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dump-ster-fire · 1 day ago

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Exactly Your Size: Sylus X Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: A simple shopping trip turns charged when Sylus’s attention lingers a little too long and his touch follows soon after. Between the heat of his gaze and the closeness of the dressing room walls, boundaries blur fast.

Content: nsfw/smut 18+

You weren't expecting to find yourself in the backroom of a sleek underground tailor shop, least of all with him. The air smells faintly of leather and something darker, spiced, and dangerous. Just like the man leaning against the mirror with his arms crossed, red eyes watching you like a predator studying a curious little bird.

Sylus is quiet as you flip through outfits hanging along the rail, but the weight of his gaze burns hotter than any spotlight. You can feel it every time your fingers brush fabric, every time your eyes linger too long on something daring.

"This one," he drawls, stepping up behind you, close enough that you feel the heat of his breath by your ear. His hand reaches past your shoulder to pluck a deep crimson piece off the rack. "Try it on. Humor me, kitten."

You glance at the mirror and catch the faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. Infuriatingly confident, as always.

"Are you going to watch?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

His smile widens. "Would you mind?"

You scoff, whether to hide your flustered nerves or entertain the game, you're not sure. You slip behind the velvet curtain of the changing room. The walls are thin, and so is the fabric you're slipping into. It's clingy and cut low, hugging your frame like it was sewn to your skin. You hear the rustle of fabric just outside. His footsteps shift, and when you peek through the gap in the curtain, he's seated now. Legs wide, blazer still draped over his shoulders, one hand propped under his chin as he watches the curtain like it's the most interesting show he's ever seen.

You hesitate for a moment and then because some stupid part of you wants to provoke him back, you step out. When he sees you, his posture straightens. His red eyes drag slowly down your form, his gaze darkening as they linger on your hips, then trail their way up your bare shoulders, collarbones, neck. His Evol flickers faintly, a subtle glow in one eye. You cross your arms over your chest, arching a brow.

"Well?"

Sylus stands, slowly, like a creature uncoiling. He takes his time, never breaking eye contact as he closes the distance between you. When he finally stops, he's close enough that you have to tilt your head to meet his gaze.

He doesn't smile this time. His voice is quiet when he speaks. "You know exactly what you're doing."

You blink. "Wearing clothes?"

"No. Making me look at you like this." His gaze drops slowly. "And pretending you're not enjoying it."

His hand lifts, fingertips brushing the curve of your arm, trailing upward until they reach your jaw. He tilts your face just slightly, his thumb grazing your cheek. The touch is gentle, but there's nothing soft in his eyes.

"You always do this," you whisper, caught in his orbit.

He leans in, mouth hovering just beside yours. "Do what?"

"Say things like that."

Sylus' breath warms your lips as he murmurs, "Then stop giving me reasons."

You barely register the words before he moves. His hand drops to your waist, gripping firmly, and you gasp as he tugs you forward with no warning. His other hand finds your hip, sliding lower until his palm covers the curve of your ass, squeezing once. The contact sends heat surging through your core.

You open your mouth to protest, or maybe to dare him, but Sylus doesn't give you the chance. He kisses you. His mouth is hot and demanding against yours. His tongue parts your lips without hesitation, tasting you like he's been thinking about this for far too long. One of his hands slides up your back while the other stays low, keeping you anchored against the hard line of his body.

You gasp into his mouth as he hooks one of your legs up over his hip, pressing your bodies together so tightly there's no space left to think. Your arms instinctively wrap around his neck as your back meets the mirror with a soft thud, the cool glass shocking against the heat crawling across your skin. Sylus breaks the kiss for just a second, breathing hard, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth. His voice is low and rough when he speaks again.

"Red suits you," he says, dragging his mouth along your jaw, his teeth grazing lightly over your pulse.

"Someone's feeling bold," you whisper, trying to sound teasing, but your voice trembles, just slightly. You can feel the smirk curve against your throat.

"I'm feeling a lot more than that," he mutters, and then he rolls his hips into you.

The pressure hits just right, and your breath stutters out of you, eyes fluttering shut as your leg tightens around his hip. Heat coils low in your belly, your pulse pounding in your ears, and you can feel him. Hard, confident, and absolutely unapologetic about what he's doing to you. You tilt your hips instinctively, seeking more friction, and he groans under his breath, the sound dark and possessive.

"You're playing with fire," you breathe, lips brushing his cheek.

"And you walked right into the flame," he replies, voice like silk laced with smoke.

His hand slips up beneath the hem of the red dress, fingers splaying against your bare thigh as he presses you harder into the mirror. Then, you both suddenly hear footsteps headed straight toward the changing stalls. Your breath catches, eyes darting toward the direction of the sound.

Sylus reacts first. His hand moves to your other leg in one fluid motion. Before you can process what's happening, he hooks his hands beneath both thighs and lifts you off the ground with shocking ease. Your legs wrap around his waist out of instinct, and your hands tighten around his neck for balance.

"Hold on," he mutters.

You do, as he walks the two of you backwards, ducking into the dressing room. The curtain falls shut behind you, cutting off the hallway light. Your back hits the wall as his body presses flush to yours, and his cock grinding directly against your core, with nothing but a sliver of fabric between you. Your breath stutters. Your hips shift instinctively, reacting to the way he fits against you so perfectly, so intimately, it's maddening. Outside, the footsteps pause. A voice follows, just beyond the thin curtain.

"Is everything alright in there? Do you need assistance with anything?"

You start to answer, but Sylus leans in, his voice low and molten against your ear.

"Say yes," he whispers. "Or I might give them something very different to hear."

"Yes. All good," you manage, your voice slightly breathless.

Too breathless.

There's a pause outside the curtain.

"...I see," the worker says. "Apologies, it's just—wasn't there someone out here with you earlier? Tall man, silver hair, black coat?"

Your heart skips but Sylus doesn't stop.

His lips trail along the curve of your neck as one of his hands shifts higher beneath your thigh, adjusting your weight with practiced ease. The movement presses your clothed pussy more firmly against the thick length of his erection, and he rolls his hips into you. You clench your hands around the fabric of his blazer as your body jolts from the pressure, a quiet gasp catching in your throat.

"I—um..." Your voice stumbles over itself. "He... stepped out. I think."

The worker lingers, clearly unconvinced.

"I didn't see him leave. Would you like me to go check the front area, just in case he's waiting for you?"

Sylus lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. He doesn't say a word. He just grinds his cock against you again, dragging the rigid outline right over your clit, the thin fabric of your underwear doing nothing to dull the sensation. Your mouth falls open, and you have to clamp your teeth down hard to stifle the noise threatening to escape.

"No," you blurt, voice sharp and high. "No, that's okay. He probably just... needed some air."

Sylus buries his face against the side of your neck to muffle the low, guttural sound that rumbles from his chest—half-laughter, half-growl.

"I understand," the worker says after a moment. "Just let me know if you need another size. I'll be nearby."

Finally, the footsteps fade. You're still pressed against the wall, legs wrapped tight around Sylus's waist, your core throbbing and soaked from the way he's been grinding into you, his cock pressed snugly against you, only your underwear and his pants in the way.

Sylus lifts his head, eyes glowing faintly red in the dim light.

"Needed some air, hm?"

You glare at him, but before the words even form on your tongue, he crashes his mouth onto yours. The kiss is rough, consuming, teeth grazing your bottom lip as his tongue pushes past your lips to take more. Demand more. You moan into him, back arching as his grip tightens beneath your thighs, holding you pinned to the wall like it's effortless.

His hips thrust forward, and this time there's nothing slow or teasing about it. The pressure is intense, overwhelming, and your body responds without hesitation. Your chest presses flush to his, nipples aching beneath the thin fabric of the dress, rubbing against his shirt with every grind. His tongue moves in sync with his hips, deep, claiming, and relentless.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to murmur against your lips, breath hot and uneven.

"You have no idea what you do to me, kitten."

His mouth trails down your jaw, his teeth catching the skin at your throat, biting just hard enough to leave heat blooming under your skin. One of his hands shifts, sliding up the back of your thigh, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your panties to squeeze the flesh of your ass directly.

You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Sylus—" you whisper, voice ragged.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, only raw want present in his expression now. Without a word, Sylus releases his grip from beneath your thighs, lowering you slowly until your feet hit the floor. Your knees nearly buckle, the friction of his body gone but the heat of him still pulsing between your legs.

You barely have time to steady yourself before he turns you around, hands gripping your hips as he presses you face-first toward the body length mirror in the small dressing room. Your palms catch the cool surface, chests rising and falling in sync with your unsteady breaths. Your eyes lock on your reflection—flushed skin, parted lips, pupils blown wide. And behind you, Sylus. Towering. Unrelenting. Eyes glowing like embers.

One hand drags the red dress up your thighs, gathering the fabric with deliberate slowness until it's hiked above your hips, bunched around your waist. His other hand trails down, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. You gasp as he pulls them down, the lace sliding over your hips and thighs, cool air brushing suddenly exposed skin. He lets them fall around your knees.

Your breath catches as he leans in, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth near your ear.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he murmurs, voice thick, his fingers spreading you open just enough for the cool air to make you shiver. "Parading around in red... teasing me."

You didn't speak, finding yourself unable to form a response. Behind you, you hear the distinct sound of leather sliding free and the soft click of his belt buckle being undone. The noise sends a jolt straight down your spine. He takes his time with it, letting you hear every motion, the soft clink of metal, the tug of fabric, the hiss of his zipper being lowered.

You grip the mirror harder.

"You've got no idea what you do to me," Sylus mutters, his voice low and molten as he steps closer. His now-loosened pants hang low on his hips, and you feel the heat of him press directly against your skin.

He slides one hand up your spine, the other staying low, splayed possessively across your hip. His cock nuzzles between your thighs, dragging slowly over your pussy without pushing in, the thick head catching on your slick entrance as he groans softly behind you. You whimper, hips rocking back instinctively, seeking more.

In the reflection, you catch a glimpse of him, silver hair tousled, red eyes dark and dilated, jaw clenched in restraint as he watches the way your body trembles under his touch.

"You're going to remember how this felt," he whispers, voice a growl, "every time you look at this dress."

He rocks his hips forward, the thick length of his cock dragging across your pussy. Your knees threatening to buckle beneath the weight of sensation.

"Please..." you whisper, the word slipping out before you can stop it.

Sylus groans low behind you, his fingers digging tighter into your hip. His hand glides from your hip around to your stomach, pulling you back into him as he presses the head of his cock right against your entrance. You arch back instinctively, your body open and ready, needing.

Your mouth falls open as he slides inside, the stretch steals your breath, your hands bracing hard against the mirror as your body takes him, every nerve lit and pulsing from the pressure. He groans behind you, low and guttural, his fingers flexing where they grip your waist.

"Fuck," he breathes.

You try to answer, but all that escapes is a broken sound in your throat as he buries himself to the hilt, the base of him flush against you, his pelvis pressed tight against your ass. Your walls flutter around him, body instinctively adjusting, tightening. He gives you only a second, just long enough to let you feel how deep he is, before he starts to move. Your forehead falls to the mirror, your breath fogging the glass as pleasure builds fast, hot, and helpless.

The sound of skin meeting skin echoes faintly in the small dressing room, muffled by the fabric and your gasping breath. He grinds into the soft spot deep inside you that makes you quiver and your voice catch. His hand slides around your waist, palm flat against your lower stomach, holding you against him as his cock moves in long, unhurried strokes.

You catch your reflection, barely, dazed and flushed and trembling, your mouth open in a soft moan you can't control. Behind you, Sylus's eyes are fixed on the same thing. On you.

He thrusts again, deeper this time, grinding the base of his cock against your ass while his hand slides lower between your thighs, two fingers slipping in to press right against your clit. You cry out, the sound caught in your throat, your whole body jolting forward from the shock of pleasure. His thrusts don't slow. If anything, they grow sharper, his hips snapping forward with every roll. The combined rhythm of his cock and fingers becomes too much. Your thighs tense, stomach tightening, your inner walls clenching around him, slick and pulsing.

"You see yourself?" he murmurs, voice low and rough. "That's what you look like when I'm fucking you."

You nod helplessly, unable to speak as your body coils tighter and tighter around the pressure he's building inside you. He thrusts once more, as his fingers circle your clit fast and perfect and you break. The orgasm hits you hard, tearing a cry from your lips as your body clamps around him, tight and throbbing. Your hips jerk, muscles spasming with each wave that crashes through you, and Sylus doesn't stop—he holds you steady, fucking you through every pulse and twitch until you're shaking in his arms.

Your name slips from his mouth, almost like a growl, as your release drags him closer to the edge. You feel him twitch inside you, hips jerking with growing urgency. His breathing turns ragged and a sharp groan escapes him as he comes, cock pulsing inside you as his body shudders against yours. His forehead drops to your shoulder, fingers digging into your skin as he rides it out, his breath hot and uneven against your neck.

For a few long seconds, there's nothing but the sound of your breathing, the faint buzz of the light overhead, and the pounding of both your hearts. Then he leans back just enough to look at you in the mirror again, his silver hair a mess, his eyes still glowing faintly, his mouth curved into something that's not quite a smirk.

A noise outside the curtain. The return of the sharp sound of footsteps. A clipboard shifting. A polite but too-close voice following.

"Ma'am? The store will be closing in a few minutes."

You jolt, your whole body tensing as your eyes snap toward the curtain. In the same second, Sylus slides out of you, careful but fast. You bite your lip, swallowing the soft sound that rises from the sudden emptiness and overstimulation.

"Also..." the worker continues, their voice moving a little closer, "we weren't able to locate the man you were with earlier. He's not out front."

Your eyes dart to Sylus, who's already fixing his pants, cool as ever, if a little breathless. The red glow in his eye is gone, replaced by that unreadable calm you've seen on him one too many times. He kneels briefly, tugging your panties up, smoothing your dress back down with steady hands. His fingers linger at your hips for half a second longer than necessary.

He straightens while you're still trying to smooth your hair and he takes a half step forward and brushes a knuckle down your cheek.

"Take a breath. I've got you."

Outside, the worker lingers, clearly waiting.

Sylus leans close, lips brushing your ear. "Try not to look too wrecked when we step out."

Then, just like that, he pulls the curtain open and strolls out ahead of you, shoulders relaxed, expression without a trace of guilt, only satisfaction. You take one last deep breath and follow him out of the dressing room. The air outside feels cooler, too open after how close everything just was. Your legs are still unsteady, but you manage to walk upright, smoothing your dress down with trembling fingers as you step into the fluorescent lighting.

The worker stands just a few feet away, trying very hard to look professional. Too hard. Their gaze flicks from you to Sylus, then back to you again, pausing just long enough on your flushed face, your tousled hair, and the slightly crooked line of your dress to give away exactly what they're thinking.

"I see," the worker says stiffly. "Glad everything... fit well."

You open your mouth, scrambling for something—anything—to say.

Sylus glances at the worker, eyes sharp with knowing amusement. "Perfectly," he says, smoothing the sleeves of his blazer. "Appreciate your concern."

The worker shifts, clearing their throat. "Right. It's just—we noticed you weren't at the front, so I came to check."

"I don't like crowds," Sylus replies smoothly, voice dry with just enough charm to sound polite. "I prefer quiet spaces."

The worker clears their throat. "Well, we'll be closing in about five minutes. Feel free to bring the dress to the front if you'd like to purchase it."

"Already decided," Sylus replies before you can. "We're keeping it."

You glance at him.

"We?" you murmur.

He leans in slightly, voice low and amused. "Consider it a souvenir."

Then he turns, strolling ahead toward the front of the store with the same confidence he always carries, like he owns the ground beneath his feet. The worker gives you one last look, an odd mix of judgment and envy, before stepping aside to let you pass.

And you follow Sylus, pulse still racing, wondering if you'll ever be able to wear red again without remembering exactly how it felt to be his. Even for just a moment.

#love and deepspace #lads sylus #sylus x reader #smut #18 + content #love and deepspace sylus #lads #lads smut #lads x reader #sylus x reader smut #love and deespace smut #sylus x you #qin che

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aventurineswife · 2 days ago

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hi so a while ago when your requests were closed I sent aout a request so since they're open now I going to send the request again but if you don't want to do it that's perfectly fine also sorry in advance if you don't right for requests that have already been sent I just didn't see anywhere that we couldn't resend requests that were already sent

So may I request a sagau dom furina kissing and pinning down sub fem reader only to be interrupted by the other characters stumbling upon the two and now everyone is jealous of furina lol

“Let Them Watch”

Summary: After mysteriously waking up inside Teyvat, you find yourself pinned beneath the ever-dramatic Hydro Archon, Furina—who isn’t shy about showing just how much she’s longed for you. But your stolen moment is quickly interrupted when half of Fontaine’s cast bursts into the room and catches her in the act. Now with Neuvillette, Clorinde, Wriothesley, Navia, Lyney, Lynette, Freminet, and Arlecchino watching (and very jealous), tensions rise, claims are made, and the war for your affection begins.

Tags: Furina x Female!Reader, SAGAU, Dom/Sub Dynamics (light), Possessive Furina, Teasing & Fluff, Jealousy, Love Triangle/Reverse Harem Elements, Fourth Wall Breaks, Humor, Pining, Protective/Obsessive Behavior, Suggestive.

Warnings: Suggestive Content, Jealous/Possessive Behavior (in a playful, exaggerated fantasy tone), Breaking the Fourth Wall, Overwhelming Attention from multiple characters (reverse harem energy), Mild Language & Flirting, Slight Power Imbalance (Reader is pinned and flustered; consent is still clear).

You weren’t sure how you ended up here.

One moment, you were simply playing Genshin Impact, farming artifacts like usual. The next, you woke up face-to-face with Furina—the Hydro Archon herself—except she wasn’t just in the game.

She was staring at you like a starved woman at a feast.

“Ma déesse,” she purred, fingers trailing along your cheek, “Do you have any idea what you do to us? To me?”

Your back pressed against the cold marble of the Opera Epiclese floor, her lips brushing so close to yours that it made your breath hitch. She had you caged between her arms, her hair cascading down like a silken curtain, blue eyes glowing with intensity.

“W-what?” you managed, dazed and blinking. “Us?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t know,” she smirked, tilting your chin up. “We’ve watched you. Felt your touch through the screen, guiding our every move. And yet you stayed... just beyond our reach. But now—now you’re here. You’re mine.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears as her lips finally found yours—soft, needy, possessive. Her hand slid to your waist, gripping tightly as if she could anchor you to her very soul.

Then—

CRASH.

A door slammed open. Footsteps. Gasps.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!”

“Furina?!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me—”

“No way…”

“…This is ridiculous.”

“…Unbelievable.”

“I was this close to getting to her first.”

“...Mon dieu.”

You froze. Furina didn’t even flinch.

She turned her head slowly, still atop you, as eight very distinct personalities barged in:

Neuvillette, expression unreadable but ears flushed, arms folded.

Clorinde, visibly thrown off, fists clenched at her sides.

Wriothesley, jaw tight, teeth gritted as he stared at Furina’s hand on your hip.

Navia, eyes wide, voice somewhere between offended and heartbroken.

Lyney, hand over his heart like a stage betrayal.

Lynette, sipping tea like she had seen this coming all along.

Freminet, half-hiding behind his diving helmet, too red to function.

And Arlecchino, who stood with her arms crossed and a dangerous smirk, eyeing the situation like she was seconds from doing something reckless.

Furina did not move. In fact, she tightened her grip on you and pressed her lips just below your ear.

“Mine,” she declared, clear as crystal.

A beat of stunned silence.

“Did she just—” Lyney started, stunned.

“—Claim her like a treasure chest?” Navia finished, voice cracking.

Clorinde narrowed her eyes. “Unprofessional. But… strategic.”

Neuvillette sighed, rubbing his temples. “She’s impossible when she’s possessive.”

Wriothesley crossed his arms and stepped forward. “You seriously think this is fair?”

“Oh?” Furina raised an elegant brow, her gaze sharp and victorious. “Is there a law against loving her properly? Or are you just upset I got to her first?”

“Properly?” Arlecchino chuckled darkly. “You haven’t even made her scream yet.”

Your soul nearly left your body.

Furina’s eyes gleamed with challenge. “You want to hear her scream? Give me five more seconds.”

“Furina!!” you hissed, mortified.

Lynette blinked slowly. “You’re not denying it, though.”

Freminet’s helmet fogged up.

Lyney practically collapsed into a dramatic bow. “Truly, the gods have favorites. And heartbreak tastes like Hydro.”

As the voices escalated—threats, protests, teasing, and longing glances—Furina simply tilted your chin up again and whispered with maddening sweetness, “Let them fight. Let them ache. You’re mine, ma chérie. You’ve always been.”

And as her lips brushed yours again, you felt it—

Not just the heat of her touch, but the burning stares of every other character in Fontaine behind her.

You had no idea what you’d gotten yourself into.

But you knew one thing for certain:

This war of hearts had only just begun.

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matts-hersheys-kisses · 2 days ago

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"say something"

-chris sturniolo

warnings: mentions of car crash, yelling, angst

A wall. Another one

Not a real one. Just Chris, stiff and silent again. Another shrug. Another “I’m fine.” You’d lost count of how many times he said it, even when you could see the storm just under his skin.

And tonight, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Chris,” you said quietly, “can you just— can you please talk to me?”

He didn’t look up. Just kept tying and untying the laces of his shoes. Tighter each time.

You stepped closer. “I’m not asking for a breakdown. I’m asking for you. Whatever’s going on, I can handle it. But you keep shutting me out like I’m some stranger.”

“I’m not shutting you out,” he muttered.

“Yes, you are!” your voice cracked. “God, you’re so good at pretending you’re made of stone, but you’re not. You feel things, I know you do. I just don’t get why you won’t let me in.”

Chris stood abruptly, jaw clenched. “Because you wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

He stared at you, breathing hard.

“You wouldn’t get what it’s like to have your brain be the enemy. To wake up and feel like you’ve already disappointed everyone. To replay shit from years ago and still feel it like a bruise under your ribs.”

Your heart twisted. “Then explain it to me. I’m here.”

“No,” he snapped. “You’re here now, but if I show you that version of me—the broken, ugly, fucked up parts—you’ll leave. Everyone does.”

You blinked, stunned.

“Is that what you think of me?” you whispered. “That I’ll give up on you if you’re not perfect?”

He didn’t answer.

Your throat tightened. “You say I wouldn’t get it, but maybe you don’t get me. I don’t want the version of you that only shows up when things are easy. I want the truth. I want all of you.”

His eyes were glassy now, but he blinked hard, trying to shut it down.

And you broke.

“You know what’s worse than you hurting? Me watching you hurt and being helpless to stop it because you won’t let me in.”

Chris turned away, running a hand over his face. His voice was barely audible when he said, “It was after the crash.”

You stilled.

“I never told anyone. Not really. But… when Matt got hit, and I was driving—”

He swallowed. “I told everyone it wasn’t my fault. That the other guy ran the light. But the truth is, I was distracted. I was pissed at Nick. I was texting him something shitty. And I looked away. Just for a second.”

You felt the air leave your lungs.

“I’ve been carrying it,” he whispered. “The guilt. The fear. The sick feeling in my stomach every time Matt winces when he laughs too hard. Every time he stretches and you can see the pain on his face even though he tries to hide it.”. I almost got him killed.”

You stepped forward, gently now, like he might shatter. “Chris…”

He shook his head, voice cracking. “So yeah. I don’t sleep. I panic every time I get behind the wheel. I hate myself more than you could possibly imagine.”

Tears slid down your cheeks before you could stop them.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, broken.

“Because I didn’t think I deserved comfort,” he said. “Not after what I did.”

You wrapped your arms around him before he could flinch, pulling him in tight.

And for the first time in forever, he let you.

He sank into you like he couldn’t hold himself up anymore, and the sob that ripped from his chest wasn’t quiet.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he breathed. “For everything.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I’m not leaving, Chris. You’re not alone anymore.”

And under the weight of years he’d carried in silence, Chris finally collapsed into something real.

Into you.

thank you for the request 💋

xoxo

-𝒜 💋

taglist - @shadowthesim237 @hunyoucantresistme @angeliolo @chrepsi @imgoing-backto505 @ikyoudreamofme @iluvnicksturniolo @mattswrinkleton @sturniolotripletlover @soplaap @emillionaireee @courta13 @joanakaulitz @emely9274 @babydollcharsie @kenah-sturniolo @gemzyy @kenah-sturniolo @iluvchr1s @beabadoobeelvur

lmk if you want to be added/taken off the taglist x

my masterlist: here

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itwillbethescarletwitch · 12 hours ago

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My Heart Will Go On

bob floyd x fem!reader

part 2 to More Than This

Bob never wanted to get out of the car.

The engine was still running, but the world outside was quiet except for distant birds and the soft rustle of wind through trees.

He stared at the heavy wooden doors of the chapel ahead — solid, unyielding, like the weight pressing on his chest.

Every heartbeat echoed in the hollow space where his heart used to be.

He swallowed hard and kept his hands folded tightly in his lap.

Phoenix leaned over from the passenger seat, her hand resting lightly on his arm, a gentle touch that barely broke through his wall of silence.

“You don’t have to pretend this isn’t killing you,” she murmured.

Bob’s voice was rough when he finally spoke. “I’m fine.”

Her eyes searched his face. “You’re not.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he opened the car door, the cold air rushing in like a shock.

If he stayed another second, he knew he’d turn the key, put the car in drive, and never come back.

But he didn’t.

⸻

Inside, soft murmurs floated through the bright, airy chapel.

Guests were finding their seats, whispering politely as they adjusted their dresses and suits.

Rows of pristine white flowers lined the aisle, delicate petals catching the light.

The air smelled like fresh roses and something too sweet — a scent that twisted Bob’s stomach into knots.

He took a deep breath and lowered himself carefully into the second pew.

Rooster and Fanboy flanked him like silent protectors, their faces unreadable.

Hangman stood at the aisle’s edge, arms crossed, watching with the kind of hard, steady gaze that made Bob feel less alone.

No one said a word.

They didn’t need to.

Everyone knew why Bob was here — to watch the woman he loved marry someone else.

Every night in my dreams,

I see you, I feel you,

That is how I know you go on.

His hands clenched tightly in his lap, trying not to tremble.

He had no idea how he was supposed to survive this.

⸻

Behind the heavy doors at the back of the chapel, you stood in a haze of white tulle.

Your veil brushed your cheek with each ragged, uneven breath.

Your mother fussed quietly with the train of your dress, smiling through tears she tried to hide.

“Oh, sweetheart, you look so happy.”

You tried to smile, but your lips wouldn’t obey.

Far across the distance,

And spaces between us,

You have come to show you go on.

No matter how far you tried to run, no matter how much you convinced yourself this was the right choice, your heart kept circling back to one person.

Bob.

The doors opened.

⸻

Bob thought he was ready.

He wasn’t.

You stepped into the doorway, bouquet clenched so tight your knuckles had gone white.

Your eyes — shining, wet — found his immediately.

His entire world turned inside out.

Near, far, wherever you are,

I believe that the heart does go on.

You took one step forward. Then another.

With every inch you moved closer to the altar, Bob felt the world slip further away.

⸻

Your fiancé stood waiting, looking calm and certain.

Bob envied him and hated him all at once.

You reached the end of the aisle.

Your father pressed a kiss to your cheek, pride shining in his eyes.

The officiant smiled warmly as you took your place across from the man everyone thought you’d chosen.

Bob bowed his head, unable to meet your gaze.

Once more, you open the door,

And you’re here in my heart,

And my heart will go on and on.

⸻

The officiant’s voice cut through the ringing silence in Bob’s ears.

“We gather today to join these two in matrimony…”

The words blurred into meaningless noise.

He noticed only the way your hand trembled in your fiancé’s grasp.

The slight shaking of your shoulders.

The way your eyes darted back to the pews — searching.

Searching for him.

⸻

“Do you, Daniel, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Bob held his breath, the room shrinking down to a pinpoint of silence.

“I do.”

Your fiancé’s voice was clear, unwavering.

The officiant turned toward you.

“And do you—”

Your hand slipped from Daniel’s.

The room fell completely silent.

Bob felt every eye swing to you like a spotlight.

Your lip quivered uncontrollably.

Tears spilled down your face in quiet, heartbreaking streams.

⸻

Love can touch us one time,

And last for a lifetime,

And never let go ’til we’re gone.

The officiant’s voice softened.

“Do you take this man…”

You pressed a trembling hand over your mouth and shook your head once. Twice.

“I—I can’t.”

Daniel’s brow furrowed. “What?”

A broken sob tore through your chest.

“I can’t.”

⸻

Gasps rippled through the chapel.

Bob went cold all over, every nerve raw and exposed.

Daniel’s voice sharpened, laced with anger.

“What the hell are you saying?”

Your voice cracked under the weight of it all.

“I’m sorry. I thought—I thought if I tried hard enough, I could be who you needed.”

You wiped your tears with trembling fingers.

“But I can’t. Because there are three people in this marriage. And it isn’t fair to you.”

Daniel’s jaw clenched tight.

“Who is it?”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

Love was when I loved you,

One true time I’d hold to,

In my life, we’ll always go on.

You opened your eyes and looked straight at Bob.

⸻

The entire chapel seemed to turn toward him.

Bob sat frozen, heart thundering in his chest.

“Floyd?” Daniel spat. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

You sobbed harder, shoulders shaking with the weight of the truth.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I can’t pretend I don’t love him.”

Daniel’s face twisted in fury.

“You’d throw this away for that pathetic bastard?”

Hangman rose slowly, voice cold and low.

“You better watch your mouth.”

Rooster stood beside him, arms crossed, a wall of silent strength.

Daniel laughed, ugly and scornful.

“I’m more of a man than he’ll ever be.”

⸻

Bob stood, because he couldn’t bear sitting a second longer.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly, voice breaking. “Not here.”

Daniel’s nostrils flared, fury radiating from every pore. “Stay out of this!”

“Hey,” Hangman barked, stepping forward. “You have a problem, you take it outside.”

Daniel lunged forward.

Bob barely had time to brace before Hangman intercepted, shoving him back.

The pews erupted in shouts and gasps.

People rose to their feet, some grabbing their phones, others holding their breath.

Near, far, wherever you are,

I believe that the heart does go on.

⸻

Amid the chaos, you stood alone at the altar, trembling, sobbing.

Your bouquet slipped from your grasp, falling to the floor with a soft thud.

Your veil loosened and slipped from your hair.

You pressed your hand over your chest as if trying to hold your heart together.

Bob took a slow step toward you.

And then another.

Until your tear-filled eyes met his, shimmering red and full of pain.

And you took a step toward him.

⸻

Once more, you open the door,

And you’re here in my heart,

And my heart will go on and on.

Hangman threw Daniel back into Rooster’s arms and turned sharply to Bob, voice cutting through the noise.

“Get your girl and get the hell out of here.”

Bob reached out, hand shaking.

You didn’t hesitate.

You took his hand like it was the only thing you trusted.

⸻

As you turned your back on the ruined flowers, the stunned faces, the life you were supposed to want, Bob pulled you close.

And for the first time, he didn’t care who saw.

Because some love didn’t end at the altar.

It didn’t end at all.

You’re here, there’s nothing I fear,

And I know that my heart will go on.

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chaotic-orphan · 2 days ago

Text

Intoxicating Fear (I)

The Old Fairground

Masterpost // continued from here

*****

“Well, well, well,” the smiling voice bounced off the rotten wooden walls and echoed back to Kit’s ears. He turned in place, eyes scanning the emptiness of the old fairground. Worn, paint chipped kiosks, remnants from long ago, left maze-like walkways through the pier and created plenty of shadows for Omen to hide, to watch Kit from.

Kit stood straight, forcing his breaths to calm and to try and hone his instincts and senses. He needed to keep his wits about him if he had any hopes of surviving this encounter with his mind intact.

A rush of wind to his left. Atlas stepped back and to the right, whirling, hands raised and electricity crackling as quick as a flame set to a pool of oil. There was no one there. His heart thumped heavily in his chest as he forced himself to recognise that information and turned again, scanning his surroundings. Every opening between the kiosks, Atlas turned, hands outstretched ready to attack, but there was nothing. The emptiness of the old fairgrounds was eerie, but Omen had to be close, close enough for Kit to hear him over the lapping of the waves beneath the rickety, creaking boardwalk. He had to be on high alert.

“I didn’t expect Archangel to send his apprentice. Will wonders never cease?” The voice sounded so close to Kit; Omen’s voice normal as if he were chatting over a coffee in a cafe somewhere. He wasn’t shouting to be heard over the wind and the waves. A shudder ran down Kit’s spine.

“I must have scared him off and he sent you as mere entertainment for me, hmm? For sport? Are you truly that expendable, Atlas?”

“You must have me confused with someone else,” Kit called out into the darkness. Attempting to be brave. Surprising even himself when his voice sounded strong, sure, confident. “I don’t usually talk a lot during my assignments.”

“Pity.” Kit’s hairs prickled on the back of his neck. Within a second, he rounded on his heel, leg up and deadly as it whipped through empty air and found nobody. Kit could see his breath reflect on the chilly Autumn night air and pretended it wasn’t a hitch in his breathing, but more a controlled labour. As if he was in control. “I love a good chat before a fight. Really gets the blood pumping. Perhaps we can shake it up for you, hmm? Good to be out of your comfort zone. You’re not even a fully licenced Hero yet, are you Atlas? Rather a little heroling.”

Atlas fought the urge not to snap at the villain at the insults, his fear manifesting as anger as he continued, boot-clad footsteps creaking wood underfoot as he meandered through the maze of kiosks. He was getting closer and closer to the pier and the end of the amusements, coming up on the old arcade.

Come on, Kit scolded himself. Get it together. Don’t let him get to you. Cool head, as Noble would say. “Or we can do this the good ol’ fashioned way and you can face me. Stop hiding in the shadows like a coward. Or are you just that ugly?”

The fairground went quiet after that. A whistle of wind blew through the creaky floorboards under Kit’s boots as he searched the pier, slowly turning in a circle, as waves lapped against rocks beneath the boardwalk, the rusty creak of the cars on the Ferris wheel were the only sounds for a long, unsettling while as he waited. He reached the wooden railings that overlooked the sea and peered over them into the black waters below reflecting moonlight up at him like the edge of a knife.

“I’ll tell you what, Hero,” said Omen, and Kit could hear the smile in his voice as he turned his back to the sea. “Since you want to jump the gun so much and get down to brass tax, I’ll give you a little hint as to where I am.”

Kit’s heart thundered against his chest at Omen’s suggestion. He didn’t want to face Omen at all. Maybe he was a little too convincing. Maybe he sounded a little too brave. No… no, Tempest was here. He had to help her. From her last communication, it sounded like she was hiding somewhere. If he could find her and get out before Omen found either of them then everything would be fine… right? Yeah… like Archangel said: it’s not always about catching the bad guys.

Carnival music started up, followed by lights of every colour that seemed to ignite like flood lights on a football field, one by one. The string lights of the kiosks first, then the lamplights, followed by the trail of twin orange and blue lights on the floor as they ignited in succession leading to the derelict, metal arcade building. The white metal and wood building glowed eerily in the moonlight, the roof white from seagull poop. As the wind carried from the sea through the pier, the metal whistled and creaked along with it.

Kit cursed, he loved this place when he was younger, and seeing it ignited in faded orange and blue lights seemed like an insult to the memory of the arcade’s former glory, as if Omen was mocking the remnant, digging up a corpse and displaying it in some macabre travelling museum of Kit’s past. He swallowed as he steeled himself and forced his legs forward. Tempest could be hiding somewhere inside, and the lights will help Kit find her quickly.

He'll be fine, it will be an in-and-out job, like all the missions he has done before. He will be fine. He will be okay, just like all the last missions.

Though the closer Kit got to the old arcade, the more the state of the building greeted him; most of the old arched windows were broken or smashed, glass littering the boardwalk beneath, a mix of broken bottles and actual glass from the building. Graffiti painted the white exterior the circular domed building, some of it actually added to the ambience, while others were just a few spray-painted tags.

He pushed open the doors with an eerie squeak, the music louder here near the speakers of the fairground. Which meant it would be harder for him to hear Tempest and get out before they encountered Omen… shit. Kit balled his hands into fists and forced himself to step into his old haunt that seemed so strange and foreign now he was older. Omen couldn’t have found a less creepy spot, no? No. That would simply be asking too much. Kit rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck before he stepped through to the turnstiles into the arcade.

When Kit got to the metal turnstiles and placed his hands on either side to hop over, Omen spoke again: “let’s play hide and seek, hmm? I’ll hide; you seek.”

Kit clenched his teeth, set his jaw and vaulted over the turnstiles, stepping into the dark arcade. The cord of orange and blue light permeated the walls and ceiling, like veins, while the rest of the walls were made up of different panels of black. Still a lot of places for Omen to hide, but at least it was less maze-like than the pier. At least here Kit had a chance. Some machines were alive like no time had passed at all, light emanating from their dust sheened screens, while others had no power going to them.

Kit grimaced at the noise filling the arcade along with the music that blasted overhead. He’d never be able to find Tempest like this and if Omen was hiding amongst the arcade games, he was fucked.

Omen and his stupid mind games.

Kit wanted to slap his forehead at not realising sooner how clear he could hear Omen. This whole time he was taunting Kit from his own mind. Poking about and taking up residence like walking into people’s minds and meddling was something completely normal and acceptable. Noble’s face flashed across Kit’s thoughts. Did Noble realise that Omen was a telepath before it was too late, or was he caught on the backfoot. Kit should have realised sooner, Archangel always told him that. He was a good hero, but if he wanted to be great, he needed to be on guard, he needed to know the powers of his fellow heroes and villains alike and plan around them. He frowned and pushed the image of Noble out of his mind. It wouldn’t do to think of him now. Not when there was Omen to worry about.

Telepaths always creeped Kit out anyways.

But he couldn’t think with the noise drowning out the sound of the sea, never mind lowering his chances of hearing Tempest amidst the chaos, or a potential Omen sneak attack. That was another thing… nobody knew Omen’s fight style, so there was no data for Kit to even remember to use to his advantage with the villain.

He stopped beside the Castlevania arcade game and curled his lip back over his teeth. Fuck this. Kit clenched his fists and pulled at the charge in the air. He could feel the currents under his feet and in the wires of the arcade games bend to his will, following his command as he drew the energy towards him. The currents under his feet danced up his feet, tingling like a pleasant shiver up his veins, reinvigorating his body. The lights cut out and flashed, dimming and buzzing as Atlas pulled and pulled at the power; the carnival music shut off first, followed by the sounds of the arcade games, filling the young hero up and up and up until he was bordering on overflowing with power. Only then did he stop. The lights flickered briefly and then settled, although a bit dimmer, and finally Kit could hear himself think. Crackles of blue lightning cloaked Kit’s fist and made him feel a little better about his inevitable, encroaching encounter with Omen.

Kit barely adjusted to the power flowing through his veins before a scream rang through the arcade. Atlas took off running the instant he heard it, heading towards the sound, his gut twisting in knots at the thought of what Omen may be doing to Tempest. Noble’s face flashed across his mind again, unhelpfully, and the fire villain’s words almost choked him. He wouldn’t let Tempest suffer the same way Noble had. He needed to find her and quickly or… Kit slowed to a walk as the screaming faded.

What if Omen was making this in his head?

What if there was actually no one?

What if this was a trap?

What if, what if, what if— what if wasn’t good enough. Not good enough to warrant Kit to not, at least, try help. If there was a possibility Omen was hurting Tempest Kit had to save her. He took an oath to protect people. To protect the innocents in the city. Even if the thought of facing Omen made him want to get sick. And this wasn’t any innocent, it was Tempest; one of his friends and allies when he joined the Hero Commission. She was a year ahead of him in the academy, but Kit took extra classes above his year, training with older trainees because how quickly he adapted, and because Noble saw his potential and wanted him to be able to take on anyone.

Any threat, any villain, any hero… including Omen.

Noble trained Kit to be able to take Omen down.

Another scream and Kit turned to the left and took off, running through the employee’s only door. A series of offices were on the right side of the hallway and Kit looked in each window as he ran past.

“TEMPEST?! Where are you?!” he called, throwing caution to the wind. Omen knew he was here anyways; there would be no point in going for a stealth approach.

“Atlas?! Atlas? Is that you? NO! Atlas, Run! Get help! Don’t—” Kit could feel the blood drain from his face at her voice. She sounded terrified, but that just meant Kit had to push himself faster. He fuelled the excess power to his legs as he shot forwards, heading in the direction of her voice.

Fuck!

Kit didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to go home and hide under the covers and cry and not deal with Omen. But he was a hero, he signed up for this… he had to do this, to face the faceless monster who plagued his nightmares for the last year.

When he got to the end of the hallway, he saw a pair of double doors that opened out to the pier again. He swallowed hard, pushing against the handles of the glass door, and walked out onto the boardwalk. The wind whipped at his hair as he did, strands blowing across his eyes and mask as he glared at Omen, eyes drifting to Tempest who was kneeling in front of, and to the right of, Omen, a gun held to her temple.

She shook her head, blonde hair flying in the breeze, trembling as she took Atlas in. “No, Atlas, what’re you–” her blue eyes burned as she stared at him, her face contorted between relief and knowing distress. “I told you to stay away.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I couldn’t leave you,” he said, hoping he injected enough sincerity into his voice that she could hear it over his voice changer. He turned his attention to the villain then who stood casually behind Tempest. His appearance alone would strike fear into the hearts of lions.

His face was pale, alabaster skin glowing in the moonlight and the darkness of the pier which contrasted the darkness to the rest of his features. He had chin length raven hair slicked back, a few strands framing his face. Eyes so dark they looked almost black, and his lips a pale red, more naturally pigmented than anyone Kit knew.

Omen smiled when he set those horrible dark eyes on Kit, sending shivers down his spine. “Hello Atlas. You found me.”

God, his voice was so much worse up close.

Before it was normal, neutral, but in reality, his voice had depth to it. A mocking lilt and a knowingness that made Kit feel exposed. Too exposed. Of course he was feeling exposed, the fucking villain could read every one of his thoughts. Kit focused some energy on keeping his mind as blank as possible.

“Yeah,” said Kit, swallowing hard, the blue sparks cackling up his arms. He was thankful for his mask which at least obscured his face from the monster. “I found you. So, I win hide and seek, right? How about you let Tempest go as a prize?”

Omen tilted his head to the side, a smile growing on his lips as he considered the hero’s offer. But it was Tempest who answered first, jerking one leg up so she was on one knee about to push up: “no! Atlas, you can’t! You’re not even–” she cut herself off with a grunt of pain as the villain whipped his revolver across her head.

Kit jerked forward, but the instant he did, Omen had the pistol aimed at her head again and his black eyes flashed at Kit, daring him to step closer. Kit stared, helplessness buzzing through his veins along with his overcharged power, longing to be released. Atlas kept his feet rooted to the spot, not daring to get Tempest hurt with his recklessness.

“No,” Omen admonished with his silvery voice, sick amusement dancing across his features. “How about a trade, hmm? You for her.”

“Atlas don’t—” Tempest let out a shrill scream without Omen even lifting a finger. Kit started forward again, but Omen pressed the gun harder to the screaming water hero’s head, raising dark eyebrows in warning.

As if saying: do you really wanna do that?

Kit held his hands up in surrender before he thought about the consequences and said: “Okay fine. Fine! Let her go!”

Omen didn’t move for a moment. Tempest continued screaming and crying, and Kit fought the urge to step in to help. If he moved quick enough, he could get Omen with a bolt, and he’d drop the gun at least… but then he’d have to deal with Omen’s rage and his power.

And Kit knew he wasn’t brave enough to do that either... but, no– he had to, or what kind of hero would he be? He shivered as Noble’s disappointment flashed across his face and Kit swallowed his fear. But before he could do anything, the villain moved first.

Omen straightened his head and drew the hammer of the gun back with a click. Tempest stopped screaming and fell limp to the boardwalk. Kit moved instantly towards her, but Omen stopped him with a light: “ah-ah, Atlas. Trade, remember? You for her. Leave her.”

Kit couldn’t fight his frustrated huff. “At least let me—”

“No,” Omen’s tone was so final it caused Kit to pause. His heart pounded heavily against his chest, blood rushing in his ears as he turned his head to face Omen, eyes pleading. He might as well have been trying to talk to a brick wall. “Come along, Atlas.”

“I’m alright here,” said Kit voice shaky, standing protectively between Tempest and Omen. He had to do something, and surely Archangel had finished with the Arson villain and his accomplice and was on the way right? Any moment now he would hear the beat of wings and Archangel would come and save the day, right? And they could all laugh about it later, if Kit could just stall long enough… Omen turned, dark eyes finding Kit’s all humour draining from his face.

Omen let out a dark, humourless chuckle. “Cute that you think I can’t touch Tempest with you like that. You want to test it?”

Kit didn’t move. He swallowed hard, planting his feet on the boardwalk. Omen’s eyes narrowed as familiar cackling swelled around Kit’s fists, up his arms to his shoulders and engulfed his body. His light brown hair standing up on his head.

Omen grinned a hollow, wolfish smile. His lips turning up but his eyes still that intense, black emptiness… Kit’s hands grew clammy as Omen turned to face him. He stood casual, one hand in his black overcoat while the other held the gun at his side.

“Alright little Hero. Give it your best shot.”

Kit didn’t need to be told twice. He threw both his hands forward, palms facing Omen as blue electricity gathered in his palms and shot towards Omen. The arc travelling at the speed of light before—

Kit screamed, his body spasming as he dropped to his knees, drenched in sea water. Kit put his hands out to catch himself before he faceplanted, coughing out a gasp of air.

His mind moving like sludge.

How… how did…?

The answer was the cerulean boot of Tempest stepping in front of Kit. Fuck. Tempest could control water. Fuck fuck fuck. If she was under Omen��s control…

“Tempest…” Kit tried and immediately another blast of water hit Kit harder than a canon. He was thrown back a few feet onto his back and gasped as the wind was ripped from his lungs. This time Kit saw the tunnel of water swirling above him before it blasted down at him.

He rolled to the side, springing to his feet, glaring at Omen who grinned behind Tempest. Using her as a fucking puppet. Kit couldn’t use his powers, not unless he wanted to fall unconscious within a few seconds. Fuck. How did Omen even know?! Apart from almost hitting the villain with a bolt two seconds ago, but that was two seconds of reaction. Kit had barely debuted to society. He couldn’t know what Kit’s powers were already… could he?

“Alright there, Sparky? Or do you want to try and hit me again?”

“You fucking—” a rope of water coiled around Kit’s throat and yanked him towards Tempest. Kit was on his knees as another tonne of water hit Kit from above and drowned him in it. Kit could barely breathe, let alone think how he used to best Tempest in training as his brain struggled for oxygen. Omen walked up next to Tempest smiling down at Kit.

“What was that, Sparkles? I couldn’t hear you.”

Omen didn’t wait for answer. He turned to touch Tempest’s temple and Tempest crumbled to the ground. A puppet with her strings cut. Kit reached out, a hand on Tempest’s pulse and he sighed, sitting back on his heels.

Alive.

Just unconscious.

The relief was short lived, replaced by a vivid fear gripping him in it’s cold vice as a thin, lithe finger came under Kit’s chin and tilted his head up to look into those void-like eyes. Kit felt the hairs on his body stand up as a chill tan through him like ice spreading through his veins, seizing his limbs, rendering them motionless. Useless.

Not his limbs.

Not his limbs, his mind cried as his feet pushed him to a standing position.

His legs pushed against gravity without Kit’s say so. His heart cracking against his ribs was threatening to break them it was pounding so hard. Kit licked his dry lips, the taste of sea salt coating his tongue.

His body moved by another’s command. Kit tried to battle Omen’s easy control, but he didn’t know what to look for to fight him off. Panic was the only thing Kit had control over in his brain and it wasn’t exactly helping.

Omen’s too-red lips spread slow, creeping across his face into a horrific, charming smile. His black eyes betraying his inhumanity.

“Aren’t you full of surprises, Sparks. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories of those who go against me, yes?”

Kit swallowed but didn’t answer. He didn’t want to look at Omen, but he couldn’t turn his head away. He couldn’t move. Rooted to the spot because that’s exactly where Omen wanted him. Noble’s face flashed again through Kit’s mind, turning his stomach. Is this what he felt? This hideous helplessness?

“Oh yes,” said Omen, tone reminiscent, a hint of mockery coating the back of his throat. “Old Noble went mad trying to stop me, poor dear.”

“You drove him crazy! You weaponised his own mind against him,” Kit snapped, hatred colouring his tone. Omen smirked.

“I was going to do the same to you,” said Omen, his voice flowing through Kit’s ears like liquid silver. Kit couldn’t help the spike of fear that gripped him. He would have flinched if Omen wasn’t keeping his limbs rigid. “It’s a favourite of my many gifts. Not at all fit for combat like lightning or water, but I can break you without breaking a sweat. Even before I took your body you couldn’t lift a finger against me.”

Kit scoffed, his lips curling back into a snarl. “Think very highly of yourself, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I’m not an idiot,” said Omen. “But you think even higher of me, Atlas. Noble’s fear was easy. Powerlessness. Inhibit his control of his power in his brain like a little switch and let his fear do the rest. But you?”

Omen stepped closer and Kit wanted so much to step back but Omen didn’t allow it, and Kit’s limbs didn’t move despite his brain screaming: danger, danger! DANGER!

“Your biggest fear is me,” said Omen, his voice taking on a revered quality to it. Omen moved his hand down from Kit’s chin to his throat. Kit flinched this time and tried to take a step back, but his legs just trembled with his lack of movement, body fighting brain, his throat bobbing under Omen’s grip. Omen let out a soft laugh of surprise, his black eyes going back to Kit’s as he tightened the grip on Kit’s neck. “It’s intoxicating.”

“Archangel will send reinforcements,” Kit tried, his voice cracking, betraying his own disbelief. “He’s on his way right now. He’ll know—”

“Let Archangel come,” said Omen dismissively. “We’ll leave Tempest here for him to find.”

Kit’s heart skipped a beat. “W- we will?”

Omen laughed again, dark eyes drinking in Kit’s fear. “Oh yes, Atlas. I could grow used to getting drunk off your fear, there’s no way I’m letting that go. You’ll have to come with me.”

Kit felt tears building behind his eyes as Omen spoke. Omen grinned as he raised a crooked index finger up to catch a tear as it fell onto Omen’s knuckle.

His dark eyes drew Kit’s in as Kit tried to fight off Omen’s command of his body. “No... no. Please no,” he begged, his body shaking violently under Omen’s compulsion as he tried with everything in him to fight him. He sent electric currents down to his legs, trying to push himself free. He managed to take a terrified and laborious step back, his breathing doubling like he had just climbed Everest. Omen’s eyes widened a little before the cold grip of his power fell like tar over Kit’s limbs again, locking them down permanently.

“Yes, Atlas. Absolutely yes. Don’t worry. There's nothing you can do about it anyways," Omen said, tapping Kit's temple. "Not while I have this wrapped around my finger. And of course it will be terrifying for you, so feel free to cry more, heroling."

Kit clenched his jaw tight, wishing he could slap the villain away from him but he couldn't help the dread that settled in his stomach like an anchor. "You’re going to forget the road trip there however, you understand, I can’t have you telling tales.”

“Omen please—” Kit cried, and it was the last thing he remembered before Omen shut his memory down and blackness descended on his mind.

*****

Continued Here

OH BABY WE'RE SO BACK, THE BOYS ARE SO BACK

Tag-list {lmk if you wanna be added/removed}: @beatenbruisedandbloody @404lunar1216 @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper @annablogsposts

@whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @whumpatize-me-captain @sunshiline-writes @theauthorintraining @izzygraney @mis-graves @andtheysaidspeaknoww @dreaming-awayy @mononeigbour @notactuallyluska @stefaniesblogs @lindsay00000008 @xenlust @mj-or-say10

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lets-try-to-be-normal-otakus · 2 years ago

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I have phantom of the opera stuck in my head, so pls join me in the idea of a phantom steddie au

#steddie #join me in the brainrot #no details in particular just rotating phantom!eddie and christine!steve in my head #eddie trying to get steve to break away from everyones expectations while coaching him in music #steve thinking hes not anyone special although he fuckin nails performances and is overflowing with charisma #i like to think the kids are investigating the opera to see whos or whats behind all the shenanigans #also eddie dropping the chandelier on a bunch of rich people #but just the sheer eddie shenanigans #yk hed fuck with people too #like. hide in the walls and pretend to be a voice in their head #i also like to think that CCs there in the orchestra pit #whether or not they know eddie is fucking hilarious #cause to them eddie could just be Some Guy or “ya the phantom joins us sometimes when we rehearse. super chill dude”#maybe argyle doing sound checks n stuff like “oh ya #s not a ghost dude. just some guy. saw him trip on the catwalk twice yesterday“#but hes always high so noone believes him

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sttoru · 9 months ago

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⠀ 𝝑𝑒 ⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: your boyfriend comes to pick you after a long day at uni. sensing your jealousy about the attention he’s getting from your classmates, he makes it up to you in his own way.

tags. olderbf!gojo x female reader. fluff, tiny bit of angst, suggestive [make out sesh]. age gap — reader above 20, gojo early 30’s. jealousy. reader gets called ‘princess, baby, beautiful.’ not proof read !

satoru’s arrival, as per usual, serves as pure entertainment for many students. it’s not often that they get to see such a tall and handsome man around campus after all.

you patiently stand there, waiting for that said man to come and get you. the increase in giggles and whispers around you can only mean one thing: he’s nearby.

your boyfriend’s car comes to a stop in the distance. satoru steps out of the driver’s seat a second later, one of his hands running through his fluffy, snowy hair.

‘. . damn, he’s fucking hot,’ ‘yep. heard he’s in a relationship though. sucks,’ ‘girl— do i look like i care? need him so baaaaddd.’

it’s infuriating to hear those words while you - his girlfriend - are standing close to them. you decide not to give those girls any attention nor do you try to speak up. it’s not worth the effort.

satoru closes the car door behind him, his hands in the pockets of his slacks while he strolls up to where you’re standing. it’s as if he’s walking down a runway - graceful, confident, every step executed with perfect balance.

he can hear the murmurs from the students around, but he simply does not care. his steady gaze has been fixed on you the moment he spotted your figure from across campus.

“cute,” satoru mutters under his breath with a small smile, blue eyes taking in the sight of you standing there against a wall. the way you’re fiddling with the strap of your bag while pretending not to have noticed him is quite endearing.

you look down at the ground until a pair of black oxfords come into view, stopping right in front of yours. you slowly tilt your head back until you’re face to face with the man himself.

“hey, beautiful,” satoru greets, his voice smooth and slightly deep, a faint smirk playing on his lips. his knuckles brush against your cheek whilst he admires your every feature, acting as if he hasn’t seen you in days.

you nod in response, whispering a small ‘hi’ before your eyes dart around campus again. your bottom lip pushes forward just a tiny bit to form a small pout.

. . and there it is; satoru knows that look in your eyes like the back of his hand. he’s seen that same pout before, along with the hint of jealousy lurking behind your gaze that you try so hard to hide.

he understands why you’re feeling that way.

the other girls on campus, the way they ogle him and whisper, it would make any woman insecure. but to him, there was no need for that. satoru is yours, and he’s made that known to every single soul around you a million times before.

perhaps they need to be reminded once more.

satoru wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close, his touch gentle and possessive. he can see how you’re trying to act normal, though he knows you way better than that.

the pad of his thumb rubs small circles into your hip as your lover leans in and speaks in a low yet intimate voice that only you get to hear, “oh? look at you, acting all tough with your little pout.”

“tell me. what’s up, princess?” satoru whispers, his breath warm against your ticklish skin. he lowers his head to your face and plants a small kiss on your nose, gaining a mix of delighted yet irritated whispers of the people around you.

“usually you jump right into my arms after seeing me— y’know, like a lil’ bunny,” the white-haired man starts sulking as well, pressing your body flush against his. “where’s my cute ‘n clingy babyyyy?”

satoru’s over-exaggerated whine makes your nose scrunch up, though you can’t deny the truth. he knows you better than you know yourself. he can see right through your attempt to disguise your jealousy, yet you’re still too stubborn to admit anything.

“whatever. come on,” you roll your eyes before grabbing his arm and tugging him forward. you want nothing more than to escape your surroundings. you’re getting tired of the continuous and unwanted attention satoru is getting.

it’s irksome. you know satoru doesn’t give them the attention they so desire - he never will - yet you still feel this pang in your chest whenever you see those girls shamelessly ogling your boyfriend.

satoru, being naturally observant, notices your sudden eagerness to leave campus. he can tell that your jealousy is growing worse because of the other students that keep on eyeing him. while he is used to the attention, he hates seeing it affect you.

the whispers and giggles from the other women are like white noise, insignificant background fodder that barely warranted his notice. you’re all he sees and listens to— no matter what.

your presence, your voice, your body, your soul. . . you’re the only one he cares about. he just wishes you’d realise that.

satoru wordlessly allows himself to be dragged off. his gaze is fixated on the back of your head, a mixture of amusement and worry glinting in those blue eyes of his. he can’t help but feel guilty. even if he didn’t really do anything wrong.

he wants to make it up to you, somehow.

once you reach the car, satoru gently shoos your hand away from the door handle the moment he catches you try to get in yourself. he reaches around you and pulls it open with a soft ‘click’.

satoru then surprises you by kissing your forehead— his free hand coming up to cup the back of your head. his fingers bury themselves in your hair. a subtle smirk tugs at his glossy lips as he senses the envious glares from the other, irrelevant onlookers.

that’s exactly what he’s trying to accomplish. to make it known to the world that he’s your man. he’ll gladly do it over and over again, until all of them finally take the hint.

“ladies first,” satoru gestures, his voice gentle and loving. he pulls back and smiles at you with his dimples showing. you’re slightly taken aback by the smooth gesture before thanking him in a small murmur.

“thank you.”

it’s silent for a good couple seconds after satoru gets into the driver’s seat. he settles his keys into the ignition switch, though doesn’t turn them. instead, he faces you with a small sigh.

your lover already recognises what’s up. you probably won’t talk to him until the jealousy subsides. but that isn’t how he wants to fix this situation— he wants you to communicate with him.

“hey,” satoru tries to get you to look at him. your body is slightly turned away, your eyes looking out of the car window. it’s painfully obvious that you’re upset with him, even when it isn’t specifically his fault.

“don’t hide from me, c’mon,” he chuckles and tries to make you feel better by bringing your hand up to his lips. satoru leaves small kisses on your palm, eyes peering over the rims of his sunglasses to gauge your reaction.

you still don’t turn to face him. you’re too caught up in your own feelings— too stubborn to talk about the jealousy and insecurities that are bugging you. you know it’s unfair to your partner, but you currently can’t fix your own emotions.

sensing your insistent reluctance to face him, satoru places his hand gently under your chin. his fingers curl around your jaw and gently guide your gaze to meet his. the sight of your downcast expression - plagued with insecurity - tugs on his heartstrings.

“oh, my sweet little baby,” the white-haired man sighs once more.

without another word, the gap between you quickly closes as satoru leans in, his lips meeting yours in a firm but soft kiss. a soft gasp escapes your lips at the suddenness of his kiss, but the tension in your shoulders slowly starts to dissappear as you melt into his embrace.

the touch of his calloused fingers on your jaw is a wordless command you cannot resist. the kiss is a silent form of reassurance, a way for him to remind you of his feelings for you.

his want and need for you.

satoru can nearly taste the jealousy etched into your initial resistance, which he seeks to silence with his touch. thus, he deepens the kiss with renewed vigor. his free hand cups the back of your head and gently tilts it upwards to gain a better angle.

“mh. sweet,” satoru’s tongue swipes over your bottom lip. he eagerly swallows the faint taste of candy that you had eaten earlier. his tongue delves into your mouth the moment your lips make way, memorising every part of it.

he doesn’t let go of you until you’re both breathless. the sorcerer pulls back, though keeps the distance between your lips at a minimum. his cheeks are painted a soft pink, eyes half lidded and lips even glossier with your saliva now coating them.

“haah— fuck,” satoru catches his breath while his free hand rubs up and down your waist. he resists the urge to pull you into his lap and ravage you right then and there. he’ll leave that for when you’re home.

his gaze is on your parted lips once more. he simply cannot hold himself back from leaning in. his body moves closer to yours, caging you in between him and the passenger seat.

“i’m all yours,” satoru murmurs against your soft lips. he cups your face as he places a quick peck on your mouth. “only yours,” another chaste kiss causes your smile to find its way back onto your face. “don’t you forget,” and a third kiss finally makes you giggle.

your lover hums in satisfaction. he nuzzles his nose against yours, grinning widely as he successfully managed to coax the jealousy away— to gain his beautiful, happy girlfriend back. “there she is,” satoru coos and squeezes your cheeks together.

you huff at the feeling of your lips forced into a deformed ‘o’ shape, yet the bright smile tugging at your lips doesn’t disappear. “sorry for acting so childish,” you apologise for your own behavior. if it wasn’t for satoru taking the initiative to make it up to you, you would have given him the silent treatment.

the white-haired man shakes his head. he ruffles your hair affectionately while his lips settle on your cheek. he tenderly nibbles on the plush flesh, “no need to apologise. ‘t was cute,” he replies in a muffled voice.

satoru pulls back and his thumb brushes over the subtle mark that his teeth left on your skin. “besides,” he pinches your cheek before cocking his head to the right. your eyes follow the direction he’s looking at— which is your car window.

“i think everyone finally realised that y’re the one ‘n only girl for me.”

your heart drops as you only then remember that satoru’s car windows aren’t tinted. that means that everyone on campus probably has seen the little make out session you had with your boyfriend just now.

your eyes quickly dart around the crowded area. the way your fellow students are glancing at you - some with envy and others with embarrassment - tells you more than enough. . .

you clear your throat and try to hide your face with the sleeves of your top. you don’t know how you’re going back to university after today without facing the humiliating consequences of your (satoru’s) actions.

your shameless boyfriend sits there and grins from ear to ear, proud of his accomplishment and oblivious to your embarrassed state until you speak up again;

“. . satoru, please drive away as fast as you can.”

#sttoru writes.#jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x you #gojo x you #jjk x y/n #gojo x y/n #jjk fluff #gojo fluff #gojo satoru fluff #jjk fanfic #gojo fanfic

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blueberrisdove-sideblog · 4 months ago

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✧. 🐍 TITS, ASS OR THIGHS?

If Zayne and Caleb had to choose, it would be thighs—every damn time.

Caleb was the type to act casual about it, but the way his hands never left your thighs told a different story. Sitting next to him? His fingers would be tracing idle circles against your skin, squeezing just enough to make you shift in place. Laying in bed? He’d have his head resting on them, kissing the soft flesh like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. But it was when you were wrapped around him, legs locked tight around his waist, that his obsession really showed.

“Fuck, pipsqueak,” he’d groan, grinding deep into your pussy as his cock throbbed inside you. “You tryin’ to trap me here? Keep me buried in this pretty cunt?” His fingers dug into the plushness of your thighs, holding them open so he could watch himself slide in and out of your soaked heat. Every thrust had him panting, gaze flicking down to where his cock stretched you, glistening with your slick. “Shit—these thighs, baby. I could cum just from feeling ‘em squeeze me like this.”

Zayne, on the other hand, didn’t just love your thighs—he was fucking obsessed with them. He'd never admit it outright, but the way he grabbed, bit, and marked them told you everything you needed to know. If you so much as tried to close them around him, he'd slap them apart with a sharp smirk, watching you jolt.

“You think you get to keep these from me?” he’d sneer, his cock already pressing against your dripping slit. He’d spread your thighs wide, staring at your clit twitching with need before dragging the thick head of his cock along it, teasing. “Nah, sweetheart. These thighs are mine.” And when he finally slammed into you, he’d growl at the way they quivered, his fingers bruising your soft flesh. “Fuck—look at ‘em, shaking already. You like this? You like when I use your thighs to keep you nice and open for me?”

Caleb worshipped them. Zayne ruined them. And both of them made sure they were covered in cum by the time they were done.

If Xavier and Rafayel had to choose, it would be ass—no hesitation.

Xavier acted like he didn’t have a preference, like he was too composed to be caught up in something so simple. But the second you turned around? His sharp blue eyes were locked on your ass, jaw tightening like he was barely holding himself back. And when he had you beneath him, pressed into the mattress, he didn’t bother pretending anymore.

“Look at this,” he muttered, gripping the plush curve of your ass with both hands, spreading you open just to watch your pussy clench around nothing. “Bet you love teasing me with this—walking around like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.” His cock was already leaking, thick and aching as he dragged it against your soaked slit, teasing your clit before pushing in slow. His grip tightened as you arched, forcing you to stay in place while he sank in to the hilt. “Yeah… this is what you wanted, huh?” His voice was low, smug, but his fingers trembled where they dug into your flesh. “Wanted me to fuck you so deep you feel me in your stomach?”

Rafayel was the opposite—he didn’t bother hiding how obsessed he was. The moment he got his hands on your ass, he was squeezing, grabbing, leaving marks with his nails and teeth. He’d groan every time you rode him, watching the way your ass bounced with each drop of your hips. But what really drove him insane was taking you from behind, one big hand pressing down on the small of your back, the other kneading your ass like he couldn’t get enough.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he growled, slamming his cock into your soaked pussy, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. “Shit—this ass was made for me.” His fingers spread you wider, watching the way his cock disappeared inside you, coated in slick. "Gonna fill you up—gonna make you cum just from me using you like this." His thrusts turned rougher, desperate, and he groaned when your walls clenched tight. “Yeah, that’s it—fuck, you’re gonna make me cum all over this pretty ass, aren’t you?”

Xavier liked to tease. Rafayel liked to claim. Either way, your ass was theirs, and they made sure you knew it.

If Sylus had to choose, it would be tits—without question.

From the moment his hands first cupped them, Sylus was hooked. He wasn’t shy about it either—whenever he had the chance, his palms were kneading, thumbs teasing over your nipples just to see you shiver. He loved how soft they felt against his calloused fingers, how they looked when they were spilling out of your clothes, how your breath hitched when he kissed down your neck and nipped at the sensitive skin. But what really drove him insane? Having them pressed against his face, his mouth worshiping every inch.

“Fuck,” he groaned, lips already wrapping around a hardened nipple, sucking slow and deep while his other hand massaged the plush curve of your breast. “So fucking perfect—made just for me, huh?” His cock was already hard, throbbing against your slick heat, but he was too lost in the way your body arched for him, the way your clit twitched when he rolled a nipple between his fingers. “Look at you,” he murmured, breaking away just enough to admire the way your tits bounced with every needy grind of your hips. “You like this, don't you? Letting me suck on you while I stretch this pussy open?”

When he finally pushed inside, he groaned at the way your walls squeezed him, your body trembling as he filled you. His mouth went straight back to your tits, licking and sucking like he was desperate, his pace slow but deep, making sure every thrust rubbed against that perfect spot inside you. “Fuck—gonna make you cum just from this,” he muttered, voice rough as his cock dragged against your clit with every grind. “Gonna fill you up, have you milking my cock while I suck these pretty tits dry.”

Sylus didn't just love your tits—he worshiped them. And he made damn sure you knew it.

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

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s0lidar1ty · 5 months ago

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✧ ˚ · . different scenarios where bf!rafe helps you...breathe

Cw: smut, smoking, praise, sweet!rafe, pet names, mating press, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering

"deep breaths, baby girl," rafe mumbles against your lips as he sinks into you, stretching you inch by inch. he knows he’s big, knows how you struggle to take him, so he does his best to ease you into it—slow and steady, even when his body aches to bury himself completely.

your arms tighten around his shoulders, fingers pressing into hard muscle as you hide your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent—clean soap and something inherently him. his hands grip the underside of your thighs, spreading you open, keeping you impossibly close.

he feels the sharp hitch in your breath when he finally bottoms out, the way your walls flutter around him, and he soothes you with a quiet, "i know, honey, i know."

his hips move in slow, careful rolls, giving you time to adjust, despite the countless times together. he drags himself in and out at a pace that makes your whole body burn, but when your whimpers turn to soft, needy moans, when your hips start moving to meet his, he lets go of his restraint.

your legs are hooked over his shoulders now, folding you in half as he drives deeper, his name tumbling from your lips between gasps and moans. his pace is relentless, the sharp slap of skin filling the air, but the sound is nothing compared to the noises you make for him—the broken little whimpers that send him spiraling.

your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake. your head falls back against the silk sheets, eyes glassy, mouth parted as he buries himself deep, hitting that spot that makes your stomach tense, your release creeping closer with every snap of his hips.

"there’s pretty," he chuckles, that same wicked smirk being the last thing you see before your eyes glaze over with pleasurable tears.

"deep breaths, sweetheart," rafe whispers to you again, but this time, it’s when you’re curled up in his lap, a joint balanced between his fingers.

you’re on the couch in your apartment, the room hazy with smoke. he holds the joint to your lips, watching intently as you take a slow drag.

"good. now, inhale—goood," he murmurs, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips as you tilt your head back, exhaling toward the ceiling.

his free hand drifts along your side, fingers trailing the soft expanse of your bare skin—your shirt long discarded, forgotten somewhere on the floor, as well as his.

you take another hit before leaning in, your body pressing flush against his as you pull the joint from your lips. a teasing glint flickers in your eyes as you exhale into his mouth, watching the way his gaze darkens with something unspoken.

"how you feelin’, pretty?" he asks, his voice low, thick with amusement as he takes a hit himself.

"pretty feels good," you giggle, the words airy and light. it’s corny, you know that, but you don’t care. with him, there’s no room for judgment, no space for anything but comfort.

"how ‘bout you, handsome?"

he hums, pretending to think. "well, i have my girlfriend in my lap, smoking my joint with me, and i can’t seem to take my eyes off her."

then, he’s kissing you—slow, deep, and lingering, like he has nowhere else to be, nothing else he’d rather be doing. you kiss back until you’re breathless until your head feels lighter than the smoke curling around you. when you finally pull away, panting, you let your forehead rest against his.

"deep breaths—just like that, you got it," rafe whispers, dragging his lips along the inside of your thigh, the words muffled against your skin.

you’re sprawled across his bed, legs spread open for him, your breath coming in quick, uneven bursts. he’s taking his time, moving with that cocky, controlled patience that drives you insane.

his hands grip your hips firmly, thumbs pressing into your hip bones, keeping you in place even as your body instinctively tries to shift, to chase his mouth.

he chuckles at your impatience, his breath hot against your thigh. "so needy, huh?" his teeth graze the delicate skin there before he presses an open-mouthed kiss just below the edge of your underwear, barely where you want him.

you whimper, your hands clenching in the sheets.

he glances up at you, his blue eyes dark, burning. he watches the way your chest rises and falls, the way your fingers tighten around the fabric beneath you, the way your thighs tremble in his grip.

"breathe for me, baby," he says, voice smooth, coaxing. his fingers press slow, teasing circles into your skin as he holds you open for him, his lips trailing higher—so close but not close enough. "i’m not done with you yet."

your breath shudders, your body coiled tight with anticipation, and just when you think you might beg—when the need is nearly unbearable—he finally gives in. his mouth presses against you exactly where you need him, the first brush of his tongue sending a jolt of pleasure through your spine.

the air rushes from your lungs in a sharp gasp, your fingers dragging to his buzzed hair. you barely have time to catch your breath before he’s completely lost in you, devouring you like he’s starving, like he needs this just as much as you do.

he flattens his tongue against your clit, slow and deliberate at first, savoring the way you tremble beneath him. his hands grip your thighs, keeping them spread wide, keeping you completely at his mercy. he knows you—knows every gasp, every whimper, every tiny movement of your hips.

then, two of his long fingers slide into you, stretching you open, curling just right as they move in sync with his mouth. the pleasure is dizzying and overwhelming, and your back arches off the bed, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pull him closer, needing more.

"rafe—" his name falls from your lips in a breathless gasp, followed by a needy moan as heat coils deep in your belly, tightening with every precise flick of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers.

he groans into you, the vibrations making your legs shake, his pace quickening just the way he knows you like it. "that’s it, baby," he murmurs between kisses against your sensitive skin, his voice thick, almost reverent. "lemme hear you."

and you do. you whimper, and moan, your breath coming in short, desperate pants as your body hurtles closer and closer to the edge. the pressure builds, impossibly tight, the pleasure white-hot as he pushes you further, refusing to let up, refusing to stop until you’re completely undone beneath him.

"breathe, princess," he rasps, his fingers pressing deeper, his tongue moving faster. "i wanna feel you fall apart for me."

#rafe #rafe cameron #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron smut #rafe smut #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #outerbanks rafe #drew #drew starkey #obx #outer banks #s0lidar1ty

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gloomwitchwrites · 4 months ago

Note

may I request a what-if with the 141 where reader pranks the members by buying a fake military knife that isn’t dangerous and hands it to their baby? Like this: https://youtube.com/shorts/aQGZTdYRX6c?si=pX7ja8U4VGL2dATi

(I’m bad at explaining things so I hope you don’t mind the video link for an example)

The video link is totally fine! I appreciate you sending that in for a reference! And you didn't do a terrible job explaining, anon. I immediately knew what you were talking about! Now, this is all in good fun, but I don't recommend you doing it in real life. Can you guess who has the calmest reaction of the four?

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

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, married life, dad!141, girl dad! 141, pranks & shenanigans

Word Count: 1k

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

John Price

John is in his office. It’s the perfect opportunity.

With as much stealth as you can muster, you creep into the living room. In the center of the room is an enclosed space were your daughter crawls around on their stomach. When you approach, she babbles, and you grin down at her.

“Here,” you whisper, placing a prop knife next to her.

The thing is made of rubber and plastic. It won’t cause any actual harm. She immediately reaches for it, tiny fingers unable to completely wrap around the handle.

Backing up slowly, you call out to your husband. “John! Can you check on the baby?”

A pause. “Course, love,” he replies.

You hurry back into the kitchen just as you hear the squeak of his chair. John emerges, rubbing at the back of his neck. His head is down, gaze lowered, and when he notices his daughter, John grins.

“Hello, sweet girl,” he coos. “What do you have—” John’s gentle tone because one of sharp concern. “The fuck.”

John lunges, disappearing beyond your line of sight. He reappears seconds later with his daughter tucked in one arm and the pretend knife clutched in his opposite hand. With the pointy end pointed away from the precious cargo he carries, John slowly walks over to the wall and presses the blade to it.

The rubber surrenders, bending in on itself.

John sighs heavily, and then slowly turns his head in your direction.

You give him your best shit-eating grin as your daughter giggles manically.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“What are you doing? What’s in your hand?”

Simon sounds…calm. Why does he sound so calm? He should be stressed right now. Panicking.

“Is that a knife? That’s dangerous. Want to give it to me?”

Sure, the knife is fake. Made of flexible rubber and plastic, it won’t harm anyone. But at a glance it appears real enough. Did Simon see you hand it to your daughter? Is he aware of the joke and just playing along?

You creep closer, not wanting to give away your hiding spot.

“Very good. Hand that to daddy.”

Your daughter coos, and then Simon appears from thin air.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp. “You scared me.”

“Really?” he deadpans, holding up the prop knife.

Your daughter comes waddling out after him wrapping her chubby arms around his leg while she happily mumbles “daddy.”

“I thought it was hilarious,” you mutter as he tosses it at you.

Simon bends at the knees and scoops up his daughter. As he passes, he leans down, lips almost pressing against your ear. “I knew the moment I laid eyes on it. Didn’t fool me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He grins, and winks. “Comes with the territory of the job, love. I’d spot a fake anywhere.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Your daughter sits in her high chair, chewing on the end of the fake knife you’ve handed her. It’s just a prop, made to not cause any actual arm. She chews on the pointy end, drool dripping on to her tiny fingers.

Slowly, you back away, poised to dart down the hall to hide.

“Can you watch her?” you call out.

Kyle answers a few seconds later. “What?”

“Can you watch her?” You move out of the kitchen and into the hall.

“Where is she?”

“In the kitchen,” you shout back. “She’s eating.”

You hear Kyle’s voice soften. “What are you eating, love? What—oh. What the fuck!”

With the rise of surprise in his tone, you return to the kitchen. “Something wrong?”

Your daughter giggles and coos, arms outstretched as she reaches for her father. Kyle holds the knife in two hands, an unamused expression on his face.

“Did I get you?” you ask with a grin.

The annoyed expression melts, becoming a soft smile. “You did.”

He bends forward and places a quick kiss to the top of his daughter’s head. As he draws away from her, he reaches for you, grabbing your waist to pull you in. “And you’re a bloody menace.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

You bend at the knees, holding out the prop knife to your little one. It’s made of rubber and plastic, but it looks real, and that’s the point. With a gleeful giggle, she takes the fake knife, completely unaware of the part she’s about to play in pranking her father.

“Go find daddy,” you coax, pointing in the direction of the living room.

She coos softly, pivots, and begins to walk forward. Each step is stilted as she wobbles toward the sofa. Johnny is on the game with the boys. His entire attention is on the television.

As your daughter approaches him, she lifts her little arm above her head, holding the fake knife high in the air like she’s a tiny Jason Voorhees. From her mouth comes nonsense, just a long breath of babbling, sounds, and the occasional word.

Johnny might be on the game, but he senses her nearness, leaning in her direction. As she rounds the sofa, her tiny body disappears. The only thing you can see is the occasional glimpse of the knife point. She screeches with glee and Johnny’s attention shifts. It’s a brief look, one intended to simply make sure she’s okay, but then he’s doing a double-take.

“What the fuck!”

Johnny launches himself off the couch, the game controller flying. Your daughter points the knife at him and Johnny immediately raises his hands in surrender.

“Where’d you get that? Find it on the ground somewhere?”

You nearly snort. He’s trying to sound calm but you hear the bite of panic.

Your daughter’s reply is to charge him. Johnny sidesteps her pathetic swing before plucking the knife right of her hand.

“How—” He stops. Frowns. And then places his entire hand around the blade. He releases it. Repeats the gesture.

Johnny glances up and chuckles, locking eyes with you. “You’re bloody well having a laugh at me, aren’t you?”

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littlelamy · 2 months ago

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“what is up daddy gang—it’s your founding father Alex Cooper with Call. Her. Daddy. and today…” she leans into the mic, grin wild like she’s about to spill government secrets, “we’ve got the it-girl of the fashion world, THE queen of ‘oh that’s just my friend,’ and apparently—allegedly—the woman giving drew starkey something to smile about. y/n l/n, welcome to call her daddy .”

you giggle smiling, eyes sliding to the side where drew sits behind the camera, legs spread wide in dark-washed jeans, thumb playing with his bottom lip, pretending like he’s not listening to every word.

“hi,” you say, dragging it out slow, lashes batting. “before we start..i’m not saying anything incriminating.”

alex laughs, leaning back. “okay, but you slid into his dms, right? or was this like, a ‘we met at a bar and he begged to buy you a drink while sweating through his shirt’ vibe?”

you snort. “he was sweating,” you confirm. “but he didn’t beg me, just kinda stared. really intensely, like, you’re gonna let me hit eventually kind of stare..it was a little cocky actually.”

behind the camera, drew lifts his brows and smirks, cocky bastard. alex notices, points. “oh my god, he’s smiling! that’s a ‘yeah, i hit it in the trailer’ smile. babe, did he give a good trailer?”

you hum. stretch one leg over the other, slow. “the trailer was very memorable. full mirrors....little couch. we tested the noise insulation. but, before anyone says anything i did make him wait....after two dates.”

“girl, stop,” alex groans, shaking the question cards in her hand. “don’t you dare tease the daddy gang like that. we need details...okay. here’s the real question....drew starkey—giver or receiver?”

your lips twitch as your gaze flicks to the side again, locking with his. he raises a brow, daring you. you bite your bottom lip, slow, then tilt your chin with faux innocence. “he’s a giver....big time.”

alex’s eyes go wide. “like….eat you till you cry type?”

“eat me like a dying man at a buffet,” you reply, voice low. “like, i’ve had to tap out. that man doesn’t quit....it’s a problem.”

“stoppp,” she hisses, fanning herself. “you’re telling me drew starkey is down there with a mission statement?”

“mm-hmm,” you nod. “very passionate about the job...lotta eye contact....makes a mess, and doesn’t care. sometimes i wonder if he’s doing it for me or for a performance review.”

alex clutches her mic like she’s about to explode. “does he, like, talk while he does it? whisper dirty shit?”

“oh yeah,” you grin. “he’s a talker. likes to ask questions he knows the answer to. ‘you like that? that what you needed?’”

“fuck,” she gasps. “he gives boyfriend who’s secretly feral energy.”

“he is—looks like he’d help your grandma with groceries but actually wants to bend you over the hood of your car in a 7/11 parking lot.”

“dead..i’m dead.” alex is crying-laughing. “okay, okay. scale of 1 to broke the headboard?”

you laugh looking at her and then the camera. “we've had to buy a new bed frame, twice.”

alex slaps the desk, next to her, holding her mic closer to her mouth. “DADDY GANG—THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”

“also a wall mirror,” you add casually, sipping your drink.

“he broke a mirror?!”

“well,” you shrug. “technically i did....with my foot. it's a long story.”

drew, behind the camera, drags a hand down his face, hiding a laugh. you wink at him. alex leans in, feral-eyed. “you ever, like..film it?”

you blink and smile slowly. “that’s..not for the free content.”

“i knew it! oh my god! tell me—do you rewatch?” you tilt your head, teasing. “when i miss him on location, yeah. keeps me company.”

alex gasps like it’s pornographic scripture. “he’s gonna make a whole generation of girls delusional.”

you just smile, slow, catlike. “yeah..well..they can dream.”

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guliexe · 20 days ago

Text

━━━PROVE ME WRONG 18+

Yang Jungwon x Female!Reader

.��warnings/tags: enemies to lovers, soft dom!jungwon, needy!reader, making out, dry humping, dirty talk, praising, teasing, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, p in v, squirting, crying, confessing, reader is so down bad for him loool

♡ you swore you hated him, until he made you feel everything you tried to deny.

.ᐟwc: 6.5k

You’ve been in the same friend group as Jungwon for almost a year now. It wasn’t a choice, really, he just came with the package. A friend of a friend who started showing up to things so regularly it was impossible to avoid him. House parties, movie nights, random hangouts at someone’s apartment. He’d be there, always leaning against a wall or sunk into a couch, quiet and sharp-eyed like he was waiting for something to irritate him. And for some reason, that something is always you. You’re not sure when it started. The bickering, the looks, the weird tension that’s too constant to be harmless. Sometimes you think he enjoys getting under your skin. Sometimes you’re afraid you do, too. It’s not like you’re friends. You talk, but only to annoy each other. You stand near each other, but never too close. He’ll brush your arm when passing behind you, or press a hand to your waist like he’s just trying to get by, but you know it lingers longer than it should. He knows it, too.

He’s cocky. Always calm. The type who never has to raise his voice to make you feel like you’re losing. And you—you act tough. You roll your eyes, talk back, call him names that make your friends laugh. But it’s a mask. Because deep down, your stomach flips every time he looks at you. Your mouth dries up when he stands too close. Your brain scrambles when his voice drops too low. You pretend it’s nothing. That it doesn’t matter. That you don’t go home after nights out and touch yourself to the thought of him—his face, his voice, his fingers on your skin, telling you you’re doing so good for him. You hate him. You want him. You don’t know the difference anymore. And tonight, it’s getting harder to hide.

You stand in front of your mirror, twisting the strap of your top around your finger like it’s a lifeline. The room’s warm, but your skin feels electric—like you’re waiting for something you can’t say out loud. You’re not sure why tonight feels different. It’s just a party. Maybe it’s the way your heart races when you think about him. Maybe it’s the way your hands tremble just a little when you smooth your hair one last time. Or maybe it’s the faint hope that he’ll actually notice you tonight. Not the usual glare or sharp glance, but something else. Something softer. Something real. You pull on your jacket, catch your reflection again, and force yourself to stop overthinking. You’re not the shy girl everyone thinks you are. You’re the one who talks back, who laughs too loud, who acts like she doesn’t care. Right?

You step inside, weaving through the crowd with your friends close behind, the heavy bass reverberating through the floor. The house is packed, voices mixing with laughter and the clinking of bottles. The smell of sweat, perfume, and something faintly like alcohol fills the air. Your eyes scan automatically, and there he is—Jungwon, standing near the far wall, one foot propped against it casually. His dark eyes lock onto yours immediately, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips like he knows exactly the effect he has on you. For a second, it feels like the room shrinks around you. The noise dulls. Your heart kicks a little harder in your chest, but you refuse to let it show. You adjust your skirt and pretend not to notice the way his eyes are still on you. Pretend your breath isn’t catching and your skin isn’t buzzing just from the sight of him, leaned back like he owns the whole place. Your friends disappear into the crowd ahead of you, heading for the drinks table, but you linger, like you always do. Like you can’t help yourself. And of course, it only takes him a few steps to close the distance. He always does this—finds you. He just appears, quiet and intentional. “Wow,” he says, low and slow, voice brushing against your skin like velvet. “You actually made an effort tonight.” You roll your eyes, but your heart stutters. “Is that your idea of a compliment?” He shrugs, looking amused. “Take it however you want.”

You huff, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “Don’t worry. I won’t start dressing up just for you.” His eyes flick down your figure, slow and obvious. “Shame.” You scoff, turning your head so he doesn’t see the way your face warms, but his hand brushes against your waist as someone passes behind you, and again, it lingers. Barely a second too long. “Watch it,” you mutter. He leans a fraction closer. “You didn’t move.” You open your mouth to fire back, but before you can say anything, someone calls your name from across the room. “Guys come sit with us!” Jungwon smirks at you one last time, then walks off without another word, hands tucked in his pockets like he’s not leaving you absolutely burning. The group’s gathered in the living room now—bodies crammed onto couches and sprawled on the carpet with drinks in hand. The lights are dimmed and colorful. You’re curled up between your friends on one of the couches, legs crossed, a drink balanced in your hand. The music has softened a little now that everyone’s packed into the living room, cushions stolen off the couch and dragged to the floor. Jungwon’s across the room, lounging half-sunk into the armchair with a half-empty red cup in one hand and his other arm draped lazily over the back of the seat. He looks calm, bored even, but you know him well enough to catch the spark behind that disinterested expression. He’s watching. Waiting. You try not to let your eyes linger.

Someone suggests Truth or Dare, and it only takes a few cheers and clinks of drinks for it to begin. It starts light, somebody takes a shot, another confesses a secret crush on someone’s older brother, and then someone gets dared to kiss the person to their left, and the room tips into something more teasing and charged. You’re half-laughing at that when someone goes, “Okay—your turn,” and points to one of the girls across the circle. She looks around, eyes sparkling, clearly scheming. She hums, then smirks. “I’ve got one. For you—” she says, eyes landing directly on Jungwon. “And you,” she adds, turning to you. Immediately, the room perks up. Jungwon raises an eyebrow, not moving, but you can feel the attention shift. Your spine straightens slightly. “I dare you two,” the girl says, grinning now, “to sit in front of each other and hold eye contact for a minute. No breaking it. No laughing.” Groans and excited gasps ripple through the circle. “Yes. Yes. That’s so them,” someone says. “Bro, no way,” you say quickly, but there’s already movement in the room. Someone scoots a pillow onto the floor between the couch and the armchair. “Scared?” Jungwon’s voice cuts through the chatter. His tone is calm, as always, but there’s a flicker of challenge under it. His eyes meet yours, unreadable. “You don’t have to if you’re already feeling weak.” You roll your eyes. “You’re not that intimidating, Jungwon.” “Prove it,” he says.

Your heart knocks against your ribs, but you don’t let it show. With a dramatic sigh, you uncross your legs and push yourself off the couch, brushing invisible lint off your skirt like this is no big deal. It is. But you won’t let him know that. The circle shifts slightly to make room as you move toward the center, sitting cross-legged on the pillow they placed, facing Jungwon. He’s already there, sitting lazy and cool on the floor like he’s got all the time in the world. His knee brushes against yours when he adjusts his posture, and you resist the urge to pull back. Someone sets a timer. “Sixty seconds,” they say. “Starting now.” The room quiets into a low hum as your eyes meet his. He’s close, closer than he usually allows himself to be in front of others. His expression is unreadable, but his gaze is steady, intense, locked on you like it’s a test and he’s already sure he’ll win. At first, it’s just kind of funny. You raise a brow, challenge him silently. His lip quirks, like he’s daring you to break. You don’t. But as the seconds pass, something shifts. His stare sharpens. Not cruel. Just focused. Curious, even. Like he’s studying you. You don’t blink. You try not to squirm. But there’s heat crawling up your neck, prickling under your skin. The sound of your own breathing starts to feel too loud. You’re aware of everything—how close his knees are to yours, how heavy his gaze feels, how your hands are clenched in your lap to keep from fidgeting. “Thirty seconds,” someone mutters. Halfway.

You swallow, and his eyes follow the movement of your throat. You can tell. You hate that you can tell. “Didn’t think it’d be this easy to shut you up,” he murmurs, barely loud enough for you to hear. Your breath hitches, but you don’t answer. “Your cheeks are red.” “They’re not.” “They are.” He leans in a little—not enough for the others to notice, but enough for you to feel his breath on your face. “It’s cute,” he says. You almost flinch. Almost. But you force yourself to stay still. “You talk too much.” “And you stare too much.” You go rigid, caught. His smile widens slightly, lazy and infuriating. “Ten seconds,” someone calls out. You’re barely breathing. His eyes haven’t left yours for a second, and you swear something in your chest is about to combust. The final seconds pass in silence, and when someone finally yells, “Time!” you tear your eyes away like you’ve been slapped. People cheer, laugh, someone throws a pillow, but you don’t say anything. You just rise to your feet quickly, brushing your hands against your thighs. Your skin feels too hot, like the air around you is thicker than it was before. Jungwon doesn’t stand up right away. He just looks at you from where he’s still seated, that smirk back on his face. You return to your seat between your friends, trying to act like you’re totally fine, like your heart isn’t racing and your thighs aren’t pressed together tightly. The game keeps going, but your mind is still tangled in that look, his voice, the heat in your cheeks. Eventually, the game peters out into casual conversation, music growing a little louder again as people get distracted. Some are passing around a joint, others talking over one another, half-curled up on couches or the floor.

You laugh at someone’s joke. Sip from your cup. Try to shake it off. But you can still feel him, like his gaze hasn’t left you all night. After a while, you decide to get some air—or something to drink. Anything to ground yourself. You slip away from the group after a while, mumbling something about needing a drink. No one really notices. The kitchen is quieter, the thrum of music muffled through the walls. You open the fridge, grabbing the juice bottle and pouring it into a red plastic cup with shaky fingers. You don’t know why your hands are trembling. You blame the heat. The alcohol. Him. You’re halfway through your drink when you hear footsteps behind you. “You always run off when I show up.” You don’t have to turn to know it’s Jungwon. You stare down into your cup and exhale through your nose before speaking. “You’re not that important.” He scoffs from behind you. “Then why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost every time I’m near you?” You spin, eyes narrowed. “Why are you even here? Are you following me now?” “I came for a drink,” he says, tone clipped. “Didn’t realize I’d find you hiding in here like a coward.” Your mouth drops open. “A coward?” “You heard me.” “You’re unbelievable,” you snap, setting your cup down harder than necessary. “You show up to everything I’m at, pick fights for no reason, and then act like I’m the problem.” “Maybe you are.” That stuns you into silence for a second. You blink at him, your chest tightening. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He steps closer, not quite yelling, but louder than you’ve ever heard him. “You act like nothing matters. Like you’re too good to care. But you do. You care so much it makes you fucking twitchy every time I walk into the room.” You laugh bitterly. “You’re projecting.” He doesn’t smile. “You act like you don’t see me. Like I’m not in the room unless you want someone to argue with. And the second I push back, you act like I’ve done something wrong.” “Because you’re mean,” you hiss. “You look at me like you hate me. You talk to me like you hate me.” “Maybe I do,” he says—fast, harsh.

The words hit like a slap. You stare at him. Something cracks under your ribs, and before you can stop it, you feel it—anger rushing up, quick and sharp and choking.“Then stay the fuck away from me.” You shove past him, shoulder catching his as you storm down the hall and up the stairs, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the music. You don’t stop until you’re in your friend’s room, door shut behind you, and you collapse on the bed. Your chest heaves. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hold it together. You’re lying on your back, arms spread, staring blankly at the ceiling of your friend’s room. The pillow underneath you smells faintly like her perfume, soft and familiar, but it doesn’t help. You’re hot with frustration, and your chest still feels too tight. You’ve been up here for twenty minutes now, shoes kicked off, makeup probably smudged from pressing your hands over your face. You’re angry—at him, at yourself, at how everything with Jungwon always seems to spiral out of control. You don’t realize you’re about to fall asleep until you hear the knock. A soft, single tap on the door. Then a pause. And a quiet creak as it opens. You blink hard, sitting up just slightly. And of course—it’s him. Jungwon slips inside without asking, one hand still on the door like he’s giving you a chance to kick him out. You just stare, lips parted, unsure what to say. He closes it behind him. For a second, he just stands there, watching you.

Then, in that maddeningly even voice of his, he says, “I don’t actually hate you, you know.” You blink again. “Could’ve fooled me.” His mouth quirks. “You’re the only person I fight with like this.” “Wow. I feel special.” He walks closer, slow and steady, until he’s standing at the edge of the bed. Then he sits, not touching you, just leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. You can feel the warmth of him, though his presence too loud in the quiet room. A beat passes. He turns his head to look at you, that unreadable glint in his eyes again. “You looked pissed earlier.” “You were yelling at me—” “You were yelling first.” You don’t know what to say. The silence stretches between you, thick with something neither of you wants to name. You’re perched at the edge of the bed now, knees brushing, and he’s just sitting there like he owns the room, like he’s not making your heart slam behind your ribs. “You’re quiet,” he says, voice low, amused. You glare, weakly. “You’re annoying.” He hums. “You’ve said that before.” “Because it’s true.” His lips twitch, barely hiding his smirk. “You always get so defensive when I get too close.” You freeze. He leans in a little—barely—but it’s enough to make you sit back slightly, even as your breath catches in your throat. “You act tough,” Jungwon murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth for just a second. “But you’re not. Not with me.” Your chest tightens. “You don’t know me.” “I know enough.” His voice dips. “I know you get shy when I touch you. I know you stare when you think I’m not looking. And I know,” he says, gaze holding yours like a challenge, “that there’s someone you’re trying really hard not to say.” Your breath stutters. He smiles, slow and dangerous. “Am I wrong?” You don’t answer, you can’t. Your silence is all the confirmation he needs.

He leans in and kisses you—finally, finally—and it’s not soft. It’s confident, cocky. His lips press to yours with just the right pressure, coaxing you to melt into him, and you do, before you even realize it. Your hands fumble to grab onto something—his sleeve, the bedsheets, anything to ground yourself as your head spins. Your lips part instinctively, and he deepens the kiss with a soft, satisfied groan against your mouth. It’s overwhelming and hot. Way too much and still not enough. He pulls back grinning—smug and gorgeous and utterly infuriating. “See?” he says quietly, breath brushing your lips. “Not so tough now, are you?” Your cheeks burn. You blink at him, lips tingling, heart thudding, completely thrown off by how effortlessly he’s unraveled you in seconds. “I—shut up,” you mumble, voice unsteady. He chuckles, and it’s low and knowing. “Didn’t think you’d get all shy on me. Kinda cute, though.” “Jungwon—“ “Yeah?” He leans closer again, his knee brushing yours, hand resting beside your thigh like he’s giving you the option to push him away. You don’t. You can’t. Your eyes flick to his mouth, just once, but he catches it immediately. The smirk returns. “You wanna kiss me again?” he asks, soft and smug and stupidly hot. You hesitate, only for a second, but it’s all he needs to see it on your face. The wanting. The need. His eyes darken. And then—it’s you who kisses him. Messy and urgent. Less about proving something and more about needing him. Your fingers tangle into the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer like you can’t stand another inch between you. He hums into it, pleased, letting you take control for just a second, but when he kisses you back, it’s rougher, deeper, like he’s been starving. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tips your head for a better angle, and you melt into him with a quiet whimper that makes him smirk against your lips. “Good girl,” he mutters when you break for air, forehead resting against his, your breath shaky and skin burning. You make a soft noise in response, and he grins like he owns you now. And maybe he does. because you already want more.

You kiss him again, quick and desperate. His mouth firmly moves against yours, savoring how soft you’ve gotten in his hands. You shift, trying to get closer, your legs brushing his—until you end up in his lap, straddling him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The moment you realize, your breath catches. Your hands freeze on his shoulders. But he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t flinch. He just looks up at you with that unreadable gaze and runs his hands down your thighs, slow and confident. “Mmh” he hums, fingers tightening slightly. “Didn’t think you’d get this needy for me.” “I’m not—” you start, but your voice comes out breathy, weak, embarrassingly close to a whine. He smirks. “You sure? You kissed me twice.” Your cheeks burn. You try to avoid his gaze, but his hand finds your jaw, fingers tilting your face back toward him. His thumb brushes over your lower lip. “Say it,” he says softly. “Say you want me.” You shake your head, just barely. “I—Jungwon…” “Say it,” he repeats, his tone makes you squirm in his lap. “Be good for me.” Something in you crumbles. “…I want you,” you whisper, small and shaky. His grip on your waist tightens, and he pulls you down flush against him—just enough for you to feel the shape of him through his jeans. Your breath catches, and your hips stutter forward instinctively. “Oh?” he breathes out, grin turning sharper. “There’s my good girl.” You whimper. He kisses you again, rough, tongue slipping past your lips with an ease making your stomach flip. Your hands fist in his hoodie as your hips start to move on their own, grinding down against him through your clothes, desperate for friction, anything to ease the ache building in your core and he lets you. He hust watches you fall apart, his hands steady on your hips, guiding your movements lazily as he kisses the breath from your lungs.

“You’re soaked through.” he whispers against your mouth, voice thick. “All from kissing me?” You nod, helpless. “Thought you hated me,” he adds, dragging his lips down to your neck. “But you’re so fucking desperate, baby.” “W-Wonnie,” you breathe, nails digging into his shoulders. “Please…” He groans at the nickname as his dick twitches under you, his hips shifting up to meet yours. “You don’t get to act all mean with me anymore,” he murmurs, lips hot against your skin. “Not when you’re whimpering in my lap like this.” You let out a shaky moan, biting your lip, and he catches it with a kiss again, messy and deep and completely undoing you. Your hips rock forward again—slow at first, like you’re testing the waters, and then again, needier this time, like your body’s stopped listening to your brain altogether. “Fuck,” you whisper, jaw going slack as the friction hits just right. Your forehead drops to his shoulder, breath hot against his neck. Jungwon just exhales a quiet laugh, one hand trailing up your back beneath your shirt, warm against your spine. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs. “You like it, baby?” You nod fast. “Use your words, baby,” he says, voice almost amused. “Don’t go all quiet on me now.” You don’t mean to say it, not like this, not all breathy and fucked-out and vulnerable, but it tumbles out anyway, “W-Wonnie, please,” you whine, rolling your hips down again. “M’so wet…need you.” His grip on your waist tightens instantly. His head drops back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut for a beat as he groans. “Shit, you’re unreal,” he breathes, looking at you again, trying to memorize the exact way you look on top of him, all messy and needy and soft. “You’re fucking soaked, huh?” You nod again, face buried in his neck. “Feels s’good… need more.” you whisper, barely holding yourself together.

“I know you do,” he whispers, voice dark and coaxing. “My good girl’s been waiting for this, haven’t you?” Your hips stutter again, and a tiny moan escapes your lips. “You pretend so hard,” he goes on, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your neck, lazy and warm. “But the second I touch you like this, you just melt.” He guides you then—strong hands moving your hips in a rhythm that has you gasping, grinding down against the thick bulge in his jeans. His voice stays low, steady in your ear. “You like it when I take control, don’t you?” “Y-Yeah,” you admit in a whisper, trembling in his lap. Your head tips back as his lips trail along your neck, hot and open-mouthed, dragging a whimper out of you when he starts to suck at a spot just beneath your ear. He hums in satisfaction, lips latching on harder until he’s sure it’ll leave a mark. Then his hands are under your shirt, impatient. You inhale sharply as he tugs it up, his fingers brushing your bare skin, making you shiver. “This okay?” he asks suddenly, voice low but serious. You nod. “Yes.” He pulls your shirt over your head and lets it fall somewhere on the floor. The cool air hits your bare chest for half a second before his hands are on you again—firm and warm. His thumbs swipe over the curve of your breasts before he leans in and wraps his mouth around one nipple, sucking slow and deep, tongue flicking against the sensitive peak. You gasp, your back arching, fingers threading through his hair.

“Mmm—Wonnie,” you breathe, voice breaking. His grip on your waist tightens. He switches to your other nipple, lavishing it with the same attention while his free hand moves to cup the one he just left, squeezing gently like he can’t get enough. When he finally pulls back, your chest is flushed, marked with faint red patches and the start of bruises. Then he dips down to your neck again, peppering kisses over your throat, your collarbones, and down the curve of your shoulder. “Gonna leave you covered,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, “So fucking pretty like this. All mine.” You moan softly when his hand trails lower, resting between your legs under the fabric of your skirt. He firmly presses his palm against your heat. You whimper at the friction, hips twitching. His eyes are dark when they meet yours again, and he smirks like he knows exactly how far gone you are “Need my fingers in you, baby?” he asks, rubbing slow circles over your clothed pussy. “Want me to stretch you out nice and slow?” “Please,” you whisper, almost shaking. He grins satisfied, hungry. “Good girl.” You let him slip your skirt off, hips lifting to help him, and then you’re left in just your underwear. He takes a second to look at you spread out for him, flushed and trembling, before leaning in to kiss you again. Your hands fumble at the hem of his shirt, tugging impatiently, and he chuckles against your mouth. “Can’t wait, huh?” “Shut up,” you whine. But he obeys. He pulls away just long enough to strip it off, revealing his toned body, the lines of his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt aside. Then he’s back on you, kissing you again like a starved man. And when his hand finally slips past the waistband of your underwear and touches you, you nearly sob.

He groans into your mouth when his fingers find how soaked you are—slick and warm and dripping for him. “Fuck,” he mutters, dragging his fingers through your folds slowly, teasing your clit with the lightest pressure that has you twitching under his touch. “All this for me? You can barely nod, whimpering as he circles your clit, lazy, torturous strokes that make your hips jerk up. You’re breathing hard, face flushed, and your hands clutch at his shoulders, his hair, anything to anchor you while he keeps pushing you higher with maddening patience. Then without warning, he pulls your panties to the side and slides two fingers into you, slow and deliberate. You choke on a moan, your entire body going tense for a second before melting into the sensation. “W-Wonnie—” your voice breaks on his name, thighs shaking as he starts to move them, curling just right. He watches your face as he pumps his fingers in and out, finding that spot that makes you gasp and clench around him. “Gripping me so good, baby. Bet you’ve been dreaming about this, hm?” His tone is low and thick with lust. Your hips move on instinct, chasing his fingers, chasing the high he’s building inside you. And all the while, his mouth is on your chest again—hot, wet kisses trailing across your skin as he sucks your nipples, one after the other, his free hand squeezing your ass, pulling you impossibly closer. It’s too much. It’s perfect. It’s everything. Your head falls back, lips parted in a soft cry. “Feels so good—don’t stop—please don’t stop…”

He chuckles against your skin, fingers curling just right again, dragging another broken moan from your throat. “Not gonna stop, baby. Not when you’re being so fucking good for me.” His thumb joins in, rubbing slow, tight circles over your clit while his fingers keep thrusting deep inside you. Your legs tremble, your body clenching around him. “W-Wonnie, I—I think—” You can’t finish. You can’t even think. Everything’s too much, building fast, burning hot behind your eyes. He kisses your throat, voice ragged. “Yeah? You gonna cum for me, baby? Show me how bad you need it.” He picks up the pace, precise and relentless, and the pleasure finally crashes over you—white-hot and all-consuming. You cry out, legs trembling around him as your orgasm hits, soaking his fingers as you clamp down hard around him. He works you through it, soft praises in your ear, “That’s it, baby, that’s my girl… fuck, you’re perfect…”—until your body finally relaxes, slumping into his chest, breathless and buzzing. But the need doesn’t fade. If anything, it gets worse. Your hand drifts down, slow and uncertain, until your palm presses over the thick bulge in his sweatpants. He sucks in a breath, hips twitching at the contact. You look up at him through your lashes, eyes wide and glassy, still dazed from your orgasm. “Please, Wonnie…” you whisper, fingers curling slightly over him, rubbing just enough to make him hiss. “Want you in me. Pretty please…”

His jaw clenches, and for a second he just stares at you—like he’s trying to hold himself together, like he’s fighting every instinct not to just take you right then and there. Then he groans, low and wrecked, and leans down to kiss you hard. “You’re killing me,” he mutters against your lips, voice rough. “You know that?” You nod, breath hitching. “Need you.” That’s all it takes. In the next second, he flips you over gently, laying you flat on your back. The shift knocks the air from your lungs, you barely have time to gasp before he’s on top of you, kissing down your body with open-mouthed, desperate kisses, like he can’t get enough of you. Your panties are the first to go, he hooks his fingers into the waistband and slowly drags them down your thighs, eyes drinking in every inch of skin he reveals. “So fucking pretty,” he breathes, mostly to himself. “All this just for me.” Then he sits back just long enough to strip for you, tugging his sweatpants and boxers down in one motion. His cock springs free, flushed and hard and leaking, and your breath catches. You don’t even realize you’re staring until his voice cuts through the haze. “You ready for me, baby?” he asks softly, climbing back between your legs, hand stroking himself slowly. You nod, legs parting instinctively. “Please,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Need to feel you.” He leans down to kiss you again—slow, deep, sweet—and positions himself at your entrance, one hand steady on your thigh. “I got you, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “Gonna make you feel so good.”

He pushes in slow, agonizingly slow, giving you every inch, every second to feel him stretch you open. The burn makes your breath catch, and your fingers clutch at the sheets beside you, back arching as he sinks deeper. “F-Fuck,” he breathes, eyes glued to where your bodies meet. “You’re so tight, baby… fuck, you’re perfect.” Your walls flutter around him, trying to adjust, and he stills once he bottoms out, his hips pressed flush to yours. One hand strokes over your thigh, soft and grounding, while the other settles against your waist, holding you like you might disappear. “You okay?” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours. You nod fast, already trembling beneath him, lips parted, eyes glassy. “Y-Yeah… just—feels so full.” He leans in and kisses you, slow, deep, and tender. Not teasing this time, not smug. His hips start to move in slow, shallow thrusts, easing you into the rhythm. Every drag of him inside you makes your body shiver, your breath coming in short, broken pants. He groans quietly against your mouth with each roll of his hips, savoring the way you cling to him. “You feel so good, baby,” he murmurs between kisses, voice low and wrecked. “Taking me so well.” Your fingers thread through his hair again, pulling him closer, clinging. “Wonnie…” you breathe, completely undone. “You feel so good…”He picks up the pace just slightly, the sound of skin on skin soft but filthy in the quiet room. His hands caress your thighs, your hips, your waist—anywhere he can touch, needing to feel every part of you under him. “Wanted you like this for so long,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “Always acting like you hate me… but you’re mine now, yeah?”

You moan, nodding helplessly. “Y-Yeah—‘m yours, Wonnie…” His rhythm stutters for a second at that, a quiet growl rumbling in his throat. He kisses you again, harder, hips rocking into yours with a little more force. “Say it again,” he murmurs, voice tight. “I’m yours,” you whimper, clinging to him. His hand slips under your back, holding you tighter as he buries himself in you again, hitting just right. You cry out, eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure builds all over again. And above you, Jungwon just watches—drunk on you, completely wrecked, and totally, hopelessly in love. He keeps moving inside you, steady and deep, dragging soft whimpers and breathy moans from your lips every time his hips press into yours. The way he’s looking at you—like he’s obsessed, like he can’t believe you’re real—makes your heart ache in the best way. “You’re doing so good f’me,” he murmurs, hips rolling in a perfect rhythm. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, trying to keep him close, but the pressure’s building again, hot and tight and overwhelming, and he can tell. Your walls flutter around him, and he groans into your neck, breath ragged. You’re gonna cum again f’me?” he pants, thrusts getting a little rougher now. “Shit… you’re close, baby?” You nod, completely breathless. “Y-Yeah, ‘m close—please, don’t stop—” “I won’t,” he promises, kissing your cheek as his hips slam into yours. “Gonna make you cum so hard, baby. Wanna feel you squeeze me again.” You fall apart a moment later, legs trembling, back arching off the bed as your orgasm crashes through you. You sob his name, eyes wet and hazy, and he fucks you through it—deep, slow thrusts that make the pleasure stretch out endlessly.

He groans, hips stuttering, and presses his forehead to your shoulder, voice tight. “Fuck—you feel so good when you cum…” And then, before you can fully catch your breath, he pulls out. “J-Jungwon?” you gasp, blinking up at him, dazed. “Turn over for me,” he pants, eyes dark and wild. You obey instantly, shaky limbs moving to prop yourself up on your elbows, your chest against the sheets and your ass in the air for him. You don’t even have time to feel embarrassed. “Fuck… look at you,” he murmurs, running his hands down your back to your hips. “God, you’re perfect like this.” You let out a tiny moan, hips shifting instinctively, and then he’s back inside you—deeper this time, the angle making you cry out. He gives you a second to adjust before he starts to move again, hands gripping your waist, his thighs smacking against the backs of yours with every thrust. You bury your face into the sheets, moaning with every stroke. “Wonnie—f-fuck! it’s so deep—s’too much.” “I know,” he groans, watching the way your body reacts, your ass bouncing back against him with each thrust. “You’re taking it so fucking well.” His hand slides up your spine, pressing down gently between your shoulder blades until your back arches more, hips tilted perfectly for him. The new angle makes you sob. “Oh my god—Jungwon—please—” He groans at the sound of your voice, snapping his hips harder, faster now. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.” You can barely think, barely breathe—just the sound of his skin against yours, your gasps and his low, broken groans echoing through the room.

He leans over you, one hand tangled in your hair as he presses kisses along your shoulder. “I could fuck you like this forever,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You were made for me.” You nod frantically, tears in your eyes from how good it feels. “Y-Yeah—made for you, Wonnie—only you…” He grins, wicked and breathless, hips still slamming into you. “Good fucking girl.” He pulls you enough to drag your trembling body flush against his chest. You whimper as he presses his chest to your spine, his other arm wrapping around your waist, holding you there, completely under his control as he thrusts up into you with deep, punishing strokes. “Fuck,” he breathes against your ear, voice shaking. “You feel so good—can’t get enough of you—” He buries his face in your neck, groaning raggedly as he pounds into you. “I love you. I love you so fucking much.” The words hit you like a wave—raw and unexpected, spoken like he’s been holding them in for far too long, and something inside you just breaks. Your breath catches, eyes stinging with tears. “W-Wonnie…” your voice cracks as you cry out, overwhelmed. “I—I love you too. So much.” His rhythm falters for a beat at the sound of your voice breaking, at the way your body shakes beneath his, but then he holds you tighter, hips snapping harder. “That’s it, baby—say it again,” he pants, thrusting deep and slow now, grinding against your sweet spot with every movement. “Say it for me.” “I love you,” you sob, head dropping back against his shoulder as the pleasure builds into something devastating. “Love you so much, Jungwon—fuck—” And then you break. Your whole body seizes, legs shaking uncontrollably as you cry out his name, and you squirt, unexpectedly, violently, soaking both of you.

Your thighs tremble around him, your entire body going limp in his arms as pleasure crashes over you in a wave so intense it makes your vision go white. “Holy fuck,” Jungwon groans, stunned, still holding you close as your release coats his thighs and stomach, soaking the sheets below. “You’re so fucking unreal—look at what I do to you…” You’re still shaking when he pulls out with a curse, jerking himself quickly with one hand while keeping the other around your waist to hold you upright. “Fuck—gonna cum—gonna cum all over you, baby—” And then he does, hot and thick and messy, spilling across your ass and the small of your back with a sharp groan. He pants your name like a prayer as his hips twitch forward once more, squeezing your waist as he rides it out. After a few seconds, the room goes quiet. Just your shaky breaths and his heart racing against your back. He leans forward and presses soft, lingering kisses to your shoulder, your spine, your neck. “You okay?” he whispers, breath still ragged. You nod, face buried in the pillow, still catching your breath. “Yeah,” you murmur, voice hoarse but full of warmth. “More than okay.” He kisses your shoulder one last time before pulling back, still breathless, still smiling like you’ve ruined him in the best possible way. Then he lets out a small laugh, eyes scanning the room and the obvious mess you two have made, “Shit,” he murmurs. “We really did that in her bed.”

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bi-writes · 11 months ago

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who to call to clean up after an "accident" than your sick and twisted military boyfriend? :D (dark!ghost x dark!fem!reader, 18+)

cw: dark!reader, dark!simon, horror movie vibes, graphic depictions of character death/murder, unhealthy relationship dynamics, one slip of daddy, smut, unprotected piv, simon "spit in my mouth" riley, reader and simon are kinda psycho :D

you've been so nice to her. really nice. you've let it slide off your back whenever she doesn't do her dishes. you pretend you don't notice when she borrows your shoes from the hallway and wears them out to dinner. you hide yourself in your room when she has her awful, loud guests over, and you have never once said anything about how she takes her sweet time in the shared bathroom in the morning and makes you late 2 days a week for work.

but this? this?

she needs to keep simon's name out of her fucking mouth.

"excuse me?" you say finally. your roommate is shrugging on her jacket to leave, her purse in her hand as she types on her phone, using it as a way to not make eye-contact with you. her long nails are tapping against the screen, and it feels like fucking drip water torture. "what the fuck did you just say?"

she sighs, irritated, rolling her eyes as she keeps tapping away at the screen.

"you're so dramatic, it was just a fucking joke."

"you know, i let a lot of things slide," you laugh, humorlessly, and you cross your arms over your chest as you follow her into the kitchen. "but you need to be careful what you say."

"i don't do anything except call it like i see it," she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder and looking at herself in the reflection of the mirror hanging on the wall. "you need to just...go out more. man like that isn't gonna stay for long if you don't give him something to go for. he's bored, you know. when you have him over here all the time. and i've totally caught him peeking at me after i shower, y'know."

"well why the fuck are you wearing nothing but a towel when my boyfriend is here, anyways?" you snap. "he's trying to be polite, he's a guest. what if i wore a fucking towel when you had your guy friends over?"

she laughs, poking at the edge of her lip to fix the gloss of her pout. "trust me, honey, no one's looking at you in a towel."

you step back, a little shocked. she rolls her eyes again, sighing.

"i didn't--"

"are you kidding me?" you retort. "you're the worst fucking roommate in the world, and i put up with all your bullshit, and now you're going to go so low as to insult the way i look just to make yourself feel better?" you make your way around the kitchen island. "you don't wash your fucking dishes, you steal my fucking clothes, you're always late on your rent so i have to spot you--"

"you know what, just because i'm fucking happy, and you're not, doesn't mean you have to take it out on me!"

"i am happy, you sorry bitch!" you cry. "i'm so fucking happy, you're the only thing in my life making me constantly miserable!"

"oh, shove it up your ass, you ungrateful little shit!" she snaps. "you're just so fucking insecure and hate me so badly just because simon would rather fuck a girl like me than have to spend another minute with--"

the crack of cast iron against her head shuts her up. it dents the side of her head easily, and her face smacks against the countertop before she crumples to the floor.

it's so fast. one minute, she's yapping, high-pitched voice straining your ears. the next, she's silent.

and she won't say simon's fucking name again.

you watch with bated breath as she folds into herself, her head hitting the hardwood last, a slow puddle of blood beginning to grow under the tendrils of her hair as your eyes move to the heavy pan you're still holding in your hands.

fuck, that's a lot of blood. god, you thought she was just full of fucking air.

you drop the pan once the rush of anger leaves your chest. it thunks onto the ground, and your hands shake as you see the specks of blood that are on the back of your hands, sprinkled over the shirt you wear. it stains your bare legs, even your toes, and you don't even want to look at the spray of it along the counters.

you should be crying, you think. you should feel bad. you're trembling a little, but you think it's just the adrenaline beginning to fade and not the guilt you know is supposed to be racking your insides.

you turn your eyes back to her. her eyes are dull. she doesn't move. it's so quiet now, utterly silent, and you take a deep breath as you take in the silence that you've craved for a long while now. you make your way quietly out of the kitchen, stepping over her body before going for your phone that sits on the coffee table in front of the couch.

you keep your eyes on her as you put your phone to your ear. it rings, and you tilt your head to the side as the blood begins to spiderweb under the kitchen table.

"'ello?"

you blink, looking towards the door. you clutch your phone a little tighter to your ear.

"simon?" you say softly. "a-are...are you busy?"

he hums lowly, chuckling, "no' at the moment, swee'eart, why?" he asks. "mmm...missed y'r voice..." you close your eyes as you hear the buckle of his belt. you try not to picture your giant of a boyfriend leaning back on his worn couch and shoving his jeans low enough to fuck his fist. "tolk t'me, luv...tell me 'ow much ya miss daddy."

you clear your throat gently, willing yourself to ignore the soft squelch of what you know is his hand around his cock, to not let it distract you from what's more important. "uhm...i liked the flowers you gave me, simon. t-they were beautiful."

the sounds on the other end of the phone quiet. you hear shuffling, and then a few moments later, the clink of his car keys.

"tha' right, baby?" he asks, and you close your eyes as you hear the front door of his flat opening. he's already on the way, already coming.

"yeah," you sniffle. "really nice sunflowers."

a yellow flower. he huffs on the other end of the phone, breathing a little easier.

"good girl," he murmurs, and then the line cuts. you set the phone down, making your way back to the kitchen and taking a seat at the table. you watch as the blood continues to curl over the floor. you make no attempt to help her; you just swing your feet under you as you look at her spoiled outfit, just grateful she isn't wearing your shoes or one of your jackets. you would hate to have to throw something out that she got all dirty.

there's a curt knock at the door ten minutes later, and then it opens. simon shuts the door behind him, cracking his neck by moving it from side to side before narrowing his eyes at you. you bite your lip, blinking, forgetting suddenly why he is here when he looks so fucking good. he's got a sweatshirt on under his windbreaker, worn jeans tucked into his boots; you like these jeans, his ass looks incredible in them.

"wot happened?" he asks. you stand, remembering your place. your lip starts trembling, and simon's eyes soften just a little. he's wearing his balaclava, hood up over his head and jacket zipped up, shadowing any true expression on his face. his gait sounds heavy as he lets his hands out of his pockets, coming towards you. when he steps into the kitchen, his eyes dart towards your roommate who's still on the floor, laid out unnaturally just by the oven.

he lets out a low breath, clicking his tongue under the mask. you hold your breath as you wait for his reaction.

"bloody hell," simon mutters, reaching up and throwing his hood off. you wring your hands together nervously, your eyes beginning to sting with tears. you brace for the accusations, for the inevitable terror of facing the music. simon is military, for fuck's sake, why the fuck did you think turning to him would be a good idea?

"i...i-i--" you start, looking up at him, and he holds up a hand, taking the side of your face into his palm before smoothing a gloved thumb over your bottom lip. you blink in confusion, not understanding.

"'s olright, baby," he shushes you, shaking his head. "don't cry."

"simon, i--" you sputter a little, gripping his wrist gently. "i just--i couldn't do it anymore, she just--"

he pities you. maybe you can explain. maybe if you tell him a warped story of what happened, he can help you. he must know someone. he must have important friends, he must--

he uses his free hand to move his mask up over his nose, and you lean into him when he bends, kissing you warmly. your eyes flutter shut, and you shuffle closer as he kisses you sloppy, kisses you hot. you mewl as he slips his tongue into your mouth, licking over your teeth and humming low as he pulls away. his eyes are flashing.

mmm. love.

"hmm..." simon licks his lips, smiling a little. he looks over you, almost pensive, his eyes scanning over your face before he settles back on your eyes. it's tender, the way he looks at you. romantic. "let's get this off of ya."

he reaches for the large shirt you are wearing, pulling it up and over your head. he crumples it into a ball before tossing it on top of your roommate, nodding his head behind you.

it's then that you realize simon isn't going to do the noble thing. he isn't going to call the police. he isn't going to turn you in, make you explain, he seems uninterested in knowing what really happened. no, he already knows what happened. but that's not important.

his pretty, perfect girl got into a little trouble. and he's going to make this go away.

"go on, luv. take a nice shower, yeah?" simon turns you around and pushes on your back gently. you suck in a shaky breath when he fondles your ass, pulling on your panties gently. "mmm...take these off, too."

you slip your panties down your legs, handing them to him.

"they have blood on them, too?" you ask, wiping your face, and he chuckles lowly.

"nah," he shrugs, stuffing them into his back pocket after taking a little sniff. "these are just for me."

jesus fucking christ, there's really something wrong with him. there's something really, really wrong with him.

and something wrong with me.

simon looks you up and down, his eyes catching on your naked body for just a few moments before he nods his head again.

"go on," he tells you. "before i get distracted." you pause for a moment, tilting your head back a little as he reaches out and cups one of your breasts in his big hand. you bite your lip, swallowing back a heavy breath as he flicks his thumb over your nipple gently. "greatest tits 've ever seen," he mumbles, scrunching his nose under the mask before he lets you go. "yeah, go on, baby." it takes everything in you to walk away when you see him reach down with that same hand and grip his bulge through his jeans, adjusting himself as he turns back to the mess in the kitchen.

when you shut the bathroom door behind you, you hear shuffling in the living room. the coffee table scraping. the couch being pushed. the rustle of the rug you have there. he grunts a little, and you hear his boots track from the kitchen back to the living room.

you turn the water on hot. you decide to take a bath, not looking at yourself in the mirror as you sink into the tub and plug the drain. you make the water scalding, and it soothes your sore muscles as you rest your cheek against the edge of the tub and stare at the door.

you're not sure how long you stay there. long enough for the water to nearly slosh over the edge of the tub and for simon to swing the bathroom door open, seemingly done with his...tasks.

he's taken his sweatshirt off. just a black t-shirt tucked into jeans, and there's a slight pant to his breaths that tell you he's exerted some energy. you notice he has his gloves still on, but before he touches you, he takes them off and tosses them into the sink.

"move over," simon mutters, starting to undress. you look up at him as he undoes the button on his pants, shucking his shirt off and into the corner before dropping his jeans. the water swishes as you sit up, and you swallow hard when simon kicks his boots and pants off, his cock hanging heavy as his mask is the last to hit the floor.

fuck, he's so pretty.

he has no regard for his size. he simply steps into the tub behind you, taking a seat. he looks comically large in your small bathtub, and you squeak a little as the water spills over the edge of the bath and wets the floor. he hums as he feels the hot water on his back. you don't say anything as his hands start to turn the water a little red. you just look up, away, at him.

you shuffle between his legs, tucking yourself into his space. you can't help but look him up and down, admiring his naked physique. he's just hot. big arms, thick thighs, sunburnt tattoos and scars cutting across his face. he hasn't shaved today, so there's some stubble along his jaw, but your eyes focus a little too much on his girthy length, heavy as it sits on his stomach and leaks a little there. his fat stomach, all solid and pudgy, such a nice place for you to rest your hands.

"you did good today," simon says finally. you look at him, and he tilts his head to the side. his approval makes your chest warm. "callin' me like tha'. wot a good girl you are."

keeping quiet on the phone is what he doesn't add out loud.

you purse your lips, trying not to keen at the praise, but it's hard not to when he reaches over and slides his hand over your shoulder, thumbing at your jaw.

"i-i didn't...didn't know what to do," you admit, and he clicks his tongue, shaking his head. you didn't know what to do, so you called him. level-headed enough to not do something rash and call someone else, no, you called him.

"mmm...tha's wot i'm 'ere for, luv," simon soothes you. "made such a little mess..."

you close your eyes. it's sick. deranged. fuck, it feels nice.

why don't i feel anything?

"i know. i'm sorry."

"nothin' ta be sorry about."

you slump into his arms, resting your cheek on his solid chest. you can feel his cock pulsing against your tummy, and you adjust yourself in the water, straddling him as you rest your chin on his pecs and look up at him through watery eyes.

you aren't sad. no. not sad at all. simon has shown you what he will do for the you. the lengths he will go. what he'll forgive just to take care of you. he's so capable, so understanding.

sick. twisted. mine.

"then i'll just say thank you," you mumble, grinding your hips slowly. simon hums, a wicked smile coming over his scarred face. he licks over his bottom lip, big hands gripping you by the fat of your hips as you grip the edges of the tub for stability. "say thank you to my big, strong man for taking such good care of me..."

he chuckles, his eyes lowering, watching your tits sway as you fit your pussy over his length and grind down on him.

"tha' so, baby?"

you nod.

"mhm," you whine. "how can i thank you, my big boy? how can i show you how grateful i am for cleaning up after me, hmm?" you bend at the waist, kissing him wet and warm, and he hisses as you suck his tongue into your mouth. he tastes like cigarettes, and normally you would curse him for it, but right now it tastes so much like him, and you lick around his teeth trying to taste more of that sweet nicotine.

"fuck--such a naughty little girl..." he snickers, reaching down. you sigh when he slides his big palms over your ass, forcing you to grind slower, the tip of his cock sliding through your folds leisurely. you grip the edges of the tub tighter, pressing down to give you more leverage to grind down harder. "make such a mess, oll the time..." you gasp when he presses into you just enough, the tip breaching your entrance and forcing you to squeeze around him, your cunt trying to suck him in. "olways needin' me ta pick up afta ya..."

you giggle, sliding your hands up his chest, gripping his shoulders for leverage as you sink down onto him. he grits his teeth as you do, his eyes focused on the way his cock disappears inch by inch until you're seated down in his lap, his length kissing deep and twitching excitedly. he always feels like a teenager again whenever you fuck--like you're the first pretty girl to ever wet his cock.

you cup his cheeks finally, smoothing your thumbs under his eyes as you bring his gaze up to meet yours. you swallow hard, looking down at him.

"i-i love you, simon," you breathe. he stills underneath you, his jaw clenching as he frowns just a little. you come a little closer, nuzzling your nose against his, your thumb falling to trace the outline of his torn lip. "i should've said it a long time ago...i-i..."

"heart's beatin' out y'r chest, luv," he mutters lowly. "'s olright...'m not goin' anywhere."

it's so disgusting. you should be fucking ill. you should be scrambling to the toilet, your breakfast halfway up your throat. you should be crying, emotional, begging simon to tell the cops that it was all your fault, because it is. he should've come here and made you do the level-headed thing and confess your terrible crime.

he shouldn't be here, sitting underneath you in your tub, cock-deep inside of you after helping you commit murder and then fucking clean it all up.

"what did i do?" you gasp, sitting up. you move to get out of the tub, but simon growls, putting two firm hands on your ass and shoving you back down on his cock, making you cry. "w-what did i do? s-simon, why don't i feel bad, why am i not sorry--?!"

simon tsks, feigning comfort. he juts his bottom lip out into a pout, mocking your little cries.

"oh, luvvie, don't start cryin' now," he chuckles. "don't start pretending like y'care."

uhm...

"simon--"

"no one likes a liar."

you're still trying to pretend, and he knows this. you're still trying to act how someone normally would react. someone normal, someone who thinks rationally, would never have picked up the pan in the first place. and even if they had, they would've scrambled, cried, picked up the phone and confessed, called an ambulance as they tried to get her to start breathing again, put both hands on her chest and tried to get her wake up.

but you didn't. you watched, unnervingly calm, as she stained the hardwood with her blood. you watched as her eyes glassed over, lifeless, and you watched as her insides began to paint the floor in abstract shapes as you gave it time to spread. and not once during that time, or waiting for simon, did you think to help her.

you didn't want to help her. and you certainly didn't think she deserved to get back up. maybe she hadn't done anything quite harsh enough to deserve death in someone else's eyes. annoying, overbearing, rude.

but it's hard to feel bad when she talked about simon. when she called him by his name. when you've seen her let her towel slip when he's in her vicinity, trying to coax him into her room when you're looking away.

you should've taken one of the throwing knives that simon hides in his boot and thrown it at her then, just for that.

"we're cut from the same bloody cloth, baby," simon says, almost accusingly. you grip the edges of the tub, trying to stand again, but he cants his hips and fucks up into you, drawing a frenzied moan out of you. you reach for his shoulders as he does it again, his tongue darting out before he licks a fat stripe over your pebbled nipple. "'s olright. 's okay, luv. don't worry. don't hafta get y'r hands dirty, swee'eart, i've got it."

"but simon," you whine, but all he does is shake his head. you don't have to put on this morality act for him. you don't have to pretend that you are sorry for something that you had every right to do, you don't have to explain to him why you aren't feeling the way you should be feeling.

simon doesn't care about how you should feel. he only cares about how you actually feel.

"she was in y'r way," simon grunts. "always bein' a bloody brat." he fists your hair and brings your mouth to his, groaning as you tighten around his cock. "'ow many times did she fuck ya over, baby, hmm? 'ow many times did she steal y'r fuckin' things, come outta the loo wearin' nothin' but her fuckin' knickers, yeah? 'ow many times?"

you kiss him, frantic, digging your nails into his pecs and dragging them angrily.

yeah. fuck her. fuck what she did to me, fuck the way she behaved, fuck her stupid face and her stupid attitude and her stupid little games.

"called ya names..." he's hitting your sweet spot now, making you cry from pleasure. your pussy feels so hot, squeezing him because you know he's right, and the way he fucks this time makes you think he really knows what you are and knows exactly how to get you there. "wot a fuckin' twat. deserved every bit o' it, baby."

you meet his eyes, dark and cruel. he's still moving, still holding onto your hips and drawing out little whines, but it's different suddenly, it's more. you nod, understanding.

simon is terrible. no good. his head isn't in the right place, maybe it never has been. you wonder, briefly, if this is what he does when he's at work, if these are the things that he's used to. maybe simon has been in service too long--maybe he doesn't understand that you aren't at war here, that you can't just kill and clean up, that you aren't in the field.

"she deserved it," you whimper, and he grins, all teeth, all mean.

"tha's it."

"she was such a bitch."

"fuckin' right."

"she got what was coming for her."

"nnghhh--fuck, baby, gonna make me fuckin' cum, tolkin' like tha'," he hisses. you practically smack him as you grab onto his scarred face, gritting your teeth as you glare down at him. his lips part, and you spit in his mouth as he fucks up into you, thighs hitting your ass with a wet smack that makes your head spin.

"and i'll get rid of the next bitch that so much as looks your way, simon."

the kiss is searing. hot, blinding, white noise fills your ears as he cums with you, stuffing you full as he cums hard, a pained groan leaving him as he collapses against the porcelain tub with a harsh thud. you follow him, chasing after him, kissing him between heavy breaths as you don't make any effort to move off of him. when simon opens his eyes, he can't help but smile.

he's never seen his reflection without a mirror.

#awwwwwwwwww thanks for taking care of me pookie #thanks for indulging my terrible mind and telling me its okay ;)#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #simon thoughts #dark!ghost #dark!simon

5K notes · View notes

byhuenii · 1 month ago

Text

Dye Me a Lie

Pairing Bucky Barnes x F!reader

Syonpsis You’re just a girl. an Avenger with a mind-reading gift, hair that changes when the heart breaks too loudly, and feelings for Bucky Barnes that you’ve done everything to bury. But the silence between you is loud. Misread glances, inside jokes that don’t feel like yours, and insane jealousy. He doesn't know how to love you. You’re not sure how to stop.

Word Count 9.5k

Tags + Warnings MISCOMMUNICATION. Warnings emotional repression, heartbreak, unspoken mutual pining, JEALOUSY, identity struggle, suppression of feelings, mild combat scenes, brief injury mention (non-graphic), sarcasm, mental health undertones (burnout, escapism via hair symbolism), language (mild), crying (a lot of it tbh), healing, deep character vulnerability. SEMI TOWER FIC AY AY AY! Not proofread lmfao

Readers playlist/Songs mentioned “I Like U” — NIKI “Normal Girl” — SZA “Party 4 You” — Charli XCX “Love Me Not” — Ravyn Lenae “Get You” — Daniel Caesar “Ribs” — Lorde

— Dye Me a Lie a girl going through everything with hair dye

You were just a girl.

That was the line you repeated in your head like a mantra. It sounded simple, grounding, honest. It helped keep you tethered when the world around you spun too fast, when your mind stretched too far into thoughts that didn’t belong to you, when the ache in your chest sharpened from unspoken feelings that had nowhere to go.

A girl. That was all.

You weren’t a god, or a super soldier, or a billionaire in a flying suit. You didn’t control the elements or conjure magic from your fingertips. You weren’t anyone’s chosen anything. You were born with a mind that never shut up, honed in the field to be quick, quiet, deadly. Your talents have earned you a place on the team. Your training made sure you stayed there.

But you were still just a girl.

Just a girl who couldn’t stop noticing the way Bucky Barnes stirred his coffee like it had done something to him personally. Just a girl who couldn’t help but flinch every time he smiled at Natasha like she was the only person in the room.

Just a girl who knew how to bury feelings, but didn’t know how to kill them.

Today had started like any other. Mission debrief at 0700. Training drills by 0900. Bruised ribs by 0935.

And now? Lunch in the compound cafeteria, pretending like everything inside you wasn’t unraveling one look at a time.

Sam sat across from you, slapping his tray down like a man without a single ounce of subtlety. “You’re gonna stare a hole through him, y’know.”

You didn’t even try to pretend. “Who?”

Sam gave you a long, slow blink. “Seriously?”

You followed his gaze. Bucky, in the corner. His hair pulled back, dressed down in a soft black tee, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Standing next to Natasha — again.

It was the way they leaned into each other. Comfortable. Familiar. Easy.

You tore your eyes away, heart twisting like it wanted to hide.

Sam didn’t tease this time. He just watched you quietly.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You forked a piece of food you couldn’t taste. The buzz of thoughts around you was white noise. Background static. None of them mattered. None of them reached you, because all you could feel was the weight of something that hadn’t even happened.

He didn’t look at you like that.

He never had.

And God, you wished you could shut that part of yourself off. The one that kept hoping anyway.

You had read his mind once. Years ago. On accident. Or maybe on purpose — you couldn’t tell anymore. It was right after a mission, blood still drying under your nails. You’d reach for him when he looked like he might collapse, tried to ground him with your voice, your presence — and your power slipped.

There was nothing there.

Just silence.

A wall of steel, reinforced by years of training, trauma, pain. Not just unreadable — unreachable.

You never tried again.

Since then, Bucky has been kind. Polite. Distant.

And you? You filled the space between you with wishes and wariness, and wore your feelings like armor you couldn’t take off.

You were still watching him when he glanced over.

Just a flicker. A second.

Your eyes met.

His brows twitched. His lips parted like he was about to say something.

Then Natasha nudged him, and he looked away.

You turned back to your tray and tried not to look like you were falling apart.

Sam exhaled softly. “So. Still think they’re just friends?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “Does it matter?”

“Only if you keep looking at him like that.”

You laughed, short and humorless. “I’m not looking at him like anything.”

Sam arched an eyebrow. “Lying to a telepath is one thing. Lying as a telepath? Bold move.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Silence stretched between you. Companionable, at least. Sam didn’t push, and you didn’t explain. He just peeled the label off his water bottle and you picked at your food until the moment passed.

Later, when you walked the halls of the compound alone, you thought about what Sam said. You thought about the way Bucky looked at Natasha, and the way he didn’t look at you. You thought about the quiet.

You wondered if he would ever notice you the way you wanted him to.

You told yourself again: you were just a girl.

But you didn’t believe it as much this time.

You’d trained for this.

The sparring. The infiltration. The telepathic silence. The part where your heart learned to harden so your body could do what it was told.

But you hadn’t trained for being paired with Bucky Barnes for a two-week stealth recon mission in the middle of nowhere. Alone. Just the two of you.

No Natasha. No Steve. No emotional buffer or easy distraction.

And no escaping proximity.

It was a Stark-funded, S.H.I.E.L.D.-monitored “contain and assess” op on a black site suspected of trafficking experimental tech. Simple in theory. Dangerous in practice. Which is why they sent in two of the most capable people they had.

Unfortunately for you, those people were you — and Bucky.

“Try not to kill each other,” Sam had said with a smirk before you boarded the jet.

You didn’t even have it in you to glare at him. Not when your stomach was already doing cartwheels from the weight of Bucky’s quiet presence at your side.

He hadn’t said much since the briefing. A few nods. One “copy that.” A slight brush of his hand against yours when you passed him a file — accidental, definitely, and burned into your memory like wildfire.

The silence between you was deafening, but not cold.

Worse — it was careful.

The safehouse was tucked between jagged cliffs and dense forest, half-crumbled but wired with J.A.R.V.I.S. security. Two rooms. One bath. Zero excuses not to talk.

You unpacked your gear in silence, sorting through blades and dampening cuffs like they could distract you from how much you felt him behind you. How the hum of his brain — always too quiet to read — still managed to fill the room like fog.

You were hyper-aware of him. The way he moved. The way he didn’t speak unless spoken to. The way his shirt clung to his back as he adjusted the surveillance monitors, flexing with the motion.

You hated yourself a little bit for noticing.

“Dinner?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He looked over his shoulder. “You need food. Fuel. We both do.”

You stared for a beat too long. “Yeah. Right. Fuel.”

Fuel. Not a shared moment. Not anything.

Just survival.

Dinner was quiet. Rice, lentils, and a hard-boiled egg each, like this was prison and not a recon site. You sat across from him at the makeshift table, chewing slowly, watching him when you thought he wasn’t looking.

You thought you were being subtle. You always thought that.

“You okay?” he asked, not looking up.

Your fork froze mid-bite. “What?”

He glanced up then, eyes meeting yours.

You froze under the weight of it — not the blue, not the sharpness. The softness. The question behind the question.

“I’m fine,” you lied, because it was muscle memory by now.

He nodded. “Just seemed… off.”

You shrugged. “Guess I’m just not used to silence.”

A beat.

Then he surprised you.

“You always seemed quiet to me.”

You blinked. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

His lips twitched — not quite a smile, but something close. “Fair.”

You hated how much that tiny expression meant to you. Like it was proof of something you didn’t have the words for.

The next few days passed in patterns.

Surveillance. Night shifts. Radio intercepts. Late-night debriefs in low voices, shoulder-to-shoulder in front of screens flickering with static.

You began to move in rhythm — clearing rooms in tandem, anticipating each other’s body language, syncing like you were meant to do this forever. Like your minds were linked even if he was locked to your power.

You didn’t need to read Bucky’s mind to feel it — the pull. The glances held a second too long. The silence before he said your name. The way his eyes softened when he thought you weren’t looking.

But he never acted on it. Never stepped past that invisible line.

And so, neither did you.

At night, you lay awake in your bunk, replaying every moment. Every almost. Every look that could mean something — or nothing.

You hated the uncertainty. Hated how much you ached for clarity. For closeness.

And the worst part?

You were starting to think you weren’t imagining it.

It all fell apart on the fifth night.

You were coming back from a perimeter check, soaked from the rain, hoodie clinging to your skin, hair plastered to your face. You hadn’t spoken in hours. The mission had been tense — too quiet, too many variables.

You walked through the door, and Bucky was waiting.

His eyes scanned you instantly. The way your shoulders slumped. The way your hands trembled. He stood without a word, grabbing a towel from the rack and moving toward you like instinct.

He reached out — but paused.

Hold it there. Between you.

You took it slowly, fingers brushing his.

“Thanks,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t move away.

His eyes searched yours like they were trying to read a language he never learned.

You swallowed. “What?”

“Why do you flinch when I get close?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

The towel in your hand suddenly felt too heavy.

“Is it because of Natasha?” he asked quietly. “Because if you think—”

You laughed, bitter. “I don’t think anything. You’re allowed to be close to whoever you want.”

His brows drew in. “That’s not what I—”

“I don’t need an explanation, Bucky.” You stepped back. “You don’t owe me anything.”

He stared at you like you’d just said something in a language he didn’t understand.

You wished you could explain. Wished you could say: It’s not about Natasha. It’s about how much it hurts to want you when you don’t want me.

But you didn’t say anything.

You dried your face. Turned. Walked away before he could answer.

That night, you lay awake again.

But now, his voice echoed in your mind:

“Why do you flinch when I get close?”

Because I want you too much, you thought. Because I know you don’t want me back. Because I’m just a girl — and you’ll always be Bucky Barnes.

You were avoiding him.

Not well — you trained in evasion, not subtlety — but enough that it was noticeable. You took solo shifts for recon. Ate at odd hours. Slept on the couch instead of the bunk. You had your reasons, even if they were all cowardly.

Reason #1: You couldn’t stand another almost-touch.

Reason #2: You couldn’t hear your own heart breaking every time he looked at you with concern but not want.

Reason #3: You were tired of pretending you didn’t want more.

But Bucky Barnes wasn’t oblivious. He wasn’t stupid. He noticed. And more importantly — it got to him.

He started snapping more. Being colder. Less patient in briefings. His words clipped. His tone was sharp.

You knew what he was doing. He was trying to push you into talking. You’d trained with spies — you knew a pressure point when you felt it.

But you were stubborn, too. So you pushed back by pretending it didn’t bother you.

Until it finally did.

It started in the field.

You were on a covert sweep through the eastern corridor of the compound’s target sight — the first major breach of the mission. Bucky was on point. You were covered. You’d done this a dozen times before.

Only this time, you didn’t hear his callout in time. You hesitated.

And in that second of pause — a motion sensor was tripped.

The alarm blared. You scrambled for cover. Bucky yanked you down behind a wall, a metal arm pressed hard against your chest as bullets ripped through the space you’d just been standing in.

“Jesus, focus!” he snapped.

“I was focusing—”

“You were zoning out. Again.”

The words hit harder than any shrapnel.

You stared at him, breath catching.

He didn’t let up. “This isn’t just about your feelings anymore. You could’ve gotten us both killed.”

Your hands curled into fists. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then act like it!” His eyes burned. “Whatever’s going on with you — the distance, the cold shoulders — figure it out. Fast.”

That was it. The spark. The break.

You shoved him back. “You don’t get to lecture me about distance.”

His mouth opened. “What—?”

“You think I’ve been distant? Try looking in a mirror, Barnes.” You weren’t yelling — but it was close. “You’ve been keeping me at arm’s length for months. Smiling at Natasha like she’s the only one who gets you. Acting like I’m invisible unless we’re on a mission.”

He looked stunned. Not by your anger — but by the words.

You kept going. “I’ve watched you look at her like she matters. Like she’s something to hold onto. I get it. She’s perfect. She gets you. I’m just—”

“Don’t.”

You blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth. Or feelings.”

You stared at him, trembling. “You didn’t have to say anything, Bucky. I see it.”

He stepped toward you — too close. “You think me being close to Nat means I don’t care about you?”

“You’ve never once given me a reason to think you do.”

The silence that followed was worse than the shouting.

And then — his voice dropped.

“I notice you, y’know.”

You froze.

His tone was different now. Quieter. Angrier. Not at you — at himself.

“I notice when you laugh at things no one else hears. I notice when you change the way you move depending on who’s in the room. I notice the way your eyes stay on the exit, always calculating. And yeah — I noticed you stopped sitting next to me. Stopped smiling. Stopped trying.”

You didn’t breathe.

“I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought you were pulling away because I made you uncomfortable. Because I said or did something wrong. I didn’t know it was because you thought I didn’t care.”

Your voice came out small. “Do you?”

His jaw clenched. “Every damn day.”

Your heart squeezed. “Then why—”

“Because I didn’t think I was allowed to.” His voice cracked, barely audible. “You don’t even let me in.”

“That’s rich,” you whispered. “Coming from the guy I can’t even read.”

He blinked. You hadn’t meant to say that. It just slipped — years of restraint breaking open like a fault line.

You stepped back, eyes stinging. “I tried. Once. After Sokovia. You were shut off. So I shut off, too.”

Bucky’s expression cracked right down the middle.

The mission was still live. The alarms had died, but the consequences hadn’t. You both knew it. Still, neither of you moved.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

You nodded. “I didn’t want you to.”

A beat. Two.

Then he spoke again.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

And finally — finally — something in you broke.

Tears burned your eyes. You didn’t let them fall. You just nodded again. Swallowed the hurt. Pressed it down into the same box where you kept all the almosts.

“I know,” you said.

And this time, you were the one who walked away.

–

The mission ended three days later.

No casualties. Data secured. A win on paper — but you didn’t feel victorious. You felt emptied out. Like a building left standing after a fire, charred beams and all.

You barely spoke to Bucky on the ride back. Just gave your report, nodded when needed, and stared out the quinjet window like the sky had answers you didn’t.

He didn’t try to talk to you either. And maybe that hurt worst of all.

You didn’t mean to dye your hair. Not really.

It wasn’t even premeditated. You got home, stood in the shower for forty-five minutes, and when you looked in the mirror, you didn’t recognize yourself.

You didn’t look heartbroken. You looked fine. And that made you furious.

So you drove to the nearest drugstore in sweats and sunglasses, grabbed whatever boxes your hands landed on, and spent the rest of the night in your bathroom.

Pink. Brown. Cream. Strawberry. Chocolate. Vanilla.

By sunrise, your hair was a swirling mess of Neapolitan.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t delicate. It was loud and bright and stupid and so obviously the kind of thing someone does when they’re trying not to cry again.

You stared at yourself. A stranger in the mirror — but one who looked closer to you than the “fine” version did.

This was your war paint. This was your screw it hair. This was your “I’m still here and I feel too much and I don’t know how to stop” signal.

Wanda came by first. She didn’t ask, just hugged you like you were made of glass and said:

“You look powerful.” And that almost made you cry.

Sam was next.

He walked into the rec room, did a full double take, and then grinned like a menace.

“Alright, Neapolitan. Who broke your heart and where’s the body?”

You threw a pillow at him. He dodged. Barely.

“I’m fine,” you said, which fooled no one.

Then came Bucky.

You hadn’t expected him to be in the common area. You especially hadn’t expected to run right into him while balancing a cup of hot tea and your frayed dignity.

He stopped cold when he saw you.

You froze, too.

His eyes scanned your face — and then your hair. You could see the exact moment it registered. His jaw tensed. His expression softened in the same breath.

“You changed your hair,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Good observation, Barnes.”

A pause.

“I like it,” he added.

You scoffed. “You don’t even know what it means.”

His voice dropped. “Try me.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

Because in that second, he looked at you — really looked — and you saw it in his face: He got it.

He saw the war you’d been fighting with yourself. The colors you’d wrapped around your grief. The piece of your identity you’d painted just loud enough for someone to finally notice.

And maybe — maybe — he’d start noticing more than just your hair.

You started keeping your door closed again.

Not locked — because that would mean you were trying. Closing was enough. Closed said “I’m here, but don’t.” It said you were keeping it together.

It said:

“This room is Switzerland. No one gets in unless I let them.”

The team noticed. Of course they did. You were never the aloof one. You were the one who asked how people liked their coffee. Who made dumb nicknames. Who wore three different colors in your hair like it was armor.

And now? Now, you weren’t even you.

Wanda didn’t push. She just brought takeout and sat near you with music playing low and didn’t say anything about your red-rimmed eyes. Sam made sure to crack jokes loud enough for you to laugh at from the hallway. Tony upgraded your room tech. You didn’t ask. He didn’t mention it.

Clint just looked at you once over breakfast and went,

“Ah. That kind of heartbreak.” Then handed you the last donut. No questions asked.

But Bucky? Bucky was quiet.

He didn’t come to your room. Didn’t seek you out. But he also… didn’t keep his distance. Not really.

Because suddenly — suddenly — he and Nat were everywhere.

Laughing low near the mission board. Whispering in the hallway. Sitting close during briefings.

You told yourself it was nothing. They were old friends. Partners in the field. Comfortable.

But then you saw the way he looked at her — the kind of soft familiarity that you didn’t have. The kind you’d wanted.

And it broke something in you that hadn’t been cracked before.

You didn’t confront him. You just… vanished.

Not physically. You still showed up to train. To plan. You spoke when spoken to. You were competent. You were a professional.

But emotionally? You shut every door.

You stopped making jokes. Stopped sitting at the kitchen counter in the morning where he always found you. You avoided any room he was in longer than necessary.

And when he said “Hey” once in the hall, testing the waters, your “Hi” came out cold enough to frost a window.

He didn’t try again after that.

“Y’know,” Sam said one night, flopping onto your couch, “you’re allowed to be pissed.”

You didn’t look up from your screen. “I’m not pissed.”

“You’re right. You’re livid.”

You sighed. “He can do what he wants.”

Sam tilted his head. “But can you?”

That shut you up.

You thought it would stop hurting. It didn’t.

Because every time he laughed at something she said, a tiny part of you splintered. Every quiet smile he gave her felt like another door slammed in your face. And the worst part?

You weren’t even mad at her.

She was kind. Brilliant. Brave. She deserved the world.

You were just… a girl. A mind reader. A combat expert. A bleeding heart with Neapolitan hair and no one looking.

So you distanced yourself harder.

And that’s when Bucky noticed. Noticed in a way that made him ache.

Because you weren’t just cold — you were gone. You didn’t laugh around him. Didn’t look him in the eye. Didn’t even think toward him anymore.

You just became… quiet.

And that silence? It haunted him.

–

You didn’t mean to dye it again.

But Neapolitan started to feel… childish. Loud in a way that didn’t protect you anymore. It didn’t say, “I’m healing.” It said, “I’m stuck.” And you were tired of being stuck.

So you dyed it at 3AM, half-asleep and half-desperate, staring at the dye boxes like they were mood rings.

You picked black, copper, and blonde.

Messy. Bold. Uneven. A little wild.

Calico.

A patchwork of colors that didn’t make sense to anyone but you. A kaleidoscope of chaos. But this time, there was no symbolism spelled out. This time, it was messy on purpose.

Sam took one look the next morning and raised a brow.

“So we’re in our feral girl era, huh?”

You sipped your coffee. “Apparently.”

Bucky didn’t comment at all. Just stared. Longer than he should’ve. Then looked away like it burned.

He finally cornered you in the gym. No audience. No mission. No excuses.

You were mid-set, gloves on, sweat slick on your brow, and there he was — standing like an apology without a mouth.

“Are you ignoring me forever?”

You didn’t pause. “I’m not ignoring you.”

He tilted his head. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You slammed the gloves into the mat and stood.

“Do you want a fight?” you snapped.

His brow furrowed. “No. I want to talk.”

You exhaled, sharp. “About what? You and Nat? About how I’m supposed to smile while you two play secret spy whisper games and pretend like it doesn’t feel like knives every time I walk into a room?”

He looked like you slapped him. “It’s not like that—”

“Then explain it, Barnes.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “She’s helping me with something. It’s not— I didn’t know it looked like that.”

“You didn’t know?” Your voice cracked. “You didn’t know it would hurt watching you give someone else the softness I wanted from you?”

He went still.

You took a breath, voice quieter now. “I’m not mad you’re close to her. I’m mad you didn’t even notice it was breaking me.”

Then — the worst part.

He stepped closer. Guilt written across every inch of him. “I didn’t mean to push you away. I was scared.”

You blinked. “Of what?”

“Of you. Of how much I care. Of the fact that you look at me like I’m someone worth loving and I don’t— I don’t know if I can be that.”

Silence.

For a moment, it almost sounded like honesty. Almost felt like something soft was trying to bloom.

But then he added, “And I didn’t think it was fair to ask you to love someone like me.”

And that?

That undid it.

You flinched. “Then you should’ve left me alone. Instead of giving me almost.”

He froze.

“I would've almost taken the silence over.”

And you walked past him. Left him in the echo of his own cowardice.

Sam found him twenty minutes later.

Didn’t ask. Just threw a towel at him and said:

“You messed that up real good.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Sam continued. “You don’t get to be scared and selfish. Pick one.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“She was finally pulling herself together,” Sam said. “Then you hit her with just enough hope to wreck her all over again.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“No one ever does,” Sam cut in. “But it still hurts the same.”

Silence stretched.

Then Sam looked him dead in the eye.

“You want her back? Do better. Or let her go for real.

–

You don’t shut down. You evolve.

That’s the worst part.

You don’t cry in corners anymore. Don’t hide away or stay quiet. You show up. You spar again. You make breakfast and snarky comments and laugh like nothing’s wrong. You’re back to being the one who can level Tony with a single dry remark, who can out-quip Sam, who makes Wanda snort-laugh during debriefings.

You’re fine.

You’re so fine, it’s starting to terrify the people closest to you.

Because your hair is still calico — wild, a little chaotic, like it doesn’t care — but you’re brushing it like you’ve got nothing to hide.

And that? That means you’re hiding everything.

Bucky notices. But it’s too late.

You’re friendly. Polite. You greet him when necessary. You hold doors open. You speak during missions.

But you don’t look at him like you used to.

No soft eyes. No quiet smiles. No mental whispers of “please just say something.” You treat him like anyone else.

Like he’s no one special.

And it kills him.

Because he still looks at you like you hung constellations in the sky and he forgot how to read them. Because now that he knows what it felt like to almost have you, the silence is unbearable.

But you?

You just keep going.

“Thinking of changing it again?”

It’s late. You’re on the rooftop with Sam and Wanda, drinking something hot, watching the city glitter below.

Your fingers tug at a copper strand, thoughtful. “Maybe. I’ve been thinking red. Like cherry soda red.”

Wanda hums. “You only go red when you want someone to notice.”

You smirk. “Well, someone should.”

Sam glances sideways. “Are you trying to make someone jealous again?”

You exhale slowly. “No. I’m trying to forget someone who didn’t choose me.”

They don’t say anything after that. They don’t have to.

He tries again — too late, too little.

You’re walking back to your room when you see him — leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting.

He doesn’t speak right away.

You stop a few feet away, arms crossed. “If this is another almost-apology—”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “I just… I wanted to ask how you’ve been.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

He frowns. “I mean it.”

You smile — sharp, not soft. “I’ve been incredible. My hair looks like fire, I’ve been sleeping eight hours, and I haven’t cried over you in at least a week.”

His jaw twitches.

You tilt your head. “Anything else?”

He wants to say yes. You see it in him. He wants to say everything. But he doesn’t.

And that’s when you know: he’s still scared.

You nod once, like that’s all the closure you’ll ever get. “Good talk, Barnes.”

Then you walk away.

–

The breaking starts small.

Wanda sees it first — in the way you stare at your own reflection like it’s a stranger you’ve almost learned how to mimic. In the way your laugh is just a little too loud, a little too sharp.

“You know he looks at you like he’s drowning,” she says one day, mixing dye with gentle hands.

You shrug. “Let him. I already swam to shore.”

She hums. “And yet you’re still dyeing your hair over him.”

You look down.

The bowl is full of warm brown and honey blonde.

Less armor. Less noise. More… you. But the kind of you who wants to be chosen. The kind of you who wants someone to say,

“I see you, even when you’re quiet. Especially then.”

When she finishes, you blink at the mirror. You look soft. Normal.

You look like a girl who wants to be loved. Not survived.

Sam doesn’t ask. He just throws an arm around you.

He finds you in the common room, staring out the window like you’re trying to read omens in the traffic.

“You okay?” he says.

You nod.

He hums. “Liar.”

You smile — brittle. “Getting better at that.”

He squeezes your shoulder. “Don’t get too good. We need the honest version of you around.”

You nod, trying not to cry.

He pauses. “You know he’s gonna show up too late, right?”

Your throat tightens.

Sam looks at you with soft, clear eyes.

“Don’t let him take the best parts of you with him.”

Tony’s advice is sharp, but not unkind.

“You’re not hard to love,” he tells you, passing you your tablet.

You blink. “What?”

“You’re not hard to love. He’s just bad at directions.”

“…I don’t—”

Tony sighs. “Look, kid. People like us — we shine weird. And some people need a damn map to find the light.”

You look down.

He pats your shoulder, softer now. “Someone will find you and say, ‘There you are.’ Not ‘What do you do’ or ‘Who did you save.’ Just… you.”

And Clint? He hits you where it hurts, but it’s exactly what you needed.

You’re sitting beside him on the roof, legs swinging over the edge.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“I saw you pull away,” he murmurs. “From him. From yourself.”

You sniff. “Wasn’t my choice.”

“No,” he says. “But it’s your choice now.”

You turn.

Clint finally looks at you.

“You don’t have to be the cool one. The unbothered one. The just-a-girl one. You’re allowed to want something. Even if it scares him.”

You blink fast.

He adds, “And you’re allowed to walk away if he never stops being scared.”

But when the collapse comes, it’s because of him.

Because Bucky sees your hair and something in him shatters.

You look soft. New. Real.

You look like someone trying.

And it kills him. Because he knows it’s not for him anymore.

But he still tries. God, he still tries.

“You dyed it again,” he says, voice raw.

You don’t look at him. “Yeah.”

“You look—”

“Don’t.”

That shuts him up.

You turn, eyes bright with too much. “Don’t you dare say something kind. Not after what you didn’t say.”

He stares. You stare back.

Then you break.

“You made me feel crazy,” you whisper. “Like I was seeing things that weren’t there. Like I was asking too much for wanting someone to choose me back.”

He’s quiet.

You laugh bitterly. “I changed everything about myself trying to be easier to love. Calico hair, Neapolitan, brown with gold — none of it made you see me.”

Then your voice cracks.

“I would’ve loved you with everything I had.”

And he— He finally breaks, too.

“I know,” he chokes. “I know. And I’m sorry. I was scared. You make me want to be someone I’m not sure I can be.”

You step back.

“That’s not my problem anymore.”

He flinches.

You add, softer now, “But I hope one day it’s not yours either.”

And you walk away.

–

It starts with a song.

It’s nearly midnight. You’re stretched out on the floor of your room, headphones on, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning slowly. Your new hair — soft brown with streaks of honey — is spread out across the floor like it’s trying to be gentle with you.

“I wish I was a normal girl...” —SZA in your ears.

You close your eyes and breathe in the sound.

You’ve never been normal. Not with your powers. Not with the chaos in your chest. Not with the way you feel everything is too hard, too much, too loud.

But for three minutes and twenty-eight seconds, you pretend you are. You imagine a life where love isn’t complicated. Where Bucky Barnes isn’t a question mark branded into your ribs.

You picture someone — anyone — choosing you without flinching.

Then the next track rolls in.

“We can talk it so good…We can make it so divine” —Lorde, sharp, aching.

You laugh under your breath.

Because yeah. You still like him. You’re just done bleeding for it.

–

The mission comes at just the right time.

It’s a low-stakes one: intel retrieval, some clean-up, a detour through Prague. You go with Sam and Wanda. Just the three of you — the trio of the “don’t-ask-me-about-Bucky” club.

Wanda notices immediately. “You’re smiling more.”

You stretch your arms, crack your back. “I’m emotionally reborn.”

Sam snorts. “You say that like you didn’t cry to a Charli XCX remix two nights ago.”

You grin. “It was ‘Party 4 You’. Show some respect.”

“and crying to Lorde?” Sam raised an eyebrow a small smirk at the corner,

“That counts plus it was ribs!” You scoffed light, “and don't act like you didnt cry either sam!”

Wanda rolls her eyes, but you catch the way she watches you carefully — how she’s waiting to see if you’ll fall apart again.

You don’t.

Even when a group of Hydra stragglers trap you in a narrow alley, even when your comms buzz with static, even when Wanda loses line of sight — You still don’t break.

You let your fists talk. You let your mind twist one of their thoughts into mush just long enough for Sam to dive in from above.

You’re fast. Efficient. Ruthless.

But you’re also laughing by the end of it — bloodied but breathing, alive.

Sam claps you on the back. “There’s my girl.”

And something in you eases. Because yeah.

Maybe you’re still aching. Still haunted by a pair of stupid blue eyes. But you're still you.

And that’s something.

Coming home is harder.

Bucky doesn’t say anything when you walk through the compound doors.

But he looks.

Hard.

You don’t meet his gaze. You joke with Tony, high-five Client, make fun of Sam’s flying posture.

But when you pass him — your shoulder brushing his just slightly — you feel it

That familiar pull.

The yearning hasn’t left.

It’s just quieter now.

You listen to one more song that night.

You’re in your room, hair still damp from a long shower, skin smelling like lavender and fire.

“I only threw this party for you…” —Charli XCX again, soft and glittering in your headphones.

You stare at yourself in the mirror.

Not a normal girl.

Not his girl.

Just a girl.

And somehow, that’s enough. At least for tonight.

–

It starts with silence.

He doesn’t say your name. He just shows up at your door at 2:17 a.m., soaked from rain, like the universe itself couldn’t keep him away.

You don’t open it at first. You stand on the other side, forehead pressed against the wood.

Your heart’s thudding. Loud.

He knocks again.

“Do you love me or love me not?” The lyric filters through your Bluetooth speaker, too soft to blame but too honest to ignore.

You open the door. And there he is — raw and real and ruined.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice cracks. He swallows. “Please.”

You say nothing. Just step aside.

He doesn’t look at you at first. He just paces. Wet boots on hardwood. Dripping guilt across your room like it’s a confession.

“I keep seeing you in every corner of this place,” he says. “And it kills me that I don’t know how to reach you anymore.”

You stay quiet.

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I messed it up. I know I messed it up. But you have to understand, I didn’t know what to do with what I felt.”

You flinch. “So you ignored it?”

He stops pacing.

You whisper, throat caught in a ball “Or did you just ignore me?”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t think I deserved it. You. Any of it.”

You let out a small, tired laugh. “That’s the thing, Bucky. You don’t get to decide that for me.” tears threatening to spill eyes glossy.

He steps closer. The room gets smaller. The air gets louder.

“I think about you all the time,” he breathes. “When you dyed your hair brown, I thought—God, I thought I lost you. Like I finally saw you trying to be someone else because I made you feel invisible.”

You look up. “You did.”

Silence.

“Don’t you come back no more… don’t you come back at all…” Ravyn Lenae’s voice whispers in the corner.

His breath hitches. “I don’t want to lose you.”

You stare at him.

Then—quiet, calm, steady:

“Then why did you spend so long acting like I wasn’t something to hold onto?”

He doesn’t answer.

He can’t.

Because now? You’re the one walking away.

You sign up for the next mission within the hour.

High-risk, high-speed. Undercover extraction. Wanda signs on first. Then Nat.

She meets your eyes across the mission board and says nothing. Just nods — like she knows exactly why you’re doing this.

Like she knows the sound of a girl trying to outrun a heartbreak that won’t stay quiet.

–

Nat doesn’t hold grudges. You never did either.

She leans against the helicarrier wall before the jump, eyes on you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “I’m tired.”

She hums. “He’s trying.”

You look away. “So am I.”

Nat studies you for a long second.

Then she says, “Sometimes, trying isn’t enough.”

You almost break again.

But then Wanda walks up and slides her hand into yours — steady and sure.

“You ready?” she asks softly.

You nod. “Let’s burn it down.”

The mission is brutal. So are your thoughts.

You don’t think about him when you’re fighting. You think about breathing.

About surviving.

About being something other than a girl with a bleeding heart.

But when you’re alone, during a lull in fire, perched on the rooftop with sweat on your brow and blood on your hands—

You think about the look in his eyes when you walked away.

You think about the question that song whispered:

“Do you love me, or love me not?”

And the answer he never gave.

You come back different.

The bruises bloom yellow on your arms. Your heart’s still cracked in that delicate way — not broken, but echoing every step.

You come home to the Compound late at night, your hair tied up, hoodie too big, eyes too quiet. Wanda gives your shoulder a squeeze. Nat doesn't say much, just offers a tight smile.

You pass Bucky in the hallway. He freezes. You do too.

He looks at you like he’s about to say something. His mouth opens.

But then Nat calls his name from the common room.

And he turns away.

Again.

The laugh comes out of you sharp.

In your room, alone, you laugh bitter and quiet. Because of course. Of course.

You almost died, and he still couldn’t say anything.

You strip out of your tac suit, stare at yourself in the mirror. The brown and honey-blonde hair is still there. Still soft, still trying.

But your eyes are starting to look like someone you don’t recognize. Like a girl who doesn’t believe anymore.

He tries. But too softly.

–

The next day, there’s a coffee cup waiting on the kitchen counter.

It’s your order.

You know it’s from him — he’s the only one who remembers the stupid oat milk and one pump of cinnamon.

You pick it up. You sip it.

But you don’t say thank you. You don’t go looking for him. Because what’s the point of breadcrumbs when you’re starving?

Sam watches you with narrowed eyes.

“He’s a damn idiot,” he mutters.

You smile without humor. “Yeah. Well. I’m done waiting for geniuses.”

He corners you later. Too late.

In the training room. Just you, the punching bag, and the ghosts.

He walks in slowly. You feel him before you hear him. The way the air shifts. The way your ribs lock.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” he says softly.

You land another punch. And another. “Say what?”

He’s behind you now. “That I didn’t mean to make you feel invisible.”

You stop.

Turn.

You’re sweaty. Tired. Raw.

“I don’t need you to apologize for the past,” you say. “I need you to show up in the present.”

His face cracks. “I’m here now.”

You nod slowly. “But I’m not sure I am.”

You grab your bag and walk past him — shoulder brushing him again.

But this time, you don’t look back.

The final twist comes from Clint.

Later that night, Clint finds you on the roof, eating ice cream straight from the tub.

He sits next to you with a grunt.

“You know,” he says, “I’ve seen Bucky fight gods and aliens. Never seen him look more scared than when you stopped talking to him.”

You snort. “Well. He should be scared. I’m terrified.”

Clint grins. “You are. But you’re also a girl who deserves to be loved right. Loudly.”

You go quiet.

Then: “Do you think he ever will?”

Clint sighs. “I think some men have to lose the best thing in their lives before they realize it was the best thing.”

You say nothing.

The wind whips your hair around your face.

Brown and gold. Still soft. Still burning.

And that night, you dream of the sea — and you wonder what it feels like to be wanted without fear.

It starts in the hallway. Of course it does.

You're just walking. Sweatpants. Hoodie. Hair pinned back.

The kind of morning where the coffee tastes like survival, and your soul feels heavier than your bones.

And then he’s there. Bucky.

Leaning against the hallway wall like a question with no answer.

And your phone’s still playing softly through one earbud—

“Every summertime / Every now and then you cross my mind…” — and he hears it. You know he does. You both freeze.

You keep walking. He doesn’t let you pass.

He gently reaches for the earbud cord, slides it out. His hand lingers for a second too long.

You whisper, “Don’t do this if you’re not gonna finish it.”

He looks at you.

“Finish what?”

You blink hard. “This half-version of you. The breadcrumb kindness. The Almost. I’m tired.”

His voice drops to a crackling whisper. “So am I.”

You stare at him. “Then why did you wait until I changed my whole self just to survive you?”

He sees it now — the hair.

It’s midnight purple, thick and soft and unreadable.

He opens his mouth like he might ask what it means.

But I don't.

Because he doesn’t need to. Not if he’s really paying attention.

It means this:

It means longing. It means a bruised kind of hope. It means the kind of hurt that’s grown roots.

It means: you’re still here, but you’ve built a castle of silence around your heart.

He knows he can’t knock it down this time. He’ll have to ask for a key.

Later, you’re sitting on the edge of the beach.

Sunset bleeds across the sky like someone split open a ripe peach. Sam invited everyone for a “team reset” and bonfire. You're surprised when Bucky shows.

Even more surprised when he sits next to you.

Neither of you speaks.

Then: “I never told you about the first time I noticed you.”

You blink at him.

“I really noticed you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Was it when I knocked you flat in training?”

He gives a crooked smile. “No. That was when I fell in love with you.”

Silence.

“It was the time before that. You were walking out of a mission briefing. Hair all cotton candy and chaos. I remember thinking… ‘God, she looks like she doesn’t even know she’s the most alive thing in the room.’”

You don’t respond.

Because how do you respond to that?

So you say what you’ve never said.

“Do you even know how badly you hurt me?” Your voice cracks. Just barely.

“I used to think your silence was mysterious. But it was just cowardice, wasn’t it?”

He doesn’t deny it. Just look at the water.

“I wanted you to choose me,” you whisper. “But I guess I wanted it to matter to you first.”

Bucky finally turns. Eyes full of something that looks too much like an ache.

“It did matter. I just… didn’t know how to love you in a way that didn’t end with me losing you.”

You nod slowly.

“Well. You lost me anyway.”

And still…

There’s no yelling. No grand kiss in the sand.

Just quiet.

The kind that says: We’re not fixed. But we’re not broken beyond repair either.

His fingers graze yours.

You don’t pull away.

But you don’t hold on either.

–

After the beach, the next morning:

You walk into the kitchen. Tony is making something suspicious with a blowtorch. Wanda’s sipping tea. Sam’s already grinning when he sees your hair.

Everyone stares.

It’s no longer calico.

Not brown with honey.

Not Neapolitan.

Not soft.

It’s midnight purple, and no one can read what it means.

Except Bucky, who finally doesn’t try to guess.

He just meets your eyes with something like understanding.

And you…?

You just sip your coffee and say, “Morning.”

Like maybe — just maybe — being “just a girl” is enough.

–

You don’t ignore him. But you don’t invite him in.

It’s a quiet sort of standoff.

You train with Sam. You spar with Nat. You do recon reports with Steve. Debriefs with Tony. Quiet nights with Wanda and the occasional drink with Clint.

But Bucky?

Bucky gets the version of you that’s polite, efficient, and unreadable.

You laugh at Sam’s jokes. You tease Clint. You roll your eyes at Tony.

But Bucky? You barely look at him.

And it’s killing him.

The compound feels too small sometimes.

You pass him in the hallway. You’re carrying a box of gear. He holds the door open. You nod. He doesn’t move.

Then softly:

“You’ve changed your hair again.”

“You noticed?”

“I always do.”

You say nothing. Walk past.

His voice breaks slightly.

“What does this one mean?”

You pause. Then: “If you have to ask, you’re not ready to know.”

That stings. But you mean it.

–

You spar with Nat one morning. She doesn’t pull her punches.

Not physically. Not emotionally.

“Y’know,” she says between strikes, “he talks about you like he’s trying not to. Which means he is.”

You duck a punch, spin her to the mat.

“Then why hasn’t he said anything?”

Nat breathes hard beneath you. “Because he’s scared. He thinks if he touches it, it’ll break.”

You get off her. Offer a hand up. “It already did.”

She takes your hand. Hold it for just a beat too long. “He doesn’t know that.”

That night, you hear him outside your room.

Not knocking.

Just standing there.

Maybe for thirty seconds. Maybe longer.

You hold your breath.

He never knocks.

He walks away.

Wanda corners you in the library.

You’re curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, headphones in, pretending.

She taps your shoulder. Her powers buzz against your skin gently.

“I didn’t read your mind,” she says. “But I felt it.”

You take out one earbud. “Felt what?”

“You feel like you’re one hallway away from a scream.”

You say nothing.

Wanda sits beside you, gently braiding a loose strand of purple behind your ear.

“You’re trying so hard not to hope,” she says. “But it still leaks out of you.”

You laugh, soft and bitter. “I’m tired of wanting what won’t come.”

Wanda leans her head on your shoulder. “Maybe he just hasn’t figured out how to come the right way yet.”

Mission prep. One week out. Just you, Sam, and Bucky.

Tension like a live wire.

Sam fills the space with banter, but you and Bucky keep dodging glances like they’re weapons.

During gear check, he stands too close. His hand brushes yours.

You don’t pull away.

He doesn’t apologize.

That night, you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering why almost-love hurts more than heartbreak.

Because at least heartbreak ends.

–

You sneak out with Wanda and Sam to sit by the water. You don’t speak.

Wanda brings wine. Sam brings music. You bring the version of you that’s holding it together.

They don’t press you. They just exist beside you.

And in the waves, under the stars, your hair catches the moonlight. Midnight purple that looks almost black, almost soft, almost real.

Sam finally says it:

“He’s drowning in you. And he doesn’t know how to swim.”

You whisper:

“I’m not asking him to. I’m just asking him to stop pretending he’s not in the water.”

It starts with your hair. Because of course it does.

You hand the dye box to Wanda without a word. Sam’s sitting backwards on a chair behind you, watching like it’s a ritual. Because it is. It always has been.

Wanda hums as she parts your hair. Her fingers are gentle, reverent. Sam starts reading the instructions even though you both know you won’t follow them.

“You sure?” Wanda murmurs, already knowing the answer.

You nod. But it’s not about the dye.

It’s about surrender. About saying: “I’ve tried everything else and I’m tired of hurting quiet.”

The color bleeds in like sunlight cracking through

It’s coral red—not firetruck, not crimson. Softer. Warmer. A glow from within. And the money pieces? Soft blonde. Like forgiveness at your temples. Like a whisper of light you didn’t think you deserved.

Wanda helps you rinse. Sam holds the towel for you. You stare in the mirror when it’s done, and for once—you don’t try to decode it.

This isn’t a message.

It’s just a version of you who finally took back her voice.

And then you see him.

You’re walking back to your room, headphones in, the chorus of “I Like U” playing like a secret you’re too tired to guard.

“I want you / I want you / I want you / I want you to have me too…”

And he’s there. Bucky. Leaning against your doorframe. Not running this time.

He sees the hair.

His mouth opens, but he doesn’t ask what it means.

He just says:

“You always change your hair when you crash. What’s this one mean?”

You sigh. Pull one earbud out. Step forward.

“It means I’m done waiting for you to catch up.”

And Bucky—finally, finally—breaks.

The confession isn’t neat. It never could be.

“You think I didn’t feel it?” he says, voice rough. “Every joke you told that I couldn’t laugh at because I was too busy memorizing the sound? Every time you walked out of the room I felt like gravity left you?”

You blink. This is too much. Or maybe it’s just enough.

He steps forward. Hands shaking. “I’ve been in love with you since the first time you looked at me like I was more than my past.”

You say nothing.

Because if you speak, the dam might break too loud.

So you do what you’ve always done: You put your headphones back in. Turn the volume up.

“I like you / I like you / I like you / Sorry I never meant to…”

And he sees it.

Take the earbud from your ear. Puts it on his own.

And just says, soft:

“Me too.”

–

You laugh. It cracks like thunder through silence.

“That’s it? After all that, you just—‘me too’?”

He grins. Eyes shining, ruined, real.

“What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner? That I was scared? That I thought I didn’t deserve you? I am. I was. But I’m here now.”

You look at him.

And finally, finally, you let yourself believe it.

It’s not perfect. It’s not tied with a bow.

But he takes your hand.

And this time? You hold on.

Hard.

–

You’re on a Quinjet again.

The seat beside you is taken—by him, now. Always by him.

Sam flies. Wanda reads. The clouds roll like waves beneath you, soft and silent.

You're on a low-stakes recon mission in Norway. Just a supply sweep. Easy. Quick.

The kind they give to agents who deserve a breath. The kind they give to people in love, who need time to just be.

You lean your head on Bucky’s shoulder. Your coral red strands fall against his black jacket. His gloved thumb traces idle shapes on your knee.

You don't talk. You don't need to.

This is peace.

And you earned it.

You land just after dusk.

The mission is routine. Wanda takes points. You and Bucky sweep the perimeter.

But there’s a moment—just before you enter the outpost—when he grabs your wrist.

“Wait.”

You blink up at him. He looks nervous.

“I just…” He clears his throat. “You’ve changed again. Not your hair. You. I mean—not changed like—God, I’m screwing this up.”

You laugh softly.

“I get it,” you say. “I feel it too.”

He exhales. Relieved.

“I just didn’t know someone could feel so much and still keep standing.”

You shrug. “I didn’t know someone could love me exactly as I am. Not as a hero. Not as a mind reader. Just...”

“Just a girl?”

“Yeah.”

And he leans in.

This time, the kiss is soft. Like rain. Like recognition.

The mission ends. But the softness stays.

Back on the jet, Sam grins but says nothing.

Wanda nudges your foot with hers and whispers, “I told you. He just didn’t know how to come the right way yet.”

You laugh.

Later, in your room, you find a note on your pillow in his handwriting:

“You were never just a girl. But I love you like one. Simply. Deeply. Without question. -B”

You tuck it under your pillow.

You let your hair fall in messy waves.

And for the first time in a long time—

You don’t wonder what the color means.

You don’t think about what people see.

You don’t need to read anyone’s mind.

Because finally, finally—

Being you is enough.

Just a girl. Just a heart. Just this.

And he chooses you anyway.

Always.

–

It’s late.

The compound is quiet, lights low, windows open to a summer night breeze.

You’re curled on the couch, legs across Bucky’s lap, your fingers idly playing with the cuff of his sleeve.

The TV hums with some old black-and-white movie Sam insisted you’d both like. You stopped watching ten minutes ago.

Because Bucky hasn’t stopped looking at you.

And you can feel it.

That low hum behind your ribcage. That frequency only you can hear.

So you do it.

You slip quietly into his mind—not digging, not forcing—just listening to what spills over when his guard is down and you’re close and his heart is too loud to hide.

And you hear it.

“She’s gonna see it. She always sees it. God, say something, say something—”

“I’d give her everything if I could just figure out how to say it out loud.”

“I don’t know what she sees in me but I want to be what she keeps looking for.”

“Please don’t stop looking.”

And then, softer—

“I love her. I don’t know how to not love her.”

You blink once.

Your chest aches in that way it always does when someone tells you the truth without meaning to.

He sees it—he feels it. You don’t hide the fact that you’re in there.

He reaches up, brushing your cheek gently with his thumb.

“Caught me,” he whispers, a little crooked smile on his lips. “Didn’t mean for all that to spill out.”

You lean your forehead against his.

“I’m glad it did.”

Because it’s not a grand speech. It’s not a perfect line from a movie. It’s not fireworks or confetti.

It’s just him.

Raw. Real. Yours.

And his mind is no longer a maze of doubt and silence— It’s a love letter.

One you were always meant to read.

He doesn’t say "I love you" again. He doesn’t have to.

It’s in the way he pulls you closer. The way his hand settles over your heart like he’s memorizing the rhythm.

Outside, it’s raining. The windows fog.

And in your headphones, just barely audible—

“Through drought and famine, natural disasters / My baby has been around for me…”

You press a kiss to his jaw.

And for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re too much. Or not enough.

You’re just a girl.

And for him?

That’s everything.

Wanda watches you from the hallway. Sam nods once when Bucky walks past holding your hand.

Clint mutters, “Took ‘em long enough.”

Tony raises a brow. “Called it.”

Steve? Steve just smiles quietly and doesn’t say a damn thing.Because he knows— Sometimes, the best stories take time to burn right.

(You've got mail!) OH MY GOD IM SO NERVOUS TO POST THISS I HAVE BEEN WORKING ON THIS AND I WANTED TO GET THIS DONR BEFORE MY TRIP SO ITS A LITTLE BIT OF THIS A LITTLE BIT OF THATT AND IM LIKE RAAAAA

Tags @bbsbrina

#w.riting ‹𝟹 ‎scripts #bucky x female reader #bucky x y/n #james bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky barns imagine #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky x reader #i need him so bad #need that man #i miss him sm #fuck you marvel #ugh my baby #this made me so sad #mcu x f!reader #mcu x reader

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