerous as the game happening outside. The way he looked at you made your pulse spike, heat curling low in your stomach.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you backed down. But then his smirk deepened, his voice dropping lower.

“Go on, then,” he murmured. “Outsmart me.”

The distant crack of gunfire sent a jolt through your body, but Chishiya didn’t even flinch. He just watched you, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, hands tucked lazily into his jacket pockets.

You, on the other hand, weren’t nearly as relaxed. You pressed yourself against the wall, peering around the corner of the dimly lit hallway. The militant corps were moving fast, dragging people out of rooms, shooting anyone who resisted. The Beach had turned into a hunting ground.

“We need to move,” you muttered.

Chishiya exhaled, slow and deliberate. “And where exactly do you plan on going?”

“Somewhere that doesn’t get me shot?” you shot back, voice low. “Unless you’ve already got this all figured out.”

Something about the way he just looked at you made your stomach twist. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he was already ten steps ahead.

You narrowed your eyes. “You do, don’t you?”

Chishiya’s smirk widened, but he didn’t confirm or deny it. Typical.

“You really want to know?” he asked, tilting his head. “Or do you just want to keep playing catch-up?”

You clenched your jaw. He was baiting you. He always did this, dangling the answer just out of reach, waiting to see how long it took for you to snap. And you hated how much you wanted to wipe that smug look off his face.

Another round of gunfire made your decision for you. You grabbed Chishiya’s wrist and pulled him into the nearest room, shoving the door closed just as hurried footsteps passed outside.

His expression barely changed. If anything, he looked a little amused.

“Bold move,” he murmured.

You exhaled sharply, keeping your voice low. “Just tell me what you know.”

Chishiya leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “And ruin the fun?”

You glared at him. “People are dying out there, Chishiya. You really want to waste time messing with me?”

He tilted his head, considering. Then, finally, he sighed. “Fine. If it makes you feel better, the witch isn’t running.”

You frowned. “What?”

“She’s already dead.”

Your mind raced. That didn’t make sense. The whole point of the game was to find the witch and burn their body, but—

Chishiya must’ve seen the realization dawn on your face because his smirk deepened. “Took you long enough.”

Momoka.

It clicked all at once. The body in the main room, the stab wound in her heart. She hadn’t been killed, she had killed herself.

You looked at Chishiya, breathless. “You knew.”

He shrugged. “Of course.”

Your hands curled into fists. “And you didn’t say anything?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Would you have believed me?”

You hated that he was right. You hated that he had known the truth all along, just waiting for you to catch up. And most of all, you hated the way he was looking at you now, like this was just another one of your little games.

Footsteps pounded past the door. You pressed your back against it, heart racing, and Chishiya was suddenly right in front of you, too close in the dim light.

“You’re smarter than most,” he murmured, gaze flicking down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “But you’re predictable.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling with adrenaline. “If you knew Momoka killed herself, why didn’t you just end the game already?”

Chishiya gave you a lazy shrug. “Because I was curious to see how long it would take for everyone else to figure it out.”

A gunshot cracked through the air, loud enough to make you flinch. Your fingers twitched toward the door handle, but Chishiya remained perfectly still, watching you like he was studying a specimen under a microscope.

“They’re not checking rooms,” he said, voice calm. “They’re too busy hunting anyone still moving.”

You swallowed, pressing your back harder against the door. He was right. The militant corps weren’t searching, they were killing. You could hear them shouting, the sickening thud of bodies hitting the floor. The smell of blood was creeping into the air.

Your hands curled into fists. “You’re really just sitting back and watching all of this happen?”

Chishiya’s lips quirked. “You say that like I had any intention of stopping it.”

Another round of gunfire. You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, forcing yourself to steady your breathing. When you opened them again, Chishiya was still watching you, that unreadable expression lingering in his gaze.

“People are dying,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

“Yes,” he said simply. “That’s how Hearts games work.”

You turned your head away, jaw tightening. It was so easy for him, so effortless. You’d always known Chishiya was calculating, but there was something unnerving about how detached he was from everything happening outside these four walls.

“How did you even figure it out?” you asked after a beat.

He exhaled, as if mildly bored by the question. “The stab wound.”

Your brows furrowed.

“The angle was wrong,” he continued. “Too clean, too controlled. Someone else would’ve gone for the stomach or the throat. But her heart? That’s deliberate. Slower. A choice.”

You stared at him. “You saw all that in a few seconds?”

Chishiya gave you a pointed look. “And you didn’t?”

You clenched your jaw. He was doing it again, pushing, testing, waiting to see how long it would take for you to rise to the challenge.

Outside, the gunfire was slowing. The bodies had stopped running. The game was coming to its conclusion. Everybody seeming to run to the lobby, you hesitated for a moment. Slightly standing up, before he stopped you. You huffed, annoyed, you were about to speak. Before his hand quickly cupped over your mouth, putting his finger up to his lip as he shushed you.

Your brows furrowed together in confusion as you looked up at him. Pressed against the door, you tensed as the handle rattled violently beside you. Someone on the other side was trying to force their way in, but the lock held.

Your breath hitched. Fear crept up your spine, tightening its grip as the seconds stretched unbearably long. You felt Chishiya’s hand slowly withdraw from your mouth, the warmth of his touch lingering as your breathing grew unsteady.

He took your wrist as he gently tugged you up. “Cmon” he whispered. Quickly leading you into the bathroom of the hotel room.

You quickly listened, closing the door you sat in there. The door rattling and the man banging on the door. You were scared to death, but you also knew you’d be somewhat okay with chishiya. He wouldn’t let you die.. would he?

Then suddenly the loud crashing sound coming out from the entrance of the hotel room brought you back to reality. “I thought you said they weren’t checking rooms!?” You whisper/yelled. Eyes frantically wide as they looked at him in the dark bathroom that was only illuminated by the light under the door and a small night light plugged up into the outlet.

“I guess I thought wrong” he said, his voice was low and quiet. Calm, and collected. How could he be so calm in a moment like this? His Eyes fixated on the door. The light footsteps of the guy trailing around the hotel room that you guys were hiding in.

Thinking you’d be safe, he didn’t check the bathroom yet. But that was quickly shut down as the light twist of the bathroom handle caught your attention. You froze, quickly backing up next to chishiya.

He didn’t stop you from pressing closer, if anything, he seemed almost amused by it. His stance remained relaxed, one hand casually tucked into his pocket as the door handle slowly turned.

Then, it creaked open.

A man who was with the other millitant corps people killing everyone, stepped inside, gun in hand, eyes cold and unreadable.

Your breath caught in your throat. Fear rooted you in place as the barrel of the gun lifted, aimed directly at you.

Panic surged through you. “Do something!” you screamed.

And that was when Chishiya moved.

Gunfire erupted, bullets ricocheting wildly as the man fired in a frenzy. Instinct took over, you dropped to the floor, crouching, squeezing your eyes shut as the deafening chaos filled the small space.

Then, a sharp click, the unmistakable sound of a taser discharging.

A heavy thud followed.

Heart pounding, you hesitated before slowly opening your eyes.

Chishiya stood there, completely unshaken, staring down at the man now collapsed on the floor. His taser was still in hand, its prongs sparking faintly before going still.

Relief crashed over you in waves, and you let out a shaky breath, rubbing your face. “Holy shit…”

Your breathing was still uneven, chest rising and falling with the remnants of fear. The bathroom was silent now, save for the faint crackling of flames and distant screams filtering in from the outside. The game was ending. The Beach was nothing more than a battlefield of corpses.

And yet, the only thing grounding you in this moment was the presence of the man standing beside you.

Chishiya sighed, slipping the taser back into his pocket like this was all just a minor inconvenience. You, on the other hand, were still trying to steady yourself.

“You’re insane,” you muttered, running a shaky hand down your face.

Chishiya smirked. “You’re welcome.”

You shot him a glare, but he just leaned against the sink, watching you with that unreadable expression. There was something in his eyes, something quiet and knowing, as if he could see right through you.

“You were scared,” he said simply.

“No shit,” you snapped. “There was a gun in my face.”

He hummed, tilting his head slightly. “Interesting.”

You rolled your eyes. “What’s so interesting about that?”

His smirk deepened. “You don’t usually show it.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He wasn’t wrong, you had spent so long trying to act like none of this fazed you, trying to keep up with him, trying to prove you were just as smart, just as strong. But in that moment, when the gun was pointed at you, all of that had crumbled away.

And he had seen it.

You turned away, pressing your palms against the cool counter, trying to collect yourself. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

Chishiya stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that you felt the weight of his presence, enough that the air between you seemed thinner. “I know you.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “You don’t know me, Chishiya.”

His lips quirked slightly, as if amused by your resistance. “Then why are you still here?”

You hesitated.

Because you knew if he wasn’t here, you would die. Because for all your rivalry, all your stubbornness, some part of you trusted him.

Because you didn’t want to leave.

His eyes flicked down to your lips, brief, barely noticeable, but you caught it. And suddenly, everything else seemed to fade, the chaos outside, the bodies, the game. All that was left was this moment, this charged silence between you.

You didn’t know who moved first.

One second, you were standing there, breath uneven, pulse hammering. The next, his mouth was on yours, slow and deliberate, like he had been waiting for this. Like he had known, long before you did, that this was inevitable.

You gripped the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer as his hands found your waist, fingers pressing just enough to make you shiver. He kissed you like he wasn’t in a rush, like he had all the time in the world. even when, realistically, you had none.

Because the game wasn’t over yet.

Because any second now, someone could find you.

Because after this, after everything, you didn’t know what came next.

But for now, you didn’t care.

His lips moved against yours with a calm, deliberate rhythm, like he wasn’t worried about what was happening outside, like none of it mattered except this. Except you.

The quiet hum of chaos seeped through the walls, muffled gunshots and distant screams blending with the soft crackle of fire somewhere nearby. But inside the hotel room, it was still. Quiet. The tension between you two the only thing left burning.

You didn’t expect it to feel like this. like surrender and challenge all at once. His kiss wasn’t rushed or panicked. It was precise, like he’d been calculating the right moment to make his move and decided now was it.

Your fingers curled around the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, and Chishiya let you. His hands found your hips, steady and grounding, and the feel of him so close made your heart race harder than the violence outside ever had.

You pulled back for a breath, lips tingling, eyes locked with his.

He didn’t speak. Just watched you with that unreadable expression, as if trying to figure out what you’d do next.

“I thought you didn’t care,” you whispered.

Chishiya’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “I never said that.”

Your brows furrowed. “So what is this, then?”

He tilted his head slightly, thumb brushing over your hip in a way that made your breath catch. “Call it curiosity.”

“Curiosity?”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. “You always act like you’re above it all. Like none of this gets to you.”

“And you act like you’re untouchable,” you shot back quietly.

“Maybe we’re both wrong,” he murmured.

The silence between you thickened again, heavier now, as if the air itself recognized what was shifting. The rivalry that once defined you both had blurred, still sharp, still real, but now tangled up in something unspoken and urgent.

You leaned in again before either of you could talk yourselves out of it. This time, the kiss was slower. Deeper.

Chishiya’s hand slid up your back, steady and unhurried, while your fingers tangled in the hem of his hoodie, your body leaning fully into his.

There was no more pretending this didn’t mean anything. Not when the world outside was burning, and he was still here, still choosing to kiss you like time hadn’t run out.

And for now, in this room, with death just beyond the door, you let yourself forget everything else.

Chishiya’s lips never left yours as his hands found your waist, guiding you with surprising care. You barely registered the gentle nudge until the backs of your knees hit the bed. He eased you down onto the edge, lips brushing yours in a slow, steady rhythm that made your breath catch.

The mattress dipped slightly beneath your weight as he stood in front of you, his hands lingering at your sides like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet. Then, without a word, he leaned in again, one knee pressing onto the bed between your legs. His hands slid up your arms, slow and deliberate, until they reached your shoulders.

He kissed you again, this time slower, deeper, before gently laying you back.

The cool sheets met your skin as he settled over you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other still cradling your waist. The soft press of his weight above you made your heart stutter, but not from fear. From this. From him.

Your fingers threaded into his hair as he hovered above you, the strands soft between your fingers. You gave a gentle tug, and the low sound he made in response reverberated against your lips, pulling a quiet gasp from your throat.

His words were barely audible over the chaos outside, the distant crack of gunfire, the roar of flames, but none of it touched you here. Not with him above you, kissing you like the world hadn’t already ended. Like this wasn’t a war zone.

Chishiya’s lips trailed along your jaw, down the side of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt again, this time slower, bolder. And still, he took his time, like he was trying to savor you before the moment was stolen.

The bed creaked beneath the shifting weight, but neither of you moved to stop. Not yet. Not when every breath, every kiss, every touch felt like a defiance of the death waiting just outside the door.

Your back sank deeper into the mattress, the worn sheets cool against your skin while the heat between your bodies only grew heavier. Chishiya hovered just above you, eyes fixed on yours, his expression unreadable, but his hands said what he didn’t. They traced over your sides, thumbs brushing the exposed skin between your bikini top and the waistband of your shorts.

You reached for him, fingers finding the zipper of his hoodie, the one he always wore, like armor. Slowly, you pulled it down, the soft sound of the zipper cutting through the silence like something intimate.

His eyes flicked down, watching you with a faint spark of curiosity as the jacket parted. You pushed it open, your palms gliding over the fabric until they found warm skin underneath. The way your fingers skimmed his chest made his breath hitch just slightly, and it gave you a flicker of pride, he was always so collected, so calm. But not now.

Not with you.

He shrugged the hoodie off without a word, letting it fall somewhere to the floor behind him. You could feel the tension under his skin, every muscle coiled, like he was holding back.

Your bikini top shifted slightly with each breath, your chest rising and falling under his steady gaze. His hand slid up your stomach, fingers dragging slowly along your skin until they ghosted just under the thin string of your top. You shivered beneath him, biting your lip.

His eyes glanced down at you for a look of assurance.

You quickly nodded

He then dipped his head again, mouth pressing hot kisses to the base of your neck, trailing lower, slower, until you were arching just slightly into his touch. The weight of him above you, the way his hand gripped your hip, it was all consuming.

His lips brushed your collarbone as his fingers moved to the button of your shorts, teasing there without rushing. You gasped softly, your nails lightly raking through his hair again as your thighs shifted beneath him.

The room still flickered faintly with light from the hallway, shadows dancing across the walls. But all you could feel was the heat of his body on yours, the steady rhythm of his breath mixing with your own, and the unspoken truth hanging between you

That even in a world falling apart, you’d found something worth holding onto.

His fingers made quick work of the button on your shorts, the soft click almost drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears. You kept your eyes on him, half-lidded and breath uneven as he slid the zipper down, slow and deliberate. He wasn’t rushing, he never did.

He pushed the denim down over your hips, his hands lingering on your thighs, warm and steady. You lifted your hips to help, the shorts falling somewhere to the floor. Now, with just your bikini top and the thin fabric beneath him, you felt completely exposed, and yet, you didn’t shy away. Not with the way he was looking at you.

There was no smirk now. No smug expression. Just quiet intensity, like he was mapping out every part of you, storing the image somewhere he wouldn’t forget.

You reached up again, your palms skimming along his bare torso, lean, warm, smooth under your touch. His breath hitched when your nails lightly scratched down his sides, and you felt the smallest shift in the way he hovered above you.

Your hands slid to the waistband of his pants, tugging at the drawstring with quiet confidence. His lips were back on yours in an instant, hotter, hungrier this time. His body pressed into yours more firmly, his hips settling between your legs with the kind of tension that made your pulse spike.

Your legs wrapped around him instinctively, drawing him closer, and he groaned softly into your mouth at the contact. His hands slid beneath you, cupping your lower back as he deepened the kiss, tongue brushing yours in a slow, teasing rhythm that made your head spin.

Your bikini top shifted slightly under his palm as his hand slid upward, thumb grazing just beneath the edge of the fabric. He paused there, waiting, his breath warm against your lips.

You nodded, whispering, “It’s okay.”

And that was all it took. Even with all this bickering overtime, he was still so gentle to make sure it was alright. And it made your heart ache.

His lips moved to your neck again, then lower, leaving a trail of heat down your skin. Your fingers tangled in his hair as your back arched beneath him, hips shifting up into his. The soft creak of the bed beneath you was the only sound in the room aside from your breathing.

Your breath hitched as his lips ghosted over your collarbone, hands smoothing up your sides to slide the straps of your bikini top down your shoulders. You shivered, both from the cool air against your skin and the way his gaze flicked up to meet yours, checking, still careful, still watching you.

You nodded softly, eyes locked with his, and that was enough.

He pressed another kiss to your chest, warm and open, just above where your heart was thudding wildly. Your fingers stayed tangled in his hair, guiding him, grounding yourself. His hand slipped behind you, untying the string at your back with ease.

The top slipped away, your skin now fully exposed to the quiet hush of the dimly lit room and the heat of his body hovering above yours. You let out a soft, shaky breath, your chest rising with anticipation as his mouth returned to your skin, exploring, tasting, taking his time.

Your hips shifted beneath him, thighs tightening around his waist as he pressed closer, the fabric of his pants brushing against the heat building between your legs.

His name slipped past your lips, quiet, breathless. “Chishiya…”

He looked up again, hair slightly mussed, eyes darker than before. “Hmm?”

You swallowed, fingers running slowly down his chest, stopping just above his waistband. “I don’t want to wait.”

That made something flicker behind his eyes. want, restraint, maybe even a hint of something softer. But it didn’t stop him. He leaned in, kissing you again, slower this time, deeper, while his hands moved down your body, skimming over your hips.

With every shift, every touch, the space between you melted until there was nothing left. Just skin on skin, heat and tension building like the pressure of a storm just before it breaks.

The creak of the bed, the quiet hitch in your breathing, his hand slipping between your thighs

The world outside could burn.

Right now, in this moment, it was only you and him. lost in the fire you’d started together.

His fingers ghosted along the inside of your thigh, dragging a slow line up that made your breath catch in your throat. You tightened your grip on his hips, urging him closer, needing more, needing him.

Chishiya dipped his head, lips trailing back up your stomach, your ribs, until he reached your mouth again. His kiss was different this time, hungrier, more urgent. Like the control he always clung to so tightly was finally starting to unravel.

You arched up into him, your bare chest pressed to his, and the friction sent a quiet moan spilling from your lips. His hands slid under your thighs, lifting and adjusting you further back onto the bed, until your head rested against the pillows and he was fully over you, fitting perfectly between your legs.

You reached again, this time tugging at the waistband of his pants. “Take them off,” you whispered, breathless.

He didn’t hesitate. He leaned back just enough to strip them off, tossing them aside with that same careful efficiency he always had, but there was tension in his movements now. Anticipation.

And then his mouth was on yours again, hot, deep, stealing every thought from your mind as his hips pressed down into yours. Only a thin layer of fabric separated you now, and the way he moved made it feel unbearable.

You gasped into his mouth as he rolled his hips, the pressure delicious and maddening all at once. Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging in just slightly as your legs wrapped tighter around his waist.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, breath warm and uneven. “You sure?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Yes.”

The last thin barrier between you was gone with a swift motion, and suddenly, nothing was keeping you apart. His body was pressed to yours completely, bare, warm, solid, and it sent a shiver up your spine.

He looked at you again, his face close, his breath brushing your lips. There was a rare flicker in his eyes, something raw and real that he never let anyone see. You weren’t sure if it was want or need… or something in between. But you felt it.

You reached up, fingers brushing back the hair from his face, letting your touch linger at his cheek.

That was all he needed.

He pushed into you slowly, carefully, and your breath caught in your throat. He paused, letting you adjust, his hand brushing along your hip in a silent check-in. You nodded again, your fingers gripping his back.

He began to move. steady, smooth, drawing out every slow thrust with a kind of control that made you tremble. Your legs tightened around his waist, your body rising to meet his, hips rolling in sync with each pass of his skin against yours.

The quiet creak of the bed filled the air, a slow rhythm matching the growing tension between your bodies. Every touch, every movement built higher, hotter, your nails raking down his back, his mouth pressing open kisses along your neck, your collarbone, your jaw.

“God…” you whispered, not even sure who you were talking to, maybe no one. Maybe just him.

He smirked faintly against your throat. “You’re loud,” he murmured, though there was no teasing in it, just low satisfaction.

You gasped as he shifted his hips deeper, more deliberate, and your fingers dug into his shoulders. “Then do something about it,” you challenged breathlessly.

And he did.

His pace quickened, hips snapping into yours just a little harder, just enough to make you arch up against him with a whimper. He caught your mouth again, swallowing your sounds, kissing you so deeply it felt like he was trying to memorize how you tasted.

Each thrust pushed you further into the mattress, your hands fisting the sheets one moment and clutching at his back the next.

You could barely think,, every nerve in your body lit up, skin flushed, heat building with every grind of his hips into yours. His name kept slipping from your mouth in broken gasps, and every time, he answered with a low sound in his throat, barely audible, but undeniably satisfied.

His hand slid beneath your thigh, lifting it slightly to angle you just right, and when he thrust again, it made you cry out, your back arching off the bed in response.

“Right there—” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut.

“I know,” he murmured, voice dark and breathy against your jaw. He did know. Every move was intentional. Every stroke precise. Like he’d memorized how to pull you apart before he even touched you.

You tugged at his hair again, dragging his mouth back to yours. The kiss was messy now, heated and desperate, all tongue and teeth and quiet moans shared between shallow breaths. He rolled his hips again, harder this time, and you couldn’t stop the broken sound that slipped from your lips.

Your bodies rocked together, sweat slicking your skin, his hips never faltering. The edge was close, achingly close, but he didn’t let you fall over it yet. He slowed just slightly, enough to make you whine in frustration, your nails scraping down his spine.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, quiet and rhythmic beneath the distant, dying chaos outside the door. The bed creaked beneath you both, and the heat between your bodies only climbed, hot, sticky, perfect.

His hand moved to your chest, thumb brushing lazily over your sensitive skin, and you gasped again, legs tightening around his waist. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breath hot and erratic, and you could feel how close he was by the way his body trembled ever so slightly against yours.

And still, he didn’t stop. Not yet.

He held on just a little longer, his hips driving into yours with a rhythm that was both relentless and intoxicating. You felt yourself unraveling again, your body trembling beneath his as the pleasure built too fast to hold back.

His lips found yours in a heated kiss, swallowing the breathless whimpers escaping you as your fingers gripped his back, nails pressing crescent shapes into his skin. His name slipped from your lips again and again, soft and pleading between gasps.

“Chishiya—please—”

That was all it took. His pace faltered, his breath hitching against your mouth as he pressed deeper, harder, until the world blurred at the edges. He groaned into your shoulder, low and rough, as both your bodies tensed, peaking together in a slow, consuming rush that left your limbs trembling and your chest heaving.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

His forehead rested against yours, his breath shaky and warm across your lips. The chaos outside the hotel still lingered, but it felt far away, muted by the stillness between your bodies, the aftershocks of something that had been building long before this moment.

Chishiya’s hand smoothed down your thigh, slow and grounding, and you exhaled softly, eyes fluttering open to meet his. There was no smugness in his expression now. No grin. Just that unreadable, careful gaze.

You reached up, brushing damp strands of hair from his face. He caught your hand in his, lacing your fingers together for just a second longer before he gently pulled out, easing off you and settling beside you on the bed.

The sheets were tangled, your skin still tingling where he’d touched you, kissed you, held you.

For a while, you both just lay there, listening to the muffled sounds outside, distant footsteps, the occasional yell, but quieter now.

You turned your head to look at him. “So… what now?”

He glanced at you, then at the ceiling. “We figure out how to survive the next one.”

You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Right.”

But as he shifted slightly, his fingers brushed yours again, just once, barely there. And for a brief second, it felt like something else had shifted, too.

Like maybe, in all this chaos, you hadn’t lost.

Maybe you’d found something worth keeping.

[count-thotticus]

Night Whispers

Pairing: Sylus x MC (she/her pronouns used)

Rating: G

Word count: 1k

Summary: Instead of a day at the park, MC takes Sylus out for a meteor shower for his birthday.

Hey everypony it's April again and that means it's Anime STL FicFest time. This year's theme was "anniversary", so since our boy's birthday just passed, I elected to write about him. It's my first time writing about sylus and tbh I'm not actually that far in the story so apologies if he's ooc.

“April 18th,” he’d said, when she had done little more prying than sit in his lap and bat her eyelashes. “That’s my birthday.”

Sylus, the big bad boss, untouchable dragon-hearted leader of Onychinus, had cracked and told MC information previously unknown to even those closest to him without her even finishing the question.

“My, my,” Luke and Kieran would say later, “Bossman must really like you. He doesn’t tell that sort of thing to anyone!” And she would blush and look away, but never tell them the date he’d given her. No, that tidbit of information would remain a whispered promise kept behind her sealed lips.

MC spent the next few days endlessly thinking about how best to celebrate this man who’d done so much for her. What did you even get a man who had everything he wanted at the snap of his fingers or a tap of his card? She couldn’t just get him a gift - no, it had to be something memorable, an experience maybe.

MC spent hours searching the internet for events coming up either in Linkon or in the N109 Zone, weighing the times, crowd levels, and Sylus’s potential enjoyment of the activity, and came up with nothing. Every time she would find something with potential, she remembered: one, Sylus is nocturnal and prefers to go out at night, and two, he’s a wanted criminal. This of course didn’t stop him from indulging her at the arcade once a week, but she didn’t want to be the one to put him in a risky situation.

It was on a sleepless night, just a couple days before his birthday, when inspiration struck her like a bolt of lightning. Or, well, more like a shooting star.

MC had tossed and turned so much that she finally decided to just get up and make a cup of tea. As she sipped, she gazed out the window of her apartment and a light in the sky caught her attention. Of course, she thought. Tara had sent her a link to the Deepspace Tunnel website announcing the meteor shower that was to take place this week. A quick search told her peak visibility was in just 2 days - April 18th, just after midnight.

How lucky.

MC stopped by his base that morning and dropped off a small note, detailing a time and place to meet her the following night. Sylus called her immediately, of course, but she refused to divulge any information. He did love the chase, after all.

~*~

The evening of the 17th came and MC packed a basket with all the supplies she'd gathered. Sylus, ever craving her nearness, insisted on picking her up on his motorcycle. Basket strapped behind her, she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist as he sped toward the park.

“So are you going to tell me what this mystery outing is all about, kitten?” Sylus asked as they walked off the path, deeper into the field of spring wildflowers. MC carried the cake, delicately packaged in the bakery box, but Sylus had insisted on carrying the heavier basket and rested his other hand lightly on the small of her back.

“Patience, Sy. We're almost there.”

They crested a small hill to see a soft glow emitting from the meadow clearing and MC said a silent thank you to Luke and Kieran who'd agreed to help her set up. They'd laid out an ornate blanket and weighed it down with protocore powered pillar candles at the corners. As an added touch, she noticed, they'd laid out a small radio already playing one of Sylus’s favorite albums. It was one that he'd gifted her shortly after they'd first met, and she was touched by the twins’ thoughtfulness.

Sylus’s hand snaked further around her waist and he pulled her close to his side when he saw the scene. “All this for me?”

MC turned to see him smiling tenderly at her, his eyes softening from his usual aloof demeanor. “I'd move the stars for you, Sylus,” she responded, shutting her eyes and leaning into him as he leaned down to kiss the crown of her head.

She stepped out of his hold and trailed her open hand along his to gently tug him to sit on the blanket. He let her unpack the basket and arrange the dishes how she liked before pouring them each a glass of wine. Just as they settled in, the first meteor shot across the sky, drawing both of their attention.

He let out a gravelly chuckle. “You weren't kidding about those stars, huh, kitten?”

“Anything for you, birthday boy.” Just then, MC’s watch dinged with the stroke of midnight. She held out her glass in front of her. Sylus’s eyes never left her as he tapped his glass to hers. “To you, on your birthday. Thank you for telling me so we could celebrate.”

He hummed in appreciation and added, “And to us. May this be only one of many celebrations we share.”

Without breaking eye contact, MC took a sip of the dry red and couldn't help but giggle at the love struck look Sylus was giving her.

“What's so funny, kitten?”

“Nothing, Sy. It's just silly to me how the walls of the big strong leader of Onychinus crumble at the smile of a pretty girl.”

He let out a deep chuckle of his own. “Not just any pretty girl,” he growled, “my pretty girl.”

He brought his hand to cup her cheek and pressed a kiss to her lips. His warmth melted her but as much as she wanted to give in immediately, she had one more surprise for him.

MC reached behind her for the bakery box and set it in Sylus’s lap. His large hands lifted the lid of the box to reveal the ornate cake within. He let out a surprised hum as she lit the candle and watched the flame dance in his garnet eyes with fondness.

“Happy birthday, Sylus.”