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sweetcalebb · 23 hours ago

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Zayne's tired and snaps at you ! ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

wc: 1k

a/n: this was an ask by anon! i accidentally posted it before it was ready </3 but they requested angst and said that they were going thru a rough time. i'm really sorry to hear that :( my DMS/ inbox is always open. but i hope this is okay, and if it's not, pls feel free to let me know thru the comments, my DMs, or thru another ask! 🫶🏻

content: hurt/no comfort, zayne is stressed, slight neglect, themes of insecurity, sad reader </3, also avoidant reader again!! (let me know if u want something else)

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It'd been a long week. You hadn't talked to Zayne as much as you would've liked—or at all.

You weren't particularly clingy, but you missed him. You missed telling him about your day and the random gossip from work. You missed hearing about his days, too. Missed seeing his lips curl in that micro smile you loved. You missed the way he’d kiss your temple before closing the door. The way his eyes softened when he asked about your day.

So you waited up for him. You sat on the couch, eyes glued to the TV screen playing your favorite show while you passed the time.

You'd been up for hours. And when you finally heard the familiar click of the front door, followed by a quiet creak, your heart nearly leapt in your throat.

You turned the volume down and glanced up at him.

He looked tired, exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin. But you tried for a soft smile and a quiet, "Hey."

"Hey."

Low. Clipped.

You swallowed back the rising feeling of rejection.

"How was it tonight?"

Zayne didn't look at you. He loosened his tie and dropped his bag by the door. "Long," he murmured.

You stood up, the words coming out slowly. "I know you're tired.. But can we talk? We haven't really—"

"I'm—I need a moment," he said, finally looking up at you, eyes narrowed and jaw tense. "Let me breathe."

Heat stung your face. Breathe?

What was that supposed to mean? Was he trying to imply that you were... suffocating? That when you tried to speak to him—really talk to him—for the first time this week, it was suffocating?

You hesitated. "Breathe?"

"Yes, breathe."

You let out a quiet breath. "We've barely spoken all week, but I try to talk to you once and all of a sudden I'm—"

"Please," Zayne suddenly exasperated, his voice rising before quickly leveling again.

He looked away, shrugging out the cuff-links of his shirt. "I can't do this right now. So please... just—don't."

He waited a second, like maybe he realized how ugly those words sounded. But if he noticed it, he didn't apologize.

Instead, he shuffled down the hall to your shared bedroom like he hadn't just dug a hole in your chest.

He didn't mean to.

He would never mean to.

It was misplaced anger. But it felt all the same.

I can't deal with you right now.

That's what it sounded like to you.

Tears stung your eyes. You tried to will them back. It wasn't Zayne's fault. He was working late taking care of people—saving lives even. You should he happy.

It wouldn't be fair.

Your chin trembled, eyelids burning and throat frantically working around nothing.

But you didn't cry. Not yet.

Quietly, you started down the hall to your shared bedroom and stopped at the door. You peeked inside, palms sweating at the thought of seeing Zayne again.

But he wasn't there—must've been taking a shower. So hastily, you grabbed a pillow, a blanket, and stumbled back to the living room.

The world began to blur through tears as the floor croaked underneath you. You could hardly see, but you kept walking.

You set your stuff down on the couch. Then, finally, a broken sound tore from your throat. You whimpered, desperately pressing your lips shut to stop the rest from coming, but it was too late.

Was it too much to want to talk to your tired boyfriend?

You sank to the couch, your shoulders shaking with the force of your cries.

He can't handle you.

You're too much.

The cushions dipped under your weight as you shifted, trying to get comfortable, even as everything felt wrong—your skin, your thoughts, your feelings, your very being.

You brought the blanket up to your face and turned to face the cushions, shoulders still shaking with silent sobs.

I can't do this right now.

His words replayed in your mind. Over and over until the ache in your chest burned and your throat throbbed.

The tears subsided after half an hour, but you still lied there, restless—cheeks red and sticky, eyes bloodshot and puffy, lips swollen and raw, breath catching in your throat painfully. You were a mess. A sensitive, snotty mess.

Then, quiet footsteps.

You snuggled deeper into the blankets and shut your eyes. Maybe if you pretended to sleep, you could file this away and shove it deep, deep down.

Pretend it never happened.

"Sweetheart?"

Your heart ached, but you said nothing.

Zayne stepped closer. The floorboards creaked under his feet as he crouched beside the couch.

"Are you asleep?" he whispered.

Still, nothing.

His hand hovered over your shoulder for a second, hand flexing like he was torn between touching you and pulling away. His hand dipped closer, just an inch away, then he stopped.

Silently, he pulled away.

"You don't have to sleep on the couch." He waited a beat. "I can take it."

Again. Nothing.

Zayne sighed, the sound strained. "I… I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry. I lost my composure," he murmured. "I have no right to ask, but can you come back to bed?"

Finally, he reached out again. And for a second, you let him touch you. But everything came rushing back—his tone, his looks, his words.

You pulled away, shifting as close to the cushions as you could, like his touch was something you dreaded.

Zayne swallowed hard, another shaky breath leaving his lips. "I'll respect your space."

He stood up again, but he lingered. Then softly—so soft you almost didn't recognize him—he whispered, "Goodnight."

He waited. Seconds passed, but you didn't say anything. Your lip trembled like you were about to, but you didn't.

Then he was gone again, his footsteps disappearing down the hallway.

Tears spilled down your cheeks again, staining your pillow.

It was stupid. So stupid.

He said sorry. He asked you to come back to bed.

But you let him sit there in his own silence.

Maybe you were too much.

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miserymorgue · 2 days ago

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RED | ft. N. ROMANOFF

summary Hiding out in Norway, a wounded Natasha Romanoff finds unexpected comfort in the gentle hands of the sweet cashier.

wc 5.5k words

warnings hurt/comfort, injury/blood, graphicwound stitching, age gap (mild, adult reader), bit of angst, mutual pining, tension, natasha being older/tired/broken, fluff

parings post civil war!natasha romanoff x younger cashier fem!reader

Maybe she used to be a nun.

No, no... that can't be right.

Maybe she was a concert pianist once – until an injury ruined her career. Or something dramatic like that. You hum under your breath, chin propped on your palm as you watch her stalk down aisle three, her bright hair a slash of sunset against cheap laminate shelves, neat braids woven through the waves.

Today, she’s picking out canned soup.

You squint.

Butternut pumpkin. Figures.

Maybe she’s a hacker. Some rogue codebreaker siphoning money from billionaires and funnelling it to refugees in the dead of night. A digital Robin Hood hiding out in your nowhere town on Norway’s ragged coast.

She moved here a month ago. You remember – you’d been making conversation with Mrs Hansen as she unloaded groceries at a glacial pace. Then she walked in: beat-up Lada Niva rumbling outside, sunglasses perched low on her nose, head down like she didn’t want to be seen.

You watched her openly. The flex of her forearms as she lifted baskets. The weary slouch of her shoulders under her leather jacket. She noticed your staring, of course. But instead of frowning or turning away, she gave you a tight-lipped smile and disappeared into the aisles.

That first day, she bought so much it nearly buried the conveyor belt. Canned beans, rice, tea bags, cheap vodka, bandages. Survival gear, you’d thought. Like she was stocking up for the end of the world.

Your daydream dissolves when her basket lands on your checkout with a careless clatter. You jolt. That smirk is already tugging at her mouth, knowing she’s caught you drifting off again.

“Off with the fairies, huh?” she drawls, her voice low, smooth, tinged with some unplaceable accent.

“Nope,” you hum, scanning her soup, “exactly where I wanna be.”

She goes by Fanny.

Stupid name. You’d told her that first time. She’d just huffed out a dry laugh and nodded like she agreed.

You still think about that: the way she let you name her something else.

“Your hair looks nice,” you say as you begin scanning her cans. “It’s getting long.”

She purses her lips, fingers rising unconsciously to touch a braid. “Thanks. Started using that weird serum you recommended,” She recalls. “Busy today?” she asks.

You raise a brow. She’s one of five regulars. The only other customer is a mother bribing her kid with Kinder Eggs in aisle two.

“Very,” you reply flatly.

She chuckles under her breath, watching your hands move deliberately slow. You’re the fastest cashier here, but with her, you take your time.

“You hear about Dale and Melissa’s breakup?”

Red furrows her brows. “They broke up?”

You nod. “Melissa told me about it. Caught him cheating with some out-of-town girl. Brutal.”

“Shit… you think they’ll close the café? Dale makes a hell of a coffee.”

You smile faintly at her genuine concern. “Doubt it. I asked Dale about it and he said he’d rather die than give up the art of coffee, whatever that means.”

Your eyes flick to the bag in her basket. Crispy M&Ms. You hold them up, tsking. “Have you ever tried the peanut ones?”

She shakes her head. No.

��You have to,” you say, ducking out of the cashier bay before she can protest. “Trust me.”

She calls after you, her voice half a groan. “I’m on a budget.”

You return triumphantly with a bag of Peanut M&Ms, slamming it down beside the rest. “You’ll like them,” you hum, punching your employee discount in before she can stop you. “For me?”

She scoffs softly, lips curling into a reluctant smirk. Your stomach swoops.

“Fine,” she mutters, sliding her card across the reader. She eyes you, suspicious, like she’s trying to calculate the hidden motive. Like kindness is always a trick.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, waving her off.

Red slips the M&Ms into her jacket pocket, right against her chest. For a moment, you think about that pocket as a little shrine – your candy sitting there over her heart.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” she murmurs, and your cheeks flame. Her voice is warm, almost teasing, but edged with exhaustion. Her accent shifts between American and Russian seamlessly, like water finding cracks in stone.

As she gathers her bags, she pauses, eyes meeting yours. “See you around, fairy girl.”

Natasha had noticed your little crush the very first time you served her.

You weren’t exactly subtle. Small towns like this usually bred a certain fear of humiliation, a carefulness in the way people spoke. But not you. You were… different. Everything about you was different, she realised.

She’d seen you before, of course—around the market, at the café, chatting with anyone who’d listen. You talked to everyone, from the grumpy old man who barely muttered a hello, to the stressed-out single mother juggling kids and groceries.

You didn’t just exchange words; you made them count. The way you remembered their names, asked about their day, noticed the little things no one else seemed to care about.

Natasha watched you approach a scowling butcher one afternoon, smoothing his mood with a joke and a kind smile. She caught you helping a nervous teenager figure out the self-checkout machine without skipping a beat.

You moved through the town like a gentle breeze, warm and constant, drawing people out of their shells without even trying.

The way you slowed down with her. The way you asked questions that sounded casual but carried that gentle curiosity she hadn’t felt in years.

“I like your jacket. Did you buy it recently?”

“It’s cold today. How’re you finding the weather?”

You looked at her like she was some puzzle you were determined to solve—your eyes full of that open admiration, tinged with a quiet pride, like you thought you’d already cracked half her code. Your gaze would drift across her face, down her body—not invasive, never leering. Just… reverent. Warm.

You were younger.

Not by much on paper, maybe, but enough for her to feel the difference like a cold draft down her spine. Enough for her to think, I’ve lived a whole other life before you were even out of high school, kid.

She wondered if you knew that. If you could sense the years she carried under her skin, the things she’d done before you ever learned how to flirt with such open sweetness. You worked at the market, and she never heard you mention family.

She never asked.

Being a fugitive meant never getting close. Never letting yourself want anything. But still. Here you were. Looking at her like she was something worth wanting. Like you couldn’t see the blood under her nails, the ghosts behind her eyes.

And God help her—she almost wanted to keep letting you look.

“See you, Red,” you called, voice bright in the otherwise silent store.

She paused just outside the automatic doors, hearing them whirr shut behind her. For a split second, she let herself look back through the glass. You were still there, chin propped on your hand again, staring after her with that same soft-eyed smile. The kind that made something sharp twist behind her ribs.

Natasha shook her head, blowing out a slow breath as she turned away, boots crunching over fresh frost. She really needed to stop coming here so often.

Even Mason had raised a brow at her frequent grocery runs. “You don’t even eat that much, Romanoff,” he’d teased last time over the burner phone, voice crackling in and out with the Norwegian winds. “You’re just bored out there, huh?”

But it wasn’t boredom that pulled her to aisle three every other day.

It was you.

The warmth in your smile. The curiosity in your eyes, untainted by fear or suspicion. Like you wanted to see her. Like you liked that she existed at all. It wasn’t something she was used to.

She loaded her bags into the back of the Niva with mechanical efficiency, feeling your gaze lingering on her through the smudged windows. She’d had her share of women over the years – flings, missions, blurred lines in dark rooms lit only by city lights.

Women who clawed at her hair and moaned her name, who stared at her with hunger or jealousy or lust. But no one had ever looked at her the way you did. Like she was… human.

Like she wasn’t Fanny Longbottom, stupid fake name on a stupid fake passport.

Like she wasn’t Natasha Romanoff, fugitive Avenger, international criminal, assassin, traitor.

No, to you, she was just Red. She liked that.

It had been a week since you last saw Red.

Normally, she came by every two or three days—sometimes once a week if she was busy. Busy with what? You weren’t sure, and maybe you never would be. A part of you liked the mystery—it gave you room to wonder, to daydream, to craft little stories about who she was beneath that leather jacket and guarded stare.

But a week without a sign was different. Unsettling.

She never missed without warning. Even when quiet, she showed up. You checked the usual spots—the café, the market, the dusty trail where her battered Lada Niva usually rested. Nothing.

Whispers drifted around town—rumors of trouble in nearby villages, strange faces near the docks, men with cold eyes and sharper intentions. You didn’t know if they meant anything, but they tugged at your gut.

Then there were the small, strange details you couldn’t forget: the groceries she always bought—enough for one but stocked like she was preparing for a storm. The way she flinched at sudden noises, like a ghost from her past was waiting in the shadows.

A week of silence was long. You couldn’t shake the growing worry.

On your break, you’d checked the only other mart in town—no sign of her. You asked Dale and Melissa if she’d grabbed a coffee. Nothing. The gnawing unease in your chest only grew.

She didn’t frequent any other places in town. From what locals said, she kept to herself in a trailer a few miles out west. Sometimes you caught sight of her battered Lada Niva winding up the gravel road at dusk, headlights flickering through the pine trees like a ghost story come to life.

That evening, you found yourself driving past her trailer on your way home, the sun dipping low behind the cliffs. Just to… check. Just to be sure. You’d visited once, when she had to do an online order instead, eagerly coming by with the products as she ensured you stayed outside, claiming the inside was a mess.

Her truck was there, parked crookedly in the dirt, but no lights were on inside. The curtains were drawn tight. You almost drove on. Almost. But something pulled you out of the car, gravel crunching under your boots as you approached her door.

You raised your hand to knock, hesitated, then knocked anyway. Three soft raps. Nothing. You tried again, louder this time. “Red?” you called gently. “It’s me. Just… checking in.”

No answer. Your heart kicked up a notch. You glanced around—silent forest, empty yard, the smell of salt and pine in the evening air. You knocked again, feeling foolish and scared all at once.

“Red,” you said, firmer now. You try her ‘real name.’ “Fanny. I know you’re in there.”

Still nothing. You chewed your lip, weighing your options. This was stupid. Just as you go to take a step away, you hear the sound of metal falling to the flaw, clattering. You stop.

“...Red?” You call out again.

Finally, you reached down and twisted the doorknob. Unlocked.

The trailer smelled like stale blood and metal.

“Jesus…” you whispered, stepping inside.

The dim light leaking through the curtained windows revealed her slumped on the floor by the narrow kitchenette, back pressed against the cabinet. Her shirt was half-soaked through with dried blood, a bandage dark with fresh red pressed to her side. Blood smeared along the laminate floor, trailing from the tiny bathroom to her current spot, telling a silent story of her stumbling path.

Her head lolled slightly when she heard you enter, lashes fluttering open. She muttered a curse under her breath. “Leave,” she commanded immediately, voice hoarse with pain and exhaustion.

“Oh, shit, oh shit, Red, you—” You began, panic already rising in your chest.

“Leave.” She tried again, stronger this time, but it ended in a choked cough against her bandages, blood seeping between her fingers.

“What? No, oh— I’ll call an ambulance, wh—” You scrambled for your phone in your pocket, hands shaking.

Before you could even tap the screen, she snatched a postcard from the counter and flung it with perfect aim into your wrist. The force jarred your reflexes just enough for your phone to slip from your grip and clatter to the floor, the screen cracking against the chipped linoleum.

Your jaw dropped, the instinct to yell at her about your phone bubbling up—you’d have to drive two hours into the city for a replacement, and—

Then she coughed again, sharp and wet. “No hospitals. No ambulance. Leave.”

You quickly shut the door behind you, doing the exact opposite as you stripped off your coat and gloves, tossing them onto a rusted hook by the door. “Red, what happened?” You knelt beside her, trying to keep your breathing steady.

She attempted a glare, but it faltered halfway, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion. “Don’t… worry about it.”

You scoffed, beginning to open every cupboard in search of a med kit. “You remind me of my ex.”

She blinked at that, her brow furrowing through the pain. Confused, and almost amused despite herself.

“Stubborn. Secretive. Charismatic, but reserved,” you rattled off, rifling through another drawer filled with old cans and chipped mugs. “It’s hot at first. Charming. Until shit like this happens.”

She let out a huffed breath that could’ve been a weak laugh, or just a sigh of pain. “That… what you think… this is?” she rasped.

You ignored her question, following the blood trail into the cramped bathroom. The air was damp and smelled faintly of antiseptic and iron. On the sink lay a half-used first aid kit, gauze stained with dried blood, surgical thread half unspooled. Your stomach twisted as you imagined her in here days ago, stitching herself up under flickering yellow light.

Returning to her, you found her head tipped back against the cabinet, eyes closed. Her breathing was ragged, sweat beading along her hairline.

“Red,” you said softly, dropping to your knees beside her again.

You peeled her trembling hand away from the wound, inspecting it as gently as you could.

The stitches had torn open along the lower edge of the cut, about two inches long. Angry red skin, swollen slightly with infection, leaked blood sluggishly down her ribs. The edges were jagged but shallow—defensive, you realised. Like a blade had scraped across her rather than plunged deep.

“Okay… alright…” she swallowed thickly, trying to keep her eyes open despite the grey pallor overtaking her face. She whispered your name, just loud enough to snap your attention back to her.

“Listen to me,” she rasped, voice rough with pain. “Can you do first aid or not?”

You froze for a second, then did an awkward half-nod, half-shrug.

“What—what the hell does that mean?” she bit out, a flicker of frustration sparking in her dulled eyes.

“We… we had to do a first aid course at the store,” you stammered, voice trembling as your gaze darted to the gaping wound at her side. “It’s mandatory. I—I remember… orange to the sky, blue to the thigh.”

She blinked, staring at you in blank disbelief. “That’s… that’s epi-pens,” she croaked, a hint of dark amusement curling her lips despite everything. “And it’s the other way around.”

She let out a shaky sigh, her head rolling back for a moment before she forced her eyes open again. “Okay. Listen to me. You need to do exactly what I say. Exactly. Alright?”

You gulped, your vision blurring with tears as you stared at the slick red leaking through her ruined bandage. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Red—why can’t we just—why can’t we call—”

“This is what you signed up for when you walked through that door, okay?” she cut in sharply, her tone biting despite the strain. Her breathing hitched as she started to really feel the pain of the undone stitches. You were her only resource right now. “Focus.”

You nodded quickly, your pulse roaring in your ears. She seemed almost calm compared to you.

“You’re gonna redo my stitches,” she said, her voice turning soft but firm, like she was talking down a skittish animal. “It’s easy. Think of it like sewing. You sew?”

“Not… really,” you admitted in a small voice, helping her brace herself as she shifted.

“Great,” she rasped out a weak chuckle. “You get to learn.”

Together, you maneuvered her onto the loveseat couch nearby, her weight heavy against you despite how slight she felt under your grip. She let out a low groan as you eased her down, her knuckles white where they clenched the bloody gauze.

“What if—what if I got Dr. Hansen?” you blurted out, your voice shaking as you rummaged through the half-empty first aid kit, fingers closing around a sterile suture packet and black thread, remembering the local doctor.

“Not happening, sweetheart,” she ground out, glaring at you through half-lidded eyes. “Now c’mon.”

You let out a trembling breath, blinking back tears as you tore open the suture pack with clumsy, shaking fingers. “Okay… okay… tell me what to do.”

She swallowed hard, her breathing ragged as she tilted her head to look at you. For a moment, her gaze softened, something unbearably fond flickering there despite the pain.

“First… pass me the Scotch,”

Without hesitation, you grabbed the nearby bottle, dark, and cheap, half empty. You handed it to her, undoing the cap and watched as she gulped down some. She let out an exasperated breath, as if she needed that. She takes a second.

“Okay. Clean it,” she murmured. “Use saline. Wipe away the blood. Don’t go too deep… just clean the edges.”

Your hands moved on autopilot, tearing open a saline vial and sterile gauze, your chest tight with terror as you dabbed gently at the torn wound.

She winced but didn’t flinch away, her jaw tightening. “Good… that’s good…” she whispered, her eyelids fluttering.

“Red… stay awake,” you say quickly, panic flooding your voice.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m… I’m here. Don’t worry about it,” she mutters, forcing her eyes open again. “You’re gonna thread the needle now. About… six inches of thread. Tie a knot at the end. Pull it tight.”

You fumble with the suture kit, your fingers slick with sweat as you threaded the needle with shaking hands, tying a hasty knot at the end like she instructed.

“Okay, alright… now what?” you breathe out, blinking away tears that blurred your vision.

“Simple interrupted stitches,” she says hoarsely, her words slurring slightly. “Go… in one side… out the other. Pull through… tie it off. Quarter inch apart… don’t make them too tight. Just… enough to close.”

You swallow hard, your hands trembling violently as you bring the needle to her torn flesh. “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” she whispered, her voice firm despite the haze overtaking her eyes. “You can. Breathe.”

A tear slips down your cheeks as you push the needle through her skin, feeling her tense under your hands but hearing no sound from her lips. The only sound was your ragged breathing and the distant creak of pine trees outside in the cold wind.

“Good… that’s it… keep going…” she whispered, her voice growing fainter with each word.

You worked gently, slowly. Every time she even winced, you would stop briefly, scared you'd hurt her, but she’d insist on continuing, continuing to sip the scotch. She watched you. The only sound being your breathing and her groans, and the squeak of the cheap couch beneath.

“You live here alone?” Natasha wonders.

You glance up at her now, surprised by her attempt at conversation. In your time of knowing her, which has not been long, you instigate the conversations, you ask the questions. You sigh.

“Yeah,” You mumble a response. “Moved here two years ago, after I graduated.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully, like she’s savoring the sound of your voice. Maybe this is why you talk to everyone—trying to fill the quiet that lives inside you both.

“What did you study?” she asks, eyes softening.

You don’t answer right away, your hands steady as you work on her stitches. Natasha waits patiently, sensing you’re lost in your own head.

“I… I tried to enroll,” she finally says, voice a little rough. “Signed up for a History class, actually.”

You smile gently. “Really?”

She nods, a small, almost shy smile tugging at her lips. “I was… angry at work. Thought maybe I’d rebel by learning something for myself.”

“Rebel against work?” you ask, teasing lightly.

She lets out a soft laugh, eyes flickering away for a moment. “More like... the people in charge.” Her voice is low, guarded, but there’s a hint of openness you haven’t seen before.

You continue sewing, then pause. “What part of history did you like?”

Natasha’s gaze drifts to the cracked ceiling as she thinks. “Rome. The time between the Republic and Empire. It’s… dramatic. Full of change. You’d probably like it.”

Her voice softens, almost like she’s sharing a secret. For a moment, she looks more fragile than fierce, and you feel something gentle stir inside you. Natasha smiles at that, eyes watchful as she takes another swig of scotch. Your eyes meet for a moment. You flush under her gaze, clearing your throat.

“I studied economics,” You tell.

She furrows her brows, shocked. “What?”

You chuckle a bit at that. You take a moment before going back to the stitches. It wasn’t too hard at all, you found. You just needed a groove, a bit of motivation. Her.

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “I know, right.” You take a moment to steady your hands before continuing with the stitches. It’s not as hard as you thought—just a rhythm, a focus. And motivation. Her.

She’s still half reclined against the arm of the couch, one knee bent, the other foot across the other end on the couch, her head lolling slightly as she watches you with hooded eyes, taking the stitches like a champ. “Economics…” she murmurs, a lazy smirk curling her lips despite the pain. “That’s… unexpected.”

“What, because I work checkout?” you tease lightly, trying to keep your voice from shaking as you knot off another suture. Your thighs are trembling from crouching so long, but you refuse to let it show.

Her voice is raspy as she smiles. “No. Just… thought you’d do something softer. Art. Literature. Philosophy. Something that matches… all this.” Her hand lifts weakly, gesturing vaguely at your face, at the soft line of your mouth, at the tear tracks drying on your flushed cheeks.

Your heart gives a little stutter at that, your chest tightening as you focus on threading the needle again. “I like numbers,” you mumble, embarrassed by how shy you sound. “They’re predictable. People aren’t.”

Her lips twitch into a faint smile at that. “Smart girl,” She pauses. “You seem like such a people person, though.”

You shrug. “I guess. I realised people are way more interesting than numbers. Everyone’s got a story.”

A pause hangs between you.

“What’s yours?” Natasha asks, eyes narrowing just a little, curious.

You shrug again, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

It’s a challenge wrapped in a dare. She smirks, amused, eyes glinting with quiet defiance, knowing full well that’s not going to happen. Not tonight and leans her head back to lie down.

Your breath catches at her tone, your fingers faltering for half a second before you force yourself to keep going. You can feel her gaze on you like heat, burning into your flushed skin.

“I um, I never asked what you do,” you say softly, needing to fill the silence before it swallows you whole. Before you say something truly stupid, like please don’t die.

She chuckles weakly, the sound low and rough. “I… used to work in security, I guess,” she hums, voice distant, words slurring slightly. “Private contracts. Travelled a lot.”

“Dangerous work,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you tug the thread through her skin again, making her hiss softly.

“Yeah… you could say that.” Her eyes flutter closed for a moment before she forces them open again, pinning you with that sharp, steel-grey gaze.

Even now, half broken and bleeding out on her shitty couch, she looks like she could snap your neck with a flick of her wrist. And yet… her eyes soften as they trace over your features.

“You’re good at this,” she murmurs, voice dropping lower, turning rougher, almost intimate.

Your cheeks burn under her gaze, your stomach swooping. “Don’t say that. I’m literally sewing you back together on your couch. This is… this is insane.”

“Still good, ‘specially for an econ major,” she insists, lips quirking up into a faint smile.

Her hand twitches, like she wants to reach out and touch you, but she thinks better of it, her fingers curling into her palm instead. You tie off the last stitch with trembling fingers, cutting the thread as gently as you can.

Her blood is drying tacky on your hands, smeared down your wrists. You don’t even notice. All you see is her, half-naked and vulnerable in the dim lamplight, her skin gleaming with sweat, her hair mussed and clinging to her temples.

“There,” you whisper, brushing a damp strand of hair from her flushed forehead. “All done. Did I do okay?”

She glances down at your work, her tank top bunched just beneath her sports bra, exposing the raw stretch of stitched skin. Adjusting her back against the couch, she exhales a shaky breath, tension draining from her shoulders.

Her head tips back, eyes fluttering shut as relief washes over her. “Perfect,” she murmurs, voice low and worn, but edged with genuine gratitude.

For a moment, neither of you move. Her breath is ragged, yours shaky. Her eyes flick down to your lips, just for a second, before dragging back up to meet your gaze.

“Thank you,” she says softly, and something about the way she says it makes your chest ache. Like no one’s ever done anything for her without expecting something back.

You smile a bit at her. “No worries, Red,” A beat. “Now, can I ask what happened?”

She sighs, her gaze drifting to the cracked ceiling above. “Um… well, like you said, my job can be dangerous. You… make enemies with some angry people. And I was just… in the wrong place at the right time, I suppose.”

You nod slowly, letting out a short, humourless scoff. “We’re back to vague, huh?”

She says your name quietly, her voice a rasp.

“It’s fine. You don’t… owe me shit. Honestly,” you insist, your voice soft but firm. “I’ll make you some tea.”

You move around the tiny kitchen, opening mismatched cupboards until you find a chipped ceramic mug and a half-used box of black tea. The smell of blood still fills the trailer, metallic and thick, clinging to your nostrils. You rinse your hands quickly, staring at the rust-stained sink as pink water swirls down the drain.

Behind you, Natasha sighs. You can hear her shifting on the couch, a low groan slipping from her lips as she tries to get comfortable. Her voice comes again, quiet but insistent.

She says your name once more.

You don’t respond, you just want to make this tea and make sure she’s okay because maybe the secrets are bad, and scary, and maybe you’ve gotten yourself involved in something worse.

Another minute or so of quiet goes by, tense. She says your name again, this time softer.

“Seriously, Red, it’s not—” you begin, not turning around.

“Natasha,” she interrupts. Her voice cracks a little, and she clears her throat. “My name… it’s Natasha.”

You freeze. The electric kettle clicks softly behind you, steam curling up into the dim kitchen light. Slowly, you turn to look at her. She’s fidgeting with her fingers in her lap, tracing the gauze near her wound absent-mindedly, eyes cast down like a guilty child.

“My name,” she whispers again, her gaze flicking up to meet yours, weary but steady, “it’s Natasha. It’s not… Fanny.”

You stare at her, feeling your heart hammer against your ribs. You let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head. “Yeah… I figured that a while ago,” you murmur, trying to ease the trembling in your voice. “Stupid name.”

“Very stupid name,” she agrees, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.

You hum softly, stepping closer with the mug of steaming tea.

You kneel down beside her again, pressing the warm ceramic into her shaking hands. “Natasha, huh?” She exhales shakily, nodding.

“Yeah.” You sit back on your heels, looking at her. Really looking. Her flushed skin, the faint sheen of sweat on her collarbones, the raw vulnerability in her tired eyes.

You both understand that there isn’t a lot of truth she can give you. How this happened, her past, etcetera. But this? This she gives.

“Suits you,” you say quietly, your voice trembling with something you can’t name. She nods again, swallowing hard as she clutches the tea to her chest, letting its warmth seep into her trembling fingers.

Her eyes flutter shut for a moment, lashes dark and damp against her pale skin. When they open again, she looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice breaking around the words. “For… staying.”

You smile softly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of copper hair behind her ear, letting your fingertips linger against the hot curve of her neck. She lets you, surprised by herself as she leans into your touch.

“No problem,” you murmur.

Her breath catches at your touch, and for a moment the air between you crackles with something thick and electric, something that makes your stomach swoop and your chest ache.

“Don’t do that,” you whisper, voice trembling with restraint.

She blinks at you, pupils wide and dark. “Do what?”

You swallow, glancing down at her lips before flicking back up to her eyes. “Look at me like that. You’re hurt. It’d be stupid.”

A tired, raspy chuckle escapes her chest. “I’ve already done stupid, sweetheart.”

Your breath falters at the nickname, your heart giving a painful little squeeze in your chest. Before you can second-guess yourself, you lean down and press your lips softly to hers.

She tastes like blood and salt and something heartbreakingly human. She smiles against your mouth, her hand twitching like she wants to reach for you but can’t quite manage it. It’s gentle, fleeting, so impossibly sweet you think you might cry.

Then she suddenly lets out a sharp, pained yelp. You jerk back, eyes wide in horror. “Wh— oh my god, did I hurt you—”

But she’s chuckling weakly, eyes gleaming with mischief despite her exhaustion. “Got you,” she murmurs, voice teasing and low.

Your jaw drops as you realise she’s playing you. “Oh my god— no. No more deathbed kisses for you, alright?”

“Deathbed?” she echoes, smirking.

“I’ll make it one if you pull that shit again,” you threaten lightly, rolling your eyes as relief floods your chest.

She laughs properly this time, a quiet, broken sound, and you grin down at her despite yourself. You brush your hands against your jeans with a sigh.

“I’ll clean up a bit,” you say, softer now. “Try to get some rest, Natasha.”

She hums softly, eyes following you as you move around her small kitchen, her gaze lingering on the soft curve of your hips, the flutter of your lashes as you concentrate. For the first time in a long, long while, she lets herself watch you without guilt gnawing at her ribs.

And despite the pain biting deep into her side, despite the ghosts howling outside her thin trailer walls, she feels… safe.

Just for tonight.

note: hello!! how cool! im quite charmed by this, expect some more nat fics in the future. shes interesting to write for, her dialogue can be tricky tho. anyway thanks for reading!!

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blushhbambi · 2 days ago

Note

in your frat!rafe headcannons post, you said he mocks readers moans and stuff in front of his friends. can you do when reader gets upset abt it and he has to go fuck her in the bathroom to calm her down 😵‍💫

── ˙ ̟ ೕ !! ꣑୧ frat!rafe x reader mdniᝰ.ᐟ semi public, bathroom / mirror sex, p in v, unprotected sex, degrading, toxic relationship, rafe is mean and a shit boyfriend, hints of misogyny, finger sucking, spanking... . ༉‧₊˚. word count;²k a/n i love my anons sm like y’all are so creative. got a bit carried away with this one and strayed from the request a little, now I wanna make another version for u 😭

you hated him.

it was humiliating, made you want to shrink away into the crook of his arm and disappear behind his musk of cologne and cocaine. rafe had no shame when it came to you and your relationship and it was clear for all to see, he made sure of it.

you were perched on his lap frowning and pouting as he only got louder and snarkier, making fun of you to the group of his leering friends lazily sat in a circle, observing the two of you with their legs spread wide and half drunk grins plastered across their faces whilst the bass of the party music down stairs thrum through the walls.

“shes was so fuckin’ into it last night— couldn't get enough of my cock huh?”, he squeezes you against him with the arm he had curled around you.

“right…”, you mumble, tired and embarrassed, your face flushed hot. you thought you would've gotten used to how mean he could get but you never did, not when he acted like it was some game, trying to up his own actions everytime he dragged you with him to his stupid frat parties to show you off.

but you sit there, pliant and small in his arms not even letting out a squeak, zoning out of the surrounding conversations.

that was until you heard a lewd moan close to your ear. you blink up at him suddenly, wide eyed and tense. rafe can only laugh at the dumb look on your face.

he was mocking you in front of everyone, loud and unashamed as he tilted his head back to let out a louder laugh.

“yeah you sounded exactly like that, right babe?”

“rafe—”, you furrow your brow as you hand paws at his shoulder, clasping at the fabric of his shirt with tense humiliation. you were so embarrassed you couldn't get a word of protest out.

“all like— dumb and so fuckin’ needy—”, he laughs again.

“rafe—”, you grit out trying to assert your voice but he only interrupts you with a louder shameless, mocking moan.

“oh rafe— fuck me harder—!”, he pitched his voice higher tilting his head close to yours not even bothering to address your obvious discomfort, too focused on rousing his peers, desperate for what he thought was admiration.

“fuck— y’know its adorable babe.”, he rolls his eyes as he pushed his hair back lazily, shrugging casually. you only sit there with disdain in your now glossy eyes, grimacing up at him.

“stop it, you're embarrassing me—”

“what? you talkin’ back to me now?”, he flares back at you squinting with challenge behind his eyes, almost daring you to talk back. the room felt hot, everyone had gotten a bit quiet at the obvious tension between you two. rafe did not like that, didn’t you know how humiliating that could be for him? he was a man for fucks sake and your talking back to him, his girl, his little dollie talking back to him in front of his frat bros, probably too stoned to even realise what was unfolding. he rolls his jaw heavy with irritation. you chew your lip nervously in the silence, unsure of what he would do, whatever it was you knew it'd be drastic.

“get the fuck up.”

“what—”

“I said get the fuck up, you too fuckin’ thick in the head to clock what im saying?”, he raised his voice suddenly, standing up quickly and gripping your wrist tight in his hold, pulling you up with him.

“ow— rafe—”, you cry out tearily, before you know it he's dragging you through his house and shoving you into a bathroom. the door is slammed and locked making you flinch and back into the sink, shrinking away from the now pacing and immensely pissed rafe cameron. he's got his nose scrunched up and he's rubbing at his temples like he does when he's desperate for a line or a hit of anything that could relieve him of his tension.

you stare at him wide eyed and cautious, you didn't like stressing out rafe, he'd always make you feel so bad afterwards, talking about how he never got it easy, never caught a fucking break. you know he didn't mean to lash out at you.

but still that didn't stop your eyes from glossing over as he turned to you with a stern look.

“we talked about this.”, his voice is tight and serious, strangely calm but you knew him too well, you knew he was on the verge of bursting out at you in rage.

“the fuck did I say ‘bout talkin’ back?”

you swallow the lump in your throat, sniffling and teary.

“good girls don't talk back—”

“and what are you?”

you chew the inside of your cheek as he scolded you, stepping closer and crowding your space. getting all in your face while you couldn't stop yourself from crumbling before him. holding your face and hiding the tears that rolled down your flushed cheeks as he put you in your place.

“your good girl.”

he nodded with a grunt, rolling his jaw and contemplating whether he could soften up on you yet, he always got soft when you got all sniffly and sad, blinking up at him with those big wet eyes.

“that's right baby— my good girl hm…”

rafe clasps your face roughly with a big hand, swatting away your shaky hands and forcing you to look up at him.

“look at you— so fuckin’ precious.”

his voice softened slightly and you're pulled closer to him, stumbling a little into his bigger, stronger frame.

“you're never doing that again.”, he nods in a sure whisper like he knows you would never dare, his eyes follow your tears and the little hiccuped shakes that made you look so fucking small. seeing you so upset always did something to him, his grip on your arms tightened slightly and your noses brush in the proximity.

his hands stroke your face gruffly, pushing your hair back and out of your face tutting softly.

“that's enough now, hm?”

“no more tears baby.”

rafes’ voice is cruelly soft as he presses a firm kiss to your foreheads letting his thumbs brush at your damp cheeks. you swallow hard trying to pull yourself back together.

“y'know I don't like being upset with you…”, he whispers softly and you knew what was coming, it always did, his special way of making things up with you. in a way it did work, he'd fuck you so hard you'd forget and forgive his harsh words and brutish touch.

“c'mon baby y'know what to do— turn around f'me—”

your head felt light with his soft murmurs and how he gently tugged you into place. keeping quiet and pliant, just how he liked you.

“rafe im sorry, I really am—”

“none of that shit, this'll make it all better ‘kay—”

you nod softly sniffling as you turn you back to him, you see yourself in the bathroom mirror, how he towered behind you with his dark gaze dragging across your smaller form.

“thats right— c'mon ass up babe.”

rafe's a little giddy now, watching the curve of your ass as you bend over, leaning against the marble of the sink. you feel big hands come down on your ass, roaming possessively.

“mhm, dont cry baby y'know i love you—”, one hand reaches forward to hold your face, pulling it higher to see yourself in the mirror.

“see— that's my pretty girl.”, he smiles proudly, patting your cheek as his other hand hikes up your skirt pulling and pushing at the fabrics that stood between him and his goal.

“now watch yourself get fucked by my cock m’kay?”

you feel him pressed against your underwear, his hard cock rutting softly between your ass cheeks. you whimper with need, unable to help the throb between your legs, your watching his face in the mirror, the focus in his eyes as he stares with his curled lips down at the growing wet patch on your panties. its like he gets some sort of high from it, playing the perfect boyfriend, how he coos soft praise, comforts you from his own actions and god seeing you so fucking pouty made him hard. rafe knew he was mean, knew he was rash and rude and horrible, knew how your friends hated him and how you did too sometimes but it was all worth it for this.

the push and pull of emotions building up just to crumble as he pulled out his fat leaking cock, making you gasp out as he rubbed against the soaked fabric covering your pussy. you moan out softly making him curl two fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue and you can't help but suck at them with drool dripping from the corners of your mouth. it made you dizzy, your head still light from your previous tears and all the emotions that had been let out.

rafe grunts roughly, tugging the soiled fabric of you panties lazily, eventually pulling them low enough to get a good view of your spread pussy. he quickly get lost in it, rubbing his fingers over your slick folds making you moan around his fingers and press back into the feeling. his big hand palms and kneads your ass punishingly.

“fuckin’ look at all this—”

“all f’me right?”

you can only nod dumbly as he picks up his cock again and rubs the thick head through your folds to find your soaked hole. he groans loudly as you practically suck him in. it's all happening so quickly you can't think. you catch glimpses of him in the mirror, his mouth gaped open with a sick smirk as he plunges into you hard again and again to find his rhythm. his cocks hitting you so hard, so deep. hitting that perfect spot that makes you see stars.

you don't even realise his thick fingers had left your mouth till he wipes your drool across the plush skin of your ass, you moan louder with your mouth hanging open now. your nails digging into the smooth sides of the sink, whilst your hip bones dug into it painfully with his unfaltering rhythm.

“oh my god rafe—”, you cry, moaning loudly.

his hips pound into you, letting the small room echo with both your moans and the lewd squelching of yojr pussy above the faint sound of the now distant party.

suddenly you feel a sharp stinging sensation as his palm comes down harshly onto the reddening plush of your ass. you yelp out loudly in a lewd pained whine that escapes your throat. he manages a breathy laugh watching you claw at the sink

“m'sorry baby, yknow— fuck— yknow you gotta learn your lesson.”

you whine out his name tearily as his hand comes down again, pain blooms from the impact, only making you wetter. his view is fucking amazing, his cock pumping your soaked cunt while your slick drips down your thighs and onto the cold tile of the bathroom floor. he's got one hand gripping at your waist hard, grounding himself with white knuckles while the other is grabbing handfuls of your ass, roughly, not even bothering to sooth over the red blossoms of pain across your skin.

“fuck—”

you close your eyes tight at the overwhelming feelings, the sweat covering the both of you and the growing hot smell of sex that filled the room. his pace grew faster, more desperate as his cock railed through you

“holy shit look at my girl—”, he groans out with another rough smack.

“my. good. fuckin’. girl.” each word is enunciated with a harsh spank.

he feels himself grow closer, and you, the way your sopping cunt clenched around his length had his breath hitch and balls tighten. your head lols forward with pleasure and he's quick to grab your jaw, holding it up to see the grand finale.

you cum first, its messy and sudden and you're creaming around his still pistoning cock as your eyes watch his. the way you were looking at each other so deeply at the height of your connection only made your orgasm hit harder.

maybe that's why rafe couldn't let you go, rafe could fuck any girl on the island but he wanted you. he was pathetic like that, greedy even, for that look he couldn't get from any other bitch. the look of pliance, awe and that sweet flush while you came all because of him.

watching your face had him cumming right after you. his hips stuttered as he let out a shaky groan, managing to give you a few more sloppy thrusts before he pulled out to cum over your reddened, plush ass. you feel his grip loosen, leaving harsh red marks on your hips as he leans back to take in the scene before him, letting your head go to pant against the marble sink.

“fuckin’ masterpiece—”

you let out a lazy whine in reply, not even sure of what you wanted to communicate as you slumped, limp and aching with twitchy limbs. rafe pushed his hair back lazily, staring at his cum dripping down the path of your ass and down to your folds, he let out a proud hum and pats the curve of your ass.

“that's what happens when you're a good girl baby.”

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dark-night-hero · 15 hours ago

Text

Imagine being Zayne's non-mc significant other.

Imagine being the one Zayne always came home to.

Imagine being the person he smiled for when no one else was around. The reason he packed extra meal just in case you forgot to eat again. The one who'd fall asleep with your head against his shoulder while he charted vitals or scribbled post operation notes under dim lights.

Imagine it started with long shifts and night calls. The hospital never slept. And neither did he really. Not when you were starting to disappear into your own schedule, a different work, different place, a different life it sometimes felt like.

Imagine Zayne didn't say much. That wasn't his way. But he noticed everything. The way your coffee mug sat untouched on the counter. The slow fade of your toothbrush like you weren't using it his place as often. The silence after his messages. The shorter replies. The "Sorry, call you later." That came more often than it used to.

Imagine he told himself this was normal. Two lives, both demanding, both full of different things you two work on to. It wasn't your fault. And did he hoped it wasn't his.

still, Imagine the way the apartment felt colder these days. Even when the heater hummed and the lights were on.

Imagine he stopped bringing up dinner plans. He wasn't sure if you would show up. And part of him hated how his stomach twisted when he thought of an empty chair across from him.

Imagine the worst part was how kind you still were. You weren't angry. You weren't distant in a sharp, cruel way. You still understand. At the same time, it felt like you were just… Tired. Quiet. And he doesn't know how to ask. "Are you still in this? Or are you just trying not to hurt me by leaving?"

but Imagine, he tried to push it out of his mind. Telling himself he was just overthinking, that it was just the fatigue getting over him. But then came the moment.

Imagine you were outside the emergency bay, seemed to be waiting for someone but was also talking to someone he didn't recognize. A nurse maybe. Or someone from admin. It didn't matter. What mattered was the smile on your face. Soft. Relaxed. Familiar. The kind of smile you used to give him.

Imagine Zayne didn't interrupt. He just stood there for a second, blood pressure readings half forgotten on the tablet in his hand. And then he walked away.

Imagine it was not because he didn't care. But it was because it terrified him. The idea that you might be happier, more at ease when he wasn't around.

Imagine he stood in the on call room later, still in his scrubs, staring at the locker door like it might give him answers.

Imagine Zayne wasn't really the emotional type. Or at least on the outside. He didn't throw things. He didn't cry. But he sat down. Shoulders slumped. Head in his hands. And all he could think was that 'What if I was the one who made us tired?'

Imagine he remembered the last time you laughed together. The last time you touched his arm in passing. The last time you stayed awake just to wait for him to come home. He didn't know when those moments stopped. But he missed them like something broken beneath his ribs.

Imagine Zayne never blamed you. He blamed himself. For the hours spent chasing patients. For the nights he chose work over warmth. For thinking you'd always just be there even as the distance widened inch by inch.

Imagine he wanted to ask. "Do you still love me?" But he never did. Because if the answer was "No. No anymore." He wasn't sure he could bear that. If he could handle that. So instead, Zayne kept moving. Kept healing others. While something inside him quietly ached.

Imagine because that's how Zayne hurts. Silent. Steady. Like a heartbeat you don't realize is fading until it's almost gone.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: looks away* ehem, well you see- I was bored and hungry I could eat a damn zayn-

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zarla-s · 23 hours ago

Note

Hopefully not an odd question, but how did you come up with the “Ads” in Spamtons speech for your Defragmentation comic?

Like know where to put them and what they would be

A lot of the time it's just free association. Every time there's a word that CAN be replaced to obscure or muddy something, I consider it. Something to remember about his speech pattern is that his bracket words aren't all ads or slogans! He replaces normal words too, sometimes with the same word (presumably) or sometimes with a strange tangent. If a word in the sentence makes you think of something else (and can hide or confuse something), just follow that train of thought a few stops and see where it takes you.

For example, let's say he wanted to say something like "I SAW YOUR RUNNING AWAY." I made a typo while typing that and I usually keep those. "Running" jumps out at me - easy word to replace with something strange. What's another unusual word for running? "Skedaddle", no one uses that. What's a step further out from that? "Skip-to-my-loo my darling", they both have a "sk" sound and convey movement. Sentence turns into "I SAW YOUR [ Skip-to-my-loo] MY [prize3d CUstomer]!" That's my general approach, haha. Sometimes the words just have pleasing alliteration or a nice rhythm or just rhyme in a way I like. "[Prime-Time] [High-Time]" for example, or "[Blinkers Poppers Firestarters]". Anything that can be replaced with something vaguely threatening or scary is a good option too (Spamton screaming in agony about burning in acid or talking about death for example).

I made a way longer post about the details of his speech pattern (it's surprisingly fiddly) but here's some quick bulletpoints of things I don't see too often when people write for him.

Typos

Wrong punctuation/no punctuation

Punctuation inside words (LIGH;TN>er)

Too much punctuation (can never have enough !!!!s)

Numbers in words

Incorrect capitalizations in and out of brackets

Weird grammar and misspellings

Tense mix-ups, plural mix-ups

Complete sentences (he CAN do these! they're just rare)

Missing words, single words

Too many spaces, spaces in weird places

Repetition (usually panicky but he does get stuck sometimes in general)

Small short words ([guts], [eyes], [mouth])

Weird word choices (skedaddle up there for example)

Follow your train of thought wherever it goes. Song lyrics, movie titles, famous catchphrases, jingles, memes (not too many of these though), technical jargon, just whatever your brain grabs onto. You might want to check out old VHS recordings on archive.org that include commercials and see what they sound like. The 90s are a good year, Spamton loves 1997!

#asks and answers #sandvwixh #deltarune #spamton #i've watched a lot of TV so i've probably heard more commercials than a lot of kids now #i don't count youtube ads those aren't the same thing

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pinkpuppipawz · 16 hours ago

Text

DRUNK

°ᡣ𐭩 . Poly! Saja boys x GN! Reader

CONTENTS ꒱ ➜ Fluff, some suggestiveness, mentions of puking, Abby’s abs, reader eating a shit ton of chocolate, reader being a mess, the boys don’t know what to do (send help)

CREDITS ꒱ ➜ Saja Boys belong to KPOP Demon Hunters (Sony) on Netflix

AUTHORS NOTE ꒱ ➜ hiii! Sos I haven’t posted anything in seemingly years, I’ve been busy with life and such. Haven’t written in a while so may be a bit rusty. I have only been drunk once so this may not be accurate. Also this is my first time writing for Saja Boys! Planning on writing for them more in the future bc yes, feel free to request if desired!

You had promised them it would only be one small drink, and they decided to trust you. Never again are they doing that after what occurred tonight.

You were currently stuffing your face full of any chocolate you could get your hands on, seemingly in a trance of some sort. The boys didn’t know if they should stop you or just leave it.

Jinu tried, key word tried, to stop you from indulging too much just in case you threw up later, only for you to turn around, give him the nastiest glare you could muster in your not so sober state whilst growling like a dog.

Mystery may or may have not found that kind of hot, and may or may have not had to go to the bathroom real quick to get rid of his problem.

Abby tried distracting you with his abs, to see if you would just maybe turn away from the chocolate for enough time for the others to snatch them from you. Nope! Did not work, for once. Abby felt his ego deflate like a balloon, muttering something along the lines of ‘my abs have failed me for the first time in my life’.

The boys were lost at this point, they didn’t want to make you cross yet they didn’t want you to be sick later, plus Baby didn’t want all of his snacks to be gone (he didn’t want to go to the shops bc he’s lowkey lazy). At this point they had tried everything, or so they thought.

Out of the blue (pun intended), Derpy appeared from the floor, his eyes unfocused per usual. The bird was sitting atop his head, donning the usual hat that he stole all the time.

In the blink of an eye, you practically rugby tackled the tiger, causing him to slightly budge a bit from the sudden force. ‘Oh my god you are so CUTE!!!! Why are you so cute???’ You cried out, petting the tiger all over whilst cooing a bunch of unintelligible words that probably didn’t even exist.

The boys sighed in relief. Finally! Something to distract you from finishing all their chocolate in one sitting. They are never letting you drink again. (Not without someone to supervise you whilst you do so).

BONUS

Baby and Romance spent the night with you on the couch, as you were too stubborn to haul yourself to bed or let them carry you, so you all agreed to compromise. When asked why you didn’t want to go to bed with the others, you claimed that you wanted to pat the squishy kitty all night long. Only to end up falling asleep on top of Derpy not long after, with the blue tiger seemingly purring in content at the affection. The boys may or may have not taken a bunch of pictures at the sight.

#kpdh x reader #saja boys x reader #kpdh x you #kpdh #kpdh saja boys #kpop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpdh x gn reader #kpdh x female reader #kpdh x male reader #kpdh fluff #saja boys x female reader #saja boys x male reader #saja boys x gender neutral reader #saja boys fluff

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sourcherryandsprinkles · 2 days ago

Note

Popstar reader and sports player rafe?

NFL!Rafe x Popstar!Reader do Vogue Beauty Secrets interview

—

‘’Hi Vogue, I’m here to show you my beauty routine,’’ you began with your skincare headband on, looking at the camera set up in your bathroom mirror. A fan gave it to you at one of Rafe’s football games. It had ‘Future Mrs. Cameron’ on it, and you loved it.

You tightened the knot on your robe, then showed the cleanser you used. The label was unreadable, rubbed off from being packed in a bag with your other skincare products and rubbing together in your luggages during the world tour. It even spilled all over once when you didn’t lock the top.

‘’Then, I follow with a hydrating toner.’’ You showed it to the camera, and applied it on your skin. ‘’My dermatologist made a full routine for me, which I don’t always follow… Sorry, Nathalie.’’

When you began touring, the airplane air and all the traveling dried your skin out. Nathalie was your savior. She recommended this deep hydration mask and, although expensive, you wake up with glowy and hydrated skin. You even caught Rafe using it a few times.

Eye cream followed suit, and then moisturizer — and sunscreen. That’s a step you never skipped. The sun is so damaging for the skin.

Once the skincare was fully done, you moved on to makeup. The content of your makeup bag was spilled all over the counter, and you had even more in the vanity in your bedroom. You usually get ready there, but you weren’t comfortable showing your bedroom on camera. It was a part of your house you wanted to keep to yourself.

‘’Unless I’m doing an interview, singing on stage or going to an event, I’m my own makeup artist. I’ve picked up a few tricks from professionals over the years, though,’’ you added with a smile, reaching for your glowy primer. You smoothed it over your face, the light catching the sheen on your cheekbones. ‘’I love this one from Saie — I always wear it on stage.’’

On stage, your makeup was a little different. A glowy base and a little bit of concealer were not enough. It might look good when you post on social media, but that kind of makeup just doesn’t last through hot stage lights and sweat.

‘’I’ve been playing with makeup since I was very little. I would sneak into my mother’s bedroom and take a lipstick and this one sparkly blue eyeshadow from her makeup bag. That eyeshadow was my favorite. And I would put together plays and musicals…for my cats. These poor babies.’’ You shook your head at the memories.

While you were talking to the camera, you didn’t hear Rafe coming up the stairs, back from his run. He knew about your Vogue video, so he took his shower in the other bathroom to not bother you while you were filming.

But Rafe being Rafe, he had to come in post-shower, towel wrapped around his waist and hair wet, just to annoy you. He leaned lazily against the doorway, like this was just another morning — and not the middle of you filming for Vogue.

You caught his reflection in the mirror and fought a smile as you held up your favorite blush of the moment to the camera. “Baby, I’m not finished filming.”

Rafe smirked, stepping into the bathroom without hesitation. The scent of his woodsy body wash drifted into the room with him. “I can see that,” he said, stepping into the frame to grab his deodorant off the counter. ‘’Don’t stop on my account. I just needed that.’’

Without a care in the world, he sprayed his underarms as if this were a regular morning routine. You’ll have to cut this part before sending the footage to Vogue. You didn’t want a hoard of women thirsting over your man’s toned chest and biceps in the comments. This video was about you.

‘’Get off my frame,’’ you asked, pushing him with your hips.

He chuckled at your attempt at pushing him away, seemingly enjoying this. He didn’t budge with your hip check, and instead leaned in, his strong hand finding your hip and pulling you back against him effortlessly despite your attempts to push him away. His body was still damp from the shower, the towel low on his hips, struggling to stay up. His chin rested on the top of your shoulder, his eyes glinting with playful mischief as he looked at you through the mirror.

‘’Hi Vogue,’’ he said, his other hand finding the knot of your robe. ‘’Mrs. Cameron and I have other businesses for the rest of the day—’’

He pulled it undone, making you gasp and clutch your robe. ‘’Rafe!’’

—

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All and more taglist: @kenqki@hawkegfs@gillybear17@black-rose-29@fudge13 @cece05 @laylasbunbunny @gemofthenight @beautyb1ade @mellabella101 @vxnity713 @bisexualgirlsblog @queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart @xyzstar @graceberman3 @mikeyspinkcup @jackierose902109 @daisydark @laurasdrey @mischieftom @fanatic4niall @peterholland04 @idkwhattonamethisblogs @lexasaurs634 @notasadgirlipromise @zoeynicolas @thejuleshypothesis @multi-fandom-bi-bitch @lexasaurs634 @notasadgirlipromise @thejuleshypothesis @katherinejess @rafesgirlstuff @lafleshlumpeater @iamluminosity Anouk nani-2305 @books0fever @papichulo120627 @qardasngan @ghostlyvoidydragon @M0rgans1nterlud3 @dahlia-blossom21 @Spacexdrago @nhlfs

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #outerbanks rafe #rafe x reader #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe fanfiction #outer banks #obx #outer banks fanfiction

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chaeuvy · 1 day ago

Text

⸝⸝ ＃┆ 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓, 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 ⎯ 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐈 𝐇𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐀

summary: After training, Chigiri drags his manager girlfriend into the locker room for a quick, risky release neither of them can resist. With the rest of Blue Lock still on the field, every sound is a threat—and staying quiet might be harder than the sex itself. Especially when Chigiri’s mouth, hands, and slow thrusts are anything but merciful.

warnings: nsfw, fem!reader, Semi-Public Sex, Risk of Getting Caught, Hand-over-Mouth, Dirty Talk, Praise, Soft Dom!Chigiri, Locker Room Setting, Oral (m → f ), Slight Possessiveness, Light Dom/sub Dynamics, Creampie (implied), Aftercare Vibes, Mild Cocky Teasing.

wc: 0.8k words.

request: sooo the idea is like—they have to stay quiet. no moaning, no begging. every lil sound is a risk 'cause they might get caught... but it feels way too good to stay quiet..

“Still warm from running…” he murmured, voice low, silky. His long hair was damp with sweat, sticking to the sides of his face and neck. He looked feral like this—cheeks flushed, chest still rising and falling from post-training adrenaline. You could barely meet his eyes, not with the way they burned into you like he already had you spread open in his head.

“They’re still out there…” you whispered.

“I know.” His lips ghosted along your jaw. “So you better stay quiet, yeah?”

You nodded, heart pounding. He dropped to his knees, his hand already cupping you, thumb brushing over your clit with barely-there pressure. You bit your lip to stifle the gasp that jumped in your throat.

He was still wearing his compression gear, the Blue Lock emblem tight against his back as he knelt. His hair spilled over his shoulder, strands catching the light like a curtain of red silk. He looked… wrong like this. Too pretty to be on his knees for you. But the way his mouth moved when he pressed his tongue against you was anything but innocent.

One long, slow lick. You squirmed.

A second. Deeper. More deliberate.

He looked up, eyes lidded, knowing.

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

He smirked against you.

And then he doubled down—tongue relentless, two fingers easing inside you, moving with practiced, devastating precision. He knew your body like he studied it. Like he trained for this.

“Don’t cum yet,” he whispered, pulling away to kiss your inner thigh, voice husky and ragged. “Not until I’m inside you.”

You whimpered—barely a sound—but he heard it.

Eyes narrowed. “Shh.”

He stood, leaned over you, and you could feel how hard he was through his tight gear. Without breaking eye contact, he shoved it down just enough to free himself, then lifted your leg around his waist.

“Still wet?” he murmured, rubbing himself against you. “Or do you need me to taste again?”

You shook your head quickly. You couldn’t handle that again. He grinned.

“Good girl.”

The first thrust was slow, deliberate. Deep enough that your breath caught, but he didn’t move. Just stayed there, buried inside, eyes locked on yours. Daring you to make a sound. Daring himself to keep control.

You clutched at his shoulders, and he finally began to move.

It was torture—the good kind. Friction, pressure, his breath against your neck, his hips rocking into you with maddening control.

Every soft slap of skin felt loud in the empty room. Every breath felt dangerous.

You couldn’t stay silent. Not completely.

So he pressed his hand over your mouth. Firm. Gentle. Final.

His own breath hitched.

“Fuck…” he whispered. “Feels too good.”

He was the one breaking now—hips jerking a little faster, control slipping. His other hand gripped your thigh to hold you still as he fucked you harder.

Still not fast. Still not loud.

But urgent. Raw.

The thrill of getting caught danced at the edge of your mind. You were soaking him. His jaw clenched. He was close.

“Don’t—don’t make me stop,” he whispered harshly, sweat beading on his temple.

You shook your head, eyes pleading.

His thumb grazed your clit.

Your body jolted. You bit his hand.

And then it happened.

You clenched around him, body shaking, moaning into his palm as he pressed you into the wall, thrusting faster, losing it with a broken groan muffled into your shoulder.

Silence, not quite complete.

But no one came.

No footsteps. No shouting. Just your shaky breath and his.

When he pulled away, he leaned his forehead against yours, still holding you up.

“I could’ve waited,” he whispered. “But then you showed up looking like that…”

You blinked up at him, still dazed.

He smirked. “Next time, I want to hear everything.”

He tucked himself back in, brushed his long hair from his face, and handed you your panties with a wink.

“You’ve got five minutes before someone comes in. Move fast, manager-chan.”

Chigiri smirked as he adjusted his waistband, giving you one last once-over — flushed, fucked-out, and barely able to stand on trembling legs.

You were still catching your breath when he ghosted a kiss across your lips and slipped out the back exit of the locker room like nothing had happened.

Not even thirty seconds later—

“Yo! Has anyone seen Chigiri?” Isagi’s voice echoed down the hallway outside, loud and casual.

“He said he forgot something in the locker room,” Bachira chimed in. “Maybe the pretty manager’s in there too. She disappeared right after him~”

← BLLK ┆ NAVI →

a/n : thanks for reading.. i couldn’t answer on the request and begged my mean ass gf to help me, crying.

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letsnowtalk · 3 days ago

Text

The girl they want

Part 2

⸻

She didn’t ask for the spotlight. She just walked into it like she belonged there.

You stepped off the LSU team bus wearing a white cropped puffer, purple miniskirt, and fresh kicks that looked like they were custom-made just for your skin tone. A dainty “15” necklace glinted on your collarbone as your curls framed your face like you were stepping into a Vogue shoot, not a basketball game.

And that was the thing—people couldn’t look away.

The cameras caught it. TikTok caught it. So did the entire WBB world. Within minutes, your tunnel walk clip was viral—again. Comments flooded in like they always did.

“Is she a hooper or a runway model? 😭🔥”

“This girl’s got the whole league pressed.”

“Y’all… Skylar Diggins is in the comments. NO WAY.”

You didn’t even check the notifications. You were too locked in. Big SEC matchup. Bright lights. Baton Rouge buzzing.

But 3000 miles away, someone did check. And she was already fuming.

⸻

AZZI FUDD, back at UConn, sat in her dorm, phone in hand, still sweaty from practice. The moment your video popped up on her feed, her mouth tightened.

The comments? Full of heart eyes. Some from her teammates. Some from people she knew had no business looking at you like that.

Azzi stared at your smirk in the video—the little way your tongue touched your lip ring. The ring she remembered you getting on a road trip with her. Her thumb hovered over the “like” button but didn’t press it.

Instead, she clicked “repost” with just one caption

“Y’all late.”

⸻

Across the country, at USC, JUJU WATKINS leaned back on her locker bench, watching the same video for the third time. Her teammates were too busy laughing about some post-practice nonsense, but she wasn’t listening.

All she could see was you.

The camera caught your smirk perfectly. That slow, effortless confidence. That barely-there wave you gave the security guard who tried not to drool when you passed him.

Juju snorted. “She know what she doing.”

She opened Instagram and posted a story. your walk.

“Yup. That’s mine. Y’all can keep staring though.”

Ten minutes later? Azzi saw the post.

And she did like that one—just so Juju would know she saw it.

⸻

Your game was brutal.

You dropped 27 points, 6 rebounds, 4 steals. Crossed a girl so bad her knee sleeve came off. LSU won by 20.

But the real win came after, when the post-game media asked you the one thing that always made you roll your eyes.

“So many players—college and pro—have been very vocal about their admiration for you lately. Is it overwhelming, or… flattering?”

You smiled, slow and sultry.

“I think it’s sweet,” you said. “Girls show love different in basketball. It’s competitive and flirty at the same time. I don’t mind it.”

One reporter laughed. “Any favorites?”

You grinned, lips glossy and full of secrets. “No comment.”

⸻

But you knew.

Azzi was your ex—and that flame never really went out, no matter how cold things got.

And Juju? She was bold, cocky, and way too confident for someone who hadn’t even kissed you yet. But the way she looked at you like you were the whole world?

It made your heart race.

⸻

Later that night, you posted your own story.

A picture of your game shoes, still laced.

“Only showing up for the ones who show out. Y’all know who you are 💜”

The comments exploded.

“She mean Juju.”

“No she mean Azzi.”

“Nah she mean me.”

“She got the WNBA and NCAA in a CHOKEHOLD and don’t even care.”

“Imagine being the girl every girl wants. Insane.”

And just like that, the war had begun.

You weren’t just the girl everyone wanted.

You were the one Azzi loved.

The one Juju wanted.

And the one no one could stop watching.

⸻

Guys juju won the poll shes endgame🤫

#wbb x reader #wnba x reader #uconn x reader #juju watkins x y/n #juju x reader #juju watkins x fem reader #juju watkins x reader #azzi x reader #azzi fudd x reader #azzi fudd #juju watkins #wlw post #wnba imagine

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girl-celestial · 18 hours ago

Note

What about some angsty post-break up, lingering feelings stuff between Arthur and reader? Maybe they get back together, but who knows!

Just a Handkerchief

Reader Requested ♡ — thank youu so much for sending this. i really enjoyed writing it for you! it means a lot that you took the time to share your idea with me, and i hope yearning arthur is all you wished for!!!!!!

ARTHUR MORGAN X READER, angst and heartbreak. yearning and desire. arthur’s desperate lol. fixing of relationship? sorta. 700+ words

YOU hadn’t even realized Arthur was back.

He’d been gone only a few weeks, sent off on one of Dutch’s jobs. Not so long you could forget him, but long enough to notice the space he left behind.

No one had said a word when he rode in, and maybe that was because he didn’t seek you out. Why would he? You weren’t together anymore.

So you kept yourself busy at camp, quietly tending to small tasks and avoiding the ache of waiting. Pretending you didn’t care.

Later that night, when the fire had dimmed and most had turned in, you found yourself near the horses, breathing in the cool night air.

And there he was—sitting on a log, rolling a cigarette slowly, his silhouette framed by the moonlight.

He didn’t look up as you approached, didn’t move. Just sat there, still and quiet.

“You’re back,” you said softly, folding your hands in front of you, trying to steady your voice.

His eyes met yours then, tired but steady. “Yeah. Dutch sent me out quick after Rhodes.”

You nodded, swallowing the flutter in your chest. “You didn’t have to take that job.”

He shrugged gently. “Not much choice in that.”

“No,” you whispered. “You never do.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy and fragile. Your fingers twined nervously.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

“Still here,” you replied, offering a small, sad smile.

Arthur shifted, glancing down at his hands. “I brought you something.”

Curious, you raised your brow. “Why?”

From his saddlebag, he pulled a handkerchief—white, edged with delicate blue stitching.

“Saw it and thought of you.”

You took it with trembling fingers, your skin brushing his. His hand was warm against yours.

“You didn’t write,” you murmured, eyes downcast.

“I thought you didn’t want me to.” He paused for a moment and his jaw tightened, “I thought I was doin’ right by you.”

“Yeah,” you said softly, a hint of bitterness in your tone.

He stood slowly, hesitating, but not stepping closer.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said. “Figured lettin’ go was kinder.”

“Kinder than what? Staying? Trying?”

His eyes dropped away.

“I thought about you every day,” he said, voice rough with honesty. “Even when it tore me up.”

You swallowed hard, your heart fluttering despite yourself.

Then, before you could think, he stepped closer.

You should have moved back. But you didn’t.

He was near enough now to see the lines beneath his eyes, to feel the weight he carried. His gaze flickered to your lips, then back.

“You look real pretty tonight,” he said quietly, rough around the edges.

You said nothing.

His hands found your waist, pulling you close with a sudden urgency. You gasped softly, your hands resting lightly on his chest, but he didn’t let go.

His breath brushed your neck, warm and uneven.

“I shouldn’t…” he muttered, voice thick, before his lips pressed to the side of your throat—slow, firm, tracing your pulse with a hunger that made your knees weak.

Not gentle. Not soft. Like a man wrestling with himself to hold back but losing.

You shivered, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. His stubble scratched tender skin.

“I shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he murmured again, voice trembling with need. “But I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout you… what you smell like… how you taste…”

His kisses traveled lower, teeth grazing, hands tightening at your waist, pulling you flush against him. His desperation was raw, unfiltered, like he was making up for every night apart.

Your body softened instinctively, leaning into him, hands clutching his back like you never wanted to let go.

His lips moved from your neck to your jaw, the heat of him burning through every wall you’d built.

You didn’t stop him.

Because you missed him just as much.

Tonight, neither of you had the strength to fight it anymore.

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wildflowersandbarley333 · 1 day ago

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Post-Shower Thoughts

ˋ°•*⁀➷ Shigaraki x reader (NSFW)

you are not immune to the power of a freshly showered pretty man in plaid pajama pants <3 cw: MDNI, afab reader, modern au (no quirks), honestly nothing crazy just making out that gets heated hehe wc: 677

Tomura stood under the doorframe between the bathroom and bedroom, plaid pajama pants hanging loosely off his hip bone just enough for his boxers to peak out from the top. His hair was still damp from the shower and you watched as water droplets slowly fell from his white hair down his bare chest. Your eyes couldn't help but wander further and further, wishing the pants were just slightly tighter to give you a clearer outline of what your body was aching to see.

"You're staring...." are the only bits of Tomura's words you process before your eyes move back up to meet his. He's looking back at your with eyes squinted, face scrunched up and arms crossed. If you weren't distracted by how sexy he looked post-shower, you would have commented on how much he favored an angry kitten in this moment. But instead you ushered him to join you in bed, your pre-bedtime activity long forgotten on the nightstand by now.

"Mhm can't help it," you chew at your lower lip, allowing your eyes to scan over his body once more. "You're just so gorgeous, baby." Tomura stiffened at your words as he felt himself beginning to fluster up. "Come join me," you extend your arms out this time when ushering him to climb into your shared bed with you. His heart races as he takes slow steps towards you, acting as if it was the first night he was sleeping with you.

He stands by the bedside when he finally reaches you, leaning into your hands as they reach up to cup his face. You giggle as he nuzzles against your palm, once again reminding you of a kitten. You gently pull his face closer to yours, letting the tip of your nose meet his as your thumb rubbed his cheek. Though his heart was still threatening to jump out of his chest, Tomura didn't allow another second to pass without his lips on yours. His lips were warm against yours and you could taste the faint mint flavor still lingering in his mouth from his toothpaste. He slowly climbed onto the bed, not once breaking the kiss as he moved on top of you. Your hands left his face to tug at his damp hair, giving it a strong enough tug to earn a deep groan from your lover. His tongue slips into your mouth as the kiss grew messier, and he feels his dick twitch against the loose fabric of his boxers as you moan into his mouth. He bites down on your bottom lip, tugging at it before pulling away from the kiss to give you both the chance to breathe again.

"Mmmm your hair is still wet baby," you say in between panting, reaching to twirl a piece of his hair between your fingers. "Want me to blow dry for you?" Tomura's mesmerized by the sight of you in this moment offering to take care of him with a soft smile on your swollen and wet lips, lungs still struggling to regulate your breathing.

He shakes his head at your question, practically throwing his body weight on you as he kisses you once again. He kisses you with even more hunger, hand slowly sliding up your thigh that was barely covered by the oversized t-shirt you were wearing. You whine against his lips after he pinches your inner thigh, and he pulls away to lock eyes with yours.

"It's barely wet anymore. It'll dry on its own soon," Tomura responds as his hand continues traveling up your thigh further, slender fingers now outlining the growing wet spot on your underwear. His thumbs finds your clothed clit and begins rubbing slow circles against it, causing you to throw your head back as your thighs tremble. Now with the new, easy access to your neck, Tomura begins nibbling on your skin, stopping once he reaches your ear. "However, you're soaked," his breath was hot and shaky as he whispered into your ear. "Don't you think we should take care of that first?"

[divider by @/enchanthings]

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colouredbyd · 23 hours ago

Text

Double Edged Sword

mafia!stucky x fem!reader ✰ 3.4k

synopsis: in which you, caught between a long day and your two mafia leader boyfriends, grow restless and anxious when they don’t come home—until at last they return, and everything quiets down.

warnings: tension, anxiety, vulnerability, overthinking, mafia themes, reader is in college, mentions of blood, mild injury.

a/n: this is my first ever stucky post ;) i know it's not much, but i wanted this to be a little intro to their universe!!

You step out of your final lecture just as the sun begins to dip behind the skyline, casting long golden streaks across the university’s polished steps.

The November wind cuts sharp through your coat as you pull it tighter, your fingers still chilled from the classroom’s aggressive air conditioning.

You glance at your phone instinctively, half-expecting a message from Bucky or Steve. There’s nothing. Not a single text. Not even a location share ping.

That’s the first sign.

Natasha is already leaning against the black SUV parked across the street, arms crossed, aviators shielding her eyes though the sun is nearly gone. She looks casual, but you know better.

She straightens when she sees you, opening the passenger door before you can reach for it yourself.

“You’re late,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching.

You slip into the seat. “Professor ran over the lecture.”

She shuts the door behind you and rounds the car. By the time she’s in the driver’s seat, you’ve buckled in and pulled your phone out again. Still nothing.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

Natasha starts the engine. “Thought we’d stop by that new bookshop on Fifth. The one with the floor-to-ceiling windows. You mentioned you wanted that new edition of The Secret History.”

You glance at her, studying her expression. She’s calm and unbothered, a little too smooth for your liking.

“I did,” you say slowly, “but that was two weeks ago.”

She flicks on the turn signal. “Yeah, well, it’s in stock now. First editions go fast. Figured we’d get it while we can.”

You pull out your phone without thinking, thumb already hovering over Steve’s name. You hesitate, but only for a second, then press the call button and lift it to your ear.

It rings once.

Twice.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve answers on the third ring, and just hearing his voice floods your chest with a sharp kind of relief.

He sounds a little breathless and tired. The background is loud—shouting, maybe, and the crackle of static, something slamming shut. Metal against metal.

You sit up straighter. “Where are you?”

He lowers his voice instantly. “Everything okay? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “I just… I hadn’t heard from you or Bucky, and Nat’s not updating me.”

There’s a pause. The sound in the background shifts—someone yells something unintelligible, and he covers the receiver for a second. When he speaks again, it’s softer.

“I’m sorry, baby. Today got away from us. How were your classes?”

You blink, surprised by the tenderness in his tone despite everything clearly happening around him. “Fine. Long and really boring.”

“Did you eat?”

“I had coffee.”

“Not what I asked.”

You glance out the window. “No, not really.”

He exhales. “Alright. I need you to do something for me, okay?”

“Yeah?”

“Take my card from the foyer drawer, go shopping. Get yourself lunch, a book, anything you want, sweet girl.”

“I don’t want to go shopping, Steve. I want to see you.”

“I know, I know, sweetheart. We’re trying. We’ll be home as soon as we can.”

You hear Bucky’s voice in the background, too muffled to understand. Steve covers the speaker again, mutters something low, then returns.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m not bleeding out in an alley, if that’s what you’re asking.” You scoff.

He chuckles, and the sound soothes you. “I hate being away from you this long.”

“Then come home.”

“We will. I promise.”

“Tell Bucky I miss him.”

“I will. And I’ll text when we’re on our way, alright?”

“Okay.”

“Be safe, baby. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You end the call slowly, reluctant to pull the phone away, as if his voice might cling a little longer if you’re gentle enough.

Natasha raises an eyebrow as you slip the phone back into your bag.

“Feel better?”

“Not really.”

You press your palm flat over your thigh, grounding yourself.

“Come on. Let’s go in. Breathe. Buy a book. Let them deal with whatever the hell’s going on without you hovering over their shoulders.”

You unbuckle slowly. “I’m not hovering. I’m their partner. I’m allowed to worry.”

She gives a small, sad smile. “That’s exactly why they didn’t want you knowing.”

The bell above the door chimes softly as you step into the store. It smells like cedarwood and fresh print—overwhelmingly peaceful.

You trail your fingers along the spines, half-listening as Natasha murmurs something about limited copies.

Your thoughts are already three floors up, in your shared penthouse, imagining an empty living room, an untouched decanter of scotch, the quiet absence of their presence.

You leave with the book and two iced matchas.

“Let’s go shopping,” Natasha tries again once you’re back in the SUV, her voice light.

“No,” you murmur. “I want to go home.”

She watches you carefully. “You’ll just worry more there.”

“I’m already worrying,” you murmur, gaze fixed on the window. “At least let me do it in our home.”

Natasha exhales through her nose—soft, resigned—but she doesn’t argue. The SUV rolls forward, tires humming over polished asphalt, the city flickering past in neon fragments.

Neither of you speaks again.

You clutch your book tighter in your lap, thumb grazing the edge of the cover, and try not to glance at your phone again.

When the car finally pulls into the private garage beneath the building, Natasha parks without a word. You both step into the elevator.

You lean against the mirrored wall, arms folded tight across your chest, the strap of your bag biting into your shoulder. Your reflection stares back at you—tired eyes, tight mouth, skin drawn a little too thin.

It should feel like you're going home.

But right now, all it feels like is waiting.

Nat stands beside you, typing something quickly on her phone. You’re not nosy by nature, not really, but right now it’s taking everything in you not to grab it from her hands and check who she’s messaging.

The doors open with a soft chime. You step inside. The place is pristine. No discarded jackets on the couch, no half-drunk glasses on the marble island, no faint hum of music playing from the speakers the way Bucky always sets it.

Just silence.

You drop your bag by the door, kicking off your shoes as Natasha follows you in.

“Want something to eat?” she offers lightly. “I can order from that Thai place you like.”

You walk to the kitchen and open the fridge even though you know it won’t change anything.

“No,” you say finally. “I’m good.”

Natasha sets her sunglasses on the counter, watching you. “You sure?”

You turn to her, arms folded. “ Yeah, don’t worry Nat, I,ll just go sleep it off.”

She shifts her weight. “Alright, sugar. I’m here if you need anything.”

You end up curled on the couch in one of Bucky’s hoodies.

You stay like that for hours. At some point, Natasha brings you a grilled cheese and some tomato soup. You eat half out of guilt. She doesn’t hover. She just slips a soft blanket over your legs.

You're asleep before midnight, curled on the couch in Bucky’s hoodie, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder.

The only light left on is the lamp in the corner, casting everything in a sleepy gold haze. Your phone rests beneath your hand, screen dark. No calls. No messages.

Then—

A hand brushes your cheek.

“Sweetheart,” a voice murmurs, low and warm, almost singing the word. “Hey, baby, it’s us.”

Your brow twitches, lips parting as sleep clings to you like fog.

“There she is,” another voice croons, soft and smiling. “Hi, pretty girl. You missed us, didn’t you?”

You stir, breath catching. Their scent hits first—leather, smoke, something metallic and familiar. Then a thumb brushing under your eye. Knuckles ghosting over your jaw. Your lashes flutter open.

Steve is crouched beside the couch, his hand still on your face, eyes filled with something warm and wrecked. Bucky leans over you from behind, his arm already sliding beneath your shoulders.

“There you are,” Bucky murmurs against your hair. “We’re home.”

Another kiss—softer this time. Your name spoken gently. You open your eyes.

Steve is crouched in front of you, his hands resting gently on your thighs. His blue eyes flicker with exhaustion, but they’re soft. You turn your head—and there’s Bucky, sitting beside you on the couch, his face half-shadowed, his fingers tucked beneath your jaw.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Bucky says softly, brushing a thumb across your cheek.

Your gaze locks on the cut just above his brow. Small. Red. Dried now but angry looking. Your stomach flips.

“What happened,” you breathe.

He tries to smile. “It’s nothing.”

You sit up abruptly, pushing off the blanket, your phone nearly sliding off your lap.

Your fingers immediately reach for Bucky’s face, brushing just beneath the thin cut on his temple.

“That’s not nothing,” you murmur, voice rough from sleep but tight with concern. “Buck, you’re bleeding.”

Bucky catches your wrist in his hand, holding it against his cheek. “Hey, hey. I’m okay, doll. It’s nothing, just a scratch.”

Steve slides onto the couch beside you, his palm settling between your shoulder blades in a slow, steady motion. “It looks worse than it is. I swear. He’s fine.”

You glance between the two of them, heart aching with relief and the kind of tired panic that’s had nowhere to land all day. “I waited,” you whisper. “All day. I called and I texted, and I didn’t know—God, I didn’t know if you were even—” Your breath stumbles. “And then your location was off. I didn’t know what to think.”

Steve leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple, voice thick with guilt. “We’re so sorry, sweetheart. I know. I know it was too long.”

“You should’ve told me something,” you say, quieter now, barely a breath.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Bucky murmurs, his thumb tracing over the back of your hand. “If I’d had five seconds to call, I would’ve. But we’re here now. We’re home.”

You nod slowly, but your face crumples a little as your shoulders fall, the weight of the day finally letting go now that they’re here.

Steve pulls you gently into his chest, wrapping his arms around you like a shield. “You must be exhausted. You didn’t have to carry that worry alone.”

“I just missed you,” you murmur into his shirt. “I didn’t know what to do with all the silence.”

Bucky wraps himself around your other side, curling a hand at the back of your neck. “You don’t have to do anything, baby. Not anymore. We’ve got you.”

Steve leans forward, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, slow and deliberate. “I’m sorry, baby. We both are. We didn’t mean to go dark on you like that.”

Bucky shifts closer, pulling you into his chest without asking. His arms wrap around your waist, and you sink into him like instinct.

“I hate this part,” you murmur into his shirt. “I hate the not knowing. I hate how normal it is for you.”

“I hate it too,” he says into your hair.

Steve sits beside you on the other side, sandwiching you between the two of them. His hand finds your thigh, grounding. “We’re building something, sweetheart. You’re a part of it. We just need you safe while we do it.”

“I don’t want to be just safe,” you say, lifting your head. “I want to be part of it. Even if it’s just knowing what’s going on. Not being kept in the dark like some little secret.”

Steve leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re not a secret. We just want you safe, yeah? Away from all this trouble.”

You go quiet.

Bucky kisses the crown of your head. “Next time, you get a call, a real one.”

“I want a timestamp too,” you mumble.

Steve huffs a quiet laugh. “Deal.”

You lean into Bucky’s chest again, wrapping an arm around his waist and reaching out blindly for Steve’s hand, pulling it into your lap. Both of them are warm.

Bucky rests his chin on your head. “Did you even eat today?”

You sigh. “Half a grilled cheese. Natasha made me.”

“Atta girl,” Steve mutters, brushing a knuckle under your eye. “You okay now?”

You nod, but it’s small.

“I just missed you,” you whisper.

“We missed you more,” Bucky says, kissing your hair again. “More than you know.”

The three of you sit there in silence for a moment, held in the weightless stillness that only comes after a storm. The kind where everything is finally, if briefly, whole again.

You reach up and touch the edge of Bucky’s cut once more. “Still mad at you.”

“Deserved,” he says. “Make it up to you in the morning.”

Steve smirks. “We’ll both make it up to you.”

Your smile is tired. But it’s real this time.

“Good,” you say. “Because I’m going to be impossible about it.”

Steve slips his arms under your legs and back, lifting you gently from the couch as though you weigh nothing at all.

You let out a small gasp, half-asleep and completely disoriented, your cheek still smushed into Bucky’s chest until Steve pulls you against his own.

“Hey—” you mumble, eyes fluttering open. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you to bed,” Steve murmurs. “Unless you’d prefer to keep drooling on Bucky’s shirt.”

“Was not,” you grumble, but the laugh slips out anyway, your head dropping against Steve’s shoulder. “You’re both so dramatic.”

Steve carries you through the penthouse’s dark halls with practiced ease, the low hum of the city far below muffled by floor-to-ceiling glass.

The bedroom door’s already open—Bucky must’ve gone ahead, and you catch a glimpse of him in the ensuite mirror, standing shirtless in front of the sink, dabbing at his temple with a cotton pad and a bottle of antiseptic.

Steve lowers you onto the bed like he’s setting down something precious. The silk sheets are cool against your legs, and the scent of cedar and clean linen makes your muscles relax on instinct.

You’re already in bed by the time Bucky emerges from the bathroom, dabbing a fresh bandage against the cut on his temple.\

Steve’s on the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled to his forearms, phone to his ear.

“Yeah, two orders of the basil stir fry… extra chili. Pad thai, shrimp. And dumplings—yeah, the chicken ones,” he says, pausing. “No, not steamed. Fried. Thanks.”

He ends the call and glances over his shoulder. “Food’s on the way.”

“Finally,” you mutter, tucking the comforter higher around your waist.

Steve raises an eyebrow. “I told you to take my card and go eat something.”

“I did. Matcha counts.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Bucky drops onto the bed beside you with a low grunt, shoulder brushing yours. “We’ll feed you in twenty. Then we’re putting you to bed for real.”

“I’m literally already in bed.”

Steve climbs in on your other side, settling against the headboard. “Then we’re putting food in you before you fall asleep in it.”

You roll your eyes but lean into him anyway, head resting on his chest. “You’re both bossy.”

“We’re both worried, doll,” Bucky says, taking the throw pillow from behind you and propping it beneath your back. “It’s allowed.”

You glance over at him, eyes soft. “Is your head okay?”

He gives you a lopsided shrug. “Tender, but fine. Nothing worth the look you gave me earlier. You’d think I lost a limb.”

“You came home with blood on your face. What look was I supposed to give you?”

“A hot one,” he deadpans. “Like oh no, my dangerous mafia boyfriend got in a scuffle and now I must kiss it better immediately.”

“You’re both morons,” you murmur, but your smile betrays you.

Steve threads his fingers through yours, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “How was university?”

You exhale slowly, letting the weight of the day start to drain from your limbs. “Long. Had back-to-back lectures. One of my professors went on a forty-minute tangent about medieval agrarian economies.”

Bucky laughs under his breath. “Sounds riveting.”

“Oh, it was a thrill ride.”

Steve’s arm curls behind your back as he leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, lingering like he doesn’t want to leave. “What’s the plan tomorrow?”

“Just one morning class,” you say, yawning into his chest. “I was thinking of going out after. Clara and I might hit that little boutique in Midtown. Clothes and makeup shopping, mostly. I haven’t seen her in forever.”q

“You’re using my card,” Steve says, no room for argument in his tone.

“Steve—”

“No, listen. Go wherever you want. Buy what you want. Lunch, shoes, ten of those weird candles you like. I don’t care. You deserve it.”

Bucky adds, “And keep Nat close. We’ll be home, but I’ll feel better knowing she’s with you.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. Not because you’re defeated—because you know it comes from love. From the same place that makes Steve order your favorite food without asking and Bucky memorize your class schedule better than you do.

The room dims to a hush. The city flickers outside the windows, blurred through the high glass, all movement and light below. But up here, the world is still.

You tuck your legs across Bucky’s lap, rest your head on Steve’s shoulder, and for the first time all day, you let your guard down.

You tell them about your lectures, the obnoxious boy who argued with the professor, how the campus café is still out of oat milk. Nothing important, but they listen like it matters.

Steve reaches over, adjusting the blanket over your legs with careful fingers, like he’s still anchoring himself to the moment.

His voice comes low, a little rough around the edges. “You ever get tired of this?”

You glance up at him, blinking slowly. “This?”

“This life. The way things feel normal for five minutes and then everything tilts again.”

You stare at him for a moment, letting his words settle.

Your voice is soft when you answer. “Sometimes. Not because I want out, just… because I forget how to breathe when I don’t know where you are. When I don’t know if you’re coming back through that door.”

Bucky shifts beside you, one hand sliding along your calf again, grounding. “But you stay.”

“I do.” You nod. “Because at the end of it all… when the world goes quiet again, I still get this. I get you both.”

Bucky’s voice is gentle, quieter than usual. “And you don’t resent us for it?”

You meet his eyes. “No, never. I resent the silence and the fear. But not you. Never you.”

Steve lets out a slow breath, like he’s been holding it for hours. “It’s not fair, sometimes. That we get to come home to you after giving you so little to hold onto all day.”

You squeeze his hand. “You came home. That’s what matters.”

Bucky brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, his thumb lingering at your jaw. “You’re too good for this world.”

You shake your head, a tired smile tugging at your lips. “I’m just stupid in love.”

Steve laughs softly, his forehead resting against yours for a beat. “Yeah. We know the feeling.”

The words hang between you, not dramatic, not a declaration—just the truth, simple and solid.

And that truth carries weight.

Because loving men like them means living at the edge of a knife. It means learning to hold fear and devotion in the same breath, to steady your hands even when your heart races.

It’s a double-edged sword, always has been.

One edge leaves you raw. It slices through your days with the sharpness of silence and waiting and wondering. It carves worry into your bones. It teaches you how to read between texts that never come and doorways they don't walk through until the night is half gone.

But the other edge cuts cleaner.

It’s in the way they hold you when they come back. The way Steve rests his forehead against yours like he needs your pulse to slow his own. The way Bucky’s hands never stop moving across your skin, as if reassuring himself you're still there.

It’s in the comfort. In the weight of their bodies pressing against yours, anchoring you to the present. The way they make the world quiet—not because it stops—but because they stand between you and the noise.

And as you curl between them that night, laughter still caught somewhere in your chest, heart still bruised from the hours you spent alone—you realize you wouldn’t trade the blade for anything.

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